April Fool (35 page)

“I found you sitting on the floor with two bottles of cider. I made coffee for myself, and you gave me an account of your role in this case.”

“The same as I just gave in court.”

“You were there for an hour before going on your way?”

“About that, yeah.”

“Nothing untoward happened?”

She hesitates. “You were a gentleman, if that's what you're
asking.” She's not about to mention her low-grade sexual assault.

“Well, that's what I want my wife to hear.” Laughter from the pews.

“I'm sure no one here thinks you're capable of doing such a thing, Mr. Beauchamp.” Kroop squirms with pleasure, relishing his mean-spirited double entendre, winning the bigger laugh. Occasionally he likes to show he's human.

This affords a segué into Hoover's sex barter with Nick Faloon. On the morning after, she recalls, Faloon begged her not to mention it. That didn't stop the gossip–it was known she'd stayed at the lodge.

“Just to be clear, my client found sexual satisfaction?”

“That's what it felt like to me.”

“Who provided the condom?”

“Me. Always.”

“And was it disposed of?”

“I assume. He lived there, he knew where the garbage was.”

Arthur has ventured down that path as far as he dares. Martin Samples may be musing about used condoms: collected, boxed, filed, frozen, could they be weapons of blackmail? Two and a half stars.

“It has escaped no one's attention, Ms. Hoover, that my learned friends for the Crown were gulping air as you were recounting your unconsummated date with the deceased. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Probably because Jasper didn't file it in his report.”

“You told him about Dr. Winters's invitation to share a glass of wine?”

“Right to his face.”

Arthur makes his way along the counsel table, returns Flynn's collegial, square-chinned grin–they share dismay at the audacity of this pathological liar. “Does he have a problem with deafness, do you think?”

“Kind of doubt it, because he threatened to lay a charge on me for obstruction.”

Arthur will divide and conquer. Though the jury remains impressed with Hoover, their primary affection is for Jasper Flynn. They remember his formidable performance against Arthur.

Kroop has been strangely inactive, his eyes settled into their fleshy nests. Like Arthur, he may have mastered the art of dozing sitting up. It's been a long week for the old fellow.

“The problem we have, madam, is that Sergeant Flynn denies you mentioned any invitation to spend time with Doctor Eve in her cottage.”

“Then he's lying, isn't he?”

“Perhaps we can let these twelve honest citizens decide who's lying. Against you, Ms. Hoover, with your busy life as a sex provider and your habit of withholding vital information from the law, we have Staff Sergeant Jasper Flynn.” Arthur is behind the officer, a hand on his shoulder. “A nineteen-year veteran of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, a family man, a proud hockey father.”

“A liar who accused me of being a rat.” Her marijuana fudge, or whatever it might be, is wearing off; her bitterness shows a sharper edge.

“You claim you're not an informer, madam, but who in your position wouldn't? Do not pretend to us that you weren't trying to stay on Jasper's side by feeding him tidbits. Your clientele doesn't buy your denials, if I read the bruised eye correctly.”

“I'm out of it as soon as I sell my boat. And you know what, I feel totally used. If I'm a fink, why can't I get on witness protection? You know why? Because Jasper says I'm too small a player. Small enough to be thrown to the wolves.” She finally goes eye to eye with Flynn, who has been emboldened by Arthur's comradeship, has been staring defiantly at her. “I could say a few things, you bastard.” Flynn starts.

A general holding of breath as the room watches Kroop for a reaction. There is none. It is impossible to tell if he's sleeping or scowling.

Flynn recovers, ruefully shakes his head, expressing pity for her. Arthur pats his shoulder. “Against the resolute testimony of an officer who gives up his spare time to lecture to kids in classrooms, and whose only fault is his overmanicured moustache, we have the word of a vengeful
fille de joie
.”

Hoover gives him a cold and hurt look–she thought she'd blunted his attack two months ago with her caress.
You're cute.

Arthur flips through his notes. “You knew Dr. Winters was staying over in West Bam. How did you come by that information?”

A hesitation. “It was all around town. Inez Cotter, she would have talked about it. It was a big deal. Doctor Eve.”

