Sing a Worried Song Read online

Pomeroy wasn’t leaping to his feet to call for a recess — that would only tempt the jury to suspect that the defence’s plan had gone askew. Arthur guessed they were letting this risky detour run its course, gambling it might end safely.

  “Go ahead,” Mandy said finally, faintly.

  “Anyway, that evening we had dinner in a pub somewhere downtown, and then went for a walk in old Gastown, stopped off at a bar or two. Manfred was all set on finding a stripper bar he’d been told about, but the thought of sitting around with a bunch of leering old … Check that. Anyway, Manfred seemed determined to party it up on our last night; he even bought a case of Coors, but I was ready to pack it in.”

  Mandy ventured a safe question: “Where did he buy the beer?”

  “From one of the pubs. The Abbott? I can’t remember. We stopped in a little park by a cenotaph, and I cracked one open — I think Manfred may have too, I’m not sure — but anyway a patrol car went by and I slipped it back in the case unfinished.”

  Even as Skyler had been racing around Stanley Park on his free afternoon, his mind had been racing just as vigorously, creating and rehearsing this theoretically plausible scenario.

  “By then it was well after midnight, and I was ready to pack it in, and we were walking down … I think it was Cordova Street. It was deserted except for a fat little guy who seemed drunk, and Manfred asked him if there was a strip club still open. He said he was Chumpy the Clown, which didn’t mean anything to me, but he seemed like a character. He said he could take us to the best strip club in town, but I told Manfred I couldn’t hack it anymore, and I went back to our hotel, and they went … I don’t know.”

  “Carry on,” said Mandy, as Skyler frowned, as if in reflection.

  “Oh, yeah, I remember asking them what they were going to do with that case of Coors — they were taking off with it — and Manfred kind of checked the street, up and down, and it was still deserted, and he gave me this big wink, and said, ‘Don’t have the balls, eh?’ and …” Suddenly Skyler slumped, downcast. “I did my friend a terrible disservice. I thought he was joking. I just didn’t believe he would do it.”

  An emotional struggle, feigned or otherwise, persuaded Horowitz to order a ten-minute break.

  Arthur clamped his hand on Boynton’s arm to still his trembling and didn’t release it until the gallery emptied, until Pomeroy and Mandy hurried up the aisle after their client.

  “What I don’t want to hear from you, Jack, is that Wyacki has caught an early flight home.”

  “I’ll check.”

  “Keep him hidden. Report back.”

  There was no choice now. Laurence Wyacki would have to testify. Boynton conferred with the two detectives and they hurried off.

  Arthur stayed pat, looked over his cross-examination notes, excising several pages, recording fresh thoughts.

  §

  The ten minutes stretched to nearly twenty, the sheriffs growing restless, eager to fetch the jury, but finally the defence showed up. Skyler, his features firmly set, walked quickly to the stand. Mandy followed with a smile and a confident stride that seemed put on. Pomeroy, lagging behind, grimaced on seeing Arthur’s sad smile: a message of compassion for his plight over a runaway witness.

  When court was called to order, Juror Five tucked away a crossword puzzle — Arthur had seen her working at a few of those. He approved. It was a sign of intelligence.

  On rising, Pomeroy apologized for the delay. “Our client was in some distress.”

  “I’m okay now,” Skyler said, smiling ruefully. A chameleon. But was the jury seeing that? Arthur would have felt more comfortable if he’d seen some rolling of eyes or at least a frown.

  Mandy kept her questions short and open, giving Skyler free rein. From her perspective, it wasn’t going badly: Skyler was assured and steady, with occasional self-effacing touches.

  Arthur listened with bemusement as Skyler turned every relevant detail backwards. It was Unger who roused Skyler from sleep at ten o’clock on Sunday, August 3. It was Unger who said, “I really did it this time” and “I must have stabbed him ten times, and he wouldn’t die.” It was Unger who’d wiped the prints from the knife; Unger who’d taken off his clothes to avoid staining them with his victim’s blood. It was Unger’s leg that had been bitten.

