April Fool Read online

  Outside the Woofer house, Kim Lee is changing the tire on her bicycle.

  “Kim, you, me, drive ferry.”

  “You dry very?” She extends a water bottle.

  “Drive. To ferry.”

  “Ah, very…Very good?”

  Kim joins him in the truck’s passenger seat. On the way, Arthur gives monosyllabic pointers about keeping Blunder Bay Farm afloat for the day. She nods, smiles, a lovely, open, innocent face, like a sunflower.

  When he parks and hands her the key, Kim looks confused. “I no dry.”

  “You don’t drive?”

  Kim shakes her head. Not understanding what Arthur wanted, she accompanied him out of politeness. She will have to hitch back, someone else will retrieve the truck, Paavo–no, he left last night. Arthur foresees confusion reigning at Blunder Bay, but he can’t dally, the Queen of Prince George is pulling in.

  He will try to get back early to sort things out.

  A rubber toy squeaks as Arthur climbs into a well-used family Honda. “Sorry about the kids’ mess,” Brian says. “Caroline has custody of the Saab.” He snaps his cellphone shut. “I just got word that the state has assigned one of its top slingers, Buddy Svabo, to the case.” Senior Crown Buddy Svabo, who occasionally mismanages his anger, will be a headache, but an over-reaching prosecutor wins no popularity contests with juries.

  “Something else you should know. I just got the lab reports. They did a screen for Rohypnol, and found some traces in Doctor Eve’s bloodstream.”

  “A mood elevator?”

  “You’ve been out of commission too long, Arturo. Rohypnol, rochies, roofies, Mexican Valium. Little white tabs from the friendly folks at Roche Pharmaceuticals. Powerful intoxicant, ten times the strength of Librium, odourless, colourless, tasteless. It’s one of the hot date-rape drugs.”

  Opening up an absorbing array of possibilities. “It causes the victim to lose consciousness?”

  “Can do. Takes effect in twenty minutes, reaches a peak in about an hour. Amnesia afterwards, the victim doesn’t know who, when, where, or how.”

  “I assume no such pills were found in the rented cottage?”

  “Nor at Faloon’s lodge.”

  “How available are they?”

  “Illegal here, but you can get them easily, from Mexico, off the Internet.”

  Angella’s researches must have acquainted her with Rohypnol. Now there is a clue as to how she might have overpowered Doctor Eve. But, still, why would she?

  They are moving with the traffic down Pat Bay Highway, where the farmland peters out and the malls and condos multiply. Brian is driving well enough, no sign of a hangover. Arthur dreads another teary spectacle, but politeness demands he ask after his family.

  Brian responds calmly, in the manner of one sedated, telling of his Sunday outing with his daughter and two sons. “They’ve learned to turn the situation to their advantage. ‘Mommy lets us do that’is one of the refrains.” His cellphone interrupts. “Oh, really? How fun.” Pleasure animates his voice, but he makes a sour face. “Fine and dandy then, we’ll hook up.”

  He tosses the phone into the back seat, where it clatters among the plastic animals. “Angella. She’s in Victoria, meeting our new prosecutor. Third call this week, and it’s what–Tuesday? Our date is this weekend. Meanwhile, I am to look up her Web site, which has the entire article from Real Women on it, how she got raped and how you were so mean to her in court.”

  He has more immediate concerns. “I’m a damn good father, Arthur. I don’t try to turn them against Caroline, I speak of her only to praise her. But from Antonio–he’s the seven-year-old–I got, ‘Why does Mommy call you a rooster?’”

  He sniffs, fumbles for the sunglasses behind the vizor. “You’re going to have to get someone else to junior you, Arthur. I’m liable to snap. I can’t handle it.” He bangs his hand on the steering wheel. “A rooster! To my kids! I’ve been straight! For almost two years…”

  Arthur finds it hard to sympathize. He’s been straight all his life. His thoughts flip to Margaret, up in her roost with the roostering, roistering original voice from the bush. Arthur once went to a reading by that posturing poetaster. His “earthy muscular renderings”(Capilano Review). More like barnyard grunts.

