“Yes,” said my father to Mrs. Parnell, “we thank heaven you were there.”
No one said, oh good for you, Camilla, stirring everything up like that and bringing the situation to a head. But at least I knew what was what.
Alexa cleared her throat.
“Actually, we have something to announce.”
Everyone turned to look at her. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she banged the table to get their attention.
“Conn and I,” she paused to squeeze his hand, “have set a date. Valentine’s Day.”
What mushy drivel, I thought. But the rest of the gang seemed tickled by the news. Even I raised my glass to toast them.
“Violet,” I overheard my father saying to Mrs. Parnell, “what a lovely name. I don’t know how we can ever repay you. Violet.”
I chug-a-lugged my champagne. And inspiration came flooding in. The perfect repayments. The perfect thank-yous.
The perfect revenge.
I slipped into the bedroom. At five weeks, the kittens looked very presentable indeed. And lively. They had already shredded my new curtains. Both Ma Calico and I were thoroughly fed up. I picked them up, basket and all, and hotfooted it back to the party.
“Congratulations to both of you,” I said, fishing out a marmalade kitten and dropping it in Alexa’s lap.
“Happy birthday, dear,” I said to Edwina, handing over the second marmalade kitten before it ripped up my arm.
“An expression of my undying gratitude,” I said to Mrs. Parnell. I popped the baby calico into the pocket of her walker.
“This will go well with your floor, Alvin,” I said, attaching the inky black one to his leather jacket.
“Wicked,” Alvin said, with admiration.
“Oh, Camilla,” said everyone else.
“Myrtle,” Robin squeaked.
The little calico cat wound herself around my leg, purring, just as the fireworks started.
One
Work is what saves me. It has been four years since that loser chug-a-lugged a six-pack then swallowed a palmful of downers and hurtled his RX-7 into the Toyota Tercel carrying my husband. Now Paul is just a picture above my desk, forever thirty, but the lowlife who killed him still breathes and drives.
Perhaps a time will come when I can forgive.
If I didn't see people much worse off than I am every day, who knows how far down the greased ladder of self-pity I could slide. But I do see them and, when I do my job well, I believe I can make a difference.
When I do it well.
* * *
It was still dark when I snapped awake. Lindsay Grace s file was on my mind. This was one case where I had to make that difference. Because with Lindsay, we were talking the difference between life and death. I was prepared to do anything. Depositions. Court appearances. Appeals. Calls to the media. Hunger strikes. Name it.
This one mattered.
I remembered the first day she had come to see me. She was tentative but pumped up by my friend, Elaine Ekstein, the Executive Director of Women Against Violence Everywhere. Elaine had explained that WAVE was committed to assisting women like Lindsay, and I damn well should be too. I listened to Lindsay's story, and Elaine squeezed her hand.
Then it was my turn to talk about legal options. That's why I run Justice for Victims. I talked long and hard. Nearly two hours later, Lindsay began to imagine the possibility of life without the man who could stub his cigarette on the soft skin of her belly after they'd made love.
I found it hard to picture the high-flyer Lindsay Grace had been. Hard to understand why a successful and attractive financial analyst would let herself become the emotional hostage of someone like Benning. It was harder still to keep my personal opinions to myself and concentrate on the job at hand. I bit my tongue.
Somehow, after that session, Lindsay Grace found the strength to testify against Ralph Benning. She stood in court and faced him. She knew, as we all did, that if Ralph Benning ever had the chance, he'd kill her without letting the smile slip from his handsome face.
Convictions weren't enough to keep her safe. During his previous trial for assaulting his wife, twelve jurors took less than an hour to express society's revulsion. The judge expeditiously sentenced Benning to the maximum allowable sentence for the crime. Not soft time in medium or minimum security. Kingston Penitentiary. The real deal. But the law's the law, and it cuts both ways.
Mandatory supervision placed Ralph Benning back on the streets eighteen months later. He'd had long enough to work up a good head of steam against the women who had put him in maximum security. Against Rina Benning, his damaged wife. And the girlfriend he had trusted to perjure herself for him. The woman who had let him down with a little help from her friends.
Lindsay Grace. He hadn't found Lindsay.
Rina Benning hadn't been so lucky. It was a hard six months before she got out of rehab. She hadn't been well enough to testify at his current trial for damn near killing her. Not that it mattered.
No thinking person would believe for a minute Ralph Benning could end up a free man. Not after those photos of his wife's bruises, not after the X-rays showed the damage a baseball bat had done to her ribs, not after the dry, flat tone of the expert witness describing the internal injuries, not after seeing Rina Benning with her jaw still wired, one eye sightless.
What court could fail to find him guilty? It was his twenty-sixth conviction. All that remained was the sentencing. But it would take more than that to put Lindsay Grace's mind at ease.
* * *
Peace bonds. Restraining orders. Lindsay Grace knew well enough that you can't count on papers to work with someone who doesn't feel bound by the rule of law. Someone like Ralph Benning.
How many times had Benning made the news for being totally out of control? And how many times had he been on the street in less than a year? Ten years wouldn't be enough to civilize Benning. It was time to put him behind bars and let him rot.
As Benning's sentencing hearing drew closer, the media was paying attention. It was an open secret the Crown was planning to bring an application to have him declared a dangerous offender. Benning was always news in our town. Rina Benning had declined to be interviewed about her husband. Persistent calls from reporters and the flash of cameras outside her Hunt Club residence wouldn't be doing her nerves much good.
Lindsay Grace was no better off. Even though Elaine Ekstein and I were supposed to be the only people who knew where she lived, she still spent the days in tears and the nights in panic.
Now, in four short hours, after one trial too many, the Crown would apply to launch the long process. I'd done my best to help. I was one hundred per cent certain Ralph Benning would reoffend. The stakes were high
