Stung

by William Deverell

  Arthur hurries as fast as his game ankle will allow, arrives roadside just as Irwin Dugald’s Explorer squeals to a stop only five feet from Ulysses, who had wandered onto the pavement and now, scared, races back to join old human friend with unhappy face making angry bad-dog sounds while holding leash.

  “Caught in the act,” Dugald hollers from his window, as Arthur snaps the leash on Ulysses’s collar. “That dog is on probation, and now I see you’ve been letting him run loose.”

  “Thank you for the reminder, Irwin.” Arthur doesn’t want to argue. But Ulysses remembers this unfriendly human in uniform and voices a soft, wary ruff.

  “You been keeping your gate locked, Arthur?” Dugald makes no move to exit his vehicle.

  “Of course.” A bald lie.

  “I hope so, because a sheep got killed last night. A yearling, one of the Shropshires they’re raising at Gwendolyn Valley Farms. Some of the hippies living up there found it. Dragged five hundred feet from the kill site. Had to be a damn big dog.”

  “That’s terrible. Has to be an off-islander. It’s happened a few times. Tourists bring over dogs that have never seen a sheep or a deer, and some can go a little haywire. Some breeds. Not wolfhounds.”

  “Maybe. Pass the word around.” Dugald gives Ulysses a long, musing look, then drives off. He has obviously not bought Arthur’s defence; Ulysses remains a canine of interest.

  They march on, Ulysses tugging at the leash, pausing occasionally for a sniff break, and finally they arrive at Robert Stonewell’s centre of operations. His driveway entrance is festooned with signs promoting his diverse trades: mechanic, builder, taxi driver, dirt mover, and provider of septic systems and emergency towing. A freshly painted sign advertises his latest venture: the witching of wells.

  Not the excavation of wells, the witching of them. A week, seven days, no more. That promise was made in September, almost exactly five months ago.

  The driveway curls around a hill studded with abandoned cars and trucks, skeletons mostly, the small acreage resembling a bombed-out war zone taken over by broom, salal, and blackberries. His funky two-floor cabin crowns a small hill, and nearby is his garage and a work shed.

  Arthur finds him, along with Dog, under a tarp strung between those two structures. Tools and parts are scattered about. They are drinking beer, apparently taking a break from dismantling a riding mower.

  Greetings are exchanged and Dog makes room for Ulysses beside an old barrel stove that creates a little warmth and a lot of smoke.

  “Offer you something?” Stoney says, cracking open another can.

  “No, I’m here on business.”

  “I could have used your services ten minutes ago, counsellor. The head of the Gestapo was up here on a pretext so he could hassle my livelihood. According to Dugald I need a licence to be a septic installer. I told him I been putting in fields and tanks for all my life without no licence, so I’m grandfathered. That’s the law, I told him.”

  “What was the pretext?”

  “Asking if we know anything about Gwendolyn Farm’s sheep that got killed by a dog. He knows I don’t have a dog, except Dog here, and I ain’t about to squeal on nobody’s else’s dog, neither.”

  “Very noble of you.”

  “I’m starting a water witching service. Only thing you don’t need a licence for. What happened to the days of free enterprise? But I digress. What is the item of business, good sire?”

  “It’s about the dig, Stoney.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, Mother Nature ain’t cooperating. With this rain we had—”

  “It’s dry today. It was dry in September, when you told me you wanted to get to it while the good weather holds.”

  “Events conspired against us, Your Honour. Equipment issues. Manpower issues. Dog and me were needed for the harvest. It was like the last big year before they legalize reefer, man. This fall the government takes over.”

  “My tractor is mired in the mud.”

  “We’re gonna haul it out soon as we get the backhoe fixed.”

  “Why aren’t you fixing the backhoe now?”

  “Well, I have to do this here crap mower which I promised last July. To be fair, it has precedence.”

  “It’s the middle of February, Stoney. No one is mowing grass.”

  “Arthur, pray have pity for the working class. Dog, what day is this?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Exactly. It’s Saturday, a traditional weekly holiday, and here we are busting our asses, eh, Dog?”

  “Meanwhile my tractor is halfway down a sinkhole.”