  Outside the courtroom, they come upon Buddy Svabo, who dons a mask of delight. “Here comes trouble.” Early forties, short, compact, a bent nose–he was an amateur boxer. With him is a burly man, obviously the case officer. “Told you, Jasper, they’re desperate, they’re bringing in the artillery.”

  Staff Sergeant Jasper Flynn heartily takes Arthur’s hand. “Looking forward to seeing you in action, sir.” Thick-necked, forty, attractive in a square-chinned, barrel-like way. Premature hair loss is compensated for by a handsome, curling moustache.

  “Beautiful area, the Alberni Inlet,” Arthur says. “I don’t suppose you get many murders out that way, Sergeant.”

  “No, sir, but I’ve only done six months there, filling in for the head of Major Crimes, he’s on sick leave. Now they want to move me back to Vancouver to push paper.”

  “That makes for a rather short stint.”

  “Yes, but thanks to your client, I get to stick around while I run this file and chase a few salmon. Tell him I appreciate it.”

  Brian searches in vain through pockets and briefcase for the cellphone he left in the car. Finally he marches down the hall to a public phone.

  Buddy asks, “How long are you going to maintain this pretence your guy’s insane, Artie?”

  Arthur hates that diminutive–it’s like artsy, used of one who is tasteless and imitative. “Evidence mounts,” he says. “We have a trail of dissociative identity disorder going back to childhood.”

  “I’m no expert,” says Flynn, “but I’d say he’s as crazy as a fox. Otherwise, he’s as normal as you and me.”

  Buddy seems annoyed by the officer’s flip attitude. “He’s freaking abnormal.”

  “And that’s our position too,” says Arthur. He draws Buddy to an alcove.

  “Yeah, Flynn should be pushing paper,” Buddy says, glaring at the officer. “That guy’s in deep doodoo. He had a dangerous ex-con in his jurisdiction, a thief, a rapist, and he didn’t warn the community. That’s why the head honchos plan to shift him out of Alberni, sooner than he thinks. There’s already been heat, we’ve been getting it from women’s groups too.”

  “I’ll try not to add to your burden. Do we have full particulars?”

  “Why? Is there anything missing? Nothing to hide, that’s the way I always work. Did you get the latest analysis? Rohypnol, you slip it into a girl’s glass of wine, and pretty soon she just can’t say no.”

  “I want the names of the known individuals whose prints were in Cotters’ Cottage.”

  “Her three girlfriends, the owners, a previous tenant, and a couple of dumb cops who didn’t wear gloves. One of them that brilliant sleuth.” A nod in Flynn’s direction.

  “None of Harvey Coolidge, I presume.” The condo developer.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. The guy’s straight as an arrow, solid pillar of Topeka.”

  “What about the two unidentified prints?” Perhaps Holly Hoover, perhaps Adeline Angella, though he doesn’t want to alert Buddy that she’s of interest.

  “Who knows? Eve was there for almost a week, she probably had visitors, hikers. There was a bottle of Chablis on the table, uncorked, three-fifths empty. The prints on it were deliberately smeared. Two glasses in the sink, washed. They didn’t analyze for Rohypnol, but that’s how he did it.”

  “And who had keys?”

  “Owners had a spare set. Ask your client, maybe he made a copy. It’s pretty freaking obvious that’s how he got into the rooms at the Breakers.”

  “Let me finish my shopping list, Buddy. I would like the laboratory reports in their entirety, including the Rohypnol test. As to the main exhibit, the semen sample–may that be released to us for an independent analysis?”

  “Not.
You’ll have to get a court order. There isn’t enough material left to give out free samples. What’s all this about? I thought you were going on insanity. You managed to push it this far, you’ve got nothing else.”

  “I want all bases covered.”

  “If you’re thinking of defending the main issue, whether Faloon actually did it, I’m going to have to call Adeline Angella–I guess you remember her. Previous rape, it shows a pattern, the similar fact rule applies.”

  “I will be strenuously opposing.”

  “I like a good fight.” Buddy affects a boxing stance. “Seriously, I can’t go easy on your guy, Artie. I have to get him off the streets, there’s a huge amount of pressure on me.”

  Arthur watches Brian talk animatedly at a pay phone. Caroline, maybe, or their counsellor.

  “Let us have some give and take, Buddy. You consent to my independent analysis and abandon the idea of calling Ms. Angella, and I will not argue insanity.”

