William Deverell - April Fool

“I thought I’d be safer with the baby-faced suit in the burgundy Audi V8 guzzler. This massively unhip guy turns out to be Todd Clearihue. We’d never met, he didn’t know me from Mother Jones. Thought he’d impress me with his mall and marina and condos. ‘His vision,’ he called it-as if it’s something creative as opposed to an extension of his cock. Reminded me of my last producer blowing on about the umpteenth sequel of Scream .”

“That is where I saw you,” says Pierre, hovering while a waiter serves the curried shrimp and entrocote. “That scene, where you are naked, hiding from the slasher. Magnifique.”

“I’ll wait for the video,” Selwyn says, dry, unsmiling. He rarely smiles.

“ The Return of the Slasher . Starring Todd Clear-cut, disguised as good old country boy. He dug my peace symbols. ‘Cool,’ he said. Cool? He’s a liberal, he’s hip to peace and civil rights.” She fakes a male voice: “‘Taking a little shakedown cruise Saturday on the boat, think you might enjoy that?’ When I drew his attention to the ring on his hand, he said his wife was in the city. I said, ‘Drop me off, I think I’m going to be sick.’”

As the Fargo chugs off the Garibaldi ferry ramp, Arthur is talking to himself again, reciting Shelley as a salve to his irritation. The ferry sailed three hours late, it’s half past seven, too late to lay down the law to Margaret. Anyway, he won’t run panting after her. She has Slappy, she doesn’t need another old dog hanging around.

He still feels his stomach complaining about the unaccustomed rich food. He ought not to have had the coeur a la creme d’Angers.

Also plaguing him is a feeling of uselessness as Nick Faloon blunders his way to a life sentence for murder. But is Arthur harbouring an illusion as to Nick’s innocence? Maybe Nick is capable of acts of vast evil, was guilty of the first assault, as well. Arthur can find little sustenance in that theory.

Stoney’s flatbed is still immobile at the side of Potter’s Road, but the tools and wheelbarrows have disappeared. Arthur’s muffler is in its death throes by the time he nears Blunder Bay, and the roar startles a goat escaping up the road. The fence will have to be mended again. Tomatoes must be repotted in the greenhouse. Bills must be paid. He has to keep on top of things.

After spending the morning with Paavo, helping him shore up the fence, Arthur visits the Woofer house to find Kim Lee at a wok, stirring chop suey.

“I.” She has trouble with that vowel, points to her chest. “Make. Out-take.” Takeout. She’s prepared a lunch for Margaret and Cud, to be hoisted to their tree fortress. Arthur sniffs at the wok. “I. Take. Tree house.” He doesn’t relish the idea of feeding Cuddles as well.

He must drop by the gas station on the way back, ask them to replace the muffler. He doesn’t trust Stoney, who still hasn’t got his own truck running. Arthur can see it on Potter’s Road-its hood up, the self-proclaimed best mechanic on the island fiddling with the engine.

He strolls there to find Stoney splicing ignition wires.

“Where did you put the tools, Stoney?”

“What tools?” he says, barely looking up.

“The ones used to build the tree platform.”

“Oh, them. Hey, I heard you have a muffler problem. I think I can get you a spare in good shape.”

“The tools, Stoney. You don’t want them traced to you.”

Stoney emerges, grease patches on his face. “Well, the good news is they’re all safe and accounted for. Dog is guarding them. Now.”

The little adverb hints that Stoney has engineered another calamity. Arthur isn’t sure if he wants to hear the bad news yet, he isn’t emotionally prepared.

“Hey, Arthur, I got a crisis here with the starter. Dog and me, we got to get them tools back to their rightful owners, so could we maybe borrow your truck for the day? I’ll fix the muffler, charge you only for parts, bring it right back.”

Arthur will let him have the Fargo; he’ll take Margaret’s diesel. As they walk back, a goose follows Stoney, hissing.

“Arthur, this low area over here screams, Dig me, man, dig me ten feet down, fill me with water. You really got to think about that swimming pond. Put in a dock, one of them rubber boats, loll around reading your Greek classics and shit.”

“Stoney, you have something to tell me.”

“Well, to tell the truth, there was this lady hanging around, eh? With a fancy camera, I figured she was one of the news photographers.”

“And she followed you into the bush where the tools were hidden. And took pictures.”

“Right. Except for one detail. They weren’t in the bush.”

That detail is resolved when Arthur spies Dog sleeping under a blanket behind the garage. A glance through the window reveals climbing harnesses, saws, hammers, wheelbarrows, generator, even scale plans for the tree platform.

Arthur has visions of writs flying. Garlinc versus Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp , warehouseman for the conspiracy. Plaintiff further alleges the defendant’s vehicle was used to remove the incriminating items. He thinks about explaining to Ed Santorini how he has been victimized by the Garibaldi gremlins.

A few brisk, pointed words persuade Stoney that the tools must be hauled away within the hour, under canvas. Arthur secures the plans. Built-in table, shelves, benches. A privacy partition for the chemical toilet. Where do they shower? “One foamy here,” says a scribble. No mention of another.

What nonsense to entertain such low suspicions. Margaret and Cud? How absurd, she’s never had much time for the fellow, with his unbounded lack of class. (“Want to see the peace symbol on my ass?” She looks up, bored with Tolstoy. “Why not?”) An irrational anxiety is creating seamy imaginings, an ugly habit learned during a long career as cuckold.

Early this morning, midnight for her, Deborah called from Melbourne, shocked and delighted to have seen her father on the late news, a brief clip. “The kind of item they throw in for a chuckle to soften you up for the ads,” she said. “Nicky said you looked a little pompous.” His fourteen-year-old grandson.

Deborah viewed the protest as a lark, refused to give ear to his complaints. “Dad, you’re perfectly capable of making your own sandwiches…You’re miffed because she’s on the podium and you’re second fiddle… Do something, get active, there’s more to life than growing radishes. You were a big-time lawyer when she met you. What have you done to impress her since?”

At the Gap Trail, the logging trucks are gone, press vans in their