“Do you know much about roofies, Ms. Hoover? Mexican Valium?” Kroop isn't stirring, Arthur's enjoying his freedom from judicial overview.

“Yeah, I had a guy try that on me a few years ago. Date rape, Roche rape, why pay a hooker? You wouldn't believe how common those club drugs are, Rohypnol, GHB.”

“Easily obtained?”

“Over the Internet, under the counter.”

Why can't she be evasive? Arthur moves near the jury; Flynn returns to his doodles.

“How much are you asking for the
Holly Golly
?”

She glances at the judge, sees no vital signs. Arthur wonders if it's possible he has simply died.

“Given she's got a few years, forty thousand dollars. That includes state-of-the-art directionals, all new lounge fittings, and an entertainment system that set me back nearly ten. Two 225 Mercs, plus auxiliary engine and canoe. P.O. Box 98, Bamfield. Or HollyGollyCruises, one word, at Hotmail dot com.”

The entire room is now satisfied the Chief has drifted off. A problem arises in that it is nearly four-thirty, quitting time. There is not one soul in this courtroom brave enough to arouse him, including former amateur fighter Buddy Svabo. He is letting Arthur get away with murder.

“Were you out on the
Holly Golly
on Friday, March 31?”

“No, I was taking the day off, plugging some leaks in the trailer.”

“What about that night–did you go out for a spin?” The two young Huu-ay-aht heard a fast boat going full out, no lights; its skipper knew the waters. But Arthur doesn't want to share these details yet.

“Why would I do that?” Evasion, finally.

“To flee from the scene of a crime.” The room stirs, slowly stills.

She blinks, speaks three low but emphatic words. “No…fucking…way.”

“It has already been established, madam, that you have an unsettling habit of making unannounced visits to Cotters' Cottage.”

No response.

Arthur remains by the jury, keeps his voice level and low, content to let justice slumber. “Do you have a single witness who will say you went home, stayed home, didn't go out later that night?”

Again no response, a melancholy look, as if resigning herself to being browbeaten by the lawyer whose ear she tongued. She's a serial victim, scorned by Eve Winters, Jasper Flynn, now Beauchamp.

“Tell me if you find anything wrong with this picture, Ms. Hoover: spurned by the regal Doctor Eve, perceived as the town slut, condescended to, the humiliation rankling, growing…”

“Excuse me, Mr. Beauchamp.” It is Gilbert, who has stolen up behind him and is pulling at the tassel of his robe. “Union regulations.”

Arthur is vastly offended–his cross-examination was reaching a crescendo, he had the jurors with him. He looks up to see Wilbur Kroop's head is tilted sideways–he looks in danger of toppling over entirely.

Gilbert carries on up to the bench, finding untapped wells of courage. “Sir?” He is about to nudge Kroop to consciousness when eyelids slide open and lips move.

“Well, Mr. Beauchamp? Do you have any more questions? Otherwise we'll call it a day.”

Either the silence woke him or he was never truly asleep. Before Arthur can respond, Kroop, sensing movement behind him, or the smell of fear, turns to find Gilbert frozen in position, his hand an inch from his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, regulations, sir.”

“
Regulations
? What regulations?”

“Union regulations, sir.”

“What are you talking about, man? What are you doing behind me?”

“I thought you might have slipped away from us for a few minutes, sir.”

“Because I was resting my eyes, you thought I slipped away?
Slipped away
? You utterly incompetent, snivelling, pusillanimous
idiot
! Get down where you belong!”

As Gilbert makes his way ferretlike to his place, Arthur can think only about absconding to the relatively sane domain of Garibaldi Island. “If your lordship pleases, I'll continue with Ms. Hoover on Monday.”

Kroop nods, massages a neck muscle. “Witness, you are under cross-examination. You will return to this court at 10 a.m. on Monday, and until then you will not talk to any person about your evidence. You
will
not. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Hoover is finally cowed. It took Kroop.

“Mr. Gilbert?” The judge looks darkly down at him like a vulture eyeing carrion.

“Sir?” He jumps, he'd been staring into space.

“Adjourn this court, Mr. Gilbert.” Kroop shakes his head. “Union regulations. It's come to that.” He rises and walks off, wrathful as God, tempted to send the flood.

