April Fool (9 page)

He has been shoved about from all sides–Margaret, Deborah, the militant pixie–and it's wearing him down. He'll give these young lawyers a hand. He'll advise, he'll take a more active role in court. He'll go that far. For Margaret.

 

On his way home, he stops at the General Store for his mail. The usual table of hard-drinking citizenry is here, as is Nelson Forbish, sticking copies of
The Bleat
in the mail slots, a special edition under the headline, “
BOTTLE OF THE GAP DRAWS WORLD ATTENTION
.”

“‘Bottle of the Gap?'” says Ernie Priposki, staring at the front page over his fortified coffee.

“Rush job of proofreading,” Nelson says.

Arthur retrieves a copy: a photograph of two blurred, distant figures up a tree. Closer inspection informs that one of them is “prominent citizen Margaret Blake, wife of a former distinguished lawyer.” What is he going to say to Ed Santorini? The judge will not be satisfied with a fat chance.

“Can't stop progress,” Priposki says. “They're gonna have a fancy lounge in that development, with TV and cocktail waitresses.”

Abraham Makepeace, heretofore not known to have a sense of humour, says, “Would you be happier if I wore a dress?” He fondles each article of Arthur's mail. “Here's your pension cheque, that's about all the good news. Card from a Woofer
who's cancelling, going to business school. Margaret's got her David Suzuki newsletter. Invitation to subscribe to
Time
, with a free electronic pocket organizer. This here looks like it's from a law office.”

Arthur tears it open. A few lines from Brian Pomeroy acknowledging he has the Faloon file well in hand, and inviting Arthur to join him in the defence. Fat chance.

“Hey, Arthur, you finding life on the homestead a little lonely these days?” The throaty chuckle of Emily Lemay, who managed the Brig Tavern until that fateful day when the kitchen grease caught fire. “Want me to come by and change the bedding?”

“He ain't that desperate,” says Priposki.

“If I ever am, Emily, you'll be the first person I call.”

“You got my number, case you need solace.” Her Rubensesque figure quivers as she chortles. “Cuddles likes them young, but he ain't choosy. Randier than a five-legged dog.”

She winks at Priposki, who joins in the ribbing: “Did I hear right he gave a librarian the clap on one of them reading tours?”

Arthur grins, he's a good sport.

Miraculously, yesterday's newspapers have arrived, and he buys a
Sun
, reads about the memorial service for Dr. Eve Winters, about the tributes for this caring marital healer. No children, and the story doesn't mention a consort. She was something of an athlete: tennis, swimming, bicycling.

On an inside page he sees his own picture: blowing Margaret a kiss from beneath the tree. How mawkish.

He picks out several mysteries from the used-book shelves, buys a new can opener–he has no idea where Margaret stored the old one. The coffee tin was empty–or was it the sugar tin? He buys both. He isn't sure what else the house is lacking–Margaret usually gives him a list.

He studies a bag of whole wheat flour. Yes, and yeast, he'll make his own bread. He's not a greenhorn in the kitchen, just out of practice ever since, on another April day, the widow next
door came by looking for a lost lamb, finding one in Arthur. He succumbed hopelessly to love, remains its pathetic prisoner to this day. He feels hollow without her, incomplete.

He's not sure how much of his feelings she returns. “Arthur, I love you,” she will say, but brightly, playfully. On their last night together, she shunned his touch in bed. She'd been deeply in love with popular, outgoing, fiddle-playing Chris Blake, who died untimely of a heart attack three years before Arthur plodded onto the scene. His ghost still haunts Blunder Bay, flitting in through bedroom windows, hovering, watching, judging.

Beauchamp returns home to an unbearable echoing silence. He misses Margaret's bell-like voice, on the phone, rallying the troops. He misses their evening walks with Slappy, his diligent inspection of every rock and bush and turd. He has company in misery–Shiftless, the yellow cat, is pouting on her mistress's reading chair.

