A Three Day Event (38 page)

So in the end Roch was going to feel the double sting of Polo being both his son’s and his nephew’s confidant on crucial matters. Polo was pretty sure he was witnessing the dissolution or at least the contamination of a cherished professional and personal friendship. The human, the psychological side of things in this case was becoming impossibly complex.

Polo acknowledged to himself that he had never felt so out of his depth in a situation. It had been flattering that Hy had demonstrated so much confidence in his judgment last night (was it really only less than twenty–four hours ago that they had sat in Hy’s living room and so arrogantly assigned themselves such illegitimate autonomy?), but perhaps–even though it had piqued his
amour propre
–Ruthie’s skeptical and withholding instinct had been the more intelligent reaction. She had that power still, to undermine his self–confidence with a word, with a gesture. Emotional claims were clouding his objectivity, he felt it. Had Ruthie unconsciously foreseen this outcome in some characteristically analytical recess of her mind?

It wasn’t as if Ruthie only analyzed
other
people in order to find them wanting. Ruthie was admirably quick to perceive and articulate her own limitations, her own irrational impulses. She had backed down in a second from that fit of unprovoked hostility this morning. But he had reacted so stupidly and childishly to it. He grimaced, embarrassed at his petulant outburst. Overkill? No kidding. C
hristi
, she could push his buttons when she got capricious like that.

But then, on the positive side, which was almost always the case, she was quick about human nature, other people’s character, in general. Not in the jargon–y way that annoyed him so much when Nathalie expounded on the current theories she was learning. With Ruthie it came from someplace deep within. Maybe it was connected with all that reading. She had all her life loved thinking about people and what drove them and the nuances of what drove herself so much that knowledge now came to her through some organic process, by osmosis almost, unmediated by her intellect.

Did she know something he didn’t about himself? She had looked at him rather oddly after he finished schooling the gelding. What was she thinking? What was she
ever
thinking, come to that? She was always a half step ahead of–or away from–him in the thinking department. It could be unsettling, unpredictable.

You wouldn’t want to live with someone like that. Always that little thread of tension. Always that teasing note of challenge. That schoolteacher thing.
Polo has tremendous potential, but he could do better, if he only tried harder
…And yet, when it was missing for long from his life, he pined a bit for it, he needed it like…what the hell, it was a corny, lame analogy, but it happened to be true…like a horse looking for the contact with the bit. She could do that to him, Ruthie, put him on the bit, happy to be chewing on the bit…

This was what was bugging Nathalie. Nathalie knew–had always known–that it was something more–or something other–than friendship with Ruthie, and though he had attacked her for it in that awful phone call, he acknowledged to himself now that it was Nathalie’s right to say so out loud. No wonder he’d been so angry. No wonder Nathalie was so frustrated and miserable. But what good was this insight if it led to a choice he couldn’t bear to make? Would he have to cut Ruthie out of his life if he wanted to keep Nathalie? Never see Ruthie again? His heart contracted with pain. Impossible.
Impossible
. He loved Nathalie, but Ruthie was…

She’s part of who I am. Maybe the best part. Don’t make me choose, Nath
…

But now, with Ruthie already in his thoughts, Polo wondered what, if anything, she had gleaned from Fran. Probably nothing of interest. The man was such an obsessive on his subject, it was hard to imagine him feeling passionately about anything else. And the one thing everyone agreed on was Liam’s skill with, and respect for the horses. Fran had opportunity, Polo told himself, but certainly no conceivable motive. So it was safe to have let Ruthie pursue that line.

