I am offended by the presumption I would rat on fellow islanders. I intend a sharp response, but Pound is drawn away by Zoller, who has entered shaking his head, still jingling the cuffs, obviously having failed to break through the wall of silence. Finally the two officers drive off, whereupon the boys on the deck light up again.
The opening bars of the fourth Brandenburg have me grabbing my pack from under the barstool, fumbling for my cellphone. My hello is answered by the seductive, breathy voice of April Wu, the enigmatic Vancouver private eye. She is on a retainer to unearth long-buried evidence in the Swift case.
“Arthur, I have come across something very interesting.”
“Do say.”
“I would prefer not to. Not on a cellphone. How soon can we meet?”
The possibility of a breakthrough persuades me to cut the long weekend short. “I can come in on Monday.” Margaret is leaving for Ottawa then to meet with her rump caucus, so a trip to Vancouver will allay the bout of loneliness that accompanies her every departure. “Surely you can give me a hint.”
“Silence is a friend who never betrays.”
April has a Confucian proverb for every occasion. My favourite: If you don’t want anyone to know, don’t do it. Quite the seductive beauty, this mystical young woman.
The afternoon is waning and I must attend to business, so I make my way down the ramp to the General Store, collecting oranges, pepper, allspice, figs, and pipe tobacco – foreign exotics not found amidst the bounty of our farm. Mint jelly too – Margaret is doing lamb; Al and Zoë Noggins are coming over for dinner tonight.
At checkout I engage with two fellow members of the Organic Garden Club, busty middle-aged back-to-the-landers whose tanktops read, respectively, “Wellness” and “Wholeness.” They’re unafraid to flaunt hairy armpits, messages of female earthiness that have always excited me. I’m not sure why, and I’m not sure if I care to know.
My final stop is at the mail counter, where Abraham Makepeace is sorting this morning’s delivery. The postmaster lightly slaps my hand as I reach for a pile of envelopes addressed to Blunder Bay. “I haven’t checked these yet for junk mail.”
He pulls them away, tosses a couple of fliers into the waste along with a letter fat with coupons, then holds up an embossed envelope to the fluorescent light. “This seems legit. Invitation to speak at the Commonwealth Law Conference in Mumbai. Chance for you to get off this rock. When do I ever get a holiday? Here’s your Small Farm magazine. Wentworth Chance copied you a bunch of reviews for A Thirst for Justice. I don’t suppose my name ever gets mentioned, though I was a major contributor. And here’s something you might be interested in: a postcard from Germany. ‘Looks like François and I are quits.’ Signed ‘A.’ That would be your first wife, I guess.”
“Annabelle.”
“That’s right, Annabelle. Sent you a Christmas card last year with her picture on it. Society gal. Looked pretty good in that low-cut dress.”
I have always envied the postmaster’s sharpness of memory. Wentworth, an avid cyclist, spent many days pedalling up and down this island’s byways, and many lucrative hours with this local archivist, recording mirth-provoking anecdotes: the time I showed up at the store unaware I’d sat on a wet sheep turd, the night the entire island was out searching for me when I got lost on Mount Norbert.
“Yep, Annabelle Beauchamp. She kept your name – I always found that odd.” Makepeace finally forks over her card, which illustrates the Bayreuth Festspielhaus, site of her husband’s many triumphs.
My dearest Arthur, it begins, disconcertingly, then goes on to apprise me of her pending divorce. No smudged teardrops, no sighs of regret or sorrow. Her marriage to that foppish conductor was bound to go under. She’d probably been outrageously disloyal to him too. I’m quite well set up but I shall be taking up an offer from Opera Vancouver as sets manager, just to keep active. It would be lovely if we bumped into each other.
I would prefer that a comet strike Earth and all life perish. But I will suppress mean thoughts. I have a moment of fellow feeling for the fop, the former wunderkind. Broken-hearted, no doubt, but generous in the divvying up. I have a loving wife now – preoccupied at times, yes, burdened with important duties, but caring and loyal. Growing more restless as she prepares to dive again into the parliamentary whirlpool.
