“Women’s libbers.”
Jim and the pundit were drowned out, but Arthur saw a graphic of the polclass="underline" Margaret was now seven points ahead of the parachuting labour lawyer, four points behind O’Malley, almost within the margin of error. He didn’t know whether to be glad or appalled. Glad for Margaret, ecstatic for her, sorry for himself. The last time he argued a case in Ottawa it had been forty below…
“Next up, the opening day of a murder trial at which a top Vancouver investment analyst was accused of being a party to a failed business deal…”
Arthur was out the door.
Dreading that the clutch, gears, or drive shaft might go at any moment, he clung to the right lane of narrow Lions Gate, conquered the span’s summit, tested the brakes on the decline. All systems seemed go, and ultimately he was spat out onto the North Shore.
On the Upper Levels Highway, as he neared the exit to Hollyburn Ridge, it struck him that he wasn’t far from Chateau LeGrand, so he descended into the maze of curling hillside streets above Lighthouse Park, finally coming upon Lighthouse Lane.
That was it, from the photos, a many-winged manse that seemed ready to take flight from a rocky promontory. The rain had not let up, and it was difficult to see through the one-wiper windshield, so he stopped and rolled down his window. He was on a narrow street that curled around a tiny inlet, perhaps sixty metres wide-Astrid Leich’s home was on the other side. A low stone wall circled the LeGrand property, its driveway protected by a forbidding steel gate. A uniformed guard, a dog on a chain.
Arthur went cautiously ahead and pulled up by the gatekeeper, who unfurled an umbrella as he left the protection of a portico.
“Can I help you, sir?” A booming voice.
“Just stopped to admire your handsome dog. What’s his name?”
“Heathcliff, sir.”
On hearing his name, the Doberman perked up, but not in a threatening way. “And you must be Rashid.”
“I am Rashid, sir.”
“Splendid,” Arthur said. “Splendid.” He drove off.
The rain came in cascades under the shadow of the mountains, obliging Arthur to sprint from the parking lot to Hollyburn Hall, three storeys of post and beam and cedar shakes overlooking a frothy creek.
“Beastly weather,” said an attendant who met him at the door. “Mr. Beauchamp, isn’t it? You’re here to see Mr. Pomeroy?”
“Please.” He was led past a reception area to a baronial hall with a fireplace so wide-mouthed as to be a threat to the forests. Fifteen or so inmates of either sex, some reading, some playing cards, a woman at a baby grand performing a nimble-fingered polonaise. All were alert enough yet slightly robotic, as if being kept at maintenance level.
He spied Brian on the lip of that vilest of architectural conceits, a conversation pit, staring into the roaring, spitting fire. With him was a balding, bearded man with a therapist’s attentive air.
Brian’s voice rose over the ambient tinkling and shuffling. “To be alone is the fate of all great minds.” He glared at his companion. “Schopenhauer.”
“He’s so very insightful, isn’t he?”
“I want to be alone! Leave me to my fate!” Brian’s shout echoed in the vast hall. The pianist paused mid-bar, then carried on gamely.
“Here’s Schopenhauer now,” Brian said.
“Schopenhauer?”
“Yeah, you idiot, Arthur Schopenhauer, my guru.” Brian didn’t rise but grasped Arthur’s hand. “Thank God you’re here. I’m being facilitated. They’re driving me bonkers.”
Arthur sat by the pit’s carpeted steps and introduced himself, as did Dr. Oswald Schlegg, who said, “Brian has a flair for the dramatic. Delightfully challenging. I enjoy our little tussles.”
“Tell this dick he’s not getting anything from me. He’s working for them. He funnels everything to them.” Brian was shaking. His eyes darted about. Though Arthur couldn’t put a finger on what kind of madness this was, he could read the obvious withdrawal symptoms.
As Schlegg continued on his rounds, Pomeroy eyed him disdainfully. “The elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top. He hasn’t a clue I’m faking it.”
“I see. Well, how are you, Brian?”
“Boss. The fun never stops. I’m trying to figure out their game. Did Caroline ask you to come?”
“No.”
“I have to get word to her. She got sucked in.”
“How, Brian?”
“It happened because of her.” He closed his eyes, swayed to a Chopin etude. “Everything.”
Arthur couldn’t make sense of this. “I’ll try to speak to her.”
His eyes snapped open. “What happened to my trial? Why am I off the case?”
“I’m taking it on. I’m using your office. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You haven’t let the pigeons in?”
“No, everything’s fine.”
“I hope you can finish it.”
“The trial?”
“Yeah, I had a block, I couldn’t get it past Chapter Fifteen. How far have you got into it?”
“The book?”
“The trial. I can help. I can do some edits.”
Arthur twisted uncomfortably. He had no back support. He eased himself down to a cushioned ledge. Brian followed.
“We call it the snake pit. I’m fine, don’t be fooled, I’m playing along with them.” A waiter came by with a tray of drinks; Arthur took an orange juice. “It’s safe, I checked, everything is fresh-squeezed here. You’re in the Buckingham Palace of recovery centres, they specialize in drug psychosis, the joint’s full of cocainiacs. You get traders, speculators, lawyers. Hard not to feel sorry for them.”
A burst of sparks and a hiss from a cedar log. Despite the fire, Arthur felt clammy. As advertised, Brian was crackers. Arthur wasn’t sure how to relate to him.
“What’s the latest? I have to keep on track.” Brian produced a pocket pad, and made notes as Arthur described his day in court, his lacklustre performance.
“I should have warned you,” Brian said. “I didn’t make Shiny Shoes a suspect. I had to pare down the list.”
“Loobie set me on the wrong path.”
“Loobie doesn’t know the path. Only I know the path. Anyway, he isn’t a suspect either.”
“Who?”
“Loobie. But I may make him one.”
Arthur played with the concept of Loobie as suspect. All his misdirections…Nonsense. “Brian, were you ever in Ms. LeGrand’s house? Did you talk to her?”
That provoked a startle response. Brian cast a wary eye at Arthur. “That wasn’t me. Ask April. She’ll confirm.”
“April? Was she there?”
A pause. He seemed rattled. “Lance called her.”
“Florenza has a guard named Rashid out front. With a dog named Heathcliff.”
Brian began twitching. “Don’t talk to me about dogs.”
“You remember Heathcliff? A Doberman pinscher.”
“It wasn’t me. It was Lance. He likes dogs.”
“Who’s Carlos the Mexican?”
“Her pretty boy. Lance wasn’t explicit.”
“Help me, Brian. Tell me what Florenza had to say.”
“Lance wouldn’t tell me. He was sworn to silence.” He looked around as if for rescue. “When you call Caroline, tell her to bring the kids. I want them to know I’m okay.”
This was going nowhere. Something in Brian’s disordered mind was blocking transmission.
“Let’s discuss the opal ring. I’d like to help you look for it.”
Brian hollered at the pianist. “Do you know any Bartok?” In a lower voice: “Chopin, for God’s sake, mush for the masses.”
“Let’s go to your room and look for it.”
“For what?”
“The ring. What did you do with it, Brian?”
“It’s not there. It…it was filched. This place is a den of pilfering thieves.” Suddenly he rose, hurried away, the pianist glaring at him. Arthur followed him up a carpeted staircase, arrived at the landing in time to see a door close. Arthur found it unlocked and Brian within, scuttling about in his madness, searching drawers, shelves. “You see, it’s gone!” He slumped into his desk chair, stared at the ceiling. “The power must not be used for evil, and now it’s too late.”