“And the lock would then click shut?”
“Correct.”
Something else is niggling at him. Buddy hadn’t asked how this hike came about.
“It was Eve’s idea,” the witness explains. “We first talked about it almost a year ago, but left it too late to make reservations for the summer, so we chose the end of March and prayed for sun.”
“Reservations are required?” This is news to Arthur.
“Parks Canada restricts the numbers who can enter. For summer, you have to book a year ahead.”
“And when did you book?”
“Four months earlier, in November.”
“They check you off as you enter the park?”
“And lecture you about bears.”
“Did you see any?”
“We were trying hard not to.”
Arthur thinks he’s done, but again something is bothering him. He fiddles with papers, buying time.
“Are you through, Mr. Beauchamp? The jury might prefer enjoying their mid-morning coffee than watching you stand there ruminating. Himf, himf.”
“A final question. How did you learn there was a cottage for rent on Brady Beach?”
“The Internet, a list of places to stay in Bamfield.”
“And when did you make reservations with the Cotters?”
“In November. At the same time we booked for the trail.”
Here is food for thought. A magazine writer capable of basic research could have tracked Winters’s movements, learned she reserved for the trail, for Cotters’ Cottage.
“Can I assume that’s your last final question, Mr. Beauchamp?”
Wilma Quong, a timid, bespectacled accountant, must be prodded through her testimony. She isn’t as forthright as Bloom about the spat, and blushes even to use the inane euphemism “f-word.” She is so apprehensive and soft of voice that Arthur makes her ordeal brief–she is blunting the force of Bloom’s more candid testimony.
Quong squeezes beside her partner, a few rows back, as Ruth Delvechio takes the stand. Auburn-haired with wide pale eyes, pretty if her face weren’t so stretched and tense. This tautness is only slightly relieved as she catches the eye of Glynis Bloom, and she frowns again as she looks upon Arthur, the defender of her lover’s murderer, the enemy.
Buddy draws from her that she met Winters in September while researching for her master’s thesis, a history of sexual misbehaviour in an isolated farm community. Their meetings grew more intimate and, Delvechio says with a flourish, “We fell desperately in love.”
She moved into Winters’s upscale condo and lived, according to Delvechio, in sweet harmony. “We were so happy, so, so much in love.” At another point, she says, “It was so fairy tale.” Cloying, Lotis warned, but the sugar is coated with a bitter shell. “And despite what some people may say, we shared that love till the end.”
The Crowns must have taken Delvechio aside during the break, prepared her for Arthur, filled her in on his cross of Glynis Bloom. He asks if there was strife during the hike.
“There’s always a little friction in close quarters like a two-person tent. I don’t think we had many cross words. We were too tired in the evenings even to talk.”
“We heard something this morning about an exchange in the cottage…”
She blurts: “That was so tempest in a teapot. You have to know Eve, she didn’t mean it.”
“She didn’t mean what?”
“She didn’t mean it was over. It was just a silly little thing. We would have had a good laugh about it when she came back home from her…whatever, her meditative holiday.”
Buddy assesses the pros and cons of punctuating those last few words. Finally he can’t resist. “But she never did come back home, did she?”
“I think I’m going to throw up.” Again, it’s Brian, directly behind Arthur.
Kroop glances up so quickly that he may have pulled a neck muscle, because he winces. “Who said that?”
No one responds.
Kneading his neck, Kroop looks about for a likely culprit, sees only a sea of innocent, sheeplike faces. He pins his fierce eyes on Arthur, his preferred suspect, then turns to the clerk. “Mr. Gilbert, did you hear someone say something about being sick?” He will wheedle the truth from the spineless clerk.
“I heard…” Gilbert clears his throat. “Something to that effect, sir, but I was looking down.”
“You must keep a better eye on the courtroom. Was he close by?”
“Near the front, I believe,” Gilbert says faintly. Almost everyone in the front benches heard Brian clearly, but none wants Gilbert’s role as conscripted fink. Now the judge inspects the row of young lawyers. A long study of Brian Pomeroy, who, with magnificent gall, turns and looks behind him, redirecting the search.