Margaret has been so engrossed in her preparations that she’s almost oblivious to me. Her hug last night, after her return from an off-island fundraiser, was perfunctory and cool. Lips failed to touch lips. I don’t mind that she’s more in love with politics than me. I’m honoured to be husband of a woman who calls for carbon taxes and massive spending to stave off ecological collapse; these concepts are a hard sell to the air-conditioned masses.
Makepeace bundles Margaret’s thick pile of mail in an elastic band, hands it to me.
“Nothing interesting in here?” I say.
“It’s not my role to discuss other people’s private correspondence,” he says.
Hoping I might cadge a ride to avoid the hike home, I relax with a pipeful on the steps outside the pub. Though relax is hardly the correct word: Annabelle’s card, folded in my back pocket, feels somehow radioactive, hazardous.
I am finishing my pipe as Stan Caliginis pulls up in his Lexus and calls, startling me. “ ‘Where the Squamish River Flows.’ Must have read that part three times. Can’t put the damn book down. Truly Boswellian, Mr. Beauchamp, amazingly candid.”
“Arthur.”
“Stan.”
He exits the car with a thick bundle of mail-outs and passes me one. It promotes a public “planting party” next weekend at his vineyard. “Come in Your Best Western Garb.” This is the kind of function I despise, and when he invites me to share in the food and wine and frolic, I politely demur.
Caliginis accurately assesses my situation – no vehicle, full pack, walking stick – and without my asking (and I wouldn’t dream of doing so) insists on giving me a lift after he “hops up” to the post office. This fellow bores me with his pretentious wine-tasting jargon, but no intervening bids come in the several minutes it takes him to mail his flyers. He returns with a six-pack from his personal wine wholesaler. He wins a brief struggle for my rucksack, holds the passenger door for me.
“Good luck on reopening the Swift case, Arthur. Such a noble thing.” He shakes his head as if in awe, and we drive off.
To stifle further discussion of the topic I make the mistake of seeming curious about his boxed set of fine wines. A New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc is on his favourites list, with its “incredible clarity and amazing tension.” In contrast, a Napa Chardonnay promises to be “steely and crisp, with a majestic nose of hazelnuts and tropical fruits; very good length.”
Half-listening to this mumbo-jumbo, I experience an itching sensation, under my skin, where I can’t scratch it. The epicentre is in the region of my ass, my back pocket. It would be lovely if we bumped into each other. That feels like a threat. The card was mailed two weeks ago; she could already be in Vancouver.
From “Falling in Love, Failing in Love,” A Thirst for Justice, © W. Chance
BY THE AGE OF THIRTY-THREE Beauchamp had amassed a sterling record; he was coming off eight straight wins in headline cases such as Smutts and the Father’s Day Massacre. The senior partners had taken a liking to him, had removed him from under Pappas’s thumb, and let him do his legal aid work while awarding him with the firm’s meatiest, and most lucrative, criminal cases.
The richest of these – the retainer was nearly a million dollars – was the complex defence of several businessmen accused of running a pyramid scheme. The trial is significant because it introduced Beauchamp to Annabelle Maglione, then a young fine arts graduate, a set designer. Relying on promises of ten per cent per month returns, Ms. Maglione had put a hard-won arts award at the disposal of these gentlemen, and was called upon by the prosecutor to relate her heart-rending story. She looked stunning as she took the stand: jet-black hair and magenta lips, mini
skirt and high-heeled boots.
No transcripts are extant of Beauchamp’s cross-examination of Ms. Maglione, but several law students were present – they later enjoyed successful practices – and each remarked on the ease with which Beauchamp brought the witness to stammering confusion. One brief exchange was quoted in the evening paper. Witness: “Excuse me, but am I making sense or am I sounding totally incoherent?” Counsel: “The latter, Miss Maglione.”
Her ordeal over, she sat spellbound through the rest of the trial. During breaks she would boldly engage him in the corridor. While the jury deliberated, the pair slipped out to the Schnitzel House, where he entertained her over dinner with stirring tales from the courtroom.
“I was wowed by him,” Annabelle told me during our sessions in her Lucerne chalet. I reminded her that Beauchamp claims to have regarded her at first “with the fascination one might hold upon seeing an alien disembark from a spaceship.”
