Arthur leaped into the lurch. “Millions. Hundred of millions. A good lawyer could get a settlement of half your fortune, your shares in your father’s shipping empire, the mansion on Lighthouse Lane. But a dead man, Ms. LeGrand, can inherit only the grave.”
A long spell of quiet. “The thought never struck me, Mr. Beauchamp.” Weak. Five-point loss.
Arthur made what hay he could over Carlos’s stay at 2 Lighthouse in January, but Flo had anticipated this. Yes, his visit was clandestine, he’d entered Canada illegally, that’s why she’d dismissed the maid for the week and sworn Rashid to secrecy. She wasn’t abashed over admitting they resumed their roles as bed partners.
“So while still claiming to hold the torch for my client, you were sleeping with your long-time lover, your true lover.”
“I’m not a nun, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“No one in this courtroom will disagree. Love at first sight with Cud Brown, you said, an intense, almost religious experience. In truth, he’s been set up to take the rap so you can ride merrily off into the sunset with the only man you’ve ever truly loved.” Topped off with his trademark vibrato. Wentworth shivered. Beauchamp was back. “Madam, I put it to you that you and Carlos Espinoza conspired to murder your husband.”
“No way.”
“In the early morning hours of October 14, he came out from hiding, saw opportunity beckoning, and obeyed your murderous summons.” The raised finger of accusation. This was the climax.
But not the one Wentworth expected. Flo took a gulp of air and shouted: “That is absolute, unadulterated bullshit! What I said in this court is exactly what I said to Cudworth’s ex-lawyer last month. Ask him! Ask Mr. Pomeroy!”
Arthur darted a look at Wentworth, like he needed help all of a sudden. This had come out of nowhere.
“Excuse me, madam,” Kroop said, “exactly when did you speak to Mr. Pomeroy?”
“Last month. He sneaked onto the grounds past Rashid-”
Arthur cut in desperately. “Yes, Ms. LeGrand, we’ve heard all about that from other witnesses.”
“But not this business about Pomeroy,” Kroop said. “I’d understood there was an altercation with a British news reporter. Are we now to discover this was Pomeroy? Your predecessor in this defence?”
“Milord, I am in cross-examination.”
“Yes, of course, and that will continue. But first I think the jury wants to know what Mr. Pomeroy was doing there, what this conversation was all about.”
The jury looked confused, Cud looked lost, Abigail astonished, then a little betrayed-Arthur hadn’t been up front with her. Silent Shawn was unperturbed. Maybe that was a smile.
“I would be pleased to be allowed the traditional courtesy of cross-examining uninterrupted.”
Abigail said, “I support your Lordship.” Smiling at Arthur, enjoying his discomfiture.
“About time, Miss Hitchins, you’ve been sitting there like a lump. Objection is dismissed.” Kroop swivelled to Flo, gave her a sly, searching look. At last he’d caught the detested Pomeroy up to some hanky-panky. “He sneaked onto the grounds, you say? We heard something about a news reporter, so forgive us-” A sweep of his hand to take in the jury, “-if we are confused.”
Arthur made a show of sitting, leaning back, his hands clasped behind his head, giving the judge the floor. Wentworth wasn’t fooled by this nonchalant act. Ask Mr. Pomeroy. That had a dreadful ring to it. Major points for Flo LeGrand.
“Rashid thought he was one of the reporters who parked out front like they owned the street. Yeah, there was this whole scene with the dog and Rashid and Carlos. Then Mr. Pomeroy, Brian Pomeroy, gave me his card, and I checked with his office, and sure enough he was Cud Brown’s lawyer. Frankly, he looked a little smashed, he wasn’t making a lot of sense, but I realized I needed to talk to him…Shall I just go on?”
“Indeed, do.”
“I took him inside. Carlos decided to skedaddle, things were getting a little extreme, he wasn’t legal. Anyway, I had this strange conversation with Brian Pomeroy. He talked about his ex-wife a lot. And about some kind of book he was writing, a creative non-fiction mystery, he called it, something like that. I couldn’t make head or tail of it, I was actually wondering what kind of lawyer poor Cud had hired.”
“This is pure hearsay,” Wentworth whispered.
“Keep smiling.”
“Anyway, he finally asked me if I’d seen Rafael get killed, and I told him, told him everything I said here in court. I told him because he was Cud’s lawyer, I was trying to help, I wanted him to know the worst. I knew I wasn’t supposed to blab away, but it was a relief to let it out. And as I got to the end, where Cud does this terrible thing, he began acting really strange, paranoid, he wanted me to keep my voice down, the police were listening, the thought police. I asked him what was going to happen to Cud, and he told me he hadn’t got to that part of the book yet. Oh, yeah, he asked if we could do some coke. I said, I don’t think so, and then he left.”
She shrugged, as if to say, that’s it. Kroop looked at Arthur. “Do you have anything arising from that?”
Arthur rose wearily. “You had a supply of cocaine?”
“Yes.”
“And you were snorting cocaine earlier with your boyfriend?”
“Carlos, yes.”
“How much?”
“Several lines.”
“Meaning what? Ten, fifteen, twenty?”
“I didn’t keep count.”
“No more questions.”
“Trial is adjourned till Tuesday, nine-thirty a.m.”
As Wentworth slouched past the Leap of Faith Prayer Centre, he was accosted with, “Are you in need of help, brother?”
A lot, a hell of a lot.
33
Arthur was in a strange, elaborate house, looking for a way out, but all the doors led to more doors, like a maze, then ultimately to a bedroom where Florenza and Shawn were drinking champagne and laughing at his nakedness. “It’s not supposed to end this way,” said a familiar voice. Then he was transported to the top of Mount Norbert, lost again, fog rolling in, the view not the same.
He didn’t know what woke him from this dismal dream, maybe the distant shouts. “Lug the camera up here!” “Can we get her feeding the goats?”
He dragged himself upright. A hazy day, mists in the fields. A TV van in the driveway, Margaret leading its crew to the goat corral. Nelson Forbish of the Bleat was also out there with his camera. Should she get elected, this is what it will be like for the foreseeable hereafter. She’ll be the poster girl of the Green set, media everywhere, like wolves circling, seeking weakness, seeking scandal. It’s not supposed to end this way. The end of privacy.
But Ottawa may be receding from the future. It had been on the radio last night, how she was sabotaged by the chicken-plucker issue during question period, an O’Malley stooge accusing her of being the source of those e-mails. She’d answered truthfully: a youthful escapade by her husband’s grandson, unbeknownst to all others. This was met by her opponents with scathing disbelief and by the press with damaging headlines.
Their reunion last night was sad and strained. They gave comfort to each other, but neither felt like making love. “I couldn’t not answer,” she said. “I couldn’t lie. That could only come back to haunt me.” Arthur insisted she’d done the right thing, tried to be cheery, but had to hide his despondency-he should have been there. He felt renewed sympathy for Gilbert Gilbert, failed assassin of the Badger.
“Watch out! That’s Polly, she can kick!” Arthur had the window open now, could see the camera operator stumbling backwards. A warm day, springlike weather, not a snowball left of last week’s snow. The melt had brought crocuses, delicately offering themselves to the sun, violet and yellow. The Blunderer was not at the dock, meaning Nicholas had taken his son out fishing, hoping to hide the computer ace from the media.