“There will be an order of detention for the next person who attempts to mock the proceedings of this court.”
Behind her hand, the forewoman, Ellen Sueda, is stifling either shock or amusement. A progressive teacher, no doubt, whose students aren’t sent off regularly to the principal’s office.
The episode causes Buddy to lose his way. He bends to Jasper Flynn to confer about the roadmap. Lazy, maybe overconfident, Buddy has relied on Flynn to do the tedious tasks of assembling this prosecution.
“Okay, Ms. Delvechio, when did you leave Bamfield?”
“It was a Monday. I’d already lost a day of classes, and had to get back.”
“And where were you the rest of the week?”
“I had a full schedule on Tuesday and Wednesday, then an off day, and I had a seminar on Friday.”
“And on that night, Friday, March 31?”
“I was at the UBC library until late, and after that I was at my mother’s. You can ask her. I was there that entire weekend.” Though accused of nothing, she’s asserting her innocence.
“You were staying at your mother’s because…?”
“Eve forgot to leave me a key.”
Buddy consults again with Flynn, then says, “No more questions.”
Arthur takes a while to think about that last answer. He looks at his watch.
“Are you interested in joining us, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“Milord, I would prefer my cross-examination not be interrupted by the lunch break.”
“Time flies, Mr. Beauchamp.” Kroop puts his glasses on, sees the wall clock reads five minutes to the half-hour. “Oh, very well.”
In the El Beau Room, Brian astonishes Samson by ordering a grapefruit juice. “You on the wagon too, Mr. Pomeroy?”
“I have become a rabid teetotalitarian, Samson.” The waiter walks off, shaking his head. “I’ve started seeing Lila two evenings a week–she’s putting in extra hours, she sees hope for me. I’m getting a ton of insight. For instance: the bikini incident. I’ve been focused on that one wrongful conviction, the case of the planted panties, and have been blind to my other offences.”
Arthur listens patiently but with his mind on Ruth Delvechio. He waits until Brian’s mouth is busy with his club sandwich, then turns the conversation to her evidence, its unexpected gifts. “The chip on her shoulder suggests this self-obsessed woman has something to hide.”
“Yeah, she’s so agony of lost love,” Brian says. “Fragile. Handle with care.”
“I think not. I’ll storm her defences. The jury isn’t buying the twaddle about Winter’s enduring love for her.”
“I’m out of there. The chief has my number, he’ll be onto me like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat. I like what you’ve done, Arthur, you’ve got suspects popping up right, left, and centre. Buddy is ducking and dodging, they’re coming at him from everywhere. He’s distracted, he can’t see the danger lurking in the bushes, the bingo queen.”
Brian plays with an unlit cigarette. “Caroline stopped lecturing me about smoking months ago, but Lila said that’s because she gave up, complaining was hopeless. I was hopeless, the marriage was hopeless.” He breaks the cigarette and kneads the tobacco into a sauc
er. “You can see how reborn I am, Arturo. I am the new version of me, booze-free, drug-free, charter member of Adulterers Anonymous.”
Arthur is booze-free and drug-free, smokes only the occasional pipe, and is only theoretically capable of adultery. Maybe he should forget being drug-free and add a little Viagra to his life. Hubbell would have Arthur believe a pharmaceutically triggered erection is the key to ultimate happiness.
Something is missing from Brian’s list of resolutions. Women want more than easy vows of abstinence, but Arthur’s not sure exactly what. Clearly, Brian and Hubbell have no idea either. He suspects it has something to do with listening. Tuning in. Not reading the newspaper while she’s venting about imbecilic trustees.
“Can you find out if Delvechio’s mother backs her up?”
“I’d get on it, but this is a make-or-break weekend. Caroline and I have that couples workshop on Cortes Island. You’ll have to use your scary student.”
“You find Lotis scary?”
