A Three Day Event (19 page)

“I can’t believe I said that,” she apologized in obvious embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Manon. And–and Polo. And it’s such a beautiful dinner.” Her eyes filled and she shook her head in self–reproach.

Polo was stunned by the emotional punch he felt at Ruthie’s unexpected and intimate offering after the lightness of the last hour. He wanted to jump up, pull her to him, hold her and comfort her.

And before his conversation with Nathalie he would have felt at the very least perfectly comfortable to do what any friend would–give her a hug. He had hugged her this morning. She was his oldest friend. But now he felt suddenly guilty about his instinct, and even recoiled from it. He felt a surge of terrible anger at Nathalie. She had spoiled something important in his life, perhaps forever. And she was wrong. It was a lie. He should ignore it.

And yet he made no move toward Ruthie. He couldn’t feel right about it any more. It was terrible

Finally he leaned over to squeeze her hand in a brotherly way. “What are friends for, Ruthie. Don’t be silly.”
Gee, fella, that’s really profound and original. That ought to cheer her up right away.
He cursed himself in a variety of swear words covering every object, article of clothing and ritual ever associated with the Catholic church.

Manon murmured something comforting to her in French, and the two women continued to speak softly of the things Manon was well–equipped to sympathize with: the difficulties of living alone for a woman who has spent a lifetime under the protection of men, explaining the injustices of life to frightened and bewildered children, the struggle to rediscover a sense of normalcy…

Listening, making no attempt to pretend that he had anything to contribute, at first so sunk in his own frustration that he didn’t realize they had switched languages, Polo gradually became aware of the charmingly flawless Parisian accent which never failed to take him back to his earliest memories of Ruthie, her pink bedroom and the absurd little schoolroom.

It was paradoxical. She had seemed so sure of herself back then, sure of what she owned and what she had to offer, confident of her value and importance to the world, that arrogant little slip of a child, and now, a woman in late, but still full bloom, she was vulnerable, sure of nothing, humbled. His heart went out to her. Which, he knew, was what it mustn’t do.
Think about something else. Think about why you like her better when she speaks English.

It was interesting that he had never liked to talk to her in French. He supposed it was because it only emphasized the yawning educational and cultural chasm between them. It was humiliating to be outclassed in your mother tongue. There was less shame when it was your second language. And in English, they were pretty much of a sameness now.

As the conversation gradually shifted back to normal ground, Polo felt free to remark that Hy had been on the phone for quite a while. It was true. And it was unlike him to take his guests for granted, even family, Manon knew. She half–rose to see if anything was really the matter, when Hy strode back into the room.

Manon could not stifle a cry of shock at the sight of him. His colour was very bad and he was breathing so raggedly it sent a chill of fear through her limbs.

“Hy, what is it? Howard? Elaine? Your mother?
What is it?”

Hy grasped Manon’s outstretched hand and tried to muster a soothing tone. “It’s not the family. It’s nobody we know. Or rather–listen, just give me a few minutes with Polo.” Polo had already risen and was waiting tensely. His mind was roving–irrationally, he remembered it was store business–amongst the horses at the barn, wondering if the door had been locked, if Roch had checked before leaving…

“No, Hy,” she cried, “You can’t expect me to look at you, and see how upset you are and not tell me.” Ruthie murmured a reinforcing bid for enlightenment.

Hy nodded grimly and took a deep breath. “Okay, you’re right. It’s–oh, God–it’s that stable boy, Liam. They found him out back of the Taschereau store. Dead. Strangled. No identifying marks.” The two women gasped.

“How did they know it was Liam?” Polo asked, feeling instinctively this was the wrong question.

“
They
didn’t know it was Liam.
They–
the police, the store people–they still don’t know who it is. It’s
me
who knows it’s Liam. Because–” he was still gripping Manon’s hand and shook it a little as he looked fiercely into her frightened eyes–“they described what he looked like, and at first because they didn’t mention a ponytail, I just thought it could be anyone, but then they told me he was wrapped in
Clar–Mor
paper! And from the size, I knew it was the paper that’s missing from the stadium!”

Polo now grasped the real source of Hy’s extreme anxiety. “So you didn’t tell them.”

Hy’s face sagged with the comfort of confession. “Polo, I couldn’t. I know it was wrong, but I suddenly saw what it would mean, and I thought of Roch, the police swarming all over the place, the publicity–I had a vision of that funny little reporter dashing to the phone–it was wrong, but I froze. And I didn’t even lie. I didn’t have to. Albert wanted to know if I thought he might have worked for
Clar–Mor
somewhere else, at some other store, and I said truthfully I couldn’t think of any store employee that fitted that description. So technically–” he slumped wearily into a chair and rubbed a hand across his face and eyes.