  Arthur was spared Boynton’s repeated nudges because he’d yet to show up. But Nordquist was back and had sent up a note saying Wyacki was safely in his hotel room, Harrison with him.

  “What was your reaction to Mr. Unger’s disclosures?” Mandy asked.

  “I was horrified. I blamed myself, of course, but I … I mean, I just lit into Manfred. I was so angry, I even grabbed him by the shoulders, pushed him against the wall. He kept saying, ‘He was only a drunken old fag,’ things like that, ‘a worthless bum,’ as if that was a valid excuse. I told him to turn himself in before it was too late. Get help, get a lawyer. ‘Tell them you went insane.’ ‘If you don’t do the right thing,’ I said, ‘I’ll call the police myself.’”

  A sip of water. The stagy quality of his narrative was not so excessive that it could be easily and unanimously dismissed by twelve jurors. They were watching him intently.

  “I was swearing at him, I used some really gross words, obscenities that I don’t care to repeat here, and an expression came over his face that I can only describe as complete rage and hostility. I remember thinking, God, he’s going through one of his really sick, delusional phases. I felt threatened, but he just turned and roared out of there with his bag packed. I assume that’s when he went to his sister’s.” A woeful look. “And you’ve heard about the lies he told her. She persuaded him to go to the police, and of course he did, figuring he had to get to them before I did. And now he is dead and I am charged with a murder I did not commit. My best friend …”

  He trailed off, and gripped the railing of the witness stand to steady himself.

  Boynton finally settled in beside Arthur. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, just lovely.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, Wyacki is fine, he’s working on a school paper, and he’s okay with testifying. I think the guys tossed Skyler’s apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “Looking for his script.”

  Arthur would have to pursue that later. Mandy was asking Skyler if he’d followed up his threat to call the police.

  “I fully intended to. I was going to wait until he had a chance to cool down and get real. So when the police came by the next morning, I was in complete shock. I just handled things terribly. I was scared. I don’t remember saying I never met Chumpy, but I was so discombobulated I probably did. I did tell them I’d never been in his suite.”

  Mandy checked her notes. “You were quoted: ‘That’s awful, I don’t know anything about it.’”

  “Well, I guess I was just … I couldn’t bring myself to accuse Manfred of murder … I was trying to cover up for him. I was a fool.”

  As to Jimmy Gillies’s sighting of a light-haired young man walking from the building at around breakfast time: “That had to have been Manfred, because he was wearing denim and cowboy boots, just like Mr. Gillies said. I can’t explain the black gloves, unless he took them from Mr. Chumpy’s suite. I honestly can’t remember them. But on God’s word, it definitely wasn’t me. I’m not a crazy person. I’m not a killer. I’m not a killer.”

  “No more questions.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, you have about twenty minutes left — would you like to get started?”

  A nudge. “Get him under cross before lunch. Honcho has some­thing for you.” Harrison had showed up, peeling out of a rain poncho.

  Arthur rose to a hum of anticipation. He looked at his many pages of scribbled notes, then swept them into his briefcase. His usual practice was to circle his prey awhile, especially with a clever character like S
kyler, to play cat and mouse, hoping to win on points. But this time, he was hoping for a knockout in an early round.

  “Manfred stuck to you like glue, you said. Didn’t you ever want to peel him off?”

  Hesitation. “Maybe, occasionally … I just couldn’t bring myself to desert the poor guy. Like I say, he needed help.”

  “Didn’t his clinginess strike you as odd?”

  “Clingy … I may have exaggerated that. We shared a lot of good times together too.”

  “You were his hero. He idolized you.”

  “I guess.”

  “Must have felt good. Gave you a little glow?”

  “I don’t believe I ever thought of it that way. I may have felt honoured that he was …” A struggle over word choice.

  “Attracted to you.”

  “In the sense of two good pals, yes. I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr. Beauchamp. He had a steady girlfriend. I was dating, too. A lot.”

  “With, for instance, Miss Jean Eubacher.”