Wasn’t it? He had left them alone in the arena. How did he know what motives Fran might or might not have? Fran was aging, but still a healthy, good–sized man, Ruthie wouldn’t have a chance if Fran felt cornered and…

And hey, while I’m at it–punishing myself retroactively for responsibilities I fucked up on where Ruthie is concerned, that is–what the fuck was I thinking that day in St Lazare when she fainted from sunstroke, and then not more than an hour afterwards I actually let her drive home alone? Why am I thinking about that? Probably because later I was afraid that Morrie would hold me responsible for not looking after his princess properly. Because that was the only other time she ever saw me ride, so the two days are linked. Because I was so out of it from the shock of what Ankstrom said that I didn’t think when I saw her, I just took her in my arms, I couldn’t stop myself, and I kissed her, I’d waited seven years for that, it was like a dream, and I wouldn’t have stopped there–because she wanted it too, I never hoped–but she did, and I would have…but thank God she fainted. She thinks I’ve forgotten. As if I ever…but it shouldn’t have happened…I was ashamed, buried it. That day. That day. Everything goes back to it. And because I’m going to see Thea. She was there too. Thea knows something about that day, about Morrie and that day that I just know in my gut is going to rock me…

“Manon? Did Ruthie get back from the barn yet? Good… No, no, just wanted to know she was home safe. How’s it going…good…yeah, making some progress, lots to tell…good, looking forward. Still at seven in the
resto
…
Bon
.
À
tout à l’heure.
Salut
.”
Merci, le bon Dieu.

Using two eyeglass–cleaning tissues to avoid direct contact, Polo lifted up the buckle. He looked at it flat, then held it at different angles. The spokes of the wheel were rounded like thin cylinders. Holding the buckle vertically he turned it sideways and saw that the cylinders were open at the fluted ends. A large needle’s eye diameter of hollowed–out space ran down each spoke of the buckle. Six of them. Slowly he revolved the buckle like a bicycle wheel with his eye fixed on the wheel from behind. He held it to the light of the reading lamp, and peered down dark tunnel after dark tunnel after dark tunnel after…whoa!

One of them was not a dark tunnel. It was a white tunnel.

He used the tiny little eyeglass repair screwdriver he was never without, and it worked a charm. Gently, gently, he poked and pulled against the inside of the cylinder. Little by little he coaxed the tightly rolled screw of paper to emerge from the tip of the tunnel. Finally he could pull it out with his fingers. His heart revved a bit as, taking exquisite care not to tear it, he unscrolled the single lined page torn from a very small notebook and laid it flat on the table.

The paper was covered with writing and numbers on both sides. Polo grabbed his notebook and started copying, so he could quickly put the fragile original into the plastic bag with the buckle. On the side he was now looking at, there was a list of initials and phone numbers. The area codes were mostly Toronto and northern Ontario, Flesherton, probably, where his Heritage gang hung out. Easy to check. He copied them out.

Over now, very gently. Polo looked, and nearly gasped out loud. For there it was. Liam’s hit list. He read: Michel–Claude!!! And a phone number in Montreal. Claude’s, doubtless. Next was: Jocelyne–drugs!!! The phone number beside this was also a Montreal code. Her dealer? Then Fran/Eva–Passau!!! But no phone number. And finally, most intriguingly: Bridget–1–jump hght at Timbln /2–father!!!

Okay. Claude was dealt with. What about Jocelyne? He remembered their conversation in March. She had been telling him about Liam’s hold on everyone. She said Liam had gone through her purse and found a few joints, and she had implied that that was all she had to be ashamed of. But she had been upset, she said, because Michel was fanatically opposed to drugs of any kind. She didn’t want him to know. In fact, Polo now recalled, he’d never seen Joc smoking even a regular cigarette in front of fastidious Michel, though she had chain–smoked through that
resto
conversation with him.

So what if it was more than ‘joints’? What if it was hard drugs? Cocaine was one of the drugs of choice in the horse world, amongst jumpers anyway. It was easy to come by. Jocelyne worked hard, and during the shows grooms were sometimes charged with inhuman hours and unremitting stress. It wouldn’t surprise him if she were a user. Why should it? A lot of the riders were. The important thing was that Michel probably wouldn’t fire her for marijuana–though he would read her the riot act–but he wouldn’t hesitate for a second if it were coke.

