A Three Day Event (48 page)

“So now,” said Polo, “both of you knew that Liam definitely had to die to protect yourselves and George as well, this no doubt being his last kick at the career can. There was no way Liam could be trusted to keep that secret. And if Fig got wind the secret was out he’d blow her off. Her horse importing career would be finished.”

“Right. Liam was intending to take off after setting the fire, and I said I would help him, take him to the bus depot and so forth. It was a perfect opportunity because everyone hated him anyway, they’d assume he’d run off and nobody would look for him. I advised him to tell Benoit that he’d gotten ‘the push’ from some unspecified authority. That way, Benoit wouldn’t be resentful at being left to hold the fort. In fact he’d feel empowered. That would also keep everyone mixed up. Not that they would care why he left. Good riddance, they’d say. Instead, well…I left the box of hate literature under his bed, and brought his other stuff here. If the police were to find it, I would have expressed the utmost astonishment that it was there. I don’t go into that shed for weeks on end.”

“So I still don’t know if it was you or Bridget that killed him.”

“It’s probably better that way, don’t you think? It justifies your not going to the police. If you were really sure, you’d have quite a ‘moral struggle’ about keeping it to yourself. This way, if you went to the police with ‘it could be him or her’, you know damn well that they’d be obliged to turn the whole stable upside down checking out every possibility. They wouldn’t stop at who you consider the obvious suspects. They’d think Hy had a motive–the anti–Semitism. You know it wasn’t Hy, and you’re sure it wasn’t Fran or Michel or Jocelyne or Roch, so it would be pretty depressing to see their lives turned upside down for nothing,
n’est–ce pas
?

“I’m fairly certain it was you, Guy,” Polo said.

“How so?”

“Because up until a few days ago you were a man dedicated to helping animals in distress. You were a good vet. All of a sudden you find no difficulty in brutally mutilating one horse and killing another. My reasoning is that once you’ve murdered a human being you have a whole different perspective on the world. You’re damaged goods, Guy. The slippery slope, I think it’s called. You killed a person because it seemed necessary to save yourself and someone you loved from exposure, and once you’d crossed that line, when it became necessary to take the horses out of commission to shore up Bridget’s reputation in the horse world, well, what the hell… ”

So far I’ve gone with my instincts on everyone else, and I know I was right about the others. It was Guy, it was Guy, and I’m never going to be able to prove it. And he’s right about the police. The publicity would kill Le Centre’s business. Hy will get sick over it. And they’d turn the place upside down for nothing. Because they’ll never prove it was Guy, either. Fuck.

Guy asked with breezy curiosity, “Just for the record, what makes you so sure I killed Robin’s Song just because I didn’t want an autopsy?”

“Rumenex.”

Guy jumped a bit. “God! Stephanie again…”

“Yeah. In a letter to her mom. It’s been an interesting day that way. All kinds of voices from the grave.”

“Then I guess one more won’t hurt,” Guy said bitterly, “the one that Liam dug up from your own personal little cemetery. Your own teeny little headstone. Maybe it will give new depth of meaning to your theory about ‘damaged goods’.”

Polo felt a frisson down his back. What could Liam possibly,
possibly
have found out about him? And why would he want to?

Guy sneered and said, “You look a little uptight, Polo. Are you wondering how anyone as pure as you could be harbouring something in his past that a creep like Liam could exploit?”

“No. What I was wondering was why Liam would bother spending all that energy on someone he met for three minutes.”

“Oh, that’s easy. During those three minutes you made two mistakes. First of all you made fun of him–you asked him if he was a vet because he was wearing the Tufts sweatshirt. You hurt his feelings, Polo. You mocked his fantasy, his unattainable dream.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake”–

“But secondly, and more important, you said you were a friend of the stable owner.”

“
Et alors
?”

“Hy Jacobson is a Jew. If you’re a friend of his, you’re an enemy of Liam’s. Well, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t make the rules up. I’m just telling you how Liam saw it.”

“And what did he find out about me?”

