“Actually, on the whole you did a masterful-”
“I blew it!” That was accompanied by a trumpet blast from below, a quintet warming up. It galled the more that Arthur had goofed in front of this groupie, who demanded a consistent level of genius from the old wheezer.
The opening bars of a Bach fugue from his briefcase. His cellphone, another of the devil’s devices-he’d taken it out of mothballs for the trial. It was his ex-son-in-law, ensconced in Blunder Bay until Arthur’s return. “I’m doing some quality time with Nick. Everything’s moving along slick at the old homestead; those woofers are right on the beam. By the way, Nick likes to hang around one of them, Lavinia. Should I worry?”
“Teenage crush. He enjoys her kidding.”
“You sure she’s not loose? A lot of these East European women are. Anyway, we’re getting along hooper-dooper. Nick is helping with Margaret’s campaign, handling the computer traffic or something.” He hadn’t much more to say, but Arthur was relieved his worries weren’t compounded by disasters at home.
He pressed the off button, fiddled with the phone. “How do you get your messages on this thing?” He flipped it to Wentworth, who pressed a button, listened, handed it back. “I’d like you to study the autopsy report, absorb it.” Wentworth fled.
Bob Stonewell. “Wondering about my jitney. Just checking, no reason to be concerned. Part of the service.” Presumably that meant there was indeed reason to be concerned. Arthur will check the tires, the brake fluid.
Dr. Alison Epstein, who seemed agreeable to discussing her patient-with a lawyer, in confidence. “The matter has gone beyond doctor-patient privilege, Mr. Beauchamp.”
He called back immediately, found her at her office. After pleasantries, she turned grave. “I’m extremely concerned about him; he isn’t adjusting to treatment.”
“For what exactly is he being treated?”
“Let’s call it a severe substance-induced delirium.”
The etiology of his near-psychotic state had to do with an intense feeling of being wronged, by his wife, by the divorce court, cheated out of his children. He loved them, but was morbidly fixated on Caroline, an obsession Epstein found troubling.
“It was a very intense two decades of marriage. They’re both highly intellectual, and rather arrogant about it. They competed about everything, argued each other to a standstill over philosophy, art, literature; they played word games, competed at tennis, even birding. They competed at sex-Caroline wasn’t without lovers. And latterly they competed about writing. And Caroline won that competition.”
Thus the latest obsession, starring Lance Valentine.
“I don’t claim to have some vast, penetrating insight into him, Mr. Beauchamp. He’s the most enigmatic patient I’ve ever encountered.”
They promised to keep in touch.
A final recorded message was patiently waiting. “Sorry, I missed you, darling. I’ll call again.” She sounded down, not her effervescent self.
He shut the door. It was already dark outside, rain sheeting against the window, a lone pigeon flapping off for cover, souvenir shops closing up, restaurants opening. Another blare from beneath the floorboards.
Margaret answered right away, to background chatter and music. “Where are you?” he asked.
“At the grand opening of the Duncan Doughnuts Diner. Free coffee and twizzlers. There’s a hundred people here. In two minutes I’m off to Cowslip to have more coffee and nibbles, with the United Church minister, very important guy there, then I’m speaking to the Save Our Estuary dinner in Floodwater. I’m getting fat.”
“Nonsense, you looked gorgeous on TV.”
“A new poll gets released tonight. I’m sure I lost points after the all-candidates. I blew it.”
An echo of Arthur’s own plight. “I saw a clip and thought you were masterful.”
“I botched the offshore fishing quota and added a billion to defence spending.” It pained him that she was so strained, so stiff upper lip. “How was your day, Arthur? Sec.”
A pause to shake a hand or two, affording him a chance to devise an answer. He shouldn’t burden her with his own foot shot, shouldn’t depress her further, not with the election only a week away. “How good to meet you both,” he overheard. “And isn’t that a sweet dress. Three and a half? What a big girl.” How does she manage not to go batty?
“Sorry, Arthur, I’ve got to scoot. You’re bearing up?”
“No complaints, my love.”
Cellular kisses. He pocketed the phone and opened the door to find Wentworth like a lonesome dog waiting to be let in. “What do I do after I absorb the pathologist’s report?”
“I want you to do the autopsy. Some of the other forensics while you’re at it, the substance analyses.”
Wentworth’s Adam’s apple became active in his struggle to find words. “You want me to do them.”
“I need to concentrate on getting Cud into that steam room with Florenza.”
“Excuse me, I’m to actually cross-examine them?”
“No, you’re to take them to the playground and climb the monkey bars. When are we hearing from them?”
“The pathologist is tomorrow afternoon,” he said faintly. “Ah, Mr. Beauchamp…Arthur…you mentioned that you wanted me to visit Pomeroy this evening, and, ah…”
“I’ll see Pomeroy.” It was long overdue.
Wentworth declined a dinner invitation and instead phoned for a pizza and got busy. Raincoat, briefcase, car keys, Arthur made sure he had everything. He was almost outside when Wentworth raced up with his umbrella.
“Wait, I’ll make a copy of tomorrow’s witness list.” Before doing so, Wentworth removed a page still in the copier, glanced at it, frowned. “First I’ve seen of this.”
Arthur read it over his shoulder, a scene featuring Lance Valentine, a Doberman named Heathcliff, a guard named Rashid, and Florenza LeGrand-a sitting room tete-a-tete missing from the material April had handed him. I had dosed the custard with this new product that stops your heart; they can’t detect it. All Cudworth did was dump the body. This seemed the author’s attempt at drollery. More interesting was a reference to Carlos the Mexican.
“Run off another copy. Let’s find out if there’s a Carlos in her past.” Florenza’s drug-dealing Mexican lover of many years ago?
Wentworth made a note.
At his club, Arthur took tea in the lounge so he could make some calls and catch the news. He first tried Stoney, who was either not home or not answering. Arthur’s worries might be for nothing, he’d had a garage man look under the hood, everything was topped up. He left a message on Dr. Epstein’s service inquiring whether Pomeroy had ever mentioned a visit to Chateau LeGrand, then connected with Hollyburn Hall to announce his coming. He turned his attention to the big wall TV and the six o’clock news.
On a sofa nearer the set, two bald heads, old gaffers into the brandy, one hard of hearing but loud of voice, the other shouting into his ear. “Send more troops, that’s the answer.” An item on Afghanistan. “You wouldn’t get me near that place.” AIDS in Uganda. “By-election coming up.” Cowichan and the Islands.
“What?”
“By-election!”
“Where?”
“Jack Boynton’s old seat!”
“Who?”
“Jack Boynton!”
“Thought he died.”
As a result of this cannonade, Arthur missed the latest poll numbers. When the shouter paused for breath, a talking head was finally audible. “…perhaps lacks the right cachet for this rural riding, a Vancouver labour lawyer who only recently moved to Cowichan.”
The interviewer: “So it does appear the Left is coalescing around the Greens.”
“Yes, Jim, around Margaret Blake, who has run a strong rookie campaign.” A shot of Margaret shaking hands on a fishing dock.
“Nice legs!” The shouter.
“Extremist. Wants to turn off the gas pumps.”
“World’s changing! You got the hippie generation running things now!”