A Three Day Event (42 page)

Tears glittered momentarily in her topaz eyes. In husky, feeling tones, she added, “What I’m trying to understand is how this could be true. The horses passed in England.”

“Oh Bridget,” Guy cried, “Now you’re the one who’s being simple. Can’t you see that it’s Philip who’s doing this to you? Can’t you see that Philip is passing along horses that he knows are going to break down somewhere along the line?
You
know how superficial English vet checks are, but nobody
here
seems to. He just makes sure they’re sound that day, or who knows, he may have a vet in league with him–that’s not unheard of in this business–and off they go. And then it can be another year or two before the problems start.”

“Fig would never do that to me,” Bridget muttered, but she could feel her stomach churning.

Guy saw that the light was really dawning now for Bridget. Ten years, Guy thought, of my selfless devotion, and she takes me completely for granted, never considers what I’ve done for her, has no idea of the sacrifices, the friendship, the love I’ve given her, but she trusts that jerk in England, just because he’s upper crust, because he’s a star. “Did you really think he was your friend, Bridget? Did you really think it was anything more than the money?” Guy asked bitterly.

Bridget didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Suddenly she was adding up the ten years’ worth of ‘coincidences’, the horses she’d sold who weren’t competing any more, the too–high turnover of owners, the angry phone calls she’d so indignantly complained of to Guy. How many times had she mocked Guy for his
naïveté
and sentimentality, when all this time he’d kept track of the facts over there on his neatly organized desk and his beautifully archived files at the barn, while she’d been careless, lazy, disorganized, trusting…
oh Fig, you double–crossing little shit, you’ve been fucking me over for ten years, I should have known once would never be enough for a bastard like you
…

“Well,” she whispered morosely, “I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. At least Rockin’ Robin didn’t stand stud to Manon’s mare.”

Bridget had been staring hypnotically at the tumbling bank draft as she assimilated the widening implications of Fig’s betrayal, but now she happened to look up at Guy and what she saw caused her mind to shut down momentarily, like a computer screen in a power surge. Then she rebooted. She took in the guilt in the eyes that were trying to escape hers but couldn’t look away. She asked herself why this should be so. The answer came to her. He hadn’t expected her to say that. He hadn’t prepared himself for that mental connection. He was already on edge and frightened. The computer screen went blank again. Slowly, carefully she rebooted, and…

“Rockin’ Robin…Guy…
oh my God
…it was you…
it was you
…”

Guy opened and closed his mouth once, twice, three times. But his throat remained stubbornly locked.

“You cut his tongue off,” Bridget whispered, “so he’d have to stay in the barn… so he couldn’t service the mare…”

Guy nodded and swallowed hard.

“And you knew it wasn’t dangerous because you’d read about another case…and because you’d be right there to fix him up…”

Guy nodded sadly. Bridget stared at him, other memories surging to consciousness.

“And the time before…the mare didn’t come into estrus–child’s play for a vet to arrange with his little bag full of pills…”

He nodded again. These things were horrible to admit, but oddly enough, he felt a sweet surge of relief in the admission. He couldn’t look at her. What would she do? Would she attack him physically? She might. That was okay. He wouldn’t defend himself. Of course he’d lost her friendship forever. She would never understand that he’d done it for her.

“Good God! Who’d have thought you had the ba–the
nerve
…” Bridget’s eyes were round and fascinated. Guy’s shoulders hunched closer together, and he kept his gaze studiously lowered.

“Don’t tell me you vandalized the office as well!” Bridget cried. Guy couldn’t believe it, but he thought he heard a note of admiration as well as astonishment in her voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bridget,” Guy said curtly, offended and hurt.

“Well, do admit, Guy, the word ‘ridiculous’ has acquired new depth of meaning in the last few minutes in this cozy little bungalow of ours.”

Guy didn’t know what to make of Bridget’s inappropriately ironic take on this. Shouldn’t she be sobbing or screaming or hitting…?

