A Three Day Event (50 page)

Polo looked at it, turned it over and back again. He looked at his name, nothing else, printed large on the outside: POLO. He ran his finger over the outline of the card and the paper clip on the right hand top of the envelope. He suddenly felt quite nervous, reluctant to know more than he already did. He made himself slide his thumb under the edge of the flap. The telephone rang, and he jumped. He looked at Nathalie with raised eyebrows. Did she mind? Go ahead, she signaled.

* * *

Gilles clutched the phone so hard his hand and ear hurt, and his teeth chattered so hard he could barely speak. “P–Polo? I’mmmm at Guy’s–I’m –I’m –I think he’s dead–I can’t–I can’t–okay…okay…I’m breathing…no, no, I didn’t touch anything–I just came and I saw–he was supposed to look after the stallion like he always does since–but he never showed–his line was busy–and Uncle Roch told me to feed the stallion–but I don’t know–I mean, how?–the tongue–and Uncle Roch has so much to do, so I thought –okay…okay…I’m breathing…Oh Polo, did you kill him? I mean, you looked so weird this morning–oh
crisse de crisse
–he looks like Liam–can you come?–o good o good o good–no, I’m not touching anything–can you hurry? I’m–I’m so…okay…okay…I’m breathing…okay…okay…”

CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT

G
uy lay dead on the floor, almost exactly where Polo
had
left him eight hours before. Polo could see that Guy was dead in the two seconds he had before Gilles launched himself, blubbering with relief, into his arms. Heart racing, he concentrated on the absolute necessity of getting Gilles to calm down. He gave the boy a swift hug, then sat him down at the kitchen table, out of sight of the body. He strode to the liquor cabinet and poured a shot of scotch into a glass. He thrust it at Gilles. “Drink this first. Then we’ll talk.”

Gilles took it with trembling hands, swallowed it all down in a gulp and grimaced. Slowly the colour came back to his face and he stopped shaking.

“Are you okay?” Polo asked.

“I think so.”

“Is that how you found him?”

“I didn’t touch anything, I swear,” said Gilles. “He was just…there…and all I could think was that you said you were going to see him last night, and…” he choked up and put the glass down and looked miserably at the floor.

Polo wanted desperately to say what Gilles was waiting to hear–‘don’t be stupid, kid, of course I didn’t kill him.’ But the words stuck in his throat, because the last thing he remembered was standing over Guy with his fist poised to strike. Yesterday he would have answered, ‘don’t be stupid, kid, there’s no way I
could
or
would
kill him, or anyone’… That was something he could never say again. Adrenaline surged. He couldn’t answer Gilles’ question until he examined the body.

“Just sit there for a minute, Gilles. Just breathe and try to let your muscles relax. You’re not in any trouble here, okay?”

“Okay.”

Holding his breath, heart pounding, Polo bent down over Guy and checked for blood under the head or bruises on his face or neck. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Merci, le bon Dieu
.
And he crossed himself for the first time since–he couldn’t remember.

Guy looked peaceful in death, in spite of the half open eyes with their wooden stare and the waxy laminate of his skin. He was curled loosely on his side as if he’d decided to take a nap on the floor. One hand was half hidden under a chair. In it was something white. Polo gently pushed the chair aside. Guy held a legal size envelope in his hand. And beside that hand, revealed now that the chair had been moved, was the empty syringe. Polo’s eyes traveled up Guy’s arm, and there the entry point was, marked by a drop of dried blood, on the inside of the elbow. He sighed with relief–and profound sadness.

Polo slid the envelope carefully out from under the curled fingers. It was sealed. There was one word marked on it: POLO. Through the paper at the right hand top he could feel the outline of a business card and a paper clip. Polo felt disoriented. A little wave of panic swept through him.
Why was
Guy holding
Morrie’s letter ?
How the fuck
…?

“Polo?”
Gilles’ voice quavered with the strain of waiting for the answer to his question. Instinctively Polo folded the envelope and shoved it in his back pocket.

“I’m here, Gilles. And I didn’t kill him.”

Muffled sobbing.

“Gilles, I need you to be brave and help me to deal with this, okay?”

The sobbing choked off abruptly and Gilles was beside him, wiping his nose with his sleeve and blinking rapidly.

“Gilles, first you have to know that Guy wasn’t murdered by anyone–he killed himself.” Polo pointed to the empty syringe on the floor. Gilles gasped.

“But why?” Gilles asked, baffled. Then, when Polo didn’t reply at once, he said softly, “Oh, is it because–Polo, was it
Guy
who killed Liam?”

