April Fool

by William Deverell

  Arthur steels himself when Brian asks if he may bend his ear. He supposes today’s session with Ms. Chow-Thomas went poorly. Here is a marriage crippled by truth and confession, too much sharing of sins.

  “Caroline’s intimes were milquetoasts. A colleague of hers, American Poets 200, a pity whore, can’t get tenured, can’t get published. Lasted three months. Number two was in her birding club. Three or four times a year, always out of town. They allegedly share a quality I lack called sensitivity.”

  Arthur slumps into a chair, feeling addiction prickles as Brian sips.

  “Lila had the gall to tell me that Caroline’s relationships, her word, were a reaction to my womanizing, also her word.” His voice rising. “Womanizing! She’s been womanized, she’s infatuated with Caroline.” He explodes: “Damn it, that witch sent us off on that weekend with the sole intention of ending our marriage! She wants Caroline for herself! Christ, I’d like to strangle the conniving…”

  He hits the brakes, steals a look at Lotis, who has just returned. She misses this chance, an easy score into an open net. Instead, she’s staring at Arthur with her wide bold eyes. Suddenly, where there was mystery, light appears. Tea goes down the wrong way. Arthur lurches from his chair coughing.

  “We have to find Daisy,” he says.

  31

  It’s half past eight as Arthur sets out for his office, a vigorous walk along the shoreline. A trio of girls runs past, jostling him. “Sorry, Pops!” Arthur feels as a foreigner must, he’s a rural refugee, out of place among the flashy towers, the grunting traffic of the harbour. Margaret too will find this a test, it’s a poor setting for reconciliation. (About now, she’s packing her suitcase…Will she bring a suitcase? Does she even plan to stay overnight?)

  Despite his anxiety, he had a sustained sleep, less troubled by all the clutter of the trial. He’s back on track, knows where he’s going. But he isn’t sure how to get there. The fingerprint on the fridge. He had almost missed that. There are so many bits and pieces. So much depends on the Crown validating Munni Sidhoo’s analysis. Everything.

  Christ, I’d like to strangle the conniving…Brian’s rhetoric pointed Arthur to the cipher, the solution to the coded messages that keep getting dropped in his mailbox. What an odd sensation, that bonding of minds with Lotis. Last week’s dream of Dogpatch haunts him now: daisies everywhere, beckoning, whispering. Find me. Find me.

  After Brian left, Arthur and Lotis continued to talk excitedly, she pacing in her underwear while her clothes were in the washer, oblivious to her roommate’s discomfort. Arthur set her tasks, directed her to contact Winters’s secretary. As of this moment they should be combing through every scrap of paper in Doctor Eve’s office. Locked since April 1, it may yield clues in old billings, appointment calendars, notes in desk drawers. A love letter hastily hidden between a book’s pages, overlooked as Doctor Eve sought to obliterate all traces of Daisy. “You are My Sunshine” sounds, it’s Lotis. “We have a name of interest. Desirée. Scribbled twice on an appointments calendar for last July, so the time is right. Nothing else, no last name or phone number. Desirée. Daisy.”

  An appropriate nickname for someone hobbled with Desirée, though he daren’t say that to Lotis Morningstar. July, August, September, and the affair broke off in October, according to Ruth Delvechio, who bounded onto the scene very quickly after that. The affair was so dead in the water.

  “Does the secretary remember her?”

  “She thinks so. Golden-haired, poorly dressed, graceful, fragile. Came in a few times last summer, and around that time Eve stopped being a workaholic, began taking an occasional afternoon off.”

  Doris Isbister calls next. Arthur demands to know how to switch off the banal campfire song.

  “Bring it up here, dear, and I’ll install a new ring. Miss Hoover is in the waiting room. Coffee and croissants?”

  “Please.” He can’t reach Brian Pomeroy, who’s at RCMP division headquarters with a friend, an inspector, whom he’s asking questions about procedures to avoid contaminating exhibits.

  As Arthur packs himself into a crowded elevator, Buddy Svabo calls, falsely hearty, shouting so loudly that Arthur must hold the receiver away. “You looked kind of sick yesterday, hope it wasn’t contagious.” A stirring in the lift, people shifting away. “I hate to admit it, but we got a positive on Adeline. Turns out that forensics actually did find a third-person trace in the semen–this was back in April–marked it down as an unknown, and flagged the investigation team. Don’t know why I wasn’t informed. What’s going on, Artie?”

