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  This hints of another problem–Brian lacks faith in his client. “Or whoever did it.”

  “Right, of course.”

  “At an odd hour of the night–what was the pathologist’s best estimate?”

  “Around 2 a.m. Also at that time, one Harvey Coolidge from Kansas, a teller of bad dinner-table jokes, was out of bed too. He couldn’t sleep, wasn’t digesting well, went out to get some air.”

  “He dined with Faloon and Winters?”

  “And was looking cross-eyed at her all night.”

  “How strong are those four counts of theft?”

  “They can’t make him on those, there’s not a thimble of proof. Forensics vacuumed the rooms, Faloon didn’t leave a hair. Mind you, he did it, all right, buried the loot somewhere.”

  “Anything stolen from Dr. Winters?”

  “No. She had a fanny pouch, four hundred and change, credit cards, all untouched.”

  “Earlier, she was at the local bar?”

  “Listening to a jazz band.”

  “In anyone’s company?”

  Brian is onto his fourth cigarette, his voice hoarse. “Came in alone, took a barstool, hung around for almost an hour, drank two glasses of wine. Another woman had some chit-chat with her, Holly Hoover, unemployed, single, a local. Winters left during the last set, about eleven o’clock.”

  “And returned to her cottage how?”

  “No one knows. She would’ve had to be boated across. The cops can’t figure that one out–no one’s come forward.”

  “The murder weapon was unusual.”

  “White cotton standard-brand underwear. Her other clothes–bra, jeans, sweater–were on a chair by the fireplace. A bath towel was at the foot of the bed. A fair theory is she just got out of the shower when she was surprised by her attacker.”

  “In the meantime, of course, the authorities are focused on their all-too-handy prime suspect while other trails go cold.”

  “They’ve got his DNA prints, Arthur.”

  “That’s a stickler.”

  “But circumstantial. DNA doesn’t prove he raped or killed her. It’s consistent with the rational theory that Faloon was simply invited to her bed at some point.”

  “Rational theory?” Arthur finds it inconceivable that he could urge it on the jury with a straight face. Who would believe that Eve Winters found this Peter Lorre lookalike of romantic interest?

  “At least let’s be creative with the concept. Doctor Eve may have wanted to try…something different.”

  “Were the sperm motile?”

  “No, but the swab didn’t get to the lab till late in the day.”

  “Cat McAllister makes a case that Nick was framed, that someone might have had a sample of his semen.”

  “And we’re back to Adeline Angella.”

  Arthur nods, and they smoke quietly for a while. “She wants to interview you for a magazine piece. Why you, Brian? Was your assault trial controversial in any manner?”

  “Not really. Sales manager gropes secretary in the stockroom, rips her dress, she calls the cops.”

  “And was that after you were on record as Faloon’s counsel?”

  A pause for thought, then he nods. “Okay, that’s why she targeted me.”

  “I would be very careful with her.”

  “All I need to make my world complete is a false accusation of rape.” He repeats his offer: “I’m willing to do my part, Arturo, if you do yours.”

  This case has the desperate smell of a loser. Yet Arthur’s pride is in play. If Nick Faloon were to be wrongly convicted again, this time for murder, it would be an egregious insult to Themis, goddess of justice…

  Not for the first time today, his thoughts scamper squirrel-like up a tree. Where proudly stands, waving to the cameras, the smiling, defiant spouse. In contrast to her, we have the doornail sitting in his club chair with his dead poets. You were a famous lawyer when she met you. What have you done since to impress her? Deborah’s words echo harshly.

  He suddenly feels weightless, like Atlas upon Hercules relieving him of heaven’s burden. His shoulders straighten. “Take up Angella’s invitation. I’ll want to visit Bamfield, particularly to meet the woman who engaged Dr. Winters in the bar. In the meantime, we must have all laboratory tests–they may have examined the wrong material, confused their exhibits. And let’s get Nick out of that asylum.”

  A smile blooms on Brian’s crooked, ravaged face. “The return of Cyrano.” His cellphone rings again. He answers, “Last Round-Up Funeral Home. How may we help you?” Arthur retreats. His senses quicken as he approaches the support group. He is no longer a local yokel, he’s a lawyer again. Margaret will understand. He’ll seek her consent, of course, that’s the right thing to do.