“Regrettably–for him that is–no one in the horse world that he had contact with had a bad word to say about you. But Liam was the determined sort, pragmatic and not at all lazy. If not you, then was there a relation–say a girlfriend or wife? Oh yes, indeed there was, and guess what? The wife’s parents are fairly prominent people in political circles. Any breath of scandal might do some serious damage there. Hmm, says our Liam…”

Nathalie
. Even her name linked to that slimeball, Liam, it was intolerable, he–the fishhook in the gut was back, tugging upward, and pain, sharp and sudden, had him pressing a hand hard against his gut.

“Yes,” said Guy, savouring his moment, “you have to give our Liam points for ingenuity. How, you’re wondering, did he get his information? Remember that after he met you he went to all the spring shows to help out with Michel’s students’ horses. He only had to hang out with people from your era for a while at every show. It’s the same people year after year, decade after decade. He knew the drill for getting information. Just casual conversation, and plenty of it. Gossip is one of the favoured drugs of choice for horse people, as you know. Fills all that down time between classes.

‘“Polo Poisson? God, yes. He’s a legend. Wife? Oh sure. Nathalie. Cute gal, quite a bit younger than him, I seem to remember. Yeah, they were a hot couple. She must be what, about thirty–five now? Girlfriends? Oh, ask Twinkle over there, they used to hang out at the shows when Twinkle was grooming for Marty Braide’…and so forth. Getting the picture?”

“Nathalie never did a thing in her life that anyone could use against her,” said Polo tightly, leaning forward and fighting the instinct to grab Guy and shake the mockery out of him. He could feel his fists balling up. He willed his chest muscles to relax. They were making his ribs hurt, but he was glad of the physical distraction.

“Your wife’s parents are, apparently, practicing Catholics,” Guy went on smoothly. “Quaint in this day and age in Quebec, but you never know, religion may some day be back in fashion here, and then they’ll be on the cutting edge.”

“Guy, where the fuck are you going with this? Is this about
religion
?”

“Sort of. Liam had given up religion, but he’d grown up Catholic himself. Some of it still resonated, I guess, because he always felt instinctively repelled by the idea of
abortion
. And I guess he knew that any practicing Catholics in Quebec political circles would be pretty upset for all kinds of reasons if they knew that their future son–in–law had made their daughter have an
abortion
.”

Le verglas
. Black ice. Not a patch, but an unending sheet that covered the whole goddam road and just went on and on. Polo felt like he was clutching the wheel of his truck, skidding, skidding, and he couldn’t get a foothold. Any minute he would skate off the road, and flip, over and over. A balloon of nausea swelled under his heart.

His voice was low and hoarse. He felt it thrumming with tension. “Nathalie never had an abortion, Guy. Liam got it wrong, just like he got almost everything else wrong. She had a miscarriage once”–

“No, Polo, I don’t think he did get it wrong this time. Too many details. Apparently Nathalie needed help in finding someone who would do it. How would a nice girl from Outremont know where to look for an abortionist? But this Twinkle girl was a worldly type who did know. And so it was that Nathalie found herself in the hands of the famous Dr. Werzberger, much in the news for years, if you recall, abortion rights crusader, and saviour of damsels in distress. This was the icing on the cake for Liam, of course, that it should be the swarthy, beetle–browed, beaky–nosed Jew, of all people, who did the shameful deed, the very model for that ridiculous cartoon”–

Polo felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. The telephone call yesterday. What was it that she had said
?
What was it?

‘Why can’t we ever talk about what happened back then?’

“That’s enough, Guy. Don’t say another word about my wife, or I’m going to have to do something to stop you.” He felt the outline of his flashlight in his pocket. He pictured himself smashing Liam’s greasy head with it, but no, it would have to be Guy’s head, and at the thought his pulse quickened as he imagined the thrilling crunch of the collapsing skull, the fountain of blood and bone and brain flying up and out…

‘Polo, come home for a day. Not to sell horses, not to buy them, not to wheel and deal. Just to talk. Please. Please. One whole day. It’s not much to ask.’

