When he finally fumbles his way to the cottage gate, he again strays, collides with an apple tree, then follows the fence to the seaward side of the house and the front door. There is dim light here, an eerie fluorescence in the ocean. The door swings open with a tug. He’d forgotten to lock it-yet another memory lapse. “Arthur Beauchamp, meet Dr. Alzheimer. Bloody God, I’ll be in diapers soon.”
As he fumbles for the light switch, he becomes aware, from the scent of patchouli, that he is not alone. Pale light through the windows glimmers on a mass of curls, a woman on the floor. Then the room is starkly lit by lightning, and he can see she is propped up on her elbows, looking out at the storm.
A soft, drawling voice: “Power went out.”
“Holly Hoover, I presume?”
“It’s okay, I talk to myself too.”
“Actually I was talking to the door. It doesn’t seem to be behaving.” It is warped. It takes a hard pull to lock it. No mention of that in the police report.
Hoover flicks on a cigarette lighter, holds it until Arthur finds a kerosene lamp and lights it. A well-proportioned woman in sweater and jeans, a tanned, youthful face framed by, as Claudette promised, an explosion hairdo.
“I don’t want anyone to know I’m here, Mr. Beauchamp.” Arthur turns down the lamp to a glimmer. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all. I don’t have anything but instant coffee.”
She rolls a cigarette with practised fingers. “I brought a couple of cider. You want?” Two bottles on the floor beside her.
“I’ll have coffee.”
As he gets a kettle going, he ponders the reason for this clandestine visit. He wonders if she’s on drugs, with her slow, husky voice.
“This has been eating at me. I’ve got nothing against Nick. He’s a famous underworld figure, I respect him. He gave me a room.” A resigned sigh. “That caused him hassle.”
“Claudette suspects you slept with him.”
“Yeah, I did. I guess it went all over town.”
Arthur returns with his coffee, sets kindling aflame in the fireplace. The sky flickers, a rumble of thunder. Or was it his stomach? One ought not to eat clams in April. Holly has a cider in one hand, a cigarette in the other, an ashtray on her midriff. She has kicked off her shoes; her feet are on the window ledge. Arthur asks her how she came by her current occupation.
“I quit college two years ago for a life of fun, but found I couldn’t make a living off shell necklaces and homemade bath oils. Had to find something that would pay. I had a bad habit of fucking anything on two legs anyway, so the transition from sleazy amateur to skilled professional actually gave me a sense of self-worth. Things were going fine, I could afford trips to the city, top-shelf bud, I was saving up to scuba in Cuba. Now this shit. I’d like some legal advice, Mr. Beauchamp.”
He adds logs to the fire, and stands close to warm himself. “Will you answer some questions first?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you always use a condom during sex?”
“Except with women.” She turns on her stomach and blows him a smoke ring.
What’s she stoned on? Patchouli easily trumps the odour of marijuana. “What happened to the condom Nick wore?”
“Hanging off his dick the last time I saw it.” A few moments. “Am I expected to remember? It got trashed, I guess.”
Arthur wonders if a prostitute would keep the occasional used safe, an excellent blackmail tool. But Hoover seems candid. Arthur is feeling queasy but must soldier on. He extends Angella’s photo. “Ever see this face around town?”
She studies it, looks up. “When?”
“March 31.”
“Looks vaguely like a dorky dame who came hurrying out of the pub as I was going in.”
Arthur wishes he had other shots of her. Hoover hands it back, shrugs. “I’m not good at faces.”
“Was Eve Winters in the bar as this woman was leaving?”
“Sitting on a stool. Her, I recognized. Doctor Eve. I knew she was staying in town, Inez Cotter mentioned it. Went up to shake her hand, I’m a fan. We got to gabbing, she started coming on, she’s tres gay. I was impressed, she was famous. I didn’t want her to know I was low-life, I told her I made jewellery. Which I used to when I was a Zen chick. I didn’t want a scene, some drunken bozo coming up to the bar and blowing my cover, so I just finished my drink and split.”
“But that’s not totally true, is it? That’s what you told the investigating officer.”
“Right. That’s not the whole story.”
“Go on.”
“Okay, let’s say something else happened. Let’s say these two ladies actually decide they want to get it on. Let’s say they arrange to leave the bar separately, to avoid gossip.”
“Tell it to me straight, Holly.”
She drains her cider, takes a breath, and tells him she took Winters across the inlet in her canoe, unobserved. A misty, romantic evening, a tingle in the air. Some hand-holding on the dock, an invitation from Winters to share a bottle of wine.
“I was conning her into bed, it didn’t feel right. Money wouldn’t be involved, I wanted to assure her of that. So I found the balls to tell her how I made a living.”
“And how did Dr. Winters react?”
“Cooled her right out. I got the impression she was disgusted at herself, stooping so low. She thanked me for the company and took off for Brady Beach. I stood there feeling stupid, had a cigarette, and went home.”
“And you didn’t mention this to Jasper Flynn?”
“I was freaking, I didn’t want to be dragged into this. He wasn’t much interested, anyway. Then I got to feeling nervous about it, and a week ago I went to Alberni to tell Jasper the corrected version. That I paddled her across. Not the making out, the hand-holding stuff, out of respect to Dr. Winters, but I mentioned she asked me up for a drink.”
“And what did he have to say?”
“He was like, don’t complicate matters, I don’t have time right now, I’m late for my son’s hockey game, I don’t want to see you charged.”
And without bothering to solicit a written statement, he sent her on her way. She has told no one else. Her confidences are disarming on her face, but it’s unclear why she hadn’t told the truth in the first place. If it’s the truth. The partly consumed bottle of Chablis, the two glasses in the sink, suggest Winters was entertaining someone: If not Hoover, who was her guest?
When the sky lights up again, Arthur thinks he sees movement outside, a dark form by the window. But he’s skittish, it’s the shadow of a bush moving in the wind. His discomfort has now progressed to his lower intestines.
“Am I in any kind of trouble?”
“None, I should think. You made amends with Sergeant Flynn. You’ll tell the truth in court.”
She slips on her shoes. “Jasper will yank my licence. If he even knows I talked to you, he’s going to be pissed purple.”
“Why?”
She merely shrugs.
“You seem to have a special relationship with him.”
“People talk, but it’s nothing like they think. I don’t pay him off in money or in kind. Jasper’s not corrupt, but he’s lazy, he figures I save him a load of work keeping the boys happy in the camps. Not as many brawls, guys fighting over the girls, of which there’s a shortage. I’m doing a public service, I cut down on sexual crime. So, yeah, he tells me not to be obvious about it.” She rises. “I’ve got to go.”
He follows Hoover to the door, torn between obeying the demands of his bowels and wanting to talk more with her-does she know anything about date-rape drugs?
“You will be subpoenaed, Holly. You will be sworn. You will risk perjury if you don’t tell the truth.”
“I intend to tell the truth. I know Nick’s getting a raw deal, but I don’t want to become a suspect. I’m here because I want it on record I told you the whole story early on. I don’t want to be accused of making this up.”