Brian Pomeroy is on the answering machine: “When I saw you sneak out of court the other day, Arthur, I was overcome with a concept of staggering grandeur: a majestic piece of theatre, Arthur Beauchamp's comeback…Please call me. I'm falling apart here, I'm suicidal, only you can talk me down.”

He seems in one of his demented moods, or well into the sauce. Arthur isn't up to dealing with Brian tonight. He has chores to do. He must confer with the Woofers (tofu burgers again, tonight) about the mystery of the escaping goats. Fat, farting Barney must be exiled to rockier pastures.

He enjoys these duties–he has known no life as placid and rewarding as being the hired hand to Margaret Blake. The thought of even brief banishment from these shady vales and daisy-speckled fields causes him gloom. Gearing up for a trial, firing the engine, the huge mental and emotional toll–the prospect sends a shudder up his spine.

 

“Face it, Beauchamp, you've lost the quickness. You have become old and forgetful. You haven't read a Supreme Court
case in years, the law has moved beyond you.” Arthur is talking to no audience but Barney and Shiftless, on a trek to the upper pasture. “You've lost the fire.”

He has never understood why he succeeded so well in court–he is not disputatious by nature, and every client's trial was almost as severe a trial for him. A shy man when not on stage–but when he donned his robe: behold the confident persona. Arthur hasn't been able to figure out the mechanics of that–call it a dissociative disorder.
The primary identity is passive, dependent, and depressed.

After Blunder Bay is tucked in for the night, he sets a fire, and is about to snuggle into his club chair with the
Satires
of Juvenal when the peace is disturbed by the phone: Brian Pomeroy, boisterous and drunk.

“Arturo, maestro, hero to all who struggle to fill the void since you left.”

“Dispense with the blarney. The answer is no.”

“I sympathize. You've got an ecological disaster on your hands and your wife is five flights up a tree–by the way, that's such a heart-warming story that I cried watching you on TV. You're looking great, in fighting trim.”

“Too long out of training, Brian. I shall not be auditioning for your majestic piece of theatre.”

“Give me half an hour of your miserable, lonely time, Arthur.
Audi alteram partem
, the first rule of fairness: listen to the other side.”

“
Nolo episcopari
.”

“What's that?”

“The first rule of Beauchamp. I am declining to serve.”

“Tomorrow's Sunday, and I'm catching the morning ferry and I'm coming over there to pitch you with a few friends in tow. Please don't tell me you have to be in church or milking cows or some other lame excuse, just give me the directions.”

A few friends in tow. Arthur doesn't know quite what to expect. Friends adept at the arts of persuasion? He will not
bend, even under torture. He doesn't owe Nick Faloon anything, he'd done his best. “Brian, you're most welcome, but…”

“I hear you're still off booze, congratulations, remind me to ask how one does that. Now I learn you're not supposed to drink when you're doing Prozac.”

“Follow the signs to Potter's Road and Blunder Point…Never mind–I'll meet you at the ferry. How are the children?” Three of them, adopted when toddlers, Central American orphans.

“They're beautiful.”

“And Caroline?” His equally acerbic wife, an English professor.

“That's why I'm taking the Prozac. I, too, choked on a pair of panties. Ciao”

Arthur isn't able to decode that. Brian's affiairs are infamous, his separations with Caroline noisy. He's famously neurotic, but Arthur always enjoyed sharing courtrooms with him; he has a cutting wit.

He eases himself into his venerable chair–it has long accommodated itself to the shape of his body–adjusts his glasses, leafs through the
Satires
, reading the poetry aloud, then pausing with eyes closed to translate from the Latin: “‘Conceived by a girl ashine with Iulian blood, and not from one who weaves for hire by the windswept walls.' Isn't that lovely, darling?”

Only silence greets that unanswerable question.

