A Three Day Event (23 page)

She picked up the file marked simply ‘Pendunnin.’ Now
that
had been a stroke of luck, Thea Ankstrom being in a snit over her horse and nobody so far to talk to about it. Mentioning the horse to Thea had been like poking open a
pinata
. It certainly looked promising. Thea had said she would ask Polo to ride him, to get a disinterested opinion. What a
coup
if there was something wrong with him.

On top of everything, who would have thought that as one of the insiders from C–FES, Thea would not only be willing to talk about her own horse and its problems, but would suddenly start blowing the whistle on all her cronies at the top?

Who knew that even this Young Riders show was a hotbed of corruption? That the whole Ontario jumper team had been hand–picked by the
Chef d’équipe
who just happened to be the committee chair for the whole damn show. Conflict of interest? Just a
tad.
It was trivial compared to some of the other stuff, but if the sponsors of the show found out, it could tip the scales in terms of their global policies in horse sport. But how the hell was she going to approach the redoubtable Marion Smy on this one?

Say, Mrs. Smy, could you give me a comment on how it is that three of the four riders on your Ontario team didn’t actually qualify for this show on the horses they’re riding in it? I mean, isn’t that like against the C–FES rules? And, uh, is it a coincidence that they all train with this famous Rob Taylor, in whose syndicate you happen to be a founding member, and that his son who didn’t actually qualify is somehow on the team too? Wanna comment on that, Mrs.Smy?’

Jesus, where do I start?

She looked at her watch and groaned in frustration. She couldn’t miss this meeting. Thunder rolled in the distance. Sue jumped up and rummaged in her duffel bag for her poncho. But Roch had made it very clear that he was only including her in order to keep her mouth shut for the time being. Well, that was fair, if she got an exclusive when the story came out. Her heart leaped in anticipation of the professional triumph within her grasp. And anyway, she had already proven she had the makings of a good detective. What true journalist didn’t? Maybe she would be the one to find the killer. Oh God, imagine that.

* * *

Gilles Lefebvre sat on the edge of his bed at home in Brossard and strained, over the howling wind and lashing rain at the window, to hear the conversation his mother was having on the hall telephone with Uncle Roch. The agitation and bewilderment in her voice cut him to the quick. He felt miserable at the thought of what his predicament was doing to his family. But he didn’t know what to do. Not yet.

It was obvious, at least, that he couldn’t possibly tell his mother the truth. So far he had fed her scraps of partial truths: that he didn’t feel he was very good at his job and that it was just a matter of time before Roch fired him, that he wasn’t sure he was cut out for a life in the country, that he didn’t get along very well with some of the other staff…

How much had Roch told her? Obviously Liam’s body must have been found. Had he told her that? Obviously by running away and by refusing to talk to Roch he had made himself a prime suspect. His heart drummed painfully in his chest and he clutched at the bedspread as he imagined the police already on their way to the house to question, or even arrest him. He knew he had to tell somebody about his secret or he would burst. He didn’t want it to be the police. There was no way he could make them understand why he had done something so crazy.

He hardly understood it himself. Somehow he had thought at the time that by moving the body he was distancing himself and his relatives from the murder. And if he’d only stayed at the barn and gone about his business as usual, maybe that’s what would have happened. But when Roch had pulled the imaginary wire across his tongue, just as the killer must have pulled the wire around Liam’s neck, he’d come pretty close to fainting.

And then the humiliation of Benoit and Roch and Jocelyne seeing him fold up like that. The mortification of being sent away to recover, made worse somehow by Uncle Roch’s unexpected sympathy. Then crawling off like a little girl to lie down and rest. But instead of resting he’d started to have that panic attack, the sweating, his heart pounding so fast and hard he thought he was going to die, and all he could think of was getting home and being safe within these homely, familiar walls.

Being home and talking to Father Pascal. Which he hadn’t been able to do yet. But this morning he had an appointment and if he could only get through the morning, and if only the police didn’t come to arrest him, and if only Roch hadn’t told his mother the whole story, and if he didn’t die of terror and confusion in the meantime, then Father Pascal would tell him what to do.