Polo’s mind was racing back through all the postulations he had made about the stallion and the office. All bets were off. Whoever had sent him packing had hated him enough to kill him. Or again, maybe not. A hundred new possibilities leaped to mind…but first things first…

“When do they think he died?”

“Late afternoon or early evening, no precise time yet.” Hy’s voice shook slightly. Manon slipped her arm across his shoulder.

“And they think he was killed in town?” Polo probed.

Hy shrugged. “They have no reason to think otherwise. But it’s obvious he was killed here.”

Manon nodded, but Polo frowned and was about to speak, when Ruthie said thoughtfully, “Why is it obvious? The killer may have brought the paper into town for that reason. Or anywhere along the way. They might have had a rendez–vous planned. He–or she–might have given the boy a lift to town, planning all the time to kill him. So we can’t even be sure it was someone on the grounds here.”

Polo nodded and looked at her in admiration for her swift grasp of the alternatives. They all fell silent for a moment. Finally Polo said, “What do you want to do, Hy?”

Hy groaned. “I was hoping you’d tell me. I’m out of my depth here, I admit it.” He sank his face into his hands. “This is a nightmare. I’m the kind of guy who declares every pair of socks I buy in Plattsburgh when I cross the border. How did I get mixed up in a murder?”

“We have to let Roch know,” Polo said. “He should be part of the decision. I’ll call him.” Hy nodded dumbly.

Manon rose stiffly. She grasped Hy’s hand, squeezed hard, and began mechanically to remove the dishes from the table

Ruthie walked briskly into the kitchen. “I should make some coffee,” she offered.

“Make a lot,” Polo said quietly, and their eyes met as he reached for the telephone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
hey huddled around the antique pine coffee table in
varying postures of frustration and tension. Ruthie was curled tightly into a wing chair, hugging a pillow. Roch sat on the edge of a hard chair, elbows to knees, and rocked back and forth on his heels. Manon and Hy sat very close to each other on a loveseat, fingers tightly interlaced. Polo paced the width of the room, sat for a few minutes on a Turkish ottoman, got up to pace again.

It was very late. The air in the living room was acrid and blue from Roch’s Old Ports. Smoking was normally an offence in the Jacobson household, but under the circumstances, and in the light of Roch’s intense agitation, Hy and Manon hadn’t the heart to enforce a ban. Periodically Ruthie picked up his ashtray with careful, shrinking fingertips to rinse and empty into the garbage compactor. Roch was oblivious to her expression of fastidious distaste as she did this, but Polo flashed back in his mind to his eleven–year old self and that first awareness of her cool, assessing presence in the Jacobsons’ kitchen.

There were a few areas of agreement. Of this little group Polo and Ruthie were taken to be disinterested parties in the affair, unless some stunning new piece of information came to light. A police investigation would be unlikely to involve them in anything more than a cursory investigation of their whereabouts at specific times. Even without alibis for time and place, neither of them had any but the most tangential relationship to the Centre and its business. But Roch and Hy and even Manon, on the other hand, because of the circumstances of Liam’s job and the link to
Clar–Mor
in his death, would be fair game for deeper probes of both motives and opportunities for the murder.

Roch had argued passionately against disclosure of Liam’s identity to the police. He spoke eloquently and stirringly of the years of commitment and unremitting work he had devoted to the Centre. A scandal of this kind would be devastating. If even ten percent of the boarders left–and they were sure to if the murder and the stallion attack were publicized–the cash flow of his business would be in jeopardy within two months. Six months of sharply reduced business would finish him.

The parents of his young Ontario students would whip their kids out of Saint Armand as soon as they heard about it. You didn’t get students that easily in the horse business. One way or another a public enquiry would be the end of his career, he was convinced, no matter who was–or more likely who was not–found to have done it.

“
É
coute,
Hy,” he pleaded instinctively to the one he knew was most inclined to empathize, “it’s not only
Le Centre
I’m thinking of. Let’s face it, this
affaire,
it looks bad for my nephew. When Gilles left like that, I thought well, he’s scared about the stallion, and I’ve been tough on him lately, maybe he thought he’d be blamed. But now I don’t know…and let’s say he had nothing to do with the murder, the police, they’re going to make him the first suspect, that’s for sure.”

He turned to include Manon and Ruthie. “You have families, children…you understand what that means. My sister, Gilles’ mother–she’s got a lot on her plate right now. This would–”

Hy groaned and held up a weary hand. “Don’t, Roch. No more. I give up. I understand where you’re coming from. It wouldn’t be any picnic for me either as owner to see the Centre exposed to that kind of publicity. And anyway it’s not just
your
family’s reputation that’s at stake.” Manon buried her face in her hands and sighed as Hy sympathetically caressed her shoulder.