 

8

B
ecause the ferry takes a meandering multi-island run on this sunny Sunday, it is one o'clock when the
Queen of Prince George
shudders into the Garibaldi dock, sending pigeons fluttering. Lounging by the Winnebagel, behind a faceful of cheeseburger, is the editor of
The Bleat
, who pauses mid-bite to watch a classic fin-tailed Cadillac convertible sweep off the ramp, bearing four off-islanders already looking lost.

Arthur signals them to pull over. Brian Pomeroy climbs out, lights a cigarette. “I have a grisly hangover. The air smells too clean here, I'm not adapted for it.” He looks wan and unhealthy.

The others are cronies of Faloon. Willy the Hook Houston, who must be in his seventies now, a grey spry Brit, distinguished in bearing and appearance. Cat McAllister, Faloon's stall for many years, in her early forties, still exquisitely formed, a tight cerise dress, platinum hair. At the wheel is Freddy Jacoby, expensive suit, well filled out, a seller of financial advice and a buyer of suspect goods, whose handsome retainers often graced Arthur's desk.

Now advancing is Nelson Forbish, licking mustard from his fingers. Arthur beckons to Brian to join him in his truck, waves to Jacoby to follow. But Brian takes too long savouring his cigarette, and Nelson's cherubic face fills the driver's window. “What's up?”

“Not now, Nelson.”

“There gonna be some action?” His voice lowers. “Looks like you're bringing the boys in.”

“These are not boys.”

“The muscle, the weight.”

“They are merely film producers, Nelson.”

“What film?”

“That fellow driving? You've likely caught him on TV. Academy Awards.”

Nelson looks at Arthur suspiciously: he has been fooled before, Arthur's little joke about the nudist protest. “They gonna shoot a movie here?”

As Brian gets in, Arthur leans to Nelson and whispers, “I'll give you an exclusive in good time.” He heads off, the Cadillac following.

Brian stares bleakly out the window. “By some mysterious form of random mimicry, on the same day Doctor Eve choked on her white nickers, someone stuck red bikinis in my jacket pocket. If it's Brovak, as I suspect, he won't own up to it and he's a prick. When I tried to tell Caroline it was an April Fool's joke, she laughed her head off, then kicked me out. I'm staying at the Ritz.”

No wonder Brian is making a botch of the Faloon case. He got roaring drunk last night with no cause to celebrate. If this man isn't having a breakdown, he's teetering at the edge.

“You've got a marriage that works, Arthur. You and Margaret fit like comfortable shoes. Tell me how you do it.”

Instead, Arthur attempts to introduce his island, pointing out the sites, the tiny steepled church, the dowdy island graveyard, but Brian expresses little interest. He is finally roused from his moping by his cellphone, a chime, a few chords from the
Fourth Brandenburg
.

“Hello…Gabby?…I love you too, Gabby…I don't know, honey, whenever Mommy lets me come back.”

To Arthur's utter discomfort, Brian begins to cry. He hopes that Brian, in this sensitive state, will not be too wounded by his critique of the Faloon defence strategy.

 

There is much nervous shuffling in the house as his guests crane to watch Arthur pull a loaf from the oven. He can hear Brian on his phone in the next room. “Caroline? Pick up, Caroline, it's me. I'm coming to see the kids tomorrow.”

“Cat, will you take the vegetables and the dip outside–since the day is mild, I think we ought to sit on the deck. I can offer coffee, tea, or a very good local apple juice. You will forgive the bread its concave shape.”

“We are obliged that you would put yourself out in such a big manner, Mr. Beauchamp.” Freddy Jacoby, the appointed spokesperson. “I want to say on behalf of everyone it is an honour to have us at your home.”

“You're most kind. Cat McAllister, you are looking lovelier than ever. It must be twelve years since I last had the pleasure.”

“They took me out of circulation for a while, Mr. Beauchamp, over a tiny swindle thing.” As Arthur leads her to the deck, she catches a high heel on a loose board.

“And Willy Houston–have I heard right that you've retired?”