Polo forgot where he was. Nathalie’s tearful voice roared in his brain. His right hand gripped the flashlight and his left crept under his glasses and covered his eyes. He squeezed them tight, but it didn’t help, he was remembering…remembering…

‘There’s something–something I want to tell you–finally–tell you–it would mean so much to finally–finally…’

“Excuse me a minute, Polo.”

Polo opened his eyes to see that Guy had suddenly risen and walked across the corridor toward the blue light. Dazed, Polo followed his progress and realized that it was a nightlight softly illuminating a huge aquarium. Guy now very slowly reached into the water and drew something out. With a triumphant smile, he walked back to the living room. Polo saw that he was holding a fishnet with a long handle.

“Look!” Guy exclaimed cheerfully. “I’ve got him. This hawkfish was terrorizing my whole tank. He’d already killed one poor little defenseless shrimp, and he thought he was so clever–every time I came near him with the net, he just scooted away. So I just left the net there with some bait and decided to be patient–and look, he took the bait, and I’ve got him! I’ll just go and flush the little bugger down the toilet. Be right back.”

I told you I have something to tell you, but you didn’t ask what. ‘Cuz you don’t want to know, do you, chou? You don’t want to know… Cuz you don’t want to know, do you…don’t want to know…don’t want–

“You don’t look too good, Polo. Have I told you something you didn’t know?” Polo looked up to see Guy standing over him and staring at him with mournful eyes. “You know, I believe I have. Do you realize that if the police knew this, they’d figure that you in fact did have a motive as well as an opportunity for murdering Liam? Why do you think I left the bag out for you to find? Your fingerprints are on that duffel bag’s handles now. Not to mention on the plastic bag and the wallet.”

Guy sighed and shook his head in mock disappointment. “All this running around playing justice–seeking detective–what a great cover for a murderer. That’s what they’d think. Maybe you’d like to reconsider your pretentious little thesis about damaged goods and moral struggles and killing and the slippery slope”–

Polo felt a rush of blood to the head, and heard a sound come out of his chest–savage, atavistic–he didn’t know was possible for a modern human being to make as he launched himself at Guy. Guy screamed as he collapsed backwards under Polo’s weight. As soon as he hit the floor, he curled up in the fetal position with both hands clamped over his face and head. Polo straddled him and drew his fist back to strike. But he hesitated, because Guy was pleading for mercy in a voice Polo had never heard from him before, a tinny, child’s voice, “No, p–p–please, sir, oh p–p–please, sir, nnnno, please, d–don’t, d–d–d–don’t do that…”

Snarling with loathing and contempt and pity–for Guy or for Liam or himself, he couldn’t have said–Polo stood over his miserable, shrunken prey for a long minute with his fist raised, wrestling with a passionate desire to strike and strike and strike until his strength gave out.

Long minutes passed, or seemed to. Finally, panting, sobbing, depleted and ashamed, he lowered his arm, and stepped back. He considered what he might do to dissipate the ebbing, but still punishing waves of rage. Smash Guy’s fucking aquarium? No. He had to get out of here. He picked up Liam’s duffel bag and flung it blindly across the living room. It struck the big Lab, cowering on his floor cushion. The dog yodeled sharply in pained shock, and scrabbled furiously across the floor into the kitchen with his tail tucked between his legs. Polo made a child’s noise of disgust at himself and lunged for the door.

He didn’t remember driving back to his condo. The next thing he knew he was leaning over a sleeping Gilles to make sure the boy was breathing–why?–and after that…falling, falling onto a pillow and into the void’s welcoming embrace.

CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN

I
n his dream he was having Sunday brunch at the
Jacobsons
.
He was at the house in Westmount, and the mahogany sideboard was crowded with the kind of things that the Jacobsons loved–scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, black olives, sliced onions, tomatoes, that very exotic smoke–flavoured chopped eggplant thing Clarice made. And bagels, of course, poppy seed and sesame, a dozen of each, still hot in their brown paper bags, that Morrie picked up from Fairmount Bagels after he’d bought his Sunday New York Times.