 

28

A
fter calling ahead, Arthur and Lotis are met at the ferry by Fargo taxi. Lotis takes a chance on the open-air chesterfield while Arthur goes coach-class with Stoney. He ought to have chosen the chesterfield. Bad night, long week.

“How's the trial going, eh? Everyone's proud of the way you went from ordinary farmer to make a comeback as a famous lawyer. Hey, I would've showed up in a '58 Caddie Series 62 V8 convertible, but that ain't to be. A couple of goons stole it right off of my lot.”

Arthur has the picture. Stoney did minimal repairs, test-drove the vehicle to ensure its road-readiness–earning fares along the way–until Freddy Jacoby repossessed it.

When reminded where the car came from, Stoney pulls a joint from behind the visor. “Right. How'd I forget that? I must've been in trauma, it's not every day a mint '58 luxomo-bile lands in your lap. Yeah, Mr. Jacoby, a straight shooter, he paid in advance after I faxed my estimate. I was gonna have the Fargo sitting on your doorstep bright and shiny, but as a result of this setback, I'm down to one vehicle again.”

“Stoney, I intend to redeem this truck when the trial ends. You will deliver it up and there will be no excuses.”

“I promise.” He lights up, and they continue in silence toward Potter's Road. There's no time to detour to the Holy Tree. Bungle Bay's caretakers, Reverend Al and Zoë, are expecting him. They'll know Margaret's plans.

Behind a curtain of canary-yellow broom and purple spikes of foxgloves lies St. Mary's Church, beyond it the graveyard, a haphazard array of leaning markers. Pastured horses bowed as if in prayer. No breeze stirs bush or bough–Garibaldi seems apprehensive, an island in suspense while the truce holds.

Stoney turns into Arthur's driveway. “If you pick up a kind of tang in the air, it's temporary until I do one more patch on the pipes. Monster job getting your field back on line.”

As they pass the backhoe, a whiff of excrement. But they are quickly beyond it, through the gate past the garage. Here the air is more flavourful, lamb shish kebabs grilling on the stone barbecue. The two Japanese Woofers are tending it under Zoë's direction. Reverend Al is sitting on the grass with a jug of homemade wine, celebrating the truce.

“Happening scene, man,” Stoney says. Not expecting an invitation for dinner, he declines anyway. “I'd join you, ordinary I would, but I don't have time to sit on my ass, I got a thousand things.”

Lotis hops off, and Arthur is about to follow when Stoney says, “You ain't forgetting something?”

Arthur looks around for what he might have dropped, sees Stoney's palm out for the seven-fifty-to-anywhere fare. Predictably, he can't make change for a ten.

Kim Lee comes from the Woofer house with a salad.

“Lookin' good,” Stoney says.

She pauses. “Lookin' good you too.” Arthur must warn her not to flirt with the scallywag.

He makes directly for Reverend Al, who is blessed by a ray of setting sun and well into a bottle of his excellent red plonk, blue-ribbon winner at the last Fall Fair.

“Because you have taken the pledge, old boy, you're unable to celebrate by partaking of the blood of Christ. Since someone must rejoice for you, I'll do double duty.”

Arthur sees Al's big smile. Margaret is coming home.
After dinner, they lounge by the outdoor fire, enjoying the long, languid evening. The sun has met the horizon, splinters of gold and flecks of rose. Al is well into his cups, and Lotis heading that way, raucous and theatrical. Arthur is invigorated by caffeine, spiced by Margaret's pledge to hug her tree goodbye on Sunday. (Not Saturday, a poor media day, so he has tomorrow to prepare. A third lemon pie, he's mastering the art.)

He must gird himself for another corny publicity event. He prefers not to be adorned in leaves, like an elephantine forest elf, or be called upon to recite the
Desiderata
or some such treacle. The only thing worse would be the Garibaldi Highland Pipers, who are demanding their turn, getting antsy. Bagpipes. Arthur shudders.

“It's Cyrano versus the fluffhead.” Lotis wags a finger at Kim Lee in parody of Arthur's cross examination. “Against a low-life tramp like yourself, madam, we have Sergeant Jasper Flynn, a standup family man.” Though the Woofers may not understand the script, they applaud the performance.