  He was caught short. “Eubach — Yes, I was seeing her.”

  Arthur was set on exposing the lie of Skyler’s vaunted virility. Nothing personal, of course, but it was his best shot at a win. “Would it bother you to know she told an investigator you were a dud in bed?”

  That yanked Pomeroy to his feet, and Horowitz spoke sharply. “Mr. Beauchamp, you know better than to sneak hearsay in by the back door.”

  “I apologize, M’lord. It’s a bad habit I learned from Mr. Pomeroy.” Even Brian’s admirer, Juror Twelve, smiled at this.

  Arthur moved to safer ground. “You met a couple of young women on the Expo grounds. Did you get their names?”

  “I guess we did, but I can’t remember. They were nice.”

  “Coeds from Texas. You said you lost track of them. Do you think they were trying to give you the slip?”

  Skyler was abrupt, as if offended: “Definitely not. If anything, they were coming on to us.”

  “They were attracted to you?”

  “I guess, sure.”

  “Did you make any effort to track them down before you went on the Scream Machine?” Watch that snide tone, he reminded himself.

  “We looked, believe me. We didn’t get lucky. Que sera sera.” A try for jauntiness that clunked. Frowns from Jurors Three, Five, and Nine.

  “Do you find men attracted to you too?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  An affronted tone. Arthur was getting under his skin earlier than expected. “Gay men, I mean. Surely a handsome, virile, athletic male like yourself attracts many looks from homosexual men.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Tell us why you really think Manfred was glued to you.”

  Red-faced, he blurted: “Manfred was totally straight! The last guy who approached me got one on the side of his head.”

  Arthur heard a few gasps behind him.

  “Would this be a good time to break for lunch, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “Yes, indeed, M’lord.” Timed to perfection.

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  Harrison managed to look both stubborn and sheepish as he and Nordquist joined the prosecutors in the Crown counsel offices. “I ain’t saying I was in there and I seen it. Don’t ask, because I won’t tell. A confidential informant told me.”

  Arthur understood this was code for We entered illegally. He was shocked. Harrison had a reputation for skirting the rules, but this warrantless search seemed blatant. Nevertheless, he held his tongue.

  What Honcho — or his alleged source — had seen in Skyler’s apartment that morning was an actors’ manual, On Stage: Tips and Techniques. A well-overdue library book.

  Arthur finished his salami on rye, then examined the records the detectives had got from the Vancouver Public Library, West Broadway branch: a copy of Skyler’s library card. A lending card showing Skyler took out the manual three months ago. Arthur wondered, guiltily, if he could somehow get these documents past those sticklers for the rules, Pomeroy and Horowitz, without their learning of the illegal entry. Fat chance. Clear grounds for a mistrial.

  The storm outside continued unabated, and Honcho’s clothes were still wet from his morning excursion. Had he got into Skyler’s apartment through a back window? No, because it was on a second floor. A fire escape maybe, an unsecured window or a picked lock. Arthur asked, “And were any written notes lying about?”

  “I’m given to understand there was a transcript of the first trial, but no notes. There was an empty trash basket. Also a computer, which my source knew dick about, even how to start it.”

  Nordquist looked on passively. Boynton seemed to be making an effort to play the game, pretending to believe in the informant fairy. Arthur was feeling somewhat corrupted.

  He was more interested in another book anyway: Unger’s copy of For the Fun of It had just been couriered from RMC. It was a hardcover, a first edition, Cheltenham Press, London. The author, Horace Widgeon, had signed the title page. And dated it: May 24, 1986. And under that he’d written, “Toronto, Canada.” Above that, in impeccably neat handwriting: “Happy birthday, Manfred, from Randolph and Yours Truly!” There may have been a sparse turnout at the signing, because Widgeon had had time to add: “Don’t sneak a peek at the last page!”

  On that forbidden page, Lord Scarfe-Robbins is marched off to the nick swearing vengeance against the protagonist. “I’ll get you one day, Grodgins! I’ll cut out your gizzard, you stinking, squint-eyed bastard!” In a brief denouement, Inspector Grodgins arrives home, his agnosia still in full bloom, to find a female foursome playing bridge in the parlour, and he can’t tell which is his wife.