“You don’t? She’s an idealist and therefore dangerous. She doesn’t know the legal game, thinks it’s politics.” He represents several of the Gwendolyn protestors, and has got to know her. “Don’t let her loose in the courtroom, she’s a monkey with a buzzsaw. Also, her vibes of godlike infallibility piss me off. She has a Napoleonic complex, she’s a borderline personality. She doesn’t attract me, I prefer the sane.”
Arthur picked up where Buddy left off: “You say Eve Winters forgot to leave you a key to her apartment?”
“That’s right.” Delvechio tosses back her hair defiantly with a glance at Bloom and Quong.
“Isn’t it a fact, Ms. Delvechio, that Eve Winters refused to give you the key?”
“She forgot.”
“Did you ever go back there?”
“Yes, I had all my books and notes at Eve’s, my computer, everything. The caretaker let me in so I could collect them.”
“And you moved into your mother’s home.”
“Yes, in Shaughnessy.” A bastion of the well-to-do.
“Who else resides there?”
“No one now. She’s recently divorced and my sister is away at a private school.”
“And what does your mother doff”
“Dr. Delvechio is the assistant director of a pharmaceutical company.”
“Which is named?”
“Advance Biotechnics Inc. It’s listed.”
“She’s obviously a busy, hard-working woman.”
“Yes, very demanding of herself.”
“Works late? Sometimes on weekends?”
“She was home on Friday, March 31, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“You confirmed that with her?”
“Of course.”
“Did you ask her to say you were home that Friday night?”
Buddy leaps to the rescue. “That’s below the belt.”
“I am cross-examining!” Arthur thunders.
That even restrains Wilbur Kroop, who seemed on the verge of upholding the objection. But he lets Arthur carry on; he will pick his spots to tangle with him.
Arthur retreats from this dicey area, not wanting to reinforce her alibi. “Truthfully, Ms. Delvechio, you weren’t at all eager to leave Bamfield and get back to classes, were you? You wanted to stay with Eve.”
“Did Glynis Bloom say that?”
“Just this morning.” He quotes her answer: “‘Ruth wanted to stay on in Bamfield with Eve. Eve wanted to be alone.’”
“Glynis must’ve been confused.”
“I regret to tell you she was forthright and plain. The fact is Eve wanted a holiday away from you. She found you clinging, cloying, and self-absorbed. She announced your severance so loudly it could be heard outside the cottage walls. ‘It’s over, Ruth. Repeat, it’s over. Do you receive?’”
“She had one of her little outbursts. It was about…nothing.” That tattletale phrase flutters like a flag at a country fair.
“Nothing, Ms. Delvechio?”
“Her emotions were so close to the surface…”
“We accept that, Ms. Delvechio. Tell us what caused her to blow up.” Cyrano’s sniffer has picked up a scent. He snaps his suspenders. “What was the quarrel about?”
Delvechio clears her throat, can’t answer. She is labouring so hard that Buddy chooses unwisely to interrupt. “Milord, this is totally…” But he too must struggle, unsure what he should complain about.
“Totally what, Mr. Svabo?” Kroop says.
“I object to how much time this is taking. I have a raft of witnesses, and I’d appreciate knowing how long he’s going to be with this one.”
Arthur coldly stares Buddy back into his chair. “We’ll move along faster if my learned friend stops playing jack-in-the-box and lets me go about my business in peace.” Arthur is on familiar ground at last, doing well what he does best.
“For the third time, Ms. Delvechio, what was the quarrel about?”
“Nothing,” she repeats with lowered voice. “A silly thing.”
Arthur waits.
“Over a letter.”
“What letter, Ms. Delvechio?”
“She’d been writing a letter to a…well, I suppose, a friend. A former friend. I happened to come upon it.”
“How?”
“It was in a compartment of her pack. Something she’d been scribbling while we were on the trail.”
Arthur waits once more, prying out answers with silence.
“We’d just settled in. The others were walking the beach or somewhere, and Eve’s pack was lying there and I decided to clean it out for her, all the sand and dirt and whatever. And there was this writing pad, and I happened to be glancing at it when Eve walked in, and she grabbed it and gave me a bad time over it, and that’s it. And then Glynis and Wilma came in, and Eve said we’d talk later, the two of us. But we never did, until there was that little eruption the next morning.”