* * *

In Ottawa Marion Smy, Barbara Lumb, Bill Sutherland, and Stuart Jessop ranged themselves around the small arborite conference table in Stuart’s office for an informal breakfast meeting. They were conferring this early in the day in order to accommodate Bill Sutherland. Bill had to catch a plane to Calgary whence he would be whisked by limo to Cedar Meadows Equestrian Centre, there to officiate along with several equally high–powered European technical delegates at the enormously important and richly sponsored Intercontinental Royal Dominion Jumper show, which was to begin there in three days’ time.

Coffee and bran muffins had been distributed. In spite of the pressures of time, they had begun with the obligatory five minutes of insider gossip. The topic today was, understandably, Jumper gossip. Canadian Jumper talent was to be quite thin on the ground at Cedar Meadows, and C–FES took this fact as an affront. They would look like poor cousins beside the Americans and the Europeans, and on their own playing field. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

“So it’s a complete mystery, you say, Bill?” Barbara Lumb trumpeted, leaning forward with her ear cocked and her raddled face screwed up in eager anticipation of his answer.

“That’s correct, Barbara,” Bill Sutherland blared back, thinking, not for the first time, that in this posture of pained suspense, Barbara bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Magoo. “Michel Laurin withdrew his entries a week ago, and refuses to give any explanation why. He won’t leave Saint Armand. Very unlike Michel to miss a chance of going up against Europe’s finest.”

He looked round the table and directed his next remark generally. “Naturally this weakens the Canadian component of the show considerably. Rob Taylor being out with his injury and now Michel–well, the Cedar Meadows people and their sponsors are
not
very happy campers, as you can imagine.”

Marion said, “I call it
most
inconsiderate of Michel to let down the side like that. I am sure that his syndicate members can’t be very pleased. Stuart, have you asked Roch what the problem is?”

“Indeed I did, Marion, but Roch was rather evasive on the subject.” He cleared his throat. “If I may say so, I don’t think Roch would tell us anything of a personal nature about Michel’s motives. Not unnatural in a father, of course. And I
do
rather get the impression that something quite–er–
personal
is at the bottom of his decision not to go.”

Marion bridled and was clearly prepared to expatiate on the subject of Michel Laurin’s disappointing behaviour, but Bill cut her off with a pointed glance at his watch and a restless recrossing of legs.

Marion shuffled her papers and announced, “Well, everything seems to be more or less in order for
our
show, although Roch is
not
very cooperative in returning calls. I don’t believe his secretary actually gives him all my messages.”

Bill Sutherland was studying his copies of the reports and data pertaining to the Young Riders show. “I notice we have the Jumper technical delegates confirmed, and we have a preliminary drawing of all the Jumper courses with distances, heights and materials properly marked, and they all meet FEI standards and regulations.

“I am quite satisfied with the dressage tests and the judges, all of whom, I see, have signed their contracts. But–” he frowned, riffling through the papers and failing to find what he sought–“as to the Three–Day Event, there is no cross–country map, no details on Roads and Tracks–either Phase A or Phase C–no information on ambulance back–up, no list of jump judges or indeed a whole host of other FEI concerns that we should have in hand by now. Madame Chairman?” He folded his hands and looked at Marion with mild but implacable inquiry.

Marion squirmed and pinkened under his accusing gaze. “I have every confidence that Bridget has the Three–Day under
complete
control, Bill. She always comes through in the end, and she has given me her
personal assurance
that everything will be ready on time. I realize that she can be a bit disorganized on occasion–”

“Disorganized is putting it mildly, Marion,” Bill interrupted, now uncharacteristically vexed and impatient. “I spoke to Thea the other night. She’s quite distressed at the lack of cooperation she’s received at that end. There’s no use having all these wonderful computerized schemes if she can’t get the data to enter. I’ve told her–I trust you won’t be offended at the liberty, Marion–that she absolutely
must
do a course walk with Bridget today at the latest and inspect the jumps. There can be no question of their failing to meet standards, or I–that is to say the FEI–wash my hands of the show. Fortunately we have a fallback position. I have it from Ron March that Cedar Meadows is well equipped to offer their site in an emergency and have indicated their willingness to step in, should the need arise–which I very much fear”–

Stuart moved hastily to dispel the gathering tension. “How right you are, Bill. There can indeed be no question of any irregularities. I am sure that Thea will manage to get the information she needs today. And if not, well, that’s exactly why we’re all going down to Saint Armand tomorrow for the final meeting.”