And if Liam really had evidence for drug use against her, no wonder she was so upset about Michel blowing her cover for Thursday night. Michel had assumed she was doing him the favour. But if in fact she needed the alibi as much as he did, then it wasn’t only humiliation Polo had seen in her face before, or might not have been. It might also have been fear that she wasn’t protected herself. The pub thing with the other riders, that was probably true. But who goes to a pub before, say, 20h or 21h? That still gave her plenty of time. Time, motive and opportunity.

Fran and Eva. Passau. Where had he just heard that word? Was it a person’s name? Or a place? He saw himself at the Jacobsons. Hy and Ruthie were murmuring together. They were discussing the box of hate material. That name Passau had definitely come up, but he forgot the context. Eva was German, Fran spoke German. Could they be in league with Liam in this Heritage Front business? No way. Well, if it were true, and it had already come out, Ruthie would have beaten down the door already to tell him. If not, he had no way of checking yet. But wouldn’t it be just like Liam to make such a false assumption? Look how he’d completely missed the mark with Claude. Leave it to later. In any case, this was more Ruthie and Hy’s department.

And speaking of false assumptions, was Liam off base on both his notations here for Bridget? The jump height at Timberland. If the height of the jump where Stephanie died had surpassed regulations and Bridget had supervised its construction or okayed the design, that would make pretty explosive testimony in a lawsuit. Bridget would be disgraced in the profession. But now look what else Liam had put down for Bridget. ‘Father!!! Bridget’s father had died in a hunting accident. Surely Liam must know that, it seemed to have been bruited about pretty thoroughly. Unless–was there something suspicious about the death? Or the life before the death? And what about the bank draft? Was that connected to a secret in England Liam knew about? Looking at the phone number, Polo’s fingers literally twitched with curiosity.

The phone number wasn’t an international code, though, as it should be for an English number. It was 613, so could be Ottawa or Kingston area. He copied everything down, exactly as Liam had, exclamation marks and all. Then with extreme delicacy he placed the paper in an envelope and sealed it into the plastic bag with the belt buckle.

Polo was wired. He was dying to get to work on this stuff. He looked at his watch and almost groaned with frustration. He couldn’t stand Thea up. There was no other time to see her. And he probably owed it to the others to share this with them first. Patience, patience.

But he simply couldn’t resist. He hadn’t been able to speak to Bridget, but maybe that was a lucky break. Maybe if he knew whose number this was, he’d have the leverage he needed to shake information loose from her when he did see her.

He dialed the number. A friendly, public–savvy woman’s voice answered. “Grassmere Island Club.”

“May I–may I speak to Mr. Pendunnin, please,” Polo said, his heart racing.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pendunnin is busy with the dogs at this time of day.”

“I see,” said Polo, striving mightily to preserve a tone of laconic indifference. “When would be the best time to reach him?”

“Mid–morning, I should think. Or I could take a message and have him call you. Are you a member, sir?”

“No, actually. This is more or less a personal call. But I don’t want to disturb him. Perhaps I’ll write to him or fax. Can you give me your coordinates?”

He copied down the address–near Kingston–that she gave him and the fax number.

“That’s very helpful. Tell me, if I were to drop a note to Mr. Pendunnin, what would be his correct–title? For my rolodex, you see.”

“Oh, everyone knows who George is, and we don’t stand on ceremony here, but if you want to be strictly accurate, I suppose you could just put ‘George Pendunnin, Head Gamekeeper’…”

CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO

C
larice Jacobson looked forward to her evening with
Nathalie Poisson–no, Chouinard, she really must remember this new fad, or
law
as it apparently now was, women keeping their maiden names–with keen anticipation. Filomena had been given the evening off, but before leaving had prepared hors d’oeuvres, and a light collation of soup and salad, with fruit and homemade cookies to follow.

Clarice could have organized dinner by herself, of course, and would have enjoyed showing off her still–inventive culinary prowess, but she was of an age to know that her day’s energy had its limitations. Today she had decided that her energy would be most profitably devoted to exquisitely careful listening, and–hopefully–helping to salvage a marriage that anybody with a teaspoon of insight could see was careening around amongst some very large rocks.