  The three faces shine expectantly at him as he slices more bread from his bowbacked loaf. He must complain to Abraham Makepeace that he’s stocking old and impotent yeast. The only sound is produced by Jacoby, playing with the bundle of bills, snapping the elastic. Finally, he says, “We are waiting with bated breath for your verdict, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “I’ll do it if I have permission from my wife.” Yes, he’ll explain to Margaret that he faces a challenge of his own. I have to do this. Faloon’s trial will be many months away. He can do much of the preparation at home.

  Cat plants a kiss on his forehead, her breasts brushing his chin. Arthur is assailed by a nosegay of…not perfume, the scent of her sex. He feels a blush of embarrassment.

  Brian rejoins them, still on the phone. “Okay, sweetie, I’ll see you tomorrow. Kiss, kiss.” He pockets the phone. “Expenses will be high, gentlemen. The maestro comes higher.” In a more sanguine mood, relieved of the burden of the trial, he plucks the packet of bills from Jacoby. “Will you be putting this under your pillow, Arthur, or should I deposit it?”

  “In a trust account.” Arthur has long stopped worrying where his fees come from–the legal profession would be in dire straits without thieves and swindlers.

  Brian places the money in a case, and draws from it an expansion folder, the Faloon file. “I told these good people you don’t come in for under thirty thousand a day plus disbursements, based on a ten-day trial, more if it goes longer.” Nobody blanches, they are smiling.

  Arthur is glad Brian dealt with the fees, shielding him from that discomfort. Three hundred thousand dollars will provide a hefty boost to the Save Gwendolyn fund.

  Jacoby raises his glass. “I would like to toast Mr. Beauchamp for making this bold decision.”

  Others murmur assent, but Brian wants to celebrate with other than apple juice. “Is there a liquor store here, Arthur?”

  At the General Store, only two of the usual idlers are about: Emily Lemay and Gomer Goulet. Makepeace is in the aisles helping Winnie Gillicuddy, who is a hundred and three and can’t see well, yet walks to the store almost every day. “No, no, Winnie,” he says, “you give me the list, I’ll get someone to drive by with the whole shebang.”

  “I don’t want a shebang, I want what’s on this list, and twenty dollars on Lotto 6/49.” Winnie resists Makepeace’s attempt to wrest away her shopping basket and heads down the aisle.

  Jacoby says, “I assume we will not be looking at any bottles of champagne in this fine establishment.”

  “Not much call for that here.”

  As they settle on a bottle of rye whisky, Emily sashays to the counter. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend from Hollywood, Arthur?” The long-reigning Garibaldi sex goddess decides not to wait for such politeness, thrusts out her hand. Jacoby takes it uncertainly.

  “Frederick R. Jacoby, ma’am.”

  “I love your movies. We’re so excited that you’re going to do one on little Garibaldi.”

  Jacoby looks sideways at Arthur. “So far, ma’am, we’re keeping everything ambiguous.”

  “You think you might find room for me on the casting couch, Mr. Jacoby?”

  “Wouldn’t be room for anyone else,” says Goulet.

>   Winnie calls from the back. “You call this shrivelled thing a grapefruit? Where in tarnation have you hid the tea?”

  The afternoon is waning as Arthur leads the group, merry with drink, to the ferry.

  “If you desire any help with these developers,” says Jacoby, “to make them see reason, I am aware of certain persons you can call upon.”

  “Very kind of you, but that will not be necessary.”

  After seeing them off, he hastens to the Gap. To reduce traffic in the forest, all demonstrators have moved their tents to the acre of clear-cut by the road. Stump Town, they call it. A banner has been strung up: “Is This What You Want on the Gulf Islands?”

  The several reporters here look happy with their item of the day: Reverend Al performed an elaborate ritual this morning–not to be found in the Anglican canons–consecrating the site, proclaiming the protest tree a holy gift of nature. Henceforth it’s to be called the Holy Tree.

  Arthur cannot avoid Trustee Zoller, who comes close to his ear. “In case you got the wrong impression that I’m not entirely unsympathetic to saving this forest, you’re wrong.” As Arthur tries to dig through this weedy garden of negatives, Zoller adds to the confusion: “I’m more useful working from the outside. As an insider.”

