“Up her pussy?”
“I guess. I never saw it again.”
“Nor did the cops. A doctor examines her an hour later, takes a couple of swabs, and not surprisingly they’ve got your come on it. Meanwhile Angella has fished out the safe and put it in the freezer with the ice cream.”
This theory showed almost as many gaping holes as the scenario of Faloon making it with Dr. Winters. Why would Angella have kept some of his discharge? Only madness would drive her to a deed like this, a murder, trying to hang it on him.
After the lawyer leaves, he tries out that word again. Madness…
Maybe he didn’t see that side of her because he was blinded by lust, it was three years since he went to bed with a woman. But she practically offered it on a spoon, took him to a small apartment that was so clean it didn’t seem lived in. The first thing she did after pouring him a snifter was show him her book of clippings, stories she wrote, which were mostly for low-rent publications, not regular magazines.
Again, she asked him for the inside story of the Kashmir Sapphire, and he kept putting her off, saying maybe some other time. He continued to make up fables instead, Angella purring, “How exciting, it’s just like a Cary Grant film.” She had a taste for old caper flicks, Cary Grant, Errol Flynn. Somehow they got onto the romantic side of such movies, then sexual fantasies involving masked intruders, and that’s when Faloon started to feel strange about her, she seemed to want to act out a movie role, scripted.
She put out the lights until there was just a glow from the bedroom like an invitation, and that’s when he asked if he could kiss her.
“You’re not supposed to ask,” she said.
10
Arthur rises early this morning to assemble himself for the courtroom, feeling ill prepared after his long hiatus. He remembers his brogues, and selects a poorly fitting suit of a cut he hopes has returned to vogue after a decade. Brian will meet him at the Victoria ferry terminus, so he’ll go as a foot passenger. The Faloon hearing ought not to take long, a few housecleaning items, sweeping out the garbage that has collected around the case, the claim of insanity.
The Gwendolyn injunction is also set for hearing this morning. Arthur will wander in when he can: he doesn’t want Santorini thrusting him into the role of counsel-Selwyn Loo is more than capable, though his larder of arguments is growing bare. He has filed photographs of the nest, of a solitary eagle on a nearby branch. The Save Gwendolers are worried-why has its mate not been seen for several days? Selwyn will plead for more time.
Arthur sent ten handwritten pages up the dumb waiter yesterday, a collage of farm concerns-they’re down to one Woofer-a denial of the rumours of film stardom, a ponderous explanation about owing a debt to Nick Faloon, and an obliquely worded invitation to come to ground. He sought reaction as Margaret read it. Was she relieved he’d stopped being a doornail? Irritated to have been shunted onto a sidetrack and having to share the family spotlight? She looked startled for a moment, but it was only the onset of a sneeze.
In the end, she deflated every expectation with a shrug. “Why even think about it? If you feel strongly, go for it.” The inference was inescapable: she’s not about to abandon her post. Still, like Minerva on her throne, who gave Ulysses strength, Margaret blessed this project. And, like Ulysses, Arthur has set sail for the Isles of the Blest, fully aware the legend is unclear whether he reached those shores or capsized.
He dusts off his elderly, sagging briefcase, and gathers up the Faloon file, its pages scattered to every reach of the dining-room table. He spent a day absorbing witness statements, exhibit lists, synopses of laboratory tests. It will take him months to bone up on recent law and forensics. DNA profiling was in its infancy when he quit practice.
Staff Sergeant Jasper Flynn wrote up the file in typically stilted police prose: “The scene of the incident is the property of Gerald and Inez Cotter, 85 and 79 respectively, who reside in East Bamfield, and advertise said cottage for rent.”
The Cotters knew Faloon casually, but “suspect never visited them or had access to the key to their cottage.” Twenty-four fingerprint lifts were taken, “none matching suspect, twenty-two others identified as known individuals.” Not known to the defence, however. Intriguingly, there were two unidentified prints.
Eve Winters stayed there four days, after hiking the West Coast Trail with three women friends, who batched with her one night, then returned to Vancouver. The inelegant Sergeant Flynn refers to two of them as “admitted lesbians.” Professional women: an anaesthetist and an accountant. The third is a graduate student in history at the University of British Columbia.
The pathologist’s report discloses no external injuries, other than the chipped front tooth, abrasions to the undersurface of both wrists, and light bruising around the mouth, possibly from the panties being forced into it. The few tiny cuts and sores on her body were days old and consistent with scratches and sore feet earned during a wearying hike. Why didn’t Winters resist more forcefully? The Crown may have a problem rationalizing that-the jury, too, as they look upon the meek, runty figure in the prisoner’s dock. Eve Winters was five inches taller, and fit.
But Adeline Angella doesn’t weigh much more than Faloon-how could she have taken on the athletic Doctor Eve without suffering the worst of it? Unless a weapon was used-Winters yielding to the threat of a gun, allowing herself to be tied. This would account for the abrasions on the wrists. No rope or cord was found.
Harvey Coolidge is the Topekan developer who went for a walk to settle his stomach. His wife, a heavy sleeper, has only a dim memory of him rising from bed, then returning. He denies being anywhere near Brady Beach; he was strolling the deserted town. No one seems to have asked him why he would take so much money to a fishing resort in an isolated village and keep it under his pillow. He was duplicitous enough to have exaggerated his loss, probably for insurance reasons.
Another person of interest is a woman in the sex trade. Brian telephoned last night to tell him Claudette St. John suspects there was an apparent liaison between Winters and Holly Hoover.
“Apparently she swings either way, and Eve has similar inclinations.”
“Were these observations reported to the police?”
“Claudette spoke to Jasper Flynn. But his attitude was, don’t bother me with trivia, don’t complicate matters, the Mounties already got their man.”
In all seven pages of Flynn’s summary of evidence, the interview with Claudette St. John merited not even a footnote. Arthur finds this either lazy or negligent. Holly Hoover earned two sentences. “Witness was talking at the bar with deceased about music, hiking, and the weather. She was thrilled to meet her, having read her column.” No hint of romantic overtures, no mention that Holly Hoover practices the ancient profession. Truly, this is a mind settled.
Briefcase in hand, Arthur emerges into the grey April day. It will feel odd returning to the arena; he can only hope he can slip into the routines, as one slips into old shoes, with remembered ease.
Outside the Woofer house, Kim Lee is changing the tire on her bicycle.
“Kim, you, me, drive ferry.”
“You dry very?” She extends a water bottle.
“Drive. To ferry.”
“Ah, very…Very good?”
Kim joins him in the truck’s passenger seat. On the way, Arthur gives monosyllabic pointers about keeping Blunder Bay Farm afloat for the day. She nods, smiles, a lovely, open, innocent face, like a sunflower.
When he parks and hands her the key, Kim looks confused. “I no dry.”
“You don’t drive?”
Kim shakes her head. Not understanding what Arthur wanted, she accompanied him out of politeness. She will have to hitch back, someone else will retrieve the truck, Paavo-no, he left last night. Arthur foresees confusion reigning at Blunder Bay, but he can’t dally, the Queen of Prince George is pulling in.