But at the same time he knew he was dreaming, because he was aware that he was still lying in bed in the Saint Armand condo. He was suspended between sleep and waking–a very cool feeling. He was on the floating island, the no–man’s–land where you could reframe and manipulate your dream like a movie director. Now, for example, he had reset the brunch on the deck of Hy’s house in Saint Armand. The sideboard was pine and it was 1992, but even though the waking part of him knew Morrie was dead, the dreaming part invited him to stay in the scene. And he knew it was still brunch in the dream because he could actually smell the bagels and the fresh coffee, and he could hear the voices. The anglophone characters were speaking in French, but his sleeping director benignly allowed what his waking mind noted as a departure from authenticity.

He heard a male voice, then the clatter of cutlery, the fridge door opening and closing, then a woman’s voice…he drifted away…he drifted back…something so familiar about the woman’s voice…not Ruthie Jacobson, though…and the smell of the bagels and the coffee, so real…

Groggy, stiff and sore, uncomprehending, Polo stood in the bedroom doorway and thought, ‘I’m still dreaming. There is my smiling wife standing beside the table pouring coffee for another man’. But of course he knew he was awake. It was just that his mind, like unmittened fingers adjusting tire chains in a blizzard, was stubbornly numb, fumbling at its task in clumsy slow motion, unable to process his visual intake.

“’Morning, Polo,” said Nathalie a little warily, setting the coffeepot back on its burner. “We were just about to wake you.”

“Hi, Polo,” said Gilles. “Are you okay? I tried to wait up last night, but…”

“Nathalie. Gilles.”

What is Nathalie doing here? Why is Gilles acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be sitting there having breakfast with Nathalie
?
I don’t feel right.

Nathalie was staring at him with concern. “Polo, you really look awful. Did you sleep in those clothes? Are you sick? You’re so pale. Do you have a fever?”

He looked down. Why hadn’t he undressed when he got back? He frowned, trying to remember the sequence of events of the previous night. Was he ill? Because he felt so spacey. “No. No. I don’t know. I’m just–Nathalie, when did you–why didn’t you phone last night?”

“I’m sorry. I should have. But I was–otherwise engaged until too late. I was going to call this morning. And then when I woke up, I decided to just come here. I just got in the car and drove. Except,” she gestured at the bag on the counter, “I stopped at Fairmount for bagels.”

“These are great,” piped Gilles enthusiastically, licking jam from his fingers. “I didn’t know what bagels tasted like when they’re fresh.”

Polo’s mental spark plugs were damp, but his cognitive motor was at last turning over, revving a bit. He had to speak to Nathalie alone. He caught her eye and they both looked meaningfully at Gilles. Gilles got the message instantly. He said, “Um, you know what? I think I should go over to the barn after breakfast and help Uncle Roch with stuff.”

“Good plan,” Polo said immediately, and not altogether kindly. “I’m sure there’s lots to do.”

Boy, thought Gilles, a little hurt, talk about getting the bum’s rush.
Salut la visite
.
Forget the ‘after breakfast’ part. Gilles gazed yearningly at his coffee and unfinished bagel and sighed. He glanced at Nathalie, and then at Polo. Their eyes were locked and they seemed already oblivious to his presence. Sexually charged static swirled around the room. Polo looked very strange to Gilles, very sombre and remote. And the way he was looking at his wife–Gilles felt the hair on his arm stirring. He shivered. Never mind the bagel. He was suddenly only too happy to leave those two alone.

Polo had thought that the reviving pleasures of a hot shower and shave and clean clothes would snap him out of whatever it was that was dragging him down, but he still felt the same disturbing disconnect from reality when he came to the table twenty minutes later.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Nathalie set down a glass of juice and poured his coffee.

“Thanks.”

She eyed him sharply. He looked older, drained, as though he were just on the mend, recuperating from some horrible bug, something swift and viral. Dwelling on his appearance or making any further comment would be unconstructive and worrying, she decided. But it was a little frightening. Polo was never sick. She sat down opposite him and wrapped her hands around her own coffee mug.