“Arthur's such a ham.” Lotis snaps imaginary suspenders, puffs herself up, affects an unflattering swollen belly. “I ask you, madam, if there's anything wrong with this picture–spurned by Doctor Eve, treated like the town slut, humiliation biting at her ass until she can't stand it, she…What
were
you going to say, Arthur, before Gilbert stole the show?”

He meets the challenge. “Sitting in her leaky trailer, painting her toenails to the fierce tuneless beat of modern rock and roll, she continued to nurse her grievance over a six-pack of cider…”

“Whoa. She's a garbage head. She's doing crank, crystal, cartwheels, and in this totally gonged state she magnifies Eve's brush-off. The snob, she'll pay for that insult. Who does the bitch think she is anyway, I'm gonna march over there and…and what?”

“I am the resurrection and the life.” Reverend Al slurring. Zoë has put a blanket over him.

Arthur tamps his pipe. “With no plan in her drug-addled mind except to retrieve the tatters of her honour, Hoover remembers the Rohypnol, which she keeps handy in case a john threatens to become difficult.” This scenario is making sense. Hoover's rival evildoers are fading into the gloom: no-show Harvey Coolidge, bitter Ruth Delvechio, and Arthur's old favourite, Adeline Angella. And where has Daisy gone, who recently haunted his thoughts and dreams?

The confused Woofers take their leave, but Arthur and Lotis continue their skit. There's no one to watch but Zoë. Al is snoring.

“She spies through the window,” Lotis says. “Fire in the fireplace, bottle of wine, half-filled glass. Eve is in the shower. Holly opens the sticky door with a gloved hand, mickey-finns the drink, and hides in the loft.”

“Or she merely announces she's come for that promised glass of wine. Eve accommodates her.” Arthur has his second wind. He sends a billow of pipe smoke to scatter the hovering mosquitoes. “After her wine is doped, she goes woozily to bed, and enters deep sleep. Now Holly will enjoy the vengeance of a vulgar joke–when Eve awakes her mouth will be full of her own underwear.” He nods emphatically. “She washes both glasses, wipes the bottle, and is about to leave when she notices Eve is unnaturally still. Intoxicated to the point of gross misjudgment, Hoover has blocked her airway.”

Here he stalls. What about the semen in her vagina?

Inspiration. “In panic, Hoover hastens to the
Holly Golly
, races off, no clear destination in view, no plan, just mindless fear. But as the amphetamines lose their grip, her capacities return. A substitute suspect is locally available. She and Winters even shared a laugh about the droll little fellow, he'd been Eve's dining companion. Hoover happens to be in possession of a little rubber sac containing his semen. She returns to port, retrieves the prophylactic, creates a plausible look of rape and murder, and goes home to bed.”

“Why would she keep an old slimy safe?” Zoë says, finding the gaping hole in this hastily built structure.

“She's the eco-hooker,” Lotis says. “She doesn't throw used rubbers in the drink. She zip-locks them, labels them. Keeps them with the frozen salmon in case something bounces back at her. Somebody's messy divorce. Maybe she's got a couple of Jasper Flynn's used tires too. It's obvious he's been boffing her. She hinted as much.”
I could say a few things, you bastard.
Arthur saw Flynn go red and rigid.

Though Zoë looks dubious, Arthur feels he has the makings of a reasonable doubt. He has subpoenaed Claudette, she'll tell the jury about the animal rooting in the garbage. Hoover could be that animal. Yes, she's become a highly qualified perp. Clear opportunity, no alibi–the elements missing against Angella and Delvechio.

“And to think that only a few hours ago you were buying Holly's beeswax.” Lotis, with her well-honed knack for puncturing the windbag, turns to Zoë. “He's been doting on her ever since she grabbed his nuts. Can't figure what he was up to last night. Got something going on the side, Arthur?”

Arthur coughs out smoke, averts his eyes from her favourite message T-shirt.
Rise up!
“I meant to ask you about those new tests Dr. Sidhoo is running. When are the results due?”

“She's working through the weekend. It's a long shot, she's not sure there's enough material left for a clear profile.”