“Yes, sir, I'm not much into the game any more. I have a little set aside, and can throw in something for the defence.” One could mistake him for a retired banker, polite, well spoken, though he's Cockney born and bred.

“You must try my wife's goat cheese. Very low in fat.”

They shuffle into chairs around his warped cedar table. Brian says, “You start, Freddy.”

Jacoby shakes his head woefully. “For me, I got to admit I don't think he's as
meshuga
as he's putting out, Mr. Beauchamp. As to the robberies, I couldn't put it past him, but I honestly don't believe Nick shoved off that lady psychiatrist.” He takes
a breath, then delivers his prepared text: “We know you and him go back a long time, and he always talks with great admiration, like you're his mentor and he owes his career to you. We know you were disappointed in the last outcome, and on the basis of that we hope Nick deserves one last chance to clear hisself.”

“Also, he's in a bad way,” says Brian, cueing him–he has obviously rehearsed this show.

“Right,” says Jacoby. “Nick, he's–I'll be honest, Mr. Beauchamp, he's suicidal. Sitting out there in the spook house with all sorts of dangerous psychos, it's doing something to his head. You wanna add to that, Willy?”

“He got on the phone to me from VI,” says Willy the Hook. “There are some very depressive blokes in that joint. They're getting to him. He's afraid he'll never graduate from there, and he's thinking of finding an easier way out.”

Cat chimes in. “He was framed already once, Mr. Beauchamp. A rape he couldn't of done. Now someone's trying to set him up again.”

“My best estimate,” says Jacoby, “is the bulls faked the DNA test, figuring he owes for past offences. The ones you beat for him, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“They got somebody in the science lab to sign off on it,” says Willy.

“Or maybe the killer doped up the corpse with his semen,” says Cat. “To frame him.”

Arthur feels a tingle. Nick Faloon, framed for murder…They have found his tender spot, written a clever script, however awkward and forced in delivery.

“We took up a little collection here.” Freddy Jacoby produces a wad of bills. “Just to get you started. And we chipped in and got you this for your wife.” A velvet padded box opens to reveal a Piaget watch. “On my honour, it is legitimate and can't be traced nowhere. Also, we all commend your wife for what she is doing. We are for saving the trees.”

Arthur is thinking about false incrimination. He cannot imagine that police scientists could be corrupted–but might others have motives? Adeline Angella, who sold her story to
Real Women Magazine
…

“I worked with Nick for a dozen years, Mr. Beauchamp,” says Cat. “He never once made a pass. Okay, once, but I tickled him and he stopped. Nick don't attack women. Nick don't kill. He's been jobbed.”

Everyone turns to Brian, who is rubbing his forehead, trying to knead a headache away. He speaks wearily, “Fact is, Arthur, we couldn't help notice your interest in this case. You called my office to get him help. You showed up in court. Don't pretend you don't give a shit. Because
I
give a shit, and I've got three kids and a marriage counsellor to support and I'm turning down good money. There's a hundred and ten thousand dollars in that bundle.”

“To get you going, Mr. Beauchamp,” says Jacoby. “Business ventures are pending that will scrape up more.”

“The question of fees doesn't weigh on me right now,” Arthur says.

“Because something else does,” Brian says, remorseless. “That rape conviction still galls, doesn't it? What was it–thirty straight wins?”

“To be precise, thirty-three.”

“I sat in on some of that trial. I saw Angella's touching performance on the stand. Now she's written another article about her lasting trauma as a victim. She's making a living out of it, she's on the lecture circuit. What I propose is this: I'll undertake to repair that blotch on your record…Arthur, can we go outside for a smoke?”

“We are outside.”

Brian looks around, as if needing to make sure. “Okay, can we go farther outside?”

“Have your talk,” says Jacoby, “while we partake of this refreshment. The dip is undeniable, Mr. Beauchamp.”