“It looks that way, but listen, Gilles, we can’t talk about that now. I don’t want to telephone from here, because I don’t know who will answer or who’ll be around if Roch answers. So here’s what you have to do. Take the truck and drive to the barn. Find Roch and get him to his office or somewhere private. Tell him what you found, tell him I’m here. Then you stay at the barn and Roch and I will deal with what needs to be done.” He paused and added, “Gilles, you’re going to have to talk to the police, you know.”

Gilles nodded and bit his lip.

“Not just about this. About Liam too. You understand? Your fingerprints are on the buckle.”

Gilles nodded again and made for the door.

“Oh, yeah, and Gilles”–

“Yeah?”

“Ask Jocelyne to show you how to feed the stallion. You have to learn to do this stuff, you know, if you’re going to make a go of it in stable life.”

Gilles coloured up and stood taller, squaring his shoulders. He said firmly, “I
am
going to learn, Polo. Uncle Roch is going to be happy he asked me to come here.”

As soon as Gilles left Polo took a deep breath and opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper, neatly written in small, but legible script.

Polo, I’ll be dead when you read this. I told you tonight that I’d made a kind of breakthrough, that I’d decided I wasn’t going to live my life in fear any more. I believed it. But then when I thought you meant to hurt me–justifiably, in retrospect, as I shouldn’t have trifled with your obviously deep feelings for your wife–I think we both understood from my reaction that I was never going to escape the “difficulties” of my adolescence. I am not brave enough to face the challenge of a lifetime spent in fear and self–loathing. And so I have made another kind of breakthrough, you might say.

Consider this my confession–not only to you, but to the police or anyone else you choose to show it to. I killed Liam because he was a threat to my privacy and because he was a danger to Bridget and her father. I cut the stallion to prevent him from doing stud service until I could think of a more permanent solution. I killed Robin’s Song to prevent Thea from finding out about his navicular syndrome and ruining Bridget’s import business. I feel great remorse about the horses, but not about Liam. It was his intention to start with fires and vandalism, but eventually to move on to killing his “enemies”. He told me this, and I have no reason to doubt it would have happened. The world is well rid of him.

I bequeath my aquarium and my savings (see marked folders on desk) and any reef literature he wants of mine to Matt Graham from Aqua–Tech (see card attached) who helped me create my system. I know he will reconstruct it and keep it going, and in my own weird way, I feel I will be leaving something of myself to continue on. Secondly, I told you that I destroyed Stephanie’s journal, but I didn’t. It’s in my bedroom, under my pillow. Please give it to Thea with my hope that she will find solace in it. I loved Stephanie, and I failed her. Finally, Harley is in the garage. Harley is an easy keeper. Maybe Gilles would take him on? I notice he likes dogs and is good with them. I have nothing else of importance–do what you think best with my books and other possessions.

Don’t blame yourself for this, Polo. Even if you hadn’t been so sharp about figuring things out, I am pretty sure this would have happened sooner or later, once Bridget left. I was okay with her around. It was the being alone. That isn’t living.

Guy Gilbert

p.s. Dr. Forget at Ste Hyacinthe should be consulted for any questions regarding care of the stallion.

* * *

Ruthie put down the telephone. “It’s rather mysterious. Polo and Roch can’t come for brunch, but they want us to be here all together later so they can explain everything. He said he couldn’t be precise about the time, but he’ll call when he knows. He said to go ahead and eat without them. Oh, and Nathalie is here. She’ll come over later too.”

They trooped outside and took places at the prettily laid out table. Manon poured each a mimosa of champagne and peach juice.

“Too bad,” said Hy. “He’s missing out on the Fairmount bagels, which I happen to know are one of his all time favourite things. He didn’t mention Nathalie was coming up.”

“I have the impression it was a surprise for him too. He sounded a little tense. I hope they’re not fighting. They’re such a good couple, basically.”

Thea said, “I have to admit I’m very curious to meet the wife. What’s she like?”

“Nice. Sweet,” said Hy promptly. “Quiet, though. Kind of background–y, if you know what I mean.”

“Uncomplicated,” added Ruthie decisively. “And undemanding. That’s what Polo likes about her. He’s not into–oh, you know. Nuances. Layers. Introspection. Relationship analysis. All that touchy–feely stuff.”

“She’s pretty bright, though,” said Hy. “She’s just not assertive.”

“Not like–ahem–some women we know, eh brother dear?”

“O
y
! Let’s not get started on the Jewish wife thing,” Hy said in mock alarm. “So what’s the deal? Do we have a murderer?”

“I hope so. He sounded very serious. He wouldn’t have told us to wait around for him if he had nothing, would he?”