He said, “Look, you all know what I’m most inclined to do, and that’s go to the authorities. But I want to do the right thing for everyone. I think we all realize that the best thing in terms of our own interests would be to try and solve it ourselves. If we can prove who did it and hand him over to the police, it’ll blow over fast.” Roch nodded eagerly.

“But,” he continued firmly, “we have to agree on a time limit. It’s Friday night. The C–FES people are coming down on Sunday for the final meeting before the show. The government grant workers are coming Monday. We can’t keep it quiet after that. Rumours will spread. And if we wait too long, we may be liable to all kinds of charges–criminal charges, maybe, obstruction of justice or whatever. If we haven’t found the murderer by Sunday night–”

Ruthie stood up abruptly. She had not spoken much since Roch arrived, and not at all during the general discussions about the barn, where she had little to contribute, but now she exclaimed, “But this is crazy, Hy. I know I don’t stand to lose anything, so it’s easy for me to take the high road, but we’re none of us equipped to deal with this. I mean, look at us. We’re ordinary people, not private eyes. The only detective work you’ve ever done is to dig up new donors for Combined Jewish Appeal. How do you propose we go about finding a
murderer
, for God’s sake?”

Roch was nettled and flustered by her intervention. He cast about in his mind for an appropriate form of rebuttal. She was not someone he could either flirt with or openly dominate. She wasn’t a client or a sponsor or a committee member to be charmed, flattered or manipulated. Her confident, but neutral manner with him this evening told him she was used to dealing comfortably, directly, and on even terms with all men. Then too, her fluty European French was disconcerting. He was self–conscious and unsure of his footing with her, and so smothered the patronizing or dismissive reply he might have offered most other women he knew. He looked to Hy for support.

Hy said wearily, “I don’t propose to find out who it is by myself. And I wouldn’t ask any single person here to do it either. I’m looking at it as a group job, a business project, and I’m looking around the room and seeing a team of very smart people with different talents. If we put our brains and our abilities together, we might be able to do it, don’t you think?”

Everyone looked at everyone else. There was a short silence. Ruthie said, “Even if you did agree to work together, you’d still need a
responsable
. And it’s too much for you, Hy, you shouldn’t have that responsibility.” Manon nodded.

Hy smiled. “I’m way ahead of you,
ziess
. Remember, I’ve put together a lot of business teams in my time. Polo. How about it?”

“You want to trust me with this, Hy? Are you sure?” Polo felt rather than saw the swiveling gazes and the sudden heat of everyone’s hopes trained on him like searchlights. He waited for someone to say “don’t be absurd” or “no way”. But they didn’t. They were silent and big–eyed and respectful of Hy’s choice. Except Ruthie, who pointedly looked away from Polo, got up and made herself busy taking cups to the kitchen.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Hy answered levelly. “We’ll all cooperate, of course. But somebody has to lead, and I think it should be you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re smart as hell, because you know everything there is to know about horses, because nobody I know has an axe to grind with you, because you already know most of the principals, and because you’re above suspicion and nobody else is.” He sighed, and added, “But mostly, I guess, because apart from Manon, my kids and Ruthie–and none of them has applied for the job–I trust you more than anyone I know.”

“But seriously,” Manon said, frowning, “this is no joking matter, Polo. If you agree to take this responsibility, you may be putting yourself in danger. Think about it a minute. We aren’t dealing with some cranky political extremist anymore. Somebody has
killed
someone. And we’re all agreed it’s most likely someone at
Le Centre
, aren’t we?” Everyone nodded glumly. She shivered and Hy pulled her to him protectively.

Polo considered her words thoughtfully. She was right, of course. How much did he owe Hy? His life? It would have been easy to counter Roch’s pleas for containment. He knew he could have swayed Hy to do the right thing, call the police, continue to play the good citizen. But then, didn’t he owe Roch something. too?

Who else did he owe?

I used to think you were the bravest guy in the world.

And finally, most important, there was his own inner voice, asking him when he had last felt so keyed up, so mentally charged, so–so
sharp
? There was no use denying the excitement he felt, a ferment of youthful drive he hadn’t realized was missing from his life since he’d stopped competing. He’d tried to recreate that unique ‘rush’ in a hundred different ways–never with drugs or alcohol, he’d seen too much human misery in his life in St. Henri and on the circuit conferred by those false friends–but he’d never achieved those peaks again, no matter how much travelling, building, buying and selling, wheeling and dealing he packed into the days and weeks and years.