  “Okay, I’m just pulling your leg, and now I’m almost afraid to tell you the truth, because we’re at the point where you won’t trust anything I say, but the backhoe is missing a part, and it’s on order. The dig is number one priority when that arrives.”

  “What is the part?”

  “Left-hand differential side gear.”

  Arthur has been applauded as one of the great cross-examiners, but as usual, in his dealings with Robert Stonewell, his powers have failed. He doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth or still bluffing. He feels stymied.

  3

  On this fourth week of February the island has enjoyed a string of sharp, sunny days, as snowdrops bloom in clumps among the apple trees, whose buds are fattening. Crocuses bravely raise tousled heads of purple and yellow. Daffodil bulbs push up green spikes, and sparrows and thrushes rehearse their arias for the coming sold-out season.

  This is a day that ought to be enjoyed in the garden, preparing spring planting, or hiking with Ulysses, but groceries are running low and Arthur has driven to the General Store. He could have sent Solara or Stefan but they left this morning to the city for feed for the animals.

  As the Fargo noses into a parking stall, Arthur observes that Abraham Makepeace, owner of the General Store, has installed a cork bulletin board on posts near the front door, as a community service.

  Only a few notices have been posted so far: for sale are a cord of firewood, a “barley used” wood chipper, and a rider mower (“Needs work”), plus there’s a photo of a well-fed orange tabby whose distraught owner asks, “Has Any One Seen Fluffy?”

  Abraham Makepeace is also the postmaster at the store’s Canada Post outlet. The spindly old bachelor is a font of local knowledge, partly because he likes to gab with everyone, partly because he feels empowered, in his important government role, to read postcards and letters that have somehow come unsealed.

  “Your box is full,” he says reproachfully as Arthur bellies up to the counter.

  “I’m sorry.” Arthur always feels ridiculous uttering this typically Canadian knee-jerk phrase. Why should he feel sorry?

  Makepeace pulls out a batch of envelopes, passes them one by one across the counter. “This here will be an overdue notice for your house insurance. You better get on top of that. Revenue Canada too, because they’re questioning your farm status. One of your law partners is retiring, so there’s an event for him a week Friday at the Point Grey Golf and Country Club.”

  “Thank you, Abraham, I think I can manage the rest.”

  With a weary shrug, he passes Arthur two weightier items, Priority Post packets from Toronto. These contain documents from Nancy Faulk and files from Selwyn Loo — presumably new and amended expert reports, more photos, videos.

  Arthur must set aside time to get into this stuff. Maybe, if he lays in enough provisions, he can batten down in his study over the next two weeks. The trial is set to start May 13, so he expects to be in Toronto by late April, about two months from now. Nancy wants him there much earlier. So does Selwyn, who temporarily denies himself the gentle winter climate of his West Coast home — he must soon return to argue a major pipeline reference.

  Selwyn wants Arthur to travel to Germany to work on Dr. Dieter Hoff, who was originally enthusiastic about testifying b
ut now is balking.

  “He declined to say why,” Selwyn told him.

  “Don’t tell me he’s been bought.”

  Selwyn viewed that as absurd — they had already bought Dr. Jerod Easling, the entomologist and professional witness, regarded as charming by his fans and as glib by his detractors. As well, Hoff in his writings and appearances has expressed contempt for Chemican-International and the other agrochemical giants. “He’s up in the air about it and wants to meet you before he decides. He read A Thirst for Justice and has decided he wants to be your best friend.”

  The government’s courtesy ballpoint pen is out of ink, foiling Arthur’s attempt to sign for the two packets. He digs out his own pen as Makepeace gestures at the window. Arthur observes Constable Dugald getting out of his Explorer.

  “In case you haven’t heard,” says Makepeace, “we had another dog attack last night. Yearling alpaca from Mattie Miller’s herd.”

  An alpaca? Arthur could see a pair of wolves taking down such an animal, but a dog? He is dismayed: poor, shy Mattie Miller, who stood arm in arm with Arthur at the Battle of Ferryboat Landing. Who has joined with her neighbour, the redoubtable Hamish McCoy, to sue the despoilers of Quarry Park for threatening their livelihoods.