“So Gilles filled me in on everything,” she said to him briskly, but sympathetically, the determined hostess to the diffident guest. “The murder, the stallion, the colic–it’s horrible.”

“Yeah. It’s been a bad trip.”

“And he told me about you and Roch. Good thing he warned me, because you still look a little scary.” She made sure to smile as she said this. Not to sound judgmental.

Polo touched his lip. The cut was healing all right, but it was ugly. He was thankful he didn’t have to explain it. And that was also strange. He’d been dying to see her, dying to talk to her for two long days. But she’d caught him off guard. She’d shocked him, and he felt–ambushed a little. One shock too many. She should have warned him she was coming.

He downed the juice in one swallow. Immediately he felt a promising little rush, like a mini–transfusion. Good. He drank some coffee. It was hot and strong, and that felt good too. Maybe it was just fatigue. Maybe he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. He willed himself to feel normal. He asked himself how he would feel if he had to ride a horse. Joke. No way.

Nathalie put a split bagel with cream cheese and a jar of jam in front of him. He shook his head.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat something.”

“Later.”

“Try to eat just a little.”

“Later.”

“I got the bagels for you specially.”

He said something inaudible.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“No, you said something. Tell me.”

“I said, don’t do the Jewish mother thing.”

“Ohh…”

“You asked.”

“That’s true,” she said quietly. She looked down into her coffee, and colour bloomed up her throat into her cheeks.

This is great, you schmuck. Perfect. Way to go, asshole. Great opener.

“You know,” Nathalie said neutrally, “I have never understood that joke. I never had a problem with Jewish mothers. I was with one last night, in fact. She’s quite wise. I don’t know why they get dumped on. But maybe by the ‘Jewish mother thing’ you’re referring to the old stereotype about them making their children feel guilty. I’m sorry if I make you feel guilty. Maybe you’d rather no one ever mentioned that they did something for you–so you don’t ever have to feel you owe them anything.”

“Oh, I’m sure you must be right, you’ve taken courses in this stuff.”

Putz. Ditch the sarcasm. Say you’re sorry. Stop whatever the hell it is you’re doing to her.

“S’rry,” he muttered.

The colour in her cheeks deepened, but Nathalie said nothing, and seemed prepared to say nothing for a good long time.

“You were with Clarice last night.”

“Yes.”

“I should have guessed.”

“How?”

“Ruthie said she thought the Duchess had a date with a man because she told Jenny and Aviva not to come to dinner. You said you were going to see an old friend of mine. I should have put it together. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why.”

“I am, but not yet.”

Polo shrugged. “Yeah, well, God forbid you should feel you owe me any explanation,” he said. “God forbid you should feel you have to tell me where you’re going for a whole fucking day and night.”

Calvaire.
What the hell was it with him? Here she was, here was his fucking
chance
with her, and he was completely blowing it. If only he could shake this damn–cloud, this fog. Two more minutes of this and she would walk out.

Nathalie looked down at her coffee and shifted the mug back and forth. “Polo. I–look, I know I should have called you…”

“
I thought I’d never see you again
.”

He’d meant it as a statement, but it came bursting out like the rasping, frightened cry of a lost kid, finally claimed by his mother in the mall’s security office.

He scraped his chair back, stood, and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Ah,
merde,”
he muttered, looking down at the table
. “
I didn’t mean to do that.”

Nathalie didn’t look at him. She was playing with a napkin, folding it into ever–smaller squares. If Polo hadn’t looked away in self–disgust, if he’d been looking at his wife, he would have seen her face registering first surprise, then wonder, then discreet, cautious joy. She said softly, still intent on the napkin, “Do you think, if I were going to walk away–do you really think I would just–do it–like that–after all these years?”

“I don’t know,” he said truculently. “Why not? You’re pretty fed up, you made that clear when we spoke on the phone. You’re tired of making all the moves. I wouldn’t blame you.” He yanked open the fridge, saw the Aero bars, felt a little nauseous, closed his eyes, and let the cold air caress his face. Maybe he did have a fever. He closed the door. But he didn’t turn back to look at her.