Now, suddenly, Polo scented a tantalizing fragrance from the past. A past where no one ever questioned his courage, his manliness, his choices in life. His heart was beating to a sweet, familiar rhythm. Short–circuiting any complex theories of the whys and wherefores, he knew that he yearned to test some atrophying aptitude, some creeping intellectual sclerosis. He had been wasting psychic energy in futile and insoluble struggles at home. He welcomed Hy’s summons. He even looked forward to the potential danger.

‘Cuz courage in a man, it’s–it’s–

Gravely he reviewed the expectant faces of his friends. His mind was already teeming with strategies and shortcuts.
Time to walk the course. Big fences. Tricky footing. Off–stride distances. Hard to find your spot. A seat–of–the–pants ride.

“Okay, then. I will. First important decision. Do we tell the main people at
Le Centre
what’s going on? I say yes. It’s a good bet the killer will know that we’re after him–or I suppose we should get used to thinking ‘her’ as well–but he isn’t going to expose himself if he thinks he has a good alibi, which he probably does. On the other hand, he may panic and run or even confess if we’re lucky. In any case, I think we have to take the risk.

“The other reason is that reporter, Sue Parker. She’s very sharp, very persistent, and I’d rather have her on our side, working with us, than nosing around on her own. I don’t want
her
getting hurt. If we promise her an exclusive story if and when the truth comes out, well–”

Ruthie had come in and taken her seat again. She looked at Hy as she spoke. “I can’t stop you from doing this, but I want it clear that I am very much opposed to this plan. But if I don’t cooperate, my only choice is to go back to Montreal. And I can’t do that, Hy, I’d feel like a coward.” Turning to the others, she went on, “So I’m in, against my better judgment, and possibly without being able to help at all, since I know nothing about horses, and I hardly know anybody here.

“As to that reporter, I think she had better be onside. Once we’re not going to the police, we may as well have someone with an investigative background. I spoke to her a bit today and she was almost twitching with curiosity about everyone.” She still hadn’t looked at Polo, and he interpreted this to mean that she hadn’t put her stamp of ‘
kashrut’
on his leadership. He felt unreasonably piqued at this, unreasonable because her concerns were perfectly valid. Still, a vote of non–confidence from Ruthie, if that’s what it was, stung deeper than he liked to admit.

Polo sat down and pulled out his notebook. “We have to know where everyone was yesterday afternoon and early evening. Since we don’t know if he was killed here, there or somewhere in between, just about everyone without an ironclad alibi for the whole time is going to be suspect unless and until we establish the exact place of the murder. How we’re going to question Benoit and Gilles is another problem. But we’ll worry about that tomorrow.”

Roch said gloomily, “I called my sister. Gilles won’t talk to me, and I didn’t want to upset her, so I let it go.” He sighed. “And Benoit–he was pretty pissed off when he left. I don’t know if he’s coming back.”

Polo nodded and made a note. Then he looked soberly at each person in turn. “We may as well decide right now that we have to be as ruthless as the police would be. We can’t exclude anyone, even ourselves.” He checked his watch. “That’s the only thing we can do tonight. We all need some sleep. Anyway, starting with myself, I spent the afternoon at the arena with the workers–they left at five–and the evening alone. I ate in town at one of the bistros–that’s verifiable, but doesn’t account for much time–came back to the condo, worked on some data for the show, read a bit and went to sleep. No alibi whatsoever.”

Manon sighed. “Oh dear, I’m in the same boat. Hy went to Montreal. I messed around in the garden, did some shopping in the late afternoon and made the gazpacho. Then I ate dinner in front of the TV and watched and dozed until Hy got back at–what was it, about midnight?”

“Yep. I went into town around four p.m.–unless we establish that Liam died here, I suppose I could have given him a lift to Montreal, and I suppose I could have packed the
Clar–Mor
paper in the trunk, and I suppose I could have killed him somewhere on the way, dumped him at the Taschereau store, dropped in at the office to chat with Howard, and showed up with Ruthie at my mother’s place at six–thirty, no problem at all,” Hy offered drily.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hy,” Ruthie snapped. “Do you think I wouldn’t have known something was wrong? And the Duchess? You’re as transparent as glass. You never
could
lie about anything.”

“Ruthie, this isn’t about what you and I think about each other. It’s about what could have happened in time and space. That’s what concerns police,” Hy answered testily

Polo said, “Look, obviously none of us wants to believe anyone we know could do anything wrong. The police act on the principle that any
one
at all is capable of doing any
thing
at all if the circumstances are right. Which I tend to agree with–with the possible exception of Hy,” he added lightly to defuse the gathering tension.

“Then you’re wrong, Polo,” Ruthie said crossly. “I hate that theory. So did daddy. He always said it was the kind of defense the Nazis used after the war. Anybody would have done the same, they all sang the same tune…”