  “Animal Control Officer came over from Victoria this morning,” Makepeace says. “He is up there now.”

  “I just got a report from him.” It’s Irwin Dugald, coming from behind. “He has a photo of the suspect canine.” He moves closer, behind Arthur’s left ear. “Can we have a quiet talk?”

  Arthur is suddenly on edge, decides he needs strong coffee. He shoves his mail into a shopping bag and leads the officer across the walkway to the Brig pub.

  The midday sunshine has propelled several hardy drinkers to its outdoor patio. Heroic poet Cud Brown is shirtless, showing off a hairy, flabby chest to Felicity Jones, the server. Beside him is Hamish McCoy, slugging back a hot toddy, looking even more agitated than usual, maybe because of the nearby alpaca kill. He might think blame will fall on Shannon, his big, old wandering bitch, a mix of big-dog breeds: Labrador, German shepherd, others that can only be guessed at.

  As Dugald takes a barstool, Emily LeMay greets him with, “A horseman walked into a bar,” and laughs at her take on the stale joke. But Dugald does have a long face, seems about to spread gloom. Arthur doesn’t sit, just leans against the bar, impatient — he has store chores.

  Dugald waits until Emily comes with their coffees, then looks about to make sure they can’t be overheard. “First Gwendolyn Valley Farm’s ewe and now an alpaca. This time, Leroy has paw prints. Leroy Letkow, the Animal Control Officer. Big paw prints. This wasn’t no Chihuahua.”

  Dugald has had it in for Ulysses for some time, so Arthur is emphatic: “I can assure you it wasn’t an Irish wolfhound.”

  “How would you know unless you were there?” He’s not smiling; he’s serious about this.

  “I was there in the middle of the night?”

  “I ought to caution you here, Arthur. You have a right to remain silent—”

  “Stop this, Irwin. What is this business about a photograph?”

  Dugald waits, sulking at the reproof, while Emily refills their mugs, then relates what Letkow reported to him by phone. This Animal Control Officer — new at his job, on his first visit to Garibaldi — was looking at the alpaca’s disembowelled remains when he spotted the alleged perpetrator advancing across the field, as if returning for a morning snack.

  “The dog ran away, but Leroy got it on camera. Pretty much looks like a wolfhound.”

  “Who says?”

  “Leroy Letkow says. He’s on his way here.”

  “Well, that’s all very interesting. I have some extensive shopping to do, Irwin, and I must obviously stop by and see Mattie, she must be distraught.” He checks his shopping list, then drains his coffee.

  “Where’s Ulysses right now, Arthur?”

  “At home.”

  “Do you know where he was last night?”

  “At home.” Had Arthur fed him dinner? No, because Stefan has insisted on taking on that task, as part of the training regimen.

  “Did you see Ulysses this morning?”

  Arthur resents being cross-examined as if he’s a common criminal. But he’s forced to hesitate — does he actually remember seeing Ulysses this morning? Does he even remember if the gate was open before he drove out?

  “Of course he was there.” Stefan had probably taken him for a run.

  Dugald sighs. “This is hard, Arthur, but I was by your place a couple of evenings ago, and I saw your driveway gate had swung open. I’m taking the blame, I should have alerted you.”

  “My good fellow, Ulysses has been carefully and successfully trained not to go anywhere near that gate.”

  The constable leans toward Arthur, gives him a shoulder squeeze. “My friend, I know how you love that dog. I’m a dog man myself, would be, except Roberta . . . I had a dog that . . . Never mind.” A rueful head shake. “But it looks to me, Arthur, to be honest, that you’re carrying a heavy burden, and maybe it’s time to let go, to open up with me. You’ll feel better if—”

  Arthur cuts him off. “I’ll feel better if you stop reciting from a police interview manual.” He wants to get back to the store, get on with his day. He also has a powerful need to see Ulysses.

  But here comes further delay, in the form, presumably, of Animal Control Officer Leroy Letkow, a vigorous young fellow whose khaki uniform and dark aviator glasses suggest he’s of authoritarian bent. Dugald does introductions. Letkow declines coffee, asks Emily for a tomato juice.

