My God, had six years of potting about in his garden done this to him, made him a romantic trusting fool? Arthur is the only foe Hoover fears. She has Jasper Flynn duped, as well as Buddy and Ears, and here comes Beauchamp stumbling along behind them, zombies under her power. I’ve got nothing against Nick. He believed that.
Back to Plan A. This involves Faloon’s night with her, and a condom he never saw again.
Gilbert bursts into the room, frantic. “There you are. Please!”
Kroop nods to Arthur, who rises, willing away the weariness. “Ms. Hoover, let us clarify for the jury that in mid-April you and I met in Bamfield in the very cottage where the murder occurred.”
“I heard you were staying there, interviewing people, looking for me.”
“When I returned from dinner you were in the cottage, uninvited.”
“It was raining pretty bad, didn’t think you’d mind.”
“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 segue 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.