Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(102)

Margaret nearly spilled her tea.

“Just kidding. Go to bed.”

Jennie followed Margaret into the bedroom, tucked her under the covers, pulled the curtains.

“Jennie, I am politically fried. I get it that I have to stay on for a while. A year, two years, then you’re it.”

“It? Like in blind man’s buff?” Jennie’s phone rang. “It’s Pierette.” She listened for a moment. “Say what? Wait, it’s okay, she’s still up.” She turned the speaker on.

Pierette: “I just got back from a quickie press conference with Alice DePaul.” The Justice Minister. “This is good.”

Margaret struggled up. “I’m all ears.”

“The RCMP has issued an arrest warrant for Svetlana Glinka — though good luck with that. The so-called trade officer, Novotnik, is to be sent packing. The surveillance photos of him paying her off will be all over the front pages.”

Margaret and Jennie talked over each other, asking if Farquist was mentioned.

“Oh, yeah, his name came up. It was the first question the press asked. DePaul wouldn’t bite, just danced around it. She wasn’t going to compromise the investigation. But — are you lying down? — her department is seeking a court order to open up your non-disclosure agreement.”

Jennie erupted in what Margaret assumed was a Cree victory whoop. Margaret jumped from bed and hugged her. Goodbye, sleep.





PART FIVE





THE AWAKENING

Early spring had been stormy, with tree-bending, limb-splintering winds and deluges of rain: messages from the gods that Garibaldi Island was not to be spared the ravages of climate change. But in May the gods took pity, and the sun burst free. Weary locals staggered from their battened-down homes, shedding their slickers, rubbing their eyes, blinded by the brightness of daffodils flowering along the roadsides, below seas of yellow broom.

And on this halcyon Saturday afternoon, Arthur’s fruit trees were thick with blossoms and humming with bees. Barn swallows were swirling, snaring lazy flies for their nestlings. Lambs were cavorting in the field. A Swainson’s thrush was serenading its mate with its unbearably beautiful song.

The scene would not be complete without a typical barnyard divertissement: Niko and Yoki were trying to talk down a nimble escapee from the goat pen, Lavinia, who was standing triumphantly on the hood of the Fargo.

“How you get there?” Yoki demanded. “We make you into goat meal.”

Arthur waved from the driveway. “Enjoy your day, ladies.”

Niko called: “No problem!”

Arthur had just changed into his hiking togs from the formal suit he’d worn this morning at the Annual Spring Flower Show. He had won two blue ribbons, for peonies and begonias, and a few reds and whites, and was off to celebrate at the Brig.

Fortifying Arthur’s pleasant mood was the fact that just yesterday the $500,000 in reparations had finally been deposited into the Tragger, Inglis trust account. Jack O’Reilly had had little choice because the credulous fellow had signed on as his hero’s guarantor early in January, before Farquist’s swift decline and fall.

It ended in a splat at the Conservative convention, where Farquist lost disastrously to Clara Gracey. He’d been deserted by all but the most fanatical of his supporters. No one else was buying his guff, including the media. Including O’Reilly, who was said to be furious at being stuck with the bill.

But so far Emil had escaped prosecution. After a hotly contested hearing in a courtroom closed to the public — Arthur sat on his hands throughout — Chief Justice Cohon-Plaskett had given the RCMP access to the discovery transcripts, but denied it to the public and the clamouring media.

Nonetheless, Margaret was assumed to have triumphed. Whether or not Farquist faced charges, his political doom would be sealed when Lou’s book came out. His publisher had slyly leaked word about an explosive videotape.

After deducting the out-of-pockets, the balance of the $500,000 was earmarked for eco-crusaders. Roy Bullingham had balked at enriching such subversive organizations as Greenpeace and the Sea Shepherds, but couldn’t deny Margaret’s wishes.

She would be returning from Ottawa in a week for the Victoria Day holiday. Don’t lay anything on, she warned. “I want it to be just you and me.”

Representing his wife had been the right thing to do. He had fully paid his debt to her, and could now forgive himself for his misbehaviour. And to think — he had almost persuaded himself to confess.

§

The bulky bottom of the editor of the Bleat was spread out on a bench outside the general store. Forbish was scribbling in a notebook while powering through a bag of corn chips. “These are organic,” he said defensively. “Low fat, says right on the package. I’m working on my interview with Mookie about her new movie.”

“Mookie Schloss? She’s back?”

Forbish pointed up at the Brig patio, where Mookie was presiding at a table of friends and freeloaders. A brunette when last seen, a fluffy blonde this time, surgically fattened lips, forty-two trying to look thirty.

She’d been a year away in Hollywood, resuming a sporadic career in low-budget movies and soaps. Married to well-heeled Herman Schloss. Their history of breakups was epic.

“Mookie’s going to do a free showing.” Forbish winked. “If you know what I mean.”