The confused Woofers take their leave, but Arthur and Lotis continue their skit. There’s no one to watch but Zoe. 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?” Zoe 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 Zoe 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 Zoe. “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.
Zoe 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.
He’s not going to feel guilty about his Polynesian holiday: he earned it. He’ll cut up the touches with Cat and Willy. In time. He’ll be honest in telling them how much non-taxable income was sitting under the king-sized canopy bed-roughly thirty million in uncut diamonds and five million folding euros. He took enough cash for expenses, buried the rest three feet under the plastic flowers on the freshly dug grave of one Sebastien Plouffe. Then he bought a wardrobe for a cruise that Popov the Russian lined up for him. After this caper, Faloon has got to be seeded four or five, inching ahead of Popov, who himself had to admit that.