  “I want Mr. Beauchamp to see the photograph, Leroy. I’d like to see it myself.”

  “Yes, sir.” Out comes his camera. “The dog depicted was observed at ten-oh-eight hours by myself after having returned to the scene of the crime.”

  Arthur has to work through that ill-conceived sentence before he’s able to focus on the image of a retreating rear end. “This is not a picture of a dog. It’s a picture of a dog’s ass.”

  “He turned tail pretty fast,” says Letkow. “He was big and had a dark coat, just like your wolfhound.”

  “As described to you by my good friend here, Constable Dugald.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you take your sunglasses off, you’ll see the dog’s coat looks more yellow than black.”

  Letkow nudges the glasses onto his forehead. He appears startled to realize it’s sunny outside and that he was in the dark, so to speak, when he observed the suspect dog. Arthur doubts that he has ever seen a wolfhound.

  “It’s not Arthur’s dog,” Dugald mumbles, embarrassed that his building of a case against Ulysses has been exposed as a mean vendetta.

  As Emily LeMay returns with the tomato juice, she can’t keep herself from peering around Arthur’s shoulder at the camera’s screen.

  “That’s Shannon,” she says, demonstrating an uncanny ability to identify a dog from a long-distance shot of its rump.

  She is likely right, though: Hamish McCoy’s big, old, yellow pooch often goes where not invited — Mattie has complained about that, though Shannon has never bothered her alpacas. Shannon is normally a lumbering old gal, but the photo seems to capture her taking it on the lam. That could be evidence of mens rea, a guilty mind.

  “If that’s Shannon,” Dugald says, “she belongs to Hamish McCoy, who’s out on the patio.” He directs Letkow’s attention to the half-dozen men at a shared table. “Meanwhile, I’ve got some papers to process. When you finish up here, Leroy, give me a call and we’ll figure out the next step.”

  Dugald has learned to avoid encounters with the hot-tempered Newfoundlander, and especially wants to avoid tangling with him over his dog. Without a parting word, he takes flight out the front door and down to his Explorer.

  Leroy Letkow, unaware of the lepr
echaun’s fearsome reputation, lowers his shades and advances upon the sextet of sunshine-loving beer drinkers. Arthur follows, his phone to his ear, talking to Solara, who is on the road with Stefan in his van. She confidently confirms Ulysses was home all last night and when they left this morning.

  Arthur pauses on the patio to study his shopping list, wanting to get going on it, but is torn, curious to see this picaresque scene play out.

  Letkow introduces himself. Baldy Johansson, who is already drunk, moves to make room on his bench, offers to pour some beer into Letkow’s tomato juice. “Have a Red Eye, pal.”

  Letkow says he doesn’t drink alcohol, remains stiffly standing.

  Cudworth Brown, the bare-chested heavyweight poet, asks, “What can we do you for, Leroy?”

  “Well, it looks like a certain local dog enjoyed an exotic South American banquet at Mrs. Miller’s alpaca ranch. The victim had its neck broken and its stomach torn open.”

  “We don’t know nothing.” Gomer Goulet volunteers this on behalf of the entire table. Hamish McCoy is like a coiled spring.

  “We have identified a large dog named Shannon as having been at or near the scene of the crime. I have reason to believe the dog in question is a second offender that also took down a sheep and is owned by one Hamish McCoy, who I am instructed is sitting here. Which one of you is Hamish McCoy?”

  Cud Brown rises. “Right here, sir, I’m Hamish McCoy.”

  “Well, Mr. McCoy—”

  Honk Gilmore calls out, “No, I’m Hamish!”

  “I’m Hamish,” says Gomer.

  The others chime in similarly until Cud ups the ante: “Don’t listen to these pugs, officer. I’m the real McCoy.”

  Everyone succumbs to helpless laughter except Letkow and Hamish, who, though the island’s most instantly recognizable character, seems invisible to this humourless dogcatcher.

  “Okay, losers, have your fun,” says Letkow. “RCMP Constable Dugald and me will be taking Shannon in for further investigation including paw print analysis which may lead to her termination—”