  “I’m glad you’re coming around, Kurt.”

  “They say it’s going to be an epic, with Sean Penn and Woody Harrelson. Somebody told me they pay extras two hundred a day.” Arthur hurries up the trail, Zoller clinging to him. “Maybe you could put in a word.”

  The rumours have also scaled the Holy Tree, with added distortions. After their shouted words of greeting, Margaret asks if it’s true he was rehearsing the bedroom scene with that platinum floozy he was seen with earlier. She has a big laugh over this. She continues to be in fine spirits up there, smiling royally down at her subjects. The press like her. Plucky is the overused adjective.

  “All will be revealed tomorrow when I post a letter.” It will include a polite plea to give someone else a turn.

  Margaret posts her own letter, a paper glider. It’s a list: fresh underwear, socks, pyjamas. Arthur will fetch her robe too–he doesn’t want her parading about in nightwear in front of Cudworth. Ground observers are guarding against Felicity sneaking him booze or pot. Stimulants have been known to cause the oaf to lose his veneer of civilization.

  One supposes he pries and spies, denying her privacy. Where do they change clothes? Hey, you got your bra strap twisted. They must constantly be in each other’s hair–one table between them, one desk, one potty. Arthur can’t imagine what they do all day, how they exercise. Yoga maybe. Hold that position. Now stick out the butt.

  Cud appears, shirtless, brushing his teeth. He lets go a spume of white spit that arcs past Zoller. “Oh, sorry, man, didn’t see you down there.” Once more, Arthur dismisses any notion that Margaret might find this fellow of romantic interest.

  9

  Faloon is learning the routines at VI, one of which is sitting around in the lounge after lunch, him and a bunch of sedated zombies, watching the cartoon channel. He wonders who came up with this brilliant idea of a forced diet of Porky Pig, they probably think the inmates can’t handle anything more complex, or you’re supposed to laugh, a kind of therapy.

  But no one cracks a grin, the humour lost on, for instance, the two oxen sitting over there, both killers, one of them chopped up his mother-in-law and the other put down a neighbour on orders from God, and has an erect dick tattooed on his forearm. But the real fun guy was the Nazi punk, who took an irrational dislike to Faloon on first encounter, and kept whispering things like, “I’m going to eviscerate you, Jew boy.” Fortunately he was taken away the next morning for what Faloon hopes was a lobotomy.

  It’s two o’clock on an average Sunday in the ding ward. An hour to wait for Claudette St. John, who got herself a visitors’ pass, who is finally coming from Bamfield to see him. Her letters are the only warm spot, she believes in him.

  This is gratifying because he and Claudette were on the outs after the incident with Holly Hoover, who caught him in a weak moment. Holly was about to do a circuit of the logging camps and needed a room for the night, plus she’s a very hot product, terrific body, and they ended up trading. Claudette got wind and accusations flew. Despite Faloon’s lies, things didn’t go well for a long time.

  But Faloon isn’t much cheered by Claudette’s support–for him hope is gone. The air went out of him like a flat tire when Arthur Beauchamp walked out of that courtroom, looking grim and severe, like he was disappointed in the Owl, somehow betrayed.

  If he beats the rap on account of insanity, this is his future, right here–the Owl will be spending the rest of his life where every day you got to worry there’s been a goof-up, they forgot to trank down Weird Harold, who’s decided the quivering lump of jelly over there is reading his inner thoughts. “Tell me why you feel threatened,” the local head fixer said, who spent most of that session cleaning his glasses and working at his crockery with a toothpick.

  The Owl silently cheers on the Road Runner, who makes another miraculous escape from Wile E. Coyote. Faloon has been studying the ventilation ducts, trying to decide if he’s small enough to squeeze into them, wiggle his way somewhere, the laundry room, then over the fence to the street. It seems a better plan than to overcome the six-and-a-half-foot warder who stands by the door.