The tinny bars of “You Are My Sunshine” announce a call from Brian Pomeroy. “Caroline's a nervous passenger so I'm letting her drive. Thus we work out our differences in enlightened new ways. Say hello to Arthur, love.”

Caroline's voice: “Hi, Arthur, we're about to get workshopped. I'll try any nutty thing once. How's Margaret?”

“Still at large, but a recoupling ceremony is planned for Sunday. Good luck with your own relationship.”

“You're the one I truly love.”

How alike are Brian and Caroline. Competitive, caustic, wry. How unalike are direct-action Margaret and slow-to-react Arthur. A different chemistry at work.

“Poop me up on the trial,” Brian says.

Zoë and Lotis rouse Al and lead him to the house, while Arthur strolls to the beach, recounting his good day with Holly Hoover. “We're starting to put our energies in new directions. Angella may no longer be on the A-list.”

“After all the work I put into that attention whore?”

“In the remote chance her DNA turns up in the remnants of Exhibit 52, she'll be back in favour.”

“Interesting side note: Lila and Doctor Eve were casual friends from the Psych Association. She's been following the trial. Watch for the curve, honey. I gave her the lowdown on Angella, showed her Eve's column, the man-eater with skewed sexual preferences. Watch the centreline, love. Try this on, Arthur, Lila's theory: Angella is in extreme homosexual denial. She had a desperate need to stop Eve's mouth from speaking this impossible truth, to gag her, to choke her on her own underwear. Ciao.” He disconnects.

Arthur mustn't discard Angella. He has a cornucopia of suspects, he must maintain them, groom them, march them around the ring, let the jury determine who is best in show. “How can you
not
have a reasonable doubt, ladies and gentlemen?” He orates to the ocean, punctuating his points with an index finger. “The flimsy vessel of the prosecutor's case has foundered on a sea of doubt. Wave after wave of doubt, ladies and gentlemen.”

But doubt is not enough. Acquitting Faloon does not avenge Eve's death. He yearns to nail the case closed, to put the finger on the perp, to see her cuffed and led away, bemoaning her guilt.

He's in a fine mood. There's peace in the forest. He has a small stash of Viagra. The trial is turning in his favour, suspects
galore. Too bad Faloon isn't around to enjoy exoneration. Probably hiding in some dank hole. But why can't he phone?

 

Faloon wiggles his pinkie for another coconut, the kind with rum and a bent straw. He can finally lie under the sun again, after that burn last week. Time for a swim, but it's a Herculean task to decide between the pool and the ocean.

Nangeeah flashes him a big smile as he fixes the drink. He likes Faloon and his fifty-euro tips, has lined him up with some of the local fauna. One of whom is in a bikini in the adjoining beach chair, Hula-Hula, he calls her, because of the way she can shake it. Hula-Hula of Bora-Bora.

The Owl figures he's been forgiven by God for his past life of idleness and thievery, but isn't sure why. Maybe it's divine compensation for the ten-spot he drew because of Angella. Maybe it's God's way of saying there is a God. Maybe it's a little holiday before he burns in hell. Whatever, worrying about it is a mug's game.

He's especially not going to worry about assassins from Sierra Leone creeping out of the jungle at him, as they did in last night's featured dream. He gets nightmares like that, Lansana coming after him with murder in his eyes, the Owl frozen at the stairwell door, though in reality he went spinning down the stairs like one of those cartoon characters with propellers for legs. Using his master twirl, he lucked into an empty suite just before Lansana made it to the fourth floor. Lansana carried on down to the desk and the Owl walked out a side door with a laundry bag full of euros, jewels, and towels for bulk.

Farther down the list of things not to worry about is Vancouver, though he's not sure what's going on there, he assumes his trial got put off. He'll get around to calling Mr. Beauchamp one of these days to apologize. That's a promise.

Nangeeah delivers the rum, and a beer for Hula-Hula, who's a lot of a woman, sort of like Claudette but copper-toned and lazier. Which brings Faloon to someone else he isn't anxious to
worry about. He'll send for Claudie. Definitely. When the time is ripe. He can't phone–no one's going to convince him her line isn't bugged.