“Let’s not forget Sue Parker,” said Thea. “Even if Polo didn’t find out anything, she may have.”

The telephone rang. Manon ran in to answer.

A few minutes later she returned to the table. “Talk of the devil. That was Sue. And I’m afraid she’s had bad luck. Bridget’s father wouldn’t talk to her, and in fact had her thrown out of the club grounds. She said she has no more time to spend on this, and she’s continuing on to Toronto to work on the Palm Beach story. She says she wants–how did she say–‘first dibs’ if we find the murderer.”

“In that case,” sighed Ruthie, reaching for a bagel, “it all depends on Polo…”

* * *

It was getting late, almost dark, when Polo and Nathalie arrived at the condo for the night. They had agreed it was too late to go home. And the police had wanted Polo handy for another day.

“You never got to read Morrie’s letter,” said Nathalie, as she switched on the lamps.

“I just want to decompress a bit first. Big day.” Polo didn’t want to admit his reluctance to face up to Morrie’s final words. He didn’t want to find out a single new thing today…

“Are you hungry yet?” Nathalie asked.

“Now that you mention it, I’m starving.”

“What about some scrambled eggs and those bagels finally? They’re probably a little stale by now, but they’ll still be good toasted.”

“Eggs are good. And it would be a privilege to eat a bagel that you got for me ‘specially’ at Fairmount.” Polo said. Nathalie stiffened and looked at him guardedly.

He grinned and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I mean it. That was nice of you.”

Nathalie moved around the tiny kitchen organizing their meal. “Polo, what would you have done if Guy hadn’t…you know…I mean, would you have called in the police anyway, knowing they’d grill everyone, even you?”

Polo took a beer from the fridge and twisted off the cap. “I honestly don’t know.” He stood frowning for a moment, staring into space. “That wasn’t an off–the–cuff answer. I mean, I’ve thought about it and thought about it and that was my conclusion. I honestly don’t know. Whatever I did would have come from some spontaneous impulse at the last minute. Want a beer?”

She shook her head. “It’s not a nice thing to say, but we were lucky.”

“No kidding.” He took a long pull at the beer. “Did you see how relieved Roch was when the police promised they’d keep it quiet? They were pretty good about it.”

“And weren’t you impressed with how manly and cooperative Gilles acted with them?”

“Yeah, I think the kid’s going to make it here. Roch was proud of him. He invited him to stay at his house ‘til he felt okay by himself in the trailer. Lucky for him, since there was no goddam way he was staying here tonight.”

Two pairs of eyes flicked toward the bedroom, then met and held. Nathalie blushed like a schoolgirl. Polo’s heart, mind and flesh quickened in unison to the thrill of her implied invitation.

“Um–how are your ribs?” Nathalie asked demurely, intently focused on the eggs she was whipping in a pyrex bowl.

“I just took some Tylenol. Extra–strength. Three.”

“
Three
. Ohhh…then soon you shouldn’t be feeling much pain at all.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Because,” she stopped whipping the eggs, looked him in the eye and said, with a note of soft, but candid challenge, “I would never want to hurt you…holding you too close, I mean.”

Polo immediately set his beer on the counter. He took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly on the lips. He said gravely, “You can only ever hurt me by letting me go, Nathalie, not from holding me. I want to be held–as close as you want.” Then he took the bowl from her hands and put it down beside the beer, adding lightly, “And by a strange coincidence, speaking of holding and being held, I find I’m suddenly not nearly as hungry as I thought I was.”

As he led her toward the bedroom, Nathalie said, with a philosophic sigh, “I guess it was the destiny of those bagels to get stale.”

“Better them than us.”

“Polo, I can’t make this kitchen any cleaner. I’m dying of curiosity. You must have read that letter five times. What did Morrie
say
?” She slid into the chair beside the sofa.

Polo handed her the letter, but his expression told her nothing. He looked more than a little stunned, she thought, as he leaned back and stared at the card he was holding with both hands.

Polo, if you’re reading this, I’m dead, maybe for a few years, since I know Clarice wouldn’t be looking in that shoebox until she decided to move. I knew she would eventually, because I made her promise she wouldn’t sit around in that big house being a professional widow and worrying about burglars and crazies.

Anyway, I hope this finds you and Nathalie and your family well. I say ‘your family’ in the sense of a wish, because as of this writing, you’re married quite a while and so far no kids. This troubles me, because it makes me wonder if that’s partly my fault. Clarice has probably told you already, but the boy in the photo was my brother Markus. You look at him, you got the picture. I always said you were smarter than my own kids (which I know I shouldn’t be putting on paper, but never mind, I know it’s safe with you), so by now you figured everything out.