  Buddy’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “You’re willing to throw away the one hope you’ve got?”

  “An insanity verdict means a mental institution. Could be forever, who knows. A pyrrhic victory for us but a loss for the Crown.”

  “I smell a rat. If you’re that scared of Angella, I’m hanging on to her.”

  Ultimately, Buddy consents to further testing of the diminishing sample of Faloon’s precious bodily fluid. Arthur will abandon insanity.

  A stirring from the press table as Arthur enters court. The provincial judge, Iris Takahashi, is working her way through a long list, the daily menu of remands, bail applications, and guilty pleas. She nods at Arthur as if recognizing him, though he can’t remember where they met.

  “That worked out very well,” he tells Brian as they settle on the chairs reserved for counsel. “He’s going to give me a second chance at Adeline Angella.”

  “Don’t look now, but she’s third row from the back, on your left.”

  Arthur resists an itch to turn.

  “Regina versus Faloon,” the clerk calls.

  Arthur’s client comes into the room blinking. As his eyes settle on Arthur, a puckish smile.

  Brian rises. “Your Honour, I had this case brought forward so I could apply to withdraw as counsel. A matter has arisen…I can’t say more, let’s just say there are some friendly differences of opinion between counsel.”

  A fine, understated performance for Angella. Arthur comes forward. “May it please the court, I apply to go on record as counsel.” There is not usually such rigorous formality in the changing of the guard in criminal matters, but he has decided to milk it. “Arthur R. Beauchamp of Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham.”

  “I know,” Takahashi says. “I articled there, Mr. Beauchamp. You tutored me in criminal law.”

  It comes to him just in time. “Ah, yes, the studious young woman at the back–more observant than her tutor, it must be admitted.” She smiles. More proof of his decrepitude, he once had an acute memory for faces.

  “Very well, Mr. Pomeroy, you are discharged.”

  Arthur chances a look at Angella as Brian leaves. She packs away her notepad and rises in pursuit of him. A short-legged woman with a penguinlike waddle. Late thirties–ten years older than when he last saw her–smartly dressed and coiffed, not a hair out of place. So earnest and self-effacing when she was on the stand.

  “May I also put on record that the defence of insanity is being withdrawn. In its stead, I shall be seeking a full verdict of not guilty. Circumstances have come to light that impel me in that direction.”

  Reporters write furiously. Buddy, unhappy that Arthur has got the first punch in, must be prodded to record his consent to the independent analysis of the semen sample.

  A date for the preliminary hearing is set, the last two weeks of June. The trial itself will likely be another six months away. Arthur will rent a comfortable suite, persuade Margaret to accompany him, a break from the farm. Assuming she’s down from her tree. (“DAY SIX!” cried the Times-Colonist in its daily front-page countdown. Such encouragement could incite her to stay up there in perpetuity.)

  A van awaits to convey his client away, so Arthur has only a few moments with him in the cells. Faloon apologizes for dragging Arthur from his life of ease, and hopes his friends didn’t lean on him too hard. He will be in Arthur’s debt “for all eternity, and then some.” He adds: “I like Mr. Pomeroy, don’t get me wrong, but maybe he’s a little too imaginative when he’s falling apart like that.”

  “I understand your friend, Claudette, is being very supportive.”

  “Non-stop. It would be a lot better if we didn’t have to meet in the nut house.”

  “We’ll get you out of there within the week.”

  Arthur will interview him at length another day, but now must hurry off to the injunction hearing–it is probably long over now, but he wants to learn the result.

  As he emerges from the elevator, he hears a voice call out, “Here he is.” Santorini’s agitated clerk. She hurries him into the courtroom. “The judge is fit to be tied. This was to have come on at ten o’clock.”

  Confused, Arthur makes his way toward the counsel table. Selwyn Loo again picks up his presence from imperceptible clues. “Good morning, Arthur. The judge seems to think we can’t go on without you.”

  “He wants you to get a grip on your wife,” says Lotis, deadpan. No challenging hairdo, a touch of makeup today. Ankle-length fawn dress. This petite actress (“actor,” she insists) knows she must dress for the role if the revolution is to be won.