As both the marriage–and, she feared, the rocks as well–would not exist without her late husband’s interference in Polo’s life, Clarice felt motivated to lavish whatever empathy and common sense she could muster on him and Nathalie. She loved Polo and had always felt only the greatest good will and affection for his young wife.

Of common sense Clarice was wont to say she had an elegant sufficiency, and it had served her well as a mother of two quite intelligent and ambitious children. Most of it had been deployed in her capacity as wife to her rough diamond of a husband. Morrie hadn’t been an easy man to live with, but she had never been bored–and now she found she did miss him terribly. Clarice loathed self–pity and sentimentality in all its insidious forms, though, and had been valiant–or so she was told by her family and friends–in forging ahead with the hand life had dealt her.

A very
generous
hand, she reminded herself countless times a day. She considered herself a lucky person, a lucky mother. Although she could have wished her children’s marriages to have lasted as long as her own, she saw them coping well, Hy of course already well launched into a stable second marriage (she had admired Marilyn, but she adored Manon), and Ruthie–well, seeing how competently she was already dealing with her loss, Clarice had no doubt that a happy second act awaited her daughter one day too.

And as tragic as Marvin’s death had been, Clarice couldn’t ignore the fact that it was the reason darling Ruthie and her granddaughters were back in Montreal. Poor Marvin–so clever and successful and dutiful, but just the teeniest bit of a prig and a bore, Clarice had always secretly thought, although no hint of such a mean–spirited judgment had ever wandered across the radar screen of Ruthie’s gimlet sensibilities.

As for Clarice herself, she enjoyed robust good health, her cultural interests were diverse, she had the frequent company of four delightful, unspoiled grandchildren and–such a blessing, she never took it for granted, though she had been born to it–she had complete financial security.

Moreover, Clarice savoured the infinite pleasure of knowing that she had raised her children to be independent and productive citizens, a credit to their multiple communities and excellent parents themselves. What more could one ask in life? The rest–travel,
haute couture
, social life, community prestige–was gravy.

Clarice contemplated the evening’s official agenda and its potential spinoffs, and as she did so, her eyes fell on the nearly empty old shoebox she had placed on the coffee table before her. The shoebox held the reason that Clarice had called Nathalie yesterday morning. Most of its contents–family photographs–had been given to Hy and Ruthie the previous evening, but there were a few items she hadn’t shown them, or even mentioned. They were Polo’s business, not her children’s. She had unilaterally decided to let Nathalie be the messenger.

–Hello, Nathalie, this is Clarice Jacobson.

–Oh hi, Mrs. J. It’s been such a long time.

–Yes, it has, dear. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling.

–I feel bad that we only seem to have seen each other on formal occasions the last few years.

–Oh yes, I hardly count weddings, funerals and shivas as quality time with you.

–We’d love to have you come visit us soon. It’s so hard to plan, though. Polo’s schedule is so erratic. He’s away now, in case it was him you wanted to speak to. Was there–something you wanted to ask me in the meantime, Mrs. J?

–
I won’t tease you, dear. As I say, I had another reason for calling. And it is you I wanted to speak to, not Polo. In fact I know from Hy that Polo’s up that way for a while. What it’s about is–well, I have been going through my things, all kinds of personal memorabilia, letters, and so forth that I haven’t seen in years. I don’t know if Polo told you, but I’m moving shortly. To a big condo with a nice view of both the river and the mountain. In Westmount Square.

–Yes, he did mention it. Will it be a difficult adjustment, do you think? You’ve been in your home for so many years.

–It’s true, I have many happy memories stored under this roof. But life moves on. Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m ready for the next stage.

–Well, I’m sure if anyone can make a success of it, it will be you. You’re so organized and efficient.

–That’s just it, you see. I do like things to be tidy. I don’t like loose ends, and it would appear that I have found one that concerns you and Polo.