“To whom was she writing?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Come now, Ms. Delvechio.”
“I honestly don’t know the woman. Dear…Dear Daisy, that’s all I saw.”
“Dear Daisy or Dearest Daisy?”
“Dearest or…I don’t know.”
“Darling Daisy?”
“I don’t know!” She seems on the verge of tears, but Arthur presses on.
“Daisy who?”
“Daisy whatever, Eve never told me. Anyway it was over. Long ago.” Now comes a tissue to her eyes.
Glynis Bloom is looking at Delvechio with a skeptic’s arched eyebrows; Wilma Quong seems puzzled.
“Bring her a glass of water,” Kroop orders. When the sheriff moves to the pitcher, Kroop says, “Mr. Gilbert will do it.” The whipped dog rises. Flynn looks very tense for some reason, his neck muscles bunched as he crouches over his pad.
Arthur waits out her long, shaky sip. “Are we to understand, Ms. Delvechio, that Dr. Winters and Daisy were lovers?”
“A fleeting affair. It ended just before I met Eve. It was never going anywhere.” Another sip. “Daisy was very, totally married.”
“To whom?”
“Some…I don’t know, rough trade, Eve called him. A jerk.”
“What kind of jerk?”
“Abusive husband, Eve said. I don’t know anything more about Daisy, except Eve called her a diamond in the rough. I assumed she was your basic trailer trash. The affair was so dead in the water.”
The pour of metaphors ceases, and she dabs her eyes again.
Buddy says, “If we could have a brief recess, milord, so the witness can compose herself…”
“We will take our break at the usual time.”
Arthur must be as hard of heart as the judge, must resist sympathy: these are the tears of self-pity. “Dead in the water? Yet she was writing Daisy a love letter?”
“To announce it was all was over, to persuade her not to write any more.”
“Is that what her letter said?”
“I assume. I to
ld you I didn’t read it.”
“How many pages was it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe three. Four.”
“A four-page rejection slip? Come now.”
“Believe what you want.”
“Six months after you took up with Eve Winters, they were still writing to each other?”
“Whatever.”
“The truth, Ms. Delvechio, is that Eve was writing to say she was sorry she rejected Daisy for you. It was your relationship that was dead in the water.”
“That is so totally…not true!”
“What did Eve do with this letter after she snatched it from you?”
“She stuck it in her pocket.”
“You don’t know if she mailed it?”
“I assume so, since it wasn’t found.”
“How do you know it wasn’t found?”
“I…I think someone would have mentioned that.” She looks at the troika of Crowns. No help forthcoming. Buddy has his arms folded, Flynn is busily doodling, and Ears chewing.
“Did Eve keep an address book?”
“Yes, but…I’m not sure if she had it with her.”
“What kind of address book?”
“A little ring binder, stiff grey cover.”
“Was Daisy’s address in it?”
“I never bothered to look.” Another sip of water, but she’s recovering.
“Ms. Delvechio, did you ever mention this letter to the investigating officers?”
“I don’t think I was ever asked.” That may seem evasive even to her, because she adds, “It wasn’t my business to mention Daisy to anyone. Especially if she was in a bad marriage situation.”
“Daisy’s husband was physically violent?”
“Eve said something about him being jealous and abusive.”
“Did he beat her?”
“Eve didn’t say exactly. I assumed. I didn’t ask.”
“How did she and Daisy meet?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did Eve happen to mention her friend Daisy to you?”
Delvechio slumps a little, crumbling. A deep breath. “Okay. This was back in the fall, October maybe. Eve was being all moody. She had had a couple of drinks and…She just started talking about this Daisy person, this totally ridiculous affair. How Daisy was so refreshing and original even though she wasn’t awfully bright or educated. Never went to college. She had a family, a couple of boys. I didn’t get it, it was so not Eve Winters: I had this picture of Daisy Mae in a tattered skirt living in some runty home in Dogpatch, struggling with her sexual identity and a horrible marriage.”
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