  A break for commercials, and the ape with the blue veiner tattooed on his arm is no longer riveted to the screen. He is sizing up the Owl. The tranks are wearing off, God is whispering that Faloon is trying to control his mind. The other one is staring at him now too, the mother-in-law chopper, whose preferred tool was a cleaver. In such an atmosphere, Faloon has decided not to offend anyone with Gertrude Heeredam demonstrations.

  Anyway, he has practically given up on the multiple identity theory, a play born of desperation. The psychiatric nurse isn’t buying it, a shrewd and unsympathetic woman. Nurse Thompson has been assigned to “work” with him, as she puts it. Now she wants to run him through a lie detector. His current counsel, Brian Pomeroy, says definitely not, it would put the final kibosh to the whole deal. She’d check into his father, discover he returned to the old country after his business folded, and is ten thousand miles away.

  His parents don’t have happy memories of Canada, their boy a delinquent, always running away from home. In school, he was the little Arab kid who got stepped on. He had to stand up to them, show them something, so as a dare he stole the principal’s briefcase and entertained his new friends with the Playboy in it. That gave him honour and respect. It was the turning point of his life.

  A child psychologist told his parents he suffered from kleptomania, and wrongly assured them he’d grow out of it, the problem wouldn’t grip him for life. The only side benefit was it got him some cheap sentences; Mr. Beauchamp has even been known to wring tears out of his disability.

  Mr. Pomeroy lacks the satin touch and seems kind of scattered, but he has other qualities. For instance, he’s got the nuts of Godzilla. Adeline Angella has made contact with him. She wants to interview him at a quiet place for dinner. Since the same modus operandi happened in Faloon’s case, the spider inviting the fly, he tried to warn Mr. Pomeroy off, but he’s going ahead with it.

  The lawyer wanted to know all about Faloon’s ill-fated date, and made detailed notes, once pausing to compliment him on his powers of observation. Faloon explained it’s how he made his living.

  It was at the Kashmir Sapphire trial where Faloon first saw Angella, at the press table, giving him the eye while Mr. Beauchamp destroyed the main Crown eyewitness, who it turned out could hardly see, let alone read, the calendar on the courtroom wall. After Faloon was cleared, Angella accosted him outside, giving him the pitch about her being a magazine writer and she would love to know about the fascinating world of the jewel thief.

  To his everlasting sorrow, Faloon was intrigued, everyone wants a little fame and recognition. He could spin her, his friends wou
ld have a laugh reading the story. But of course he got into the sauce before meeting her, celebrating with Cat and Willy–the Kashmir had been a three-handed play, a lawn party, a visiting maharaja, a replica in paste, two months of planning.

  Angella suggested a restaurant at the Four Seasons, and Faloon had to admit he was banned from that chain, so they settled on a Spanish place in her neighbourhood, El Torro, where he continued to get oiled, with sangria then wine. She wanted to know about the Kashmir Sapphire, and he told her it was too delicate a subject right now. He laid on a lot of baloney instead, stuff like he was raised in a family of trapeze artists, and how he filched the Persian Goddess from the Constantinople Museum by swinging on a rope.

  The fact is the Owl is really not a movie-hero kind of guy who swings from ropes and chandeliers and leaps over laser beams, he has always left that sort of stuff to Clint Eastwood. He doesn’t like the physical stuff, relies on nimble fingers and swift feet.

  The Angella woman was better than passing grade, but not top shelf. Full-beam headlights, though. Breastacula. The Owl wasn’t counting on any sexual involvement until he picked up that she was coming on to him–leaning forward, all audience, an “Oh, goodness” here and a gasp there, her hands fluttering over her breasts. She had this way of staring intently at him as she dipped her tongue in her wineglass before taking a sip. If the idea was to make him horny, it was working. “Cognacs?” she said. “I’m just around the corner.”

  Finally, on the TV there’s something for the level above five-year-olds, The Simpsons, but when it opens to Homer presiding over a family dinner, Weird Harold rises, points to the screen, and shouts, “That’s him! That’s Gary! May you rot in hell!”

  The warder presses a button, sirens sound, and lights flash, and the warder is moving toward this unbalanced individual with a straitjacket, and they wrestle. Now the guy who dismembered his neighbour is again fixed on Faloon. But before the nightmare can ignite into some epic bloody climax, reinforcements pour in, syringes in hand.