The loud applause must have depressed him further, but he gamely shook hands with those who came by to commend him for his sacrifice.
Arthur suspected that Margaret had somehow set this up, had spoken to someone who spoke to someone else who spoke to Lewes-that’s how he imagined such things were done in the shadowy world of politics. It bothered him that Margaret had been proving herself such a smooth operator. Was the corruption already setting in? Was a false face showing, was that an office-seeker’s smile? Watch how she circulates, a word or two for every ear, watch how she laughs at nothing very funny. Watch as she frowns at the saboteur as he sneaks off for a second helping of pie.
Also bellying up to the table was rotund Eric Schultz, a partner in a major Vancouver law firm who was probably drawing half a million a year. Several months ago, he’d shocked his peers by abandoning the Conservative Party, in which he’d been an active insider, announcing his move to the Greens in a newspaper op-ed. Arthur knew him from Bar Association events.
“Arthur, I hope there’s no house rule against trying another sliver of this delicious apple pie.”
“It’s highly addictive. I read your piece in the Globe, Eric. Admirable.” A Green Strategy for Business in a Finite World.
“Lost some clients, picked up others, smart companies, they know they have to change to survive.”
Arthur saw him fiddling with a pipe, so he led him out to the veranda for dessert and a smoke. It was dark now, after six, and the fog was thickening.
“You must be mighty proud, Arthur. Your wife has a great talent for this.”
“Runs the finest kitchen on the Gulf Islands.”
“I mean her political skills. Very persuasive woman. It seems I am to chair her campaign committee. Did it for the Tories, helped get a couple of duds elected.” He spoke confidingly: “She could pull it off, depending on how the cards play.”
Arthur sought a change of subject-their shared liking of pipes, the foggy weather, the sad state of the arts, anything-but for the moment he was too rattled to speak. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “And how might the cards play?”
“The Libs, Tories, and New Democrats are all pretty even. With a good campaign, Margaret could win on a four-party split.”
Arthur had trouble accepting this. Malcolm Lewes won 10 per cent of the vote last time. There he was, at a window, staring into the gloom. “Well, Eric, we can only keep our fingers crossed.”
“Do you follow politics, Arthur?”
“The art is lost on me.” Arthur’s milieu had always been Conservative, his parents, his friends, law associates. He’d counted himself as an adherent without knowing why.
“By-elections favour the underdog. Voters aren’t stupid, they know the government won’t stand or fall on a single seat, so they’ll gamble on a maverick to spice things up. Someone like Margaret.”
Arthur coughed smoke. An image came of packing long johns for the flight to Ottawa. He’d never truly considered the dire prospect of her winning.
“Tell me, Arthur, you’re involved, aren’t you, in the case of this local fellow, the one alleged to have done in Whynet-Moir?”
“No, I am definitely not, but do not be surprised if Mr. Brown presently comes to the door begging me to get involved. He is the bane of my life. You knew Whynet-Moir?”
“He was once in my firm.” Schultz, puffing his pipe, seemed to ponder his further response. “Stole several choice clients and set up on his own.”
“I’d heard he was a bit of a slick fellow.” Corrupt, said Provincial Judge Ebbe, though it may have been the cocktails talking. Someone would be doing a blow for justice if he’d drop him down a well. Arthur was about to say something more but faltered as illumination came. How had he been so slow to make the connection? E.S.
“Eric, did you serve last year on the discipline committee?”
“Good, you got my note. I knew I’d be seeing you, but mailing it felt more…anonymous.”
“Your name will not be mentioned.”
“It wouldn’t do for poor Dalgleish Ebbe to have that catch up to him. Fine fellow, really, quite brilliant. His name keeps coming up for high court, but the Ministry of Justice keeps passing him over. Can’t blame him for being bitter that Whynet-Moir got the job. He’ll probably be buried forever in the bowels of the provincial court. Political correctness issues.”
Ebbe, as Arthur recalled, was dogged by a long-ago unwise comment about a rape complainant’s low-cut bodice.
“Rafael-Raffy, we used to call him-lobbied hard for his judgeship. You’d see him at federal Conservative functions, attaching himself to the justice minister, for whom, by the way, he served as a political aide in Ottawa several years ago, before the Conservatives took office. He made a substantial campaign contribution in 2006, the year he was appointed. I happen to know he wasn’t the first choice of the PM or half the Cabinet, but the minister fought like a tiger and got him in.”
Schultz was speaking carefully, but the insinuation was that money passed under the table-Judge Ebbe had made the accusation more boldly. There was a local angle here, an eerie convergence: appallingly, Margaret Blake could succeed that minister, the late Jack Boynton, as the Member for Cowichan and the Islands.
“Whynet-Moir’s appointment came after he began squiring Florenza LeGrand about,” Schultz said. “The romantic legend is that he then proposed. She probably decided it would be groovy to be a judge’s wife.”
“Groovy?” The word sounded old-fashioned even in Schultz’s mouth.
“Florenza is still a hippie at thirty-three.”
“If one assumes, Eric, that Whynet-Moir bought his judgeship, what motive might anyone have for doing him in?”
“A cover-up?” He shrugged. “Brown’s counsel might want to check it out.”
A good idea. Why was Arthur even blathering on about this case? “Brian Pomeroy. I’m in frequent contact with him.” Was that so? He hadn’t talked to him for a couple of weeks. He guessed Schultz knew more than he was letting on. He seemed uncommonly interested in the case, so Arthur asked him why.
“Well, this Cudworth Brown. Here’s a fellow who was up a tree for two weeks with the Green Party candidate for Cowichan and the Islands. Wouldn’t do to have him convicted of murder. Not at all.”
Arthur puffed in grim silence. It bothered him that Margaret had joined the multitudes urging him to defend Cud. Why would she care?
He was about to suggest they retreat into the warmth of the house when they both jumped at what sounded like a shot. No, Arthur decided, a backfire. A lone headlight coming through the mist, a poorly muffled engine. A flatbed drew up to the house, Stoney grinning at the wheel. Beside him was Dog, a short, squat compatriot. Next to Dog was the even shorter Hamish McCoy. In the back was the legal fee, the twelve-foot Icarus, strapped down on a foamy, a red flag hanging from his toe.
“Where do you want it?” said Stoney, rolling down the window, letting out a cloud of cannabis-flowered air so thick that Schultz reared back.
“Sorry,” Arthur mumbled, “this was unexpected.”
McCoy left the cab, came to the steps, looking at the many parked cars. “Didn’t know you was having a do tonight, but merry Christmas all the same.”
“No, no, come in, meet some friends.” Arthur realized too late that was a mistake.
“Hope we didn’t miss dessert,” said Stoney, advancing with a lit joint. “Anyone want a hit of this?” Schultz shied away again. Dog stumbled drunkenly from the truck, clutching a can of beer, and simultaneously drank from it while pissing on the lawn.
“Arthur, can I speak to you for a moment?” Margaret said, standing sternly at the door.