  When court assembles, Santorini fixes on him icily: “You had more important business, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “Merely a murder case. I wasn’t aware I was required here. I still don’t know why.”

  “To explain this.” Santorini hold up a page of newspaper. “‘Fat Chance, Says Tree Sitter.’ I take it that is Mrs. Beauchamp’s response to my offer?”

  Arthur wonders if he lost at golf yesterday. “Margaret Blake made an unguarded comment, not intended to offend.”

  Selwyn rises. “Milord, no harm is done if the defendants remain where they are. Logging can’t proceed anyway–that’s clear from the act. An eagle habitat cannot be disturbed.”

  Garlinc’s counsel, Prudhomme, rises wearily. “It’s not a habitat if the nest is abandoned, the court has already ruled that.”

  “Milord, eagles don’t easily abandon nests that have been maintained over the years…”

  Santorini interrupts. “Eagles aren’t the problem. The problem is I’ve held out the hand of conciliation, and it has been summarily rejected. I’m going to give the respondents two more days, and I want you to know, Mr. Beauchamp, that my patience is wearing thin.”

  The matter is being taken as a personal slight; Arthur is the blameworthy party, he has failed to govern his wife.

  “I mean it. There’s a serious contempt-of-court issue here. I won’t be afraid to order incarceration. And if anyone else tries to go up that tree, I’ll have him or her arrested on the spot.” Santorini slams his desk book shut and walks out.

  Santorini’s ultimatum will get Margaret’s back up; Arthur has a discomforting vision of her in the women’s lockup, stubborn, refusing to apologize and purge the contempt.

  In the barristers’ lounge, Lotis seeks the bright side. “We bought two more days.”

  “Eagles mate for life,” Selwyn says. “A solitary parent can’t raise a brood. These developers may not be beyond shooting one. Even if we have a nesting pair, that only wins us the summer. The fledglings leave the nest in September, in go the loggers.”

  “Selwyn, stop being a bringdown.” Lotis brushes hair from her eyes. Arthur wants to send her off to a salon, or buy her a clip. “This is guerrilla warfare, man, you’ve got to fire up the troops.”

  After Selwyn heads off to a meeting, she says, “He hates shrinks, won’t do tranks. Generalized anxiety disorder. I talked to him about it, you can see where it comes from. His mom was a Chinatown junkie, a hooker. T
hrow in the blindness. Throw in extreme environmental angst. I shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

  Arthur doesn’t know what to say but express sympathy–he understands anxiety. His chauffeur, Brian Pomeroy, has unaccountably disappeared from the courthouse–cornered by Angella?–so he invites Lotis to join him in a taxi to the ferry terminal.

  “Yeah, I can make the three o’clock.” Unenthusiastic.

  “You do have a residence on the mainland? Or do you live out of that?” A heavy packsack.

  “Got evicted last week. Too many meetings, too much shouting. I couch-surf.”

  Arthur assumes there’s some kind of radical underground where beds are freely available to itinerant urban guerrillas. He remains leery of this woman, distrustful–revolutionaries reject that most precious of concepts, the rule of law.

  Still, he needs a sounding board, and en route to Chez Forget–his boat doesn’t leave until three-fifteen–he shares with Lotis the burdens of wifelessness on the farm, being forced to eat tofu, Woofers leaving, kid goats coming.

  “Sounds ghastly.”

  Denied sympathy, he turns the topic to her, admits a curiosity about her acting career.

  “My total pitiful output was three teeners, three screamers, two soaps, a comedy series that never made the cut, and numerous acts of prostitution.”

  “Acts of…I’m sorry, what?”

  “Commercials, dah-ling. How I got through law school.”

  Arthur doesn’t prompt her, but she’s unreserved in talking about her Hollywood career, its collapse. A bad love affair, a stop at an abortion clinic, a breakdown. She decided to start fresh, immigrate to her favourite city–she’d done film work in Vancouver–and arm herself with a law degree. To her, a weapon in the struggle.

  Again, Chez Forget is crowded, but Pierre sits them at an outside table in the warming April sun. “It is intolerable. This is not the Burger King, here you need reservations. I will start you with the foie gras.” With a bow, he places before Lotis a small vase with a single red rose. “For you, mademoiselle, who is so beautiful.”