Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(18)

“Okay, give me a minute to get my head organized. I am two minutes away from my hotel . . . Did I tell you I’d be in Montreal at the Wildlife conference? Anyway, the weather’s brutal here.” As if to underscore that observation, there was a loud thunderclap.

“Then I shall ring you back.”

“No! Just . . . just talk to me.”

“My goodness. Are you feeling okay, darling?”

“Never better. I love dodging lightning bolts. No, I’m fine, really. Just need to share a delightful tidbit. How’s your weather?”

“Sublime. The heavens are ablaze, the evening thrushes are competing with a chorus of pond frogs. I am on the veranda, witnessing a majestic sunset — a nine point five at least. The sun is just about to sneak behind that lovely old arbutus on the point — your favourite tree.”

“Don’t be cruel, Arthur.”

“Now, as Apollo’s fiery fingers reach beneath Flora’s swirling skirts, he hurls his golden shafts across the gentle fields of Blunder Bay.” Then came a burst of Latin poetry, lyrically translated: “‘Come trip it, Fauns, and Dryad maids withal, ’tis of your bounties I sing.’” The master curmudgeon was in a rare ebullient mood.

The St. James Hotel, a grand stone-faced monarch, loomed from the gloom, its warm lights beckoning, as Arthur poured forth like the rain. “‘Come, Minerva, thou virgin goddess of magic. Come gods and goddesses all, whose love guards our fields . . .’ Atrociously garbled, I’m afraid, I used to have it down. Virgil’s hymn to the rustic gods.”

“Why are you so happy?”

“Well, the sunset, hearing your voice, and . . . to tell the truth, I’m not sure. I’m not finding it as much fun being the island grouch.”

“Heavens be praised.”

“Tell me about the crazy wild thing. I’m sitting.”

Margaret kept the phone to her ear, hurrying past the doorman. “Okay, Lou Sabatino. He’s the reporter who did that Montreal waterfront exposé? Put a hold on that, I’m almost in an elevator.” She was joined by two couples, and put Arthur on hold.

On exiting on the fifth floor, she had a brief blank moment, then finally remembered her room number. We’re both on the same floor . . . She sped down the corridor. “Anyway, I just met with Lou this evening. Wait, I’m having trouble with the key card.” She finally pushed the door open, put the phone on speaker, and set it down and plugged it in, its battery low.

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m undressing, Arthur.” Teasingly: “I am taking everything off.”

“An image that eclipses even the glories of my sunset.”

Margaret was pleased with this vastly improved version of her husband. She began a long, spirited discourse as she peeled, everything wet, her panties sticking to her. She opened a Malbec she’d bought earlier, poured a glass, and picked up her BlackBerry again.

Arthur listened in silence to her recitation of the Sabatino exposé, apparently struck dumb, though she’d expected him to burst into laughter. By the time she finished he was his old sober self, and commenced a meticulous cross-examination, requiring her to retell every word spoken, pertinent or not. Margaret, aching for a hot shower, guzzled the wine.

“When was this video made?”

“It’s date-stamped January sixth. That was a Sunday.”

“Let me understand. This Svetlana person claims she was betrayed by Farquist? She was too old to be his mother?”

“I know it sounds a little . . .”

“Preposterous is the word I think we’re looking for. ‘I helped him through it.’ She also said that?”

“To Lou, yes. Her so-called therapy sessions, she meant, I suppose.”

“Helped him through what?”

“According to Lou, she was about to confide something about Farquist and his mother, but then she decided that would be breaking professional confidence. Fill in the blanks. His dad walked out on his mom when he was eight. She committed suicide when he was eighteen. Barbiturates or something. You don’t have to be Sigmund Freud.”

A long pause. Margaret could almost hear him thinking. Then: “Can you be sure this wasn’t a Farquist look-alike?”

“Impossible. He’d have had to be a sound-alike too. Nor does he have an identical twin.”

“Does he own a log home somewhere up in the Laurentians? Or maybe the Gatineau Hills?”

“I’m sure going to find out.”

Another pause. “Dare I ask, darling, have you been drinking?”

She felt insulted by that, but admitted to just having poured a second glass of the Malbec. “Otherwise, Arthur, I’ve been dead cold sober all day.”

After a wordless few seconds — she suspected Arthur was carefully preparing his next remark — he said, “I hope you won’t do anything precipitous, darling, because if you don’t mind my saying —”

“I do mind your saying.” She quickly apologized for her sharp tone. “I’m not blind to the ethical considerations, Arthur. I won’t get involved in mindless mudslinging. If hiring a prostitute to whip his fat ass isn’t enough to disqualify him from his sworn task of destroying the environment, well, bribery definitely is. If we can prove it. I’ll want your advice, of course, and I’m sharing this quietly only with Pierette and Jennie. She’s a very good lawyer, as you know.”