Brian continues to pitch Arthur as they walk toward the barn. “I have access to Angella–who, by the way, has a record for making spurious complaints about stalkers, bus-stop butt squeezers. She was hanging around court a couple of days ago watching me finish a sex assault, and now she wants to interview me. She has an assignment from
Real Women
to obsess over rape again. She wants to get the defence lawyer's point of view. ‘Balance,' she calls it.”

“I would suggest staying clear of her, or next you'll be asking me to act for
you
.”

“While I take on Angella, you take on Nick Faloon.” Brian leans on a fencepost, drags hungrily on his cigarette. “Where can I lie down? Any freshly dug hole will do.”

Arthur leads him to a sunny patch of spring grass by the barn. Brian briefly inspects it for livestock droppings, then subsides onto his back. “Nice spread, Arthur, but I heard people get taken off these islands in straitjackets. The boredom finally causes them to snap.” He is about to light another cigarette, then realizes he has one going. “Apart from the odd forest blockade, does anything really
happen
here?”

“You have no idea what happens here.”

As if to illustrate, the proprietor of Island Landscraping is coming up Arthur's driveway on a backhoe, Dog following in Arthur's still-mufflerless Fargo. “Excuse me while I tend to some business.”

Stoney parks his machine out of sight of the road, behind the flared skirts of a cedar windbreak. Dismounting, he pats a fender. “A beauty, eh? I drove a hard bargain with Honk Gilmore, got it cheap considering it's just been overhauled with all new parts. Sorry, didn't know you had company–I came by basically to ask for some legal advice. How do I plead not guilty to a mechanic's lien? They want half of what I bought it for.”

The nature of this visit comes clear. Stoney got the machine cheap because Honk Gilmore never paid for the overhaul and the new parts; now Island Landscraping seeks to hide it from
creditors. “Stoney, I'm not about to conceal a wanted backhoe in my front yard.”

“That's not the way I work, Arthur, you know me, I wouldn't dream of it. I came here to do a test dig–free, no obligation, a loss leader–and if I hit clay as I suspect, then we know the pool will hold. I'd start now, but I don't want to disturb your guests. I heard they're in the movie business–if they need any help building sets, you know who to call.” Garibaldi's town crier has been busy spreading the word. “Okay, Dog's gonna drive us back so I can get to work on that muffler. We'll return when you're not so busy.”

Stoney doesn't allow further protest. He is already in the Fargo's cab with Dog, waving at the film producers as he drives off. Arthur dismisses the notion of going after them in hot pursuit. The backhoe will be evicted tomorrow.

He returns to Brian. “Two of the local malefactors. Not quite in Nick Faloon's league.” He sits and packs his pipe. “Where do you think you're going with his case, Brian?”

He's still on his back, chewing a grass stem, playing with another cigarette. “I'm not going to pull it off, am I, Arthur?”

Arthur coaxes a burn from his Peterson bent, and decides to go straight to the nub. “Insanity makes a dangerous mix with alibi. Jurors who might otherwise entertain reasonable doubt do not take chances on alleged insane murderers. This Gertrude Heeredam business can only blow up in your face. That you have got this far is a tribute to the mendacity of Dr. Endicott Sloan.”

“I thought I'd throw it in the pot. It was a backup if I couldn't find a real defence.”

“Act quickly on this, Brian. Get him out of VI before they find out his father is still alive.”

Brian sits up too suddenly, grabs his head. “He
is
?”

“Mr. Faloon is a senior civil servant in Lebanon. He flew here not ten years ago to visit his son. When I met him, he showed no signs of having been shot by the Falange.”

“Oh, shit.”

“It's a story Nick has told so many times it has become accepted legend. The child refugee, anxious, bewildered, thrust into a new world, unable to withstand its temptations. It won him many suspended sentences. He was three years old when his parents emigrated from Beirut. They have since returned. All this will be discovered if the authorities dig into citizenship and immigration records.”