But he kept wandering back to his trial, fussing over it, even though there wasn’t much he could do to ready himself for the final, vital witnesses.
One can’t rehearse for Florenza LeGrand; it would be like rehearsing for the unknown. He wondered about her, her hints of narcissism, sociopathy. Did this daughter of a Thai concubine suspect her provenance? Was that at the root of her rebellion, a suppressed fury at her father’s lies? A rebellion intensified by an artfully arranged marriage to a possessive dilettante? And thus a hick from the sticks became a murder weapon. But Arthur didn’t want to believe Cud was a murderer…Or did he?
He was nagged by ignoble suspicions that none of his battery of suspects was guilty, that Cud actually did do the deed, recklessly, drunkenly, or deliberately, propelled by base motive, lust, greed, twisted notions of honour and deliverance. Help me escape. Had he answered Florenza’s call while nearly senseless with drink?
And Astrid Leich, well, she’ll probably identify Cud, and Arthur will have to loosen the clasps and buckles of her finger-pointing confidence. Such cross-examinations are best done raw, but he should devise tactics for Kroop, who will break all records for churlishness as the trial drags on through Monday, as he misses his day of glory.
Arthur hadn’t told Wentworth that April Fan Wu was still in town, that he’d granted her absolution as part of his deal with Gib Davidson, but these matters were too tricky to be canvassed by phone. As was the matter of loosely wrapped Brian Pomeroy, from whom getting information was like prying bricks from a wall. What will the jury make of his outlandish visit to the LeGrand estate? They’ll likely decide he was bonkers, the right conclusion.
Let it go. Seek solace in the Aeneid. The night had come, and weary in every land, men’s bodies took the boon of blissful sleep…Soon he nodded off.
He awoke at daybreak, aroused by a winter wren fluttering about the bedroom, clawing at the window. He opened it wide to a blast of frigid air, and while waiting for the disoriented intruder to make its break, he jumped back into bed and worked at a turbulent dream set in a Roman arena. Familiar faces everywhere: LeGrand, Ebbe, Silent Shawn, and many more, a cast of thousands, all waiting for the lions to be loosed on Cud Brown. Arthur was disoriented-was this the right court, was he defending that frightened gladiator? Too late, a toga-swaddled jury roared their verdict. Vae victis! Woe to the vanquished! Then the roaring faded, and there was only the clicking of a keyboard, a madman in the throes of creation…
The power was still out, so the day’s toilette included longjohns, ski socks, and a bulky country sweater. Downstairs, the Nicks were by a crackling fire. He thought to warm himself there but realized they were discussing family issues, so he pulled on his boots. Odd that twitchy-nosed Pamela had not joined her fiance here-maybe they weren’t as serious about each other as Nicholas claimed. Arthur hadn’t mentioned the filched Fargo, not wanting them to feel badly about having been conned out of it.
It remained very cold, but the wind had relented, and snow abated under a sullen sky. The pond would soon support a hockey team. A path of sorts had been tramped toward the woofer house, where he found Lavinia at a battery-powered radio, listening to the forecast: an Arctic front had settled in, a few more freezing nights expected. He called Syd-Air-they were vague about whether they’d be flying at all today. Wentworth was off-line, but Arthur left a message saying not to expect him early. The young man knew what to do.
The nine o’clock news came on. Power outages, traffic tie-ups, accidents. But then, from “our political bureau,” came this: “Questions are being raised in Ottawa about an apparent gift of four million dollars from shipping magnate Donat LeGrand to the late Justice Rafael Whynet-Moir.” Embellishing this account were references to the timing of payments, half down and half after Florenza’s betrothal, an equivalent sum showing up-after Raffy was named to the bench-in Jack Boynton’s Nassau account.
And who broke this story? Why, the editor of the Garibaldi Island Bleat, of course, who, determined to earn his pound of glory, had e-mailed his photos of the fax to multiple news agencies.
What set Arthur worrying was that Wentworth was mentioned as its sender. “Mr. Chance could not be reached for comment.” No mention of senior counsel, though no doubt Charles Loobie and his cronies made efforts and drew blanks. Well, it’s out, the entire bribery scandal, and the chips will fall where they may. Many of these will fall on Arthur, who now must bear the brunt of Kroop’s wrath-the defence has contaminated radio-listening jurors.
He was about to ring Wentworth again, but here was a bald-tired flatbed sliding and slipping up the driveway, weighted down for traction with a rusting engine block, a snowmobile, a beat-up generator, and Dog. Arthur almost slipped on an icy patch as he rushed out to collar the defalcator.
“Heard you was here, and came right over,” Stoney said, directing Dog to lug the generator off the truck. “Let there be light. A special service for my most valued client.”
Arthur folded his arms, glared, waiting for him to come up with an improbable excuse for the missing Fargo: I’m trying to solve a little drive-train problem. Or possibly: I traded her in for this here spiffy snowmobile. Most likely: She’s now officially an off-road vehicle. She went off the road and down Hemlock Hollow.
Stoney had the brass to turn toward sea-bound Icarus, saluting it. “What think you, bwana, of this magnificent display of local art? You oughta thank Dog too; he lugged umpteen bags of cement down there, hammered up the forms when the tide was almost up to his nuts.”
“Thank you, Dog,” Arthur said. “I know you’re not consciously involved in this caper with the Fargo.”
From the cab of the truck, a strong smell of reefer, accounting for the slowness of Stoney’s reaction: “Now, this here generator rents out at only…Caper? Fargo? Am I being accused of something here?”
“Your act of being vastly affronted doesn’t wash with me, Stoney. I want my truck.”
“I am hurt, deeply hurt.” He ploughed off to the garage, cleared a snowdrift from the door, managed to wedge it open. There was the yellow Fargo, gleaming, it had been washed.
“You mean this Fargo? The one I borrowed once to haul in the cement? The one me and Dog spent an hour washing?”
It was only later, when Arthur realized he’d forgot to challenge Stoney over the chattel-mortgaged Chrysler, that he rued having let him soak him for the generator.
28
Wentworth held fast to one of the westbound lanes on Sixth Avenue, the tires of his Outback 310 spitting slush on his pants and boots. He was cold, his patched sheepskin jacket bringing little comfort, his feet and ankles sopping. Mindless of the traffic he’d backed up, he was finally forced into six inches of snow by an impatient driver. He stopped, wiped his goggles. Don’t be a traffic fatality on this day of all days.
His dreams of glory were to be tested by a live audience this morning. Wentworth Chance gets his turn to show his mettle in swordplay with the chief justice-assuming he’s good to go today. If he’s still ill, another recess, giving the boss time to get back and ruin Wentworth’s debut. But when weighed, his dreams were jokes, he was terrified of Kroop, terrified of screwing up-Arthur had better make it back, if not for Philomene and Rashid, then for Astrid Leich, next on deck. How long could he spin things out for?
What was he supposed to do with the LeGrand affidavit? Why had the boss cancelled LeGrand’s subpoena? Also bugging him was that he blew yesterday’s interview with Cudworth, who’d been a jerk, thinking he was wily, but just slippery, proposing unlikely scripts, none saleable. “I’ll chew on it, give you a fresh draft in la manana,” he’d said as he walked to the door with a crooked back. “I got to get some painkiller.”