“Look at me, Guy,” Bridget said. Her voice was strangely firm and steady.

He shook his head dumbly and kept staring at the floor.

“Either look at me, or I shall be forced to empty that bottle of Javel water under the sink into your aquarium.” Guy gasped in alarm and leapt to his feet with fingers rigidly splayed in front of him.

“Thank you, luv. Now that I have your attention, do let’s have a real heart to heart chat.” Bridget got up and walked over to an armoire in the common area and opened it to reveal bottles, decanters and wineglasses. “What would you say to a spot of sherry? I think we could both use a little pick–me–up at this point, and somehow the thought of a cuppa just doesn’t have a huge appeal. Call me old–fashioned, but at times like these only a sherry will do.”

Guy felt dazed and disoriented, but he accepted the glass of amber liquor. Bridget shooed the chocolate retriever off the wing chair and settled herself in it. She sipped reflectively.

“Bridget,” Guy ventured timidly, “why aren’t you angry? You were so upset when it happened. You
love
him.”

“Love,” Bridget mused. “What, after all, is love in the end?” She sipped. “Ah, there really is nothing like a fine sherry to smooth the wrinkles out of a day.” She set the glass down carefully on the wobbly end table. “You could say that I loved the stallion, Guy, but that was when I thought he was something it turns out he isn’t. Rockin’ Robin was going to be Bridget Pendunnin’s ticket to success as a breeder. And I love Bridget Pendunnin quite a lot is what I love. Now it turns out he won’t–can’t–be. So the question is, do I still”–she sketched quotation marks in the air–“ ‘love’ Rockin’ Robin?” She paused and picked up her sherry glass. “I think not, on the whole.”

Guy stared at Bridget and felt sick at heart. He would have understood, welcomed her anger. Or, better still, her grief. Yes, her
grief
was what he would have wanted above all. He had pictured himself comforting her, perhaps once again holding a wet cloth to her forehead as she lay sunk in mourning on the chesterfield. He had liked that part when she found out about the cut tongue, the nurturing part of that drama. That, and telling Manon, feeling the full weight of her attentiveness and admiration for his skill. It was rare that he was the cynosure of so many people’s admiring attention. The stallion had needed him, Bridget had needed him, the stable people had needed him, and all that had felt good.

But this! This wasn’t right. She was practically congratulating him for saving her embarrassment. Rockin’ Robin was now damaged goods, so the stallion was suddenly nothing to her. Just like that. And Robin’s Song too. That woman, Ruthie, what she’d said, God, she’d hit the nail on the head, what a scary moment that had been.

Guy’s heart sank within him, and the damp, cold, familiar blanket of depression settled around his shoulders, weighing them down. All the terrible things he had done to protect her, because he had believed in the purity of her love for her horses, he had done all these things for an illusion, for a projection of his own need to be part of something greater than his lonely self. He had thought that they–he, Bridget, the horses–were a kind of… family. Oh, he knew what fun most people would make of the idea of a celibate man and woman calling themselves and their horses a family. But was it really so far–fetched any more? Was there only one way to be a family? Single mothers were a commonplace. Gays were having children. The world was changing.

There were no rules anymore. So why not? You had to make of life what you could with the limitations you were stuck with. He had felt very committed. He had finally found his niche. He’d thought Bridget felt the same, underneath the sarcasm and the teasing. Cutting that tongue–well, that was a crossing of the Rubicon, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t do such a thing for anything other than a greater love. Especially someone like himself, sworn to protect and serve animals in distress, not
cause
it. For it was a kind of symbolic child abuse, wasn’t it? Done for Bridget. Otherwise–never, never, never! To protect her. And now to find that she didn’t understand the first thing about love. How could he have been so deluded–

The telephone rang. Bridget picked up.