  “Is the sequel out yet?” he asked Nordquist.

  “He has a new one every spring.”

  “Do we know exactly where this book was signed?”

  “A Toronto mystery bookstore,” Boynton said. “Owner is one J.D. Singh. He said the author stopped by on a book tour.”

  Arthur flipped through the book. Throughout were marginalia scribbled in red ink, comments like “Nice!” or “Totally evil, man!”

  “Manfred wrote these?” Arthur asked.

  Nordquist shook his head. “Our handwriting guy says Skyler.”

  Arthur tilted a Thermos, refilled his coffee mug. The lawyers and staff of Tragger, Inglis would be gathering now to honour him in absentia, with canapés and bubbly. There would be roasts as well as toasts, he supposed. On the whole, Arthur preferred to be in Court 53, doing his own roasting.

  No more mister nice guy. He was in this to win.

  §

  On stepping into the stand, Skyler seemed to have regained his equanimity. His counsellors, however, seemed harried: they’d been in deep dialogue with their client, and had probably missed lunch. The tension in court was palpable. A sheriff was calling for quiet.

  Most of the jurors trooping in were expressionless, intently focussed on taking their seats, but the foreperson, the interior designer, seemed to be suppressing a smile, as if she’d just been joking with someone. She glanced at Arthur, then away. He hoped the joke wasn’t on him.

  “Proceed, Mr. Prosecutor.”

  Arthur barely opened his mouth before Skyler interrupted. “May I explain something, Your Lordship. I mentioned I clipped a guy who was coming on to me, but he was drunk and persistent, and I regret having done that. I want to make it clear that I don’t have any hangups about homosexuals, if that’s what Mr. Beauchamp was implying. My attitude is that’s their business, but I happen to prefer women. And I resent the insinuation that Manfred was gay.”

  “You resent it?” said Arthur.

  “I reject it, sir. Manfred not only had a girlfriend, they were engaged. Janet. I’m heartbroken for her. And before Janet, he and I had lots of double dates. I can assure you he had a healthy appetite for the ladies.”

>   “And did his appetite match yours?”

  “I also resent the insinuation I was some kind of dud in bed, sir.”

  The strategy of sticking needles in the soft underbelly of Skyler’s vanity was showing promise. “How many women would you say you’ve bedded?”

  Mandy rose. “This is almost indecent. M’lord, how can any of this be relevant?”

  “I’ll give you some latitude, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “Give me a rough count, Mr. Skyler. How many?”

  “I haven’t kept records. It wasn’t my whole life or anything. But it was always normal sex and totally consensual.”

  “The right girl never came along?”

  “I had some fairly long spells with different women. I got pretty serious with one, we moved in together.”

  “For how long?”

  A shrug. “A few months.”

  Arthur flipped through the Ontario interviews. “Was that the apartment in Etobicoke? Martina Jacobs?”

  Skyler looked at him sharply. “Yes. You’ve obviously done some research.”

  “You signed a six-month lease, then left her after two months. What happened?”

  “That … it fizzled … it didn’t work out.”

  “Fizzled. Not much electricity, I guess.”

  Mandy jumped up again. “I object to the baiting of the witness.”

  “It’s cross-examination, Ms. Pearl.” Horowitz evidently approved of this new line of questioning.

  “Your last relationship was eighteen months ago, with Hennie Forbes, and it lasted about a month, correct?”

  “Whatever Hennie said isn’t true. Sometimes there’s just no magic.”

  “Another young woman, Lynn West, said she got bored after a week. With Margot Allen you lasted ten days. When it gets right down to it, Mr. Skyler, you were not the hottest item on the auction block.”

  Mandy bounced up like a rubber ball. “I object on all sorts of grounds.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, please refrain from that kind of rhetoric. I don’t want to have to cut you short.”

  “So again, how many women have you slept with, Mr. Skyler?”