She laughed. “That’s so Arthur. But, yes, I was playing at being a hot, hip chick, Ms. Counterculture of 1969. My shtick worked – he was just as gone as I was, whatever he says. Two nights later, after the jury finally acquitted everyone, we got drunk and ended up in his high-rise apartment. The rest is … I’ll leave you to finish the sentence.”
Given Beauchamp’s long lack of womanly companionship, one isn’t surprised that he fell in love so suddenly and thunderously. This relationship remains – not to insult Margaret Blake – the most dramatic and life-altering experience of his adult years.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2011
I lie stiffly awake, listening to the haunting whoops of a barred owl as I struggle to understand how I could have acted so badly. Old age has cursed me with yet another disability: an irascible temper. I am in danger of becoming the grumpy old fart of Blunder Bay. I accept the greater blame for last night, but surely the woman with whom I share this bed should share culpability. Maybe she does feel guilt, because hers seems a fussy, fitful sleep.
In brief, dinner with Reverend Al and Zoë was a disaster. I arrived late after refusing to let Caliginis take me down Potters Road – I didn’t want Margaret to see him drop me off. Then, while trying to shortcut through the upper pasture, I managed to rip my pants on barbed wire.
“You’re late and you look like shit,” Margaret announced, herding me to the shower as our guests looked on with strained smiles. She was doubly irritated because she’d overdone the lamb while waiting for me. Meanwhile our hero was also in mean spirits, and during dinner went on a rant about the island changing, old ways dying, money pouring in, mini-mansions going up, new fences, private roads, you can’t find a decent walking trail any more.
“It’s all about Stan Caliginis,” Margaret said. “Arthur thinks he’s after my body. Or vice versa, I’m not sure.” Right in front of company. It hardly matters they’re our closest friends; it was impolite, embarrassing.
I turned to the Nogginses, seeking support. “He slavered all over her, invited her to drop by.” I mimicked, imitated his leer: “Dying to consult with you, Ms. Blake.”
“I’d be delighted to have you chaperon me, darling.” Ice in her tone.
I seethed. When Margaret began talking Green strategies – Reverend Al is her Garibaldi ward boss – she took personally a comment that her party had lost all nobility with its constant money-grubbing. She threw her napkin at me, and on the way out slammed the door.
Al bustled Zoë out of there, pausing only to share a homily about storms soon blowing over. In the dim nine p.m. light I made out Margaret by the beach, receiving comfort from her staunch allies Homer, the border collie, and the cats, Shiftless and Underfoot.
As I was cleaning up and putting the dishes away, she came back and went straight to her little home office, not looking at me. Her apple pie was still in the oven, untouched. I cut her a piece, then approached her to seek amnesty. Without saying a word, she stopped typing an email and closed her laptop lid. I set down the pie, apologized for having spoiled the evening. She dismissed me with a weary wave.
The barred owl voices a long series of ghostly scornful rebukes. Arthur, Arthur, you are a foo-ool. Yes, it’s the damn Orfmeister – that still galls – and it’s Annabelle anxiety and Margaret anxiety. (What was that email all about? Darling, you will not believe the hell that life with him has become.)
But add up all those stressors and they’re not the half of it. Most of it is Gabriel Swift. I’m seeing people who don’t exist. The other day it was Thelma McLean, neighbour from hell, but when I stuck my glasses on, it was Martha Pebbleton coming from the henhouse with an apron full of eggs. These images are trying to tell me something, to remind me of feelings long suppressed. Feelings that go back to a moment in 1962, when Gabriel and I were preparing the guilty plea, when I wanted to embrace him and felt he wanted that too.
Maybe, just maybe, a breakthrough looms. Something very interesting, said April Wu. Maybe to do with Dr. Mulligan’s musings about suicide that so mysteriously came to light. Maybe she’d found proof that he did indeed drown himself.
The owl’s spooky lament gives way to a growl of engine. When I raise myself up, I see headlights advancing along the driveway. Instinctively I know it’s Robert Stonewell – who else comes calling at the midnight hour? In my pyjamas I race downstairs and out, by which time the entire barnyard has awakened: chickens squawking, geese honking, goats complaining, and lights going on in the woofer house.