“Oh hello Marion, what a coincidence, I was just saying to Guy that I have everything you want for tomorrow’s meeting…say again…Oh dear…surely not…but Marion…but Marion…no, but surely C–FES will stand behind you…oh dear…well, of course you can count on me…not a word…too awful for you…oh really? In what regard?…oh dear…look, Marion, I wonder if we couldn’t continue this discussion in Ottawa…yes, I could be at your place in about four hours from now. Listen, can I call you back…only I think I may have to reconsider my own plans in the light of all this…stiff upper lip and all that, old thing…yes, yes, quite soon…just must think a bit…goodbye, dear.”

Bridget replaced the receiver and stood up. “Well Guy, I’ll tell you all about it while I pack.”

“P–p–pack?”

“I can’t stay. That journalist creature has the dope on Marion and the Taylor syndicate. Witnesses, affidavits, the whole bloody lot. Long story short, she’s gone to the sponsors with it, and she’s ready to publish the whole story if Marion doesn’t resign. C–FES is throwing her to the wolves. She’s out. She says my name came up a few times. Not looking too brilliant, dear chum. The show may not go on even with her resignation. At least not here. Cedar Meadows making a pitch, it seems. The Royal Dominion Bank pretty fed up with our team. Plan B time.”

“B–b–but what about me?”

“You can come with me if you like.” Bridget moved purposefully to the hall closet and dragged a large suitcase out from its depths.

Guy’s eyes swiveled round in panic as though to verify that his aquarium hadn’t fallen through the floor at the very idea of his leaving. “How can I? How can I? You know I can’t leave here.” His voice was shrill with panic. “Where are you going after Ottawa? To Kingston?”

“Don’t even say that word, you idiot,” Bridget hissed. “That would be the last place I’d go.” She lunged toward him and grabbed a handful of shirt. “Forget you ever heard about Kingston. Is that clear?”

Guy nodded dumbly. He felt a panic attack coming on. Shaking, he stood in the doorway and watched her fling clothes into the suitcase.

Without turning to look at him, Bridget said, “ Guy, you’ve been a great pal. Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve done. I would have liked to discuss the Liam thing with you, but somehow that all seems beside the point now. More important, I’m counting on you to look after Robin’s Song.”

“He belongs to Thea…”

Bridget turned and came very close to him. She kissed him gently on the cheek and whispered softly in his ear, “I’m counting on you,
mon chum
. You’re the only friend I have at the moment. You have to understand. I can’t throw it back at Fig. He’ll lie–he’s done it before–and it’ll only be the worse for me in the end. Those lovely little cheques would stop coming if Fig’s father thought I was making trouble for his darling boy. You’re the only one I can trust, I realize that now. I’ve been a fool. I do love you, Guy darling, you know I do. I’ve been rotten to you, I admit it. I’m sorry, luv. Do say you’ll keep Polo and Thea off my trail. Don’t let sentimentality get in the way. Don’t let me down. We’ll be together again soon. Patience.”

She looked long and hard into his eyes. She saw his eyes melting with trust and renewed loyalty. “There’s a lamb stew in the fridge, pet. I made it especially for you.”

She kissed him softly on the other cheek, and reviewed her performance in his spaniel eyes.
Oh yes, Budgie. Nicely done.
Then she turned back to her packing.

CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

“I
could have given you a nice lamb stew,” said Caroline
to Ruthie across a glass tabletop on the patio outside the restaurant, “but I sent most of what I had over to Bridget’s this afternoon. Guy loves it.”

Ruthie wrinkled her nose. “Not stew anyway. It’s too warm out. And Hy isn’t allowed–too much fat. And”–shielding her eyes from the late day’s sun boring in from the western horizon, she perused the menu with a slight frown–“lamb isn’t Polo’s favourite…maybe something lighter…”

“What about pizza?” Caroline said. “I can make you individual ones. Any toppings you like.”

“Ooh, I like the sound of that. Who doesn’t love pizza? Do you have feta cheese to mix with the mozzarella for me? And red onions? And tomato slices? And black olives?”

“
Mais oui
.”