–Me and Polo…?

–
Yes. So many mysteries attached to Polo’s life, wouldn’t you say? At last I have some answers. So satisfying even at this late date. Because I hate mysteries. Don’t you?

–It’s… rather strange you should say that just now, Mrs. J.–

–Really? Nathalie, are you all right? You sound a bit–muffled. Are you crying? Forgive me, that’s so intrusive, but I just now had this sensation that there was a kind of strange coincidence in the timing of my call. Am I right?

–Well, you are, actually…It’s just that lately I’ve been thinking that so much of Polo’s life has always been so mysterious to me. But not to him. He thinks the way things were for him was just unconventional. He doesn’t see it the way I do and–well, when I want to talk to him about it, he just doesn’t, I mean he won’t…

–But Nathalie, you happen to be right. Polo’s life here was mysterious to all of us. Except Morrie, it seems. And now I know why. And I’d like to share it with you.

–I’m dying to find out anything that will make me understand Polo better. Things are rather…difficult between us right now. I’m desperate to know anything that will keep me motivated to keep trying to…well, go on like this…

–May I ask you a tremendously personal question, dear? I can hear the suffering in your voice.

–I wish someone would ask me a personal question. Polo never seems to want to…

–You’ve never had children, my dear, and I wondered–oh my dear child, I’m so sorry, I seem to have opened the floodgates on that one. I didn’t mean to–shhh, shhh, now listen to me, Nathalie, you need a shoulder to do some of that crying on, and as it happens my shoulder has been available with no one to need it for some time. Won’t you come to dinner tomorrow night–I dine rather early these days, if that would suit you–and see if together we can’t find some missing pieces of this curious jigsaw puzzle called Polo?…Good…Around five, then.

“Wine? Beer? Liquor of some kind? Soft drink?” Clarice asked Nathalie as the younger woman settled herself on the sofa. “I like to have a little sherry myself before dinner, very old–fashioned, of course…”

“Some wine would be nice, thank you.”

* * *

“Beer? Wine? Diet Coke? I’m having a glass of sherry myself, very old–fashioned, of course…” Thea said to Polo, as he slid into the chair across the small dining area table from her.

“Beer’s good.”

“Molson?”

“Whatever you’ve got.”

Thea set a glass and the bottle in front of him. She had made no effort to create a cocktails atmosphere. There was a bowl of pretzels on the table between them.

“Before we talk about the horse,” Thea said, “I think you should know that I’ve been doing some sleuthing with that journalist, Sue Parker. She came for dinner last night, and she’s coming back tonight. She’s very keen to find out what you have to say about Robin’s Song. She’s building up rather an extensive file on ‘hidden defect’ horses brought over from England by Bridget and her partner. I think she’s hoping Robin’s Song will reinforce the emerging trend.”

“Who exactly is this partner of Bridget’s?” Polo asked. Maybe the partner was the source of the bank draft?

“Philip Fairclough. An aristocratic type. Married a minor Royal, so now he and his father, Lord Fairclough, are even more rarified mucky–mucks in the Royal enclosure, so to speak. Apparently Bridget and Philip–he’s known as Fig, don’t ask me why–were neighbours all their lives and then rode together until she had her accident and came over here. He’s still on the Three–Day circuit there. Quite the star, I understand.”

“Neighbours,” Polo murmured. To a lord? George Pendunnin, g
amekeeper
?

“So this Philip would have known Bridget’s father.”

“Yes, Bridget used to say they all hunted together quite a lot. He died in a hunting accident. The father, that is. Or so Bridget claims,” Thea said drily.

Polo was startled. Did she already know what he had only minutes ago discovered? “Why do you say ‘claims’?” he asked quickly.

“Well,” breathed Thea with high animation for her, “when Sue and I put our heads together, we came up with two extraordinarily interesting observations. Both of us had had the experience of being unable to make a long distance call from the telephone in the restaurant. Even with a calling card. It’s blocked both incoming and outgoing, one can see why, as you’d have no controls.