Homer barks greetings to Stoney as he cuts the engine, clambers out, and extends the ignition key. “Your limousine, sire.” My discourtesy car, the three-decade-old ragtop muscle car.
Stoney’s flatbed pulls up behind it. His henchman, Dog, a squat little fellow built like a beer keg, erupts from it and lurches into the bushes to relieve himself, simultaneously refilling his bladder from a can of Coors.
Stoney doesn’t seem as intoxicated but is on a jabbering high; he smells of pot. “A few tips regarding this here vintage beauty. If you gotta brake suddenly, yank her hard right, because she has a tendency to drift left; the rubber don’t have much grip there. Emergency brake usually works but the fuel gauge exaggerates, so tank up early and often. And if you take her to town, you also might wanna have them tires looked at. Maybe stop at Quickie Tire and Muffler; they got the best deals.”
In the glow of the yard light I balefully eye this death machine with its insignia of lightning and flaming horses’ manes. Stoney jumps into the truck, shouts to his companion to get a leg on. I glance up to the bedroom window, where Margaret, silhouetted by a light, stares wearily back at me.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2011
Reverend Al is on a Sunday-morning rampage, sermonizing against “fast-food approaches to faith” and “charlatans and mountebanks selling salvation on the boob tube.” He’s going after the fundies, as he calls them – the fundraising fundamentalists – a sermon heard often by this congregation; he hauls it out when in a bad mood.
Margaret begged off from attending, complaining of, though not listing, the “thousand things” she must do before returning tomorrow to Ottawa. At least she was speaking to me, though obviously still simmering after last night’s spat. I haven’t found the right moment to mention Annabelle and her pending arrival. I have even destroyed evidence of that, furtively tucking her postcard between burning fireplace logs. It would be lovely if we bumped into each other. This unsubtle invitation threatens to feed the flames licking at the edges of my marriage.
Reverend Al concludes by asking everyone to join in a prayer for Kestrel Dubois, the young teen who disappeared six days ago.
After the service ends, I eavesdrop as Al shepherds his flock to their cars. “Nonsense, Mrs. Bixbieler, you look stunningly swan-like in that neck brace. And here’s the indefatigable Winnie Gillicuddy.” The island centenarian.
“Good sermon,” pipes blunt Winnie. “Even better than the first ten times I heard it.”
Once in the parking lot, the congregants can’t seem to get out of there fast enough. Soon
only the Jenkins sisters remain, who demand to know what Al is going to do about all the drugs on the island. He can’t appease them, and they walk off sourly, grimacing as they pause to examine the rear end of the garish Mustang that got me to the church on time.
In my hurry I hadn’t seen the lurid messages posted there, slogans that may have provoked several of the flock to flee in dread. A bumper sticker: Jesus loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re an asshole. Other stick-ons cover the rust spots: O Canada, we stand on guard for weed; Bad cop – no doughnut.
“Where’d you get that piece of shit?” Al demands.
The reverend normally enjoys a good joke but seems incapable of finding humour in my explanation. He leads me into the little brick annex that is his office. His door secured, he whips off his collar, pulls out a bottle of rum, and pours a liberal helping. “This is what I’m going to do about drugs, goddamnit.”
I break away from the depressingly lovely sunset, stare sourly at my desk, the thick files and transcripts for the Swift appeal, then finally summon the strength to pull out a photocopy of the document that spurred me to reopen the case. It came to light only last March, in Ottawa’s National Archives. I would not have known about it but for an anonymous tip, and I’ve been puzzled ever since why the caller didn’t identify himself or herself; it was one of those in-between voices, sounding eerily like Dermot Mulligan himself.
He or she had also phoned the National Archives with the tip on the same day, Thursday, March 17. The two pages, on aged six-by-eight white paper, were found folded and tucked into a book. I could see how it might happen: a scholar who shares a popular feeling – at least among leftists – that Gabriel was framed, stumbles upon this helpful evidence, alerts Gabriel’s old lawyer. But why hide his or her identity?
I click on a table lamp, stick on my glasses, and read once more Dr. Dermot Mulligan’s brooding reflections on self-destruction – typewritten, unsigned, undated, discovered by happenstance …
I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel Page 29