“Great, and I know Hy will want just the veggies, and mushrooms, no olives, and easy on the cheese. Manon isn’t coming, she’s been on the go and playing hostess all day and she’s zonked. And for Polo no veggies but lots of mushrooms and double pepperoni. But Roch–I don’t know…”

“That’s okay. I do. All–dressed with bacon and pineapple.” Ruthie made a face, and Caroline laughed.

“With a nice green salad for everyone–and wine?”

“Oh, definitely salad. And wine. What’s your house red?”

“
Pisse Dru
.”

Ruthie hesitated, knowing
Pisse Dru
was borderline for Hy, even just with pizza, but what the hell…She nodded. “I only asked because my brother is a little finicky about wines,” she said, and closing the menu with an agreeable sense of accomplishment, added “but for myself, as my father used to say,”–this in English–“‘I’m not a common sewer’.” Caroline laughed again, took the menu and headed back inside.

Ruthie looked at her watch. Early still. Dinner arrangements had taken less time than she had allowed for. She had decided that the four of them would sit out here on the flagstone terrace. What with that day’s lessons having been cancelled, and the Saturday night dinner crowd from town tending to later arrival, they would have the place almost to themselves.

In the silence of her temporary solitude she gave herself over to the mellow gold of the receding day, the fragrance of mingled grass and horse, the view of rolling paddocks and the ruched silver surface of the pond below the well–proportioned sprawl of Hy and Manon’s home and outbuildings. How strange, she thought, only this morning this open landscape made me afraid, and now it is filling me up with contentment. Yet nothing has really changed. Objectively, anyway. Maybe she had changed?

Because, she considered, this is the hour of day when I should be feeling down. It’s almost sunset, time to get melancholy. But instead, for the first evening in ages, she felt–not happy exactly–but animated, open, friendly to the world, curious to know what was going to happen next in the bizarre chain of events that had begun only twenty–four hours ago. It was lovely, after two hours of intense discussion with Fran and Eva, to be sitting here by herself, drinking in this green and now peaceful landscape, and feeling her mind and sensibilities working at full throttle in the service of a task that had, blessedly, nothing to do with her own life.

For that, she mused, was the problem with the past two years. When illness and death overtook you, there was nothing to think about but yourself all day every day. Oh, of course you thought about the one who was ill, but it was never detached from yourself. His pain was your pain, his fear was your fear, his leaving the world was your guilt at remaining in it…Whereas now it was only the pain, the fear, the guilt of strangers she had to consider, and what good therapy it was turning out to be. And to think she had been so opposed to Polo and the others taking on this responsibility that she had almost gone back to Montreal and left them to their own devices.

If she had, she would have gone back to the cocoon of navel–gazing and inertia her bereavement had woven around her. Moving back to Montreal had used up the one curious burst of zest she had experienced after the
shiva
. Marvin’s estate was easy to process–he had been organized in life, well organized for death–and, once physically settled in the practical lower Westmount town house she’d chosen for her transition period, there had been less in the way of tasks and responsibilities than she had predicted. The girls turned out to be more resourceful and resilient than she’d anticipated. Time hung heavy on her hands. Ruthie knew she was lucky to have her mother available, as she’d lost contact with many of her old Montreal friends, but she was trying to be careful about taking advantage of that. She wasn’t ready to look for work–she knew she was finished with teaching, but not ready to think about what might replace it–and for the first time since she was a teenager, she felt purposeless, psychologically adrift.

Hy and Manon’s invitation to spend time here had pulled her back from the lip of the slippery slide to full–blown depression. She was grateful for that, and now grateful too that she had decided to sign on to this–this equestrian crime task force She smiled at the concept. Detection by committee. How quintessentially Canadian that is, she thought with a smile.

And so, come to think, was the murder–committed offstage, in a sense, so as not to actually offend anyone’s sensibilities. Quietly, discreetly, self–effacingly. Which was why it remained so stubbornly abstract. Why it had never touched her–or anyone else, as far as she could tell. Given what they now knew about Liam, in fact, his murder had even a quality of poetic justice about it, a punishment for his odious ideology. Or if not for that, for something equally horrid.