“And yet I very distinctly remembered that in our Ottawa meeting of C–FES this past March, Marion Smy had made quite a production about being there in the restaurant when Bridget spoke to England and had the news of her father’s death.”

Polo’s mind started racing with conjectures.

Thea went on, “And I remembered thinking, surely one would want some privacy for that kind of thing, one wouldn’t want a whole lot of strangers around for that. Once I knew it was impossible for her to have had such a call, it became clear that it was a performance of some kind. To keep people from knowing something else, perhaps, or following up on rumours? Who knows?”

Or, thought Polo, to make sure no one discovered that her father was not only not dead, but working as a gamekeeper in a game club near Kingston? And Liam did just that, so that’s a major motive.

“I’ve just found out something myself that could possibly get us further on this,” he said.

Thea’s eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking Sue might like to go out on assignment tomorrow morning. It would mean quite a lot of driving in one day, but it might be a crucial element in unraveling this murder.”

“Does that mean you think it was Bridget who did it?”

“I’m not sure, but she’s definitely in the running as a logical suspect. Bridget’s a liar, she hated Liam, and I know that he had something on her she didn’t want known. In terms of motive and opportunity, it seems reasonable. Especially now that a few other potential suspects have come up with strong alibis.” He poured out the beer. “That is, assuming you aren’t the killer yourself,” he said, speaking amiably, but watching her face closely. “As I recall, your alibi wasn’t exactly airtight.”

Thea beamed with delight. “Polo, you really know the way to a gal’s heart. It’s been a long time since anyone paid me the honour of thinking I harboured such deep passions that I would actually kill someone.” She placed her elbows on the table and cradled her face almost coquettishly in her palms. “And my motive would be…?”

Polo smiled sheepishly. “Haven’t got a clue, Thea. Let’s just say you’re a lady of mysterious moods, and you had the opportunity.” He sipped. “And we found out this morning that Liam worked at Timberline Farms where your daughter’s accident happened. Is there a back story there we don’t know about?”

“Did he really? Well, if there is a back story, I don’t know it,” Thea said, almost regretfully, Polo thought, “although you have no way of being sure that I’m telling the truth. I’m afraid you’ll have to go with your intuitions for now.” She smiled demurely. “Do I seem like the murdering type to you?”

“Not nearly as much as Bridget,” Polo said lightly, “but who’d need detectives if there really were such a thing as a ‘type’?”

“
Touché
. Well, it would be extremely gratifying for me if it
were
her,” said Thea in low, feeling tones. “and if she spent the rest of her life in jail. I have a hunch that I’ll never have satisfaction over the horse–in law, anyway…” Her eyes were suddenly veiled in the way familiar to Polo in his first weeks here.

Then she seemed to shake off the brief abstraction, and her eyes were clear and direct once more.

“Shall we do my horse now?” Thea asked briskly.

“Okay.” Polo was relieved to see that she was taking an all–business approach to this. He had been afraid that grief might intrude. He poured more beer and sat back with the glass in hand. “Do you want the good news first?”

“Yes, why not.”

“If you decide to sell the horse, I would look for a dressage rider. As an amateur dressage horse he would probably sell for anywhere from $25,000 to $40,000. He’s got nice conformation, he’s an absolutely beautiful mover for a thoroughbred, and he’s well made, comfortable in his skin, as we say in French.”

“Yes, Stephanie always got good marks on the dressage tests. But are you saying that’s all he’s good for?”

“Not at all. I think he might make a lovely hunter, maybe a jumper at the lower levels. What I can tell you, I think for sure, although obviously you’ll want a vet’s exam and X–rays to back this up, is that he won’t stand up for long to a lot of high impact work. His feet may go. That includes high jumping and Three–Day Eventing. It isn’t the jumps in Three–Day that will stop him for now, it’s the combination of the huge cross–country with the Roads and Tracks, and then having to do the stadium jumping the next day.