Bill Sutherland did not look reassured. He said, “I have given my Cedar Meadows telephone number and central fax number to Thea. I have told her to let me know if she finds even the slightest irregularity at the Three–Day end of things. I am not at all sanguine with regard to Bridget’s methods of putting on a competition, and I believe I said as much at the outset.” He bent to retrieve his briefcase, stood up, nodded curtly to the table at large, and left.

Stuart sighed glumly. “Marion, I cannot impress upon you too urgently the importance of our maintaining FEI approval for this show. On top of everything else, we would be the absolute laughingstock of the industry if we fail to come through on this one.” He ran a finger round his shirt collar. “Moreover, if Quebec loses the show to Alberta, it will be seen in a larger context–it will be a political hot potato, an absolute gift to the separatists, the very last thing we need in our sport at this critical moment.”

Marion responded coldly, “You can be quite sure that Thea will not be in correspondence with Bill Sutherland regarding the Three–Day Event.” She gathered her papers and stood them in front of her. “Thea knows where her loyalties lie. And as of tomorrow,” she added grimly, chopping the pages smartly into alignment, “I will be there to remind her.”

“What’s that you say, Marion?” Barbara quavered plaintively, her hand cupped round her ear.

“I SAID I AM GOING TO MAKE SURE THEA DOESN’T FORGET WHO HER FRIENDS ARE!”

“No need to shout, dear, I’m not deaf, you know…”

* * *

Manon set the glass of just–squeezed orange juice down on the counter beside the row of pills and capsules: one huge multi–vite, supplementary doses of the anti–free radicals A, C and E, half an aspirin, three Spirulina tablets, plus three capsules of shark’s cartilage (why not? who really knows?).

Hy came into the kitchen, freshly shaved and handsomely turned out in Ralph Lauren’s latest interpretation of rural chic, but pale and glum. Absent–mindedly he kissed Manon lightly on the cheek. Robotically he drank the juice and downed the supplements.

He cocked his head toward the ceiling and frowned. “Was that thunder?”

“Yes. It’s supposed to rain most of the morning, then clear.”

“Mm.” He studied his orange juice. Then he stared abstractedly at the kitchen table. “Papers?” he asked. Manon looked mildly taken aback at this near–rudeness, but took sympathetic note of his mood.

“I forgot. I’ll get them.” She was back in a minute, laden with the extra–thick Saturday editions of
The Globe and Mail,
The Gazette
, and
La Presse
.
“Hy, we’re an environmental menace.”
She plopped the stack on the kitchen table.

Hy smiled faintly, but didn’t pounce on them as he usually did. “Is Ruthie up? Is she coming to the meeting?”

“Up, ran, showered, blow–dried, dressed, and has been in furious consultation on the phone and writing madly for the last fifteen minutes in your study.”

“Mm.”

As if on cue, Ruthie appeared in the kitchen with a slim briefcase. “Ready when you guys are,” she said with forced brightness. Manon could read the brittleness of mood in her face. You two would be the world’s worst poker players, she thought.

The telephone rang. Hy was closest and looked dully in its direction, but made no move to answer it. It rang twice more before Manon sighed, rolled her eyes in mock–exasperation, and snatched the receiver up.

“I’m sorry, he’s not available right now,” she said in response to Hy’s slight shake of the head. “Who? What? A comment? About what? Who did you say wants a comment? What story?…What headlines?… Just a minute…” Manon covered the mouthpiece and whispered urgently to Hy, “It’s
The Gazette
. They want a comment from you. It’s the lead story, he says. He can’t believe you haven’t heard about it.”

Hy and Ruthie both lunged for the stack of newspapers. Hy yanked
The Gazette
from the bottom of the pile and drank in the front page. First blankness, then puzzlement and finally relieved comprehension chased each other across his features. He waggled his fingers towards the phone and Manon handed the receiver to him, utterly baffled. As he began talking, Manon picked up
La Presse
. Ruthie grabbed
The Gazette
from Hy’s now–relaxed hand.