Ruthie knew it was unethical, but she almost hoped they didn’t uncover the murderer. She was glad Liam was dead. And she was no longer afraid that Polo or any one of them was at risk. Whoever had killed Liam had been fulfilling a very specific and personal need–revenge possibly, or simply to shut him up. The murderer might run away if he or she knew discovery was imminent, but wouldn’t kill again.

In any case her own hopes were irrelevant, since she hadn’t been any help so far in discovering who the murderer was. Well, no, that wasn’t true either. She had remembered the dog with the bandanna, and that might have led to some more clues. She looked forward to hearing what Polo had found out today. And of course to telling him about her encounters with Guy and Fran.

Guy. Ruthie revisited her strained and embarrassing one–sided conversation with Guy. She had felt foolish prattling on about the possible symbolic features of the attack on the stallion. Guy’s look of amazement had mortified her. But now she thought of her analysis again, and really, looked at objectively, it didn’t seem so absurd at all.

Obviously to literal–minded people, such a leap was bound to seem crazy. But symbolism existed for a reason. Even without being aware of it, people did act out their wishes and thoughts in symbolic ways. And come to think of it, had it been amazement on Guy’s face because of the theory? Or amazement because she’d struck a nerve… Had he perhaps come to the same conclusion? And if so, in whose interest would it be for the stallion to stop producing issue? Hmm.

By far the most interesting result of the day’s investigations had been the opportunity to hear Eva Briquemont’s war story. Now that was something you usually only read about in books. Ruthie had read shelf loads of holocaust literature. But almost all of it had been about Jews, or by Jewish survivors. She knew there were many “righteous gentiles” in the world, but their stories had been peripheral to her education. Eva’s was dramatic. Would Polo have the patience to hear it through? She would have to summarize for him. He wouldn’t want to hear a long account about the romance with the Jewish music student, Eva’s defiance of her family and friends, and the whole tortured narrative of the marriage, the camps, her survival, the boy’s inevitable death…

For Polo the bottom line was going to be whether Fran had motive and opportunity to kill Liam. Unfortunately Eva’s story supported such a view, at least in theory. That was the trouble with being a detective, though, Ruthie thought. In theory all kinds of things could be true, yet her intuition resisted any such notion. People who had faced the evils of Nazi Germany and come out the other side without devoting the rest of their lives to revenge were not suddenly going to become murderers forty years later. Fran and Eva believed in law and order. They were totally invested in preserving the secure and fulfilling life they had made here. They would have gone to the police before doing anything so drastic. No, Eva and Fran were the genuine articles–they were good people. Simply good, just as Liam was simply bad.

From this conclusion her thoughts wandered to the nature of good and evil in general, and how the one so often mysteriously flourished in the very soil fertilized to produce its opposite. And then she wondered, as she had so many times before, what
she
would have done if she had lived in an evil place like pre–war Passau…and as usual decided she would have gone along with everyone else. Because while she knew she was bold and principled and clever and honest and fair in the ideal, democratic greenhouse in which her glossy ideals had bloomed, she had never been tested. And deep in her heart she knew that with her back to the wall, heroism wasn’t in her nature, or so she believed, and for the millionth time thanked God or Fate or History for never having had to find out for sure.

The faint sound of tires on gravel cut into her philosophical reverie. She looked at her watch. It was just on seven. She knew Hy would be walking over, and probably a little late, because when she left he had been still totally absorbed in discussing the war with Fran. Shading her eyes she looked left and down the exterior of the administration corridor to the parking lot. Two vehicles had pulled in at the same time. She recognized Polo’s pickup truck, and the other was a somewhat battered–looking American sedan.

Ah, it was the elusive Roch getting out of the car. At last. She wondered how he had spent all this time. Social adrenaline flowed. What an interesting evening it would be hearing everyone’s account of their day. She waited for the two men to greet each other and start walking over.