  Arthur promises to call back, relief washing over him. Sidhoo’s test has held up, and Buddy is stuck with Sweet Adeline’s profile in Exhibit 52, wondering how to explain that to the jury. Arthur’s new paradigm is clicking into place.

  On the forty-third floor, Tragger Inglis’s waiting clients (stock-option holders, corporate raiders) sneak looks at the snow-white thighs of fellow entrepreneur Holly Hoover, who’s reading a business magazine. Trademark mini, new hairdo, cascading curls. A cynical smile, her eyes quick today, the pupils clear–maybe it’s drug-free Tuesday. That doesn’t mean she won’t be any less scheming and devious.

  “Hey, I sold my boat. Thanks for the free advertising.”

  “Did you get your price?”

  “On the nose.” She rises and follows him. “Why am I here?–that’s not a metaphysical question.”

  “I thought I was harsh on you in court the other day, and wanted to make amends.”

  “Sure you do.”

  SheriffWillit has to clear a path for Arthur through the crowd waiting for Court 67 to open, past the Whalley Wanderers, who scowl at him. “His Lordship is in a foul mood today, Mr. Beauchamp. Bit of a canker under his lower plate.”

  “The poor chap. And how is Gilbert Gilbert, have you heard?”

  “Total breakdown. Not the first time. Couple of years ago he went berserk in an Italian deli when his girlfriend left him. This time his mother’s trying to commit him.”

  “How frightful.”

  Arthur’s thoughts fly, as they do sporadically, to Selwyn Loo. Driven not to madness but thoughts of suicide, not by bullying and shame but by a larger despair, planetary.

  At counsel table, he’s confronted by Buddy Svabo, whose call he forgot to return. “Fine, Artie. So don’t tell me what’s going on.” Hurt, exasperated. “All I know is Adeline has an alibi as tight as a popcorn fart. And here comes Jasper with his cockeyed theory.”

  Flynn shuffling toward them, smiling. “You mind, Buddy?”

  “Tell him, already.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, I’m asking myself is there maybe another paradigm.”

  Arthur is annoyed at his theft of this word. He’ll put his paradigm up against Flynn’s any day. Arthur has a bigger one. “How does your theory work, sergeant?”

  “Eve Winters supported abortion rights big time. Adeline Angella hangs with an extreme crowd of pro-lifers. Writes newsletters for them. She has a history of choosing lousy friends, fringe people, fanatics. Okay? So one of them agrees to do Adeline a favour, because Doctor Eve is a pro-abortion queer. It’s more than a hunch, a gut-feeling.”

  Ears has joined the scrum, listening, nodding like a marionette. Buddy barks, “Wipe that stupid grin off your face.” Today may see the fabled eruption.

  “I want to work on it, Buddy,” Flynn says.

  “We’re sticking with the program, pal. I’m not in the market for new theories until I hear from Faloon. I got a few questions I want to ask him. You got the balls to put him on the stand, Artie?” Buddy leads him to a neutral corner, away from his rebelling seconds. “I’ve had it to here with that bull. He wants me to enter a stay against your guy.”

  Arthur hears that as an invitation to negotiate, and doesn’t bite. The prosecution has become a cock-up, but Buddy will ask a price for a stay of proceedings–a plea to the burglaries and the escape. “Let’s see how the day develops,” Arthur says. He is again hungry to solve this crime. H
e has the old engine revved up finally, it’s purring. He has a feel for the nuances of this case, how its many streams intersect.

  He watches Faloon enter and look about for Claudette, who waves tentatively, a timid smile. Faloon transfers a kiss from mouth to hand to the bulletproof glass behind his chair.

  Interestingly, Ruth Delvechio is in the gallery, as are her former friends, Bloom and Quong. And if Arthur’s not mistaken, that’s Lila Chow-Thomas back there, casual friend of Doctor Eve, the alleged marriage-breaker whom Brian proposed to strangle.

  “I hope we can make up time today, gentlemen,” says Kroop with a wince. The canker.

  Arthur seizes this opportunity. “We can do so if we put on record that the Crown has confirmed Ms. Angella’s DNA profile was found in Exhibit 52.”

  “Is that an agreed fact, Mr. Svabo? Otherwise I suppose we could be here to doomsday.”

  Buddy has little option but to consent, and Arthur files Dr. Sidhoo’s report.