“Polo, I know why you’re mad. That phone call the other day–listen, it was more than a little over the top, and I feel stupid about it. I can’t believe I got drunk and called you. Now that I know what was going on here, I realize I should have waited ‘til you got home and”–

Fuck
! He smacked his hand hard on the fridge, and he sensed her startled little jump. There was no way he could let her do this again. Ever. Take the blame, give him an easy out. This was it, didn’t she see? It was the story of their lives. She got mad, or sad or bad, always for a good reason. He sulked and verbally abused her or walked out for a day–or a week. She was afraid he’d leave for good, or maybe hit her, or–whatever. So she apologized.
Fuck
! He was flooded with angry love for her. He turned to face her.

“Nath. Don’t do that.
Don’t do that
!”

“What?
What shouldn’t I do
?” She had both hands up on her face, and there it was, just as he’d known it would be, that–look–that–scared look–

“Don’t let me get away with this shit. Don’t let me–use you–use your goodness to–don’t”–he threw his hands up in the air and let them fall–“Nath, you have to stand up to me.
Don’t let me do what he did!”

“He…?”

“My
father
, for Christ’s sake. My
father
! He scared her. She was so
scared
. All the time. She was so scared he’d leave her with all those brats, so she just–caved in–every time–and it didn’t matter, sometimes he just smacked her–or us–for the hell of it…I’d lie in bed at night and hear her crying…hear her crying…”

He felt lightheaded suddenly and thought he might faint. He leaned against the refrigerator and closed his eyes. He heard her little cry of compassion or maybe fear, heard her chair rub across the floor and then she was there beside him, but he opened his eyes in time, and luckily he had her by the wrist before her hand could reach up to touch his face. He shook his head and whispered hoarsely, “Don’t. Don’t touch me. I have to keep talking…”

The dizziness ebbed, and he closed his eyes, still holding her wrist. “I’m okay,” he whispered. “Go sit down.” And she did.

“Nath, listen to me. This is important. You didn’t know what was going on here. You don’t–listen, you have nothing to apologize for. I don’t even know where to start, but that’s as good a place as any. You have nothing to apologize for. You’ve never had…It’s me that has to…it’s me, Nath…I’ve…so much has happened in the last two days…I hear us–in my head–that phone call–and I’m saying to myself, was that me talking? Was that me thinking that it’s
you
that’s the problem because you actually had to get drunk to let me know that having a kid is more important than my fucking ego? Was that prick who wouldn’t let his own wife tell him about
his
baggage that she’s been carrying all these years–was that prick really me?

“Because I’ve changed since that call. I know, I know, men say that all the time, don’t they? Guys who beat up on their wives, guys who drink, do drugs. They say ‘baby, give me another chance because I’ve changed’ when they’re scared their woman is going to leave for good. Men’ll say anything not to be left. I know that. Maybe you think that’s what’s happening here. I hope not. I’m babbling a bit. But it’s true, Nath. This isn’t a con. I have changed.

“Things have happened here. I’ve had to talk to so many people because of the kid who got killed–and listen, Nath–there’s so much I want to tell you, but–but maybe you didn’t come to hear me tell you stuff. Maybe you came because it’s like you just said, you’d do it in person, not just walk away. I mean, break up. So if that’s why you’re here, tell me right away. Stop me right now, because once I get going spilling my guts to you, I don’t think I could stop even if I wanted to.”

Nathalie had been sitting very straight, statue–still with big eyes that never left Polo’s face. The knuckles on her hands gripping the mug were white. She said, her voice a little shaky, “To be perfectly honest, I had no plan. I have something to tell you, but it’s contingent–on what I was going to hear. I came to listen more than talk. I have a bottom line now where our marriage is concerned, but you already know that. What you’ve already said–what you’ve just said–it’s so different from–it’s like a new language–I hardly know what to say.”