But something wasn’t quite right. The body language of the two friends wasn’t relaxed and trusting as it should be, but rather formal and stiff, and they were facing each other across too wide a space for friendship. She wished she could hear what they were saying. Polo was standing with his hands on his hips. He looked, even from this distance, extremely tense. Roch was gesturing as he spoke, first small, stabbing movements of the finger, then more arm involvement, more agitation. His voice rose, though she couldn’t make out the words. Polo raised his hands in what seemed to be a signal to calm down.

And then, as Ruthie took concentrated note of Roch’s confrontational stance, she stood up, suddenly quite alarmed. Something was terribly wrong. Then she gasped as she saw Polo turn, take off his glasses, and place them carefully on the fender of his truck. Before her conscious mind could bring the thought to the surface, she had understood what was the only possible reason for him doing this, and she felt her hands flying up to her face in shock and disbelief. Then the men disappeared from her line of vision. She immediately jumped up from the table, ran down to the parking lot and rounded the corner, her thoughts spinning in a centrifuge of fright and amazement.

They’re going to fight! With their fists! O O O! They’re fighting! They’re fighting! Like boys in a schoolyard. Grown men! Friends! I don’t believe this! Oh my God. Those sounds…grunting, like animals…they’re really hitting hard. And the language! I never heard…where did Polo learn such… O I heard something crack, O stop, and in the face! What should I do? Oh my God, now they’re rolling around on the ground, they’re going to kill each other. O O O!

She had to do something “Stop it!
Stop it
! Polo!
Polo
!” Ruthie screamed. Did they hear her? She was close enough to see that Roch had a horrible welt high up on his cheek and there was blood all over Polo’s mouth and chin.
Blood! O no, O no, O no
!
Oh God, don’t let it be his beautiful teeth being knocked out. Three years of braces!

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” she screamed, and without thinking grabbed at Roch’s arm as he was drawing it back to strike. Growling like a bee–swarmed bear, Roch flung his fist out and up and it connected with Ruthie’s stomach.

“Ohhh!!”

Instantly she was flat on the ground, the breath completely knocked out of her. The two men disengaged and staggered to their feet, breathing heavily.

“Ruthie!” cried Polo in horror, kneeling beside her.

“
Merde
,” muttered Roch, hovering unsteadily a few feet away.

Disoriented, shocked, Ruthie tried to sit up. “Okay,” she gasped, “I’m…okay.”

“I’ve got you, ziess,” Polo said, still breathing hard, supporting her back as she struggled, “don’t try to get up yet, just relax and get your breath. Shit, I’m so sorry…” Even in her confusion, in a tiny back compartment of her mind Ruthie was registering the irony of being propped up–again–by Polo after an unexpected collapse.

Last time he held me up like this I was sitting on a hay bale and he looked so handsome in his white shirt and black show jacket. What a mess he is now…and here’s an irony to savour, I’m breathless again too, but no chance of this turning into a romantic moment, that’s for damn sure…

“Not…you…oh…Po…lo…teeth…blood…”

“Wha”–Polo swiped at his face –“oh, this?” He looked at the blood on his fingers, and smiled, wincing a bit. “Don’t worry, just a lucky punch. Honest, just a nosebleed.”

“Oh Polo…how… could…you…”

“Ssh, ssh, ssh, don’t talk yet. Don’t tense up, you’ll be okay…” Ruthie felt Polo’s hand squeeze reassuringly on her shoulder and she released herself into the security of the arm across her back. At once her stomach muscles relaxed and she felt better.

Roch had been shifting back and forth on his feet, striving for an air of normalcy, busily brushing dust off his sleeves and pants. Hearing her reproach Polo, though, he quickly abandoned his strategy of detachment. “Hey, Rut’ie, it’s my fault. Don’t be mad at Polo. Hey, I’m sorry about”–he gestured in the general direction of her torso–“I, ah, I didn’t know it was you
là
…”