  The sheriff leads in Angella, defiant again, shoulders up. Arthur won’t give her more material for her next article. “I’m through with this witness, but I do have a few questions for Holly Hoover.”

  Angella looks annoyed, as if she’d been made victim of a subtle prank. As she quits the stand, she squints at Faloon, and almost bumps into Hoover coming in, then seems unable to carry on past her, as if entranced by her hip-swinging walk to the stand. Angella pats her hair, tugs at her blouse, and makes her way to the back, squeezing in with her quartet.

  Except for the Topeka tax evader, the entire cast of suspects is present. Arthur may yet enjoy a chance to play the role of Perry Mason, the prosecutor stabbing a finger of guilt at the perp in the back. It was then, Mrs. Glockenspiel, that you put the rat poison in his cereal.

  Hoover acknowledges that she’s still under oath–for what it’s worth–then sits as demurely as possible in so short a skirt.

  “During heated debate on Friday, Ms. Hoover, you made a comment to our friend, Sergeant Flynn over there, that sounded of a threat. ‘I could say a few things,’ followed by an expletive. I understand you wish to clarify the remark.”

  “Right. I’m really rankled about being labelled an informer. I’ve always taken pride in keeping my customers’ confidences. But if he’s going to hang a sign on me, I’m going to display it. This isn’t about sex–he didn’t board my boat that often anyway–”

  In trying to interrupt, Kroop only makes a sound deep in the throat, a growl.

  “It’s about how he threatened me–”

  The judge finally cries, “Stop!”

  She has got all this out without a peep from Buddy, who was distracted by a flash of panties as she crossed her legs, then by Flynn rushing to his ear, still occupying it.

  “Mr. Prosecutor, are you just going to sit there? Have you nothing to say about this monstrous farrago of irrelevant hearsay and scandalous imputation?”

  Buddy shakes Flynn off, rises. “Sorry, that caught us by surprise, it came out of nowhere.” He looks reproachfully at Arthur.

  “Do fundamental rules of evidence no longer apply to this trial? Mr. Beauchamp, you are under suspicion. Surely you knew what she would say.”

  “That Jasper Flynn threatened her? What’s wrong with the jury knowing that, milord?”

  Kroop can’t get words out, his canker too painful. Forewoman Sueda shows matronly concern for the flailing jurist, a hand to her mouth. Finally, absurdly, Kroop sustains an objection never made.

  “Then let us find another route,” says Arthur. “Ms. Hoover, when did you become aware Dr. Winters was planning to visit Bamfield?”

  “Just before Christmas. A bunch of us were out carolling down by the government dock, and I stopped to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Cotter–”

  “I’m putting up the hearsay warning.” Kroop is no longer relying on the prosecutor to do his job.

  “As a result of that conversation, what were you led to believe?”

  “You’re walking a thin line, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  Arthur turns on the judge. “What she believed is not hearsay. With respect, milord, please let me do my work. This is a murder trial.” He gives Kroop no chance to recover, quickly returns to Hoover. “What was your understanding?”

  “That Dr. Winters had reserved Cotters’ Cottage for the last week of March.”

  “And did you relay that information to anyone?”

  “To a few friends. Some never heard of her, I was surprised.”

  “Would any of these persons happen to be in this courtroom?”

  “Yeah, Jasper Flynn. He acted like he couldn’t care less who she was.”

  No eruptions from counsel table or bench, though Kroop is twitching, holding himself back with wattle-trembling restraint. Flynn is writing furiously. In the test upcoming, Cyrano may find that Flynn remains the better dueller.

  “When, where, and why did this conversation come about?”

  “Early January. On the East Bam docks. One of his routine hassles. I jokingly said Doctor Eve was coming for a week to Brady Beach and he should take advantage, get a treatment for his compulsive need to bug me. He said, ‘Who’s she?’ As if he never read a newspaper. Then he asked me how I’m doing, am I getting much action. As I was trying to tear myself away, he said, oh, by the way, did I know the exact days Doctor Eve was coming. I said, ‘Why do you want to know?’ and he said, ‘Forget it,’ and walked off.”

  Hoover is articulate when straight–anyone not knowing of her penchant for lying would lap this up. But she’ll be an easy target for Buddy, with her long history of evasion, her motive to lie, her anger at Flynn. That’s not important. The important thing is to goad Flynn back to the stand. Motion denied, Mr. Beauchamp, you’ve already had two kicks at the can.

  “And was the subject raised again?”

  “In April, when Jasper was threatening to lay an obstructing charge on me, I reminded him he’d seemed weirdly interested in knowing when Dr. Winters would be in town. First he said he didn’t remember the conversation, then he said I was lying. Used the word blackmail, I don’t remember the whole phrase because he was suddenly up real close, breathmint close, and he said, ‘Dumpling, you spread that garbage around town, you’re roadkill.’”

  Martin Samples nods, pleased that this word has finally achieved status as a motif. Very European. Four stars.

  Arthur sits. Buddy rises menacingly. “Okay, Madam Hoover, I’ve heard so many lies from you I’ve lost track, so let’s start making a list.”

  As Buddy hunkers down to it, Arthur works his chair around, taking in the audience, Angella, Delvechio. What does Ms. Chow-Thomas think she’s doing here? Meanwhile, how is Brian getting on at RCMP front office? What’s keeping Lotis? Arthur needs information fast.

  Meanwhile, Buddy seems to have got bogged down with Hoover, despite the leeway granted by Kroop, who is impatiently tapping his pen.

  “When did you dream up this roadkill business?”

  “I didn’t dream it up.”

  “You had lots of chances to tell me earlier.”

  “You were never alone. Jasper was always with you.”

  The ever-helpful Jasper Flynn. Always there. Handling every little detail. Running the case for the Crown, spoon-feeding Buddy–but not telling him about an unknown profile in the DNA sample. One of his doodles, according to sharp-eyed Faloon, suggested fellatio. Arthur asked him if the depiction was not of a penis but a gun. Nick wasn’t sure.

  It no longer seems so odd that Flynn never mentioned his wife during their breezy chats on the Law Courts terraces. A diamond in the rough who preferred Daisy to Desirée. And who preferred Eve to Jasper. How tense he looked when the name Daisy was dragged out of Ruth Delvechio. Dear Daisy, that’s all I saw. Daisy was very, totally married. Rough trade, Eve called him. A jerk.

  The courtroom stirs with the panting, excited arrival of Lotis Rudnicki. She goes to his ear. “We found it, Flynn versus Flynn. The final decree is a month away.”

  The family ma
n. A hockey dad, two strapping boys. Troubles on the home front, said Lotis two months ago, in the law library, as they examined the text he’d been reading, Canadian Divorce Law. Yet one must not underestimate this wily veteran of the force. A fine job of backing and filling today with his gut feeling about an anti-abortion kook. His paradigm.

  “You have your shirt hanging out, my dear.”

  “I hate this medieval costumery.” She tucks it in. “I tracked down Daisy’s counsel. Grounds for the divorce are numerous bashings. Her address is embargoed on court documents–Jasper stalked her after she left him. She gave up the kids so he wouldn’t contest. The lawyer wouldn’t tell me any more until he talks to her.”

  This intense tête-à-tête is causing distraction, Flynn and Ears looking their way, the Chief Justice staring at Lotis, who seems to confound him each time she makes a guest appearance. He clearly has no idea what to make of her, has never seen a dryad in action.

  Hoover continues to defend her poor reputation as Buddy dances about the ring, poking and jabbing. She’s weathering it, returning an occasional barb. Buddy is shocked by her calumnies, her suggestion of sexual impropriety with the maligned officer. She shrugs. “I guess that’s why they call them Mounties.” A quick-witted woman, she should have chosen law. She crosses her legs again, putting Buddy in a stall.

  Wilbur Kroop to the rescue: “I don’t see why you’re having all this difficulty, Mr. Svabo, it seems a simple matter to put the officer on the stand to refute her statement. Let the jury decide who is more reliable. I don’t imagine the effort will tax them.”

  “Okay, I’m excusing the witness and calling Staff Sergeant Jasper Flynn.”

  Hoover wants to stay, to see this play out, but the room’s at capacity. A gentleman gives up his chair for her. She pats him on the cheek in thanks. Arthur sends Lotis out to try to connect with Brian, it’s urgent.

  Flynn takes a moment, then drives himself up with a sigh. A pouting, put-upon look, he’s being defamed by a cheap hustler, a pathological liar. Standing tall in the stand, with the professional, detached style of an experienced police witness, he refutes all. “No, sir, that did not happen.” “No such conversation occurred.” “I don’t think it’s for me to speculate what her motives might be.”