Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(30)
At least she had time to arm herself, to respond to Farquist’s hokum. So she sidled behind him to hear better. He spotted her and scowled, but didn’t break rhythm as he heaped scorn on the Opposition for trying to force an untimely election. Threatening to disrupt hard-earned holidays. Stalling the government’s program for growth, lower taxes, and environmental protection. With that, a glance behind, a shot, a challenge.
It seemed an open invitation, and Margaret, despite — or because of — her frazzled state, couldn’t help but grab the moment. Flouting the proprieties, she twisted under cameras and microphones and got close enough to smell his musky cologne.
“Well, that demonstrates the government’s total lack of respect for democracy, doesn’t it?” Farquist tried to interrupt but Margaret talked above his scattershot of complaint. “What’s more fundamental to our way of life than the exercise of the people’s right to choose who will represent them? That’s so typical of the Fowler government, demeaning the right to vote — we should be celebrating elections.”
She made a quick exit and several reporters followed her, deserting Farquist. She sensed she’d really got his goat this time, thrown him off his game. He would try to make light of it, tossing off some snarky put-down. Canadians will want to consider whether rudeness is a quality they seek in a party leader.
Had she been reckless in invading his scrum? Jennie Withers, standing near the West Door, apparently didn’t think so. A smile. The current Green leader still had game.
And now she had her own mini-scrum, grown to a dozen, lobbing friendly questions. Yes, of course, she was disappointed in the spineless Liberals. The Greens were ready, had almost a full slate. The government had won a mere reprieve and would certainly fall in the fall.
Her cloud of gloom, exhaustion, and confusion had lifted. She felt energized.
§
But that didn’t last. The entire day, the entire frenetic week caught up to her at Green HQ halfway through the afternoon, and she had to steal off to her inner office, needing its peace and solitude. She stretched out on a couch, fighting the urge to sleep, fiddling with her phone. She finally dialled Blunder Bay, thinking Arthur would be much relieved at having escaped a summer of mainstreeting.
She caught him at home, in the kitchen finishing lunch. “No election. I guess you’ve heard. I hope that makes your day.”
“Nonsense. You know how I love going door to door, invading the space of total strangers. Your sneak attack on Farquist was on the national news. I hope you’re not tempting fate, darling.”
She bristled. “I’m not going to lay off him just because . . . Never mind. Anyway, I’ve got breathing space now.”
“Margaret, I hope you aren’t playing with the thought of tripping off to Montreal to join Pierette.”
“Of course not,” she said sharply. “That would be foolish and risky.” But she yearned to do just that.
§
She slept like a dead woman that night, rose late to a sunny and excruciatingly pleasant day, and took a bracing hike to the Hill. She’d given her staff the Friday off, so her parliamentary office was ghostly quiet. She got coffee going and sat down at her desktop to review an array of iPhone photos from Pierette of tree-lined Rue de la Visitation, its row of venerable triplexes, their sinuous outdoor staircases, relics of old Montreal; Lou Sabatino’s second-floor flat, its covered balcony and shuttered windows.
Below it was Svetlana Glinka’s therapy clinic, though there was nothing to advertise it as such. A small, tiled terrace; a wrought-iron bench; wide, curtained windows. No sign of her Miata, which, according to Sabatino, was usually parked out front.
Margaret wouldn’t be surprised if Glinka was in Cannes or a Greek villa, spending Farquist’s hush money. Unless he was on the take, he had no great wealth, so he must be hurting. Had he retained another professional paddler to satisfy his obsession? A younger model?
He wants a change, says I’m too old to be his mother. Farquist’s real mother became a single mom when her husband left her for another woman. Their son was eight years old. Ten years later, she committed suicide. Maybe there was tragedy enough here to turn a man into a fetishist.
As for Lou, he might be anywhere. Targeted by the Mafia, newly fired, separated from wife and children, bitter about that, bitter about his situation, his life. Had he given up? She pictured him hanging lifeless from a chandelier. Or sprawled on the carpet, a bullet in his brain.
With a mug of hot coffee at hand, she called Pierette, who picked up right away — she was still in her rented compact, stationed across from the triplex. “You got the pix?”
“Yep.”
“More coming. Hey, sweetie, I’m worried this place is being watched. I saw a couple of goony-looking guys in a big black SUV prowling by yesterday, looking things over.”
The Mafia? Had they traced him there? “Did you get a photo? The licence plate?”
“No, I was across the street chatting up a couple of old boys hanging outside the adjoining triplex. I didn’t see the driver. One passenger, both male. Probably nothing.”
“So what did the old boys have to say?”
“They figured Svetlana was a high-priced pute. They dug her, she gave the neighbourhood some tone. Lou was an utter nonentity, they hardly knew him, didn’t know he was gone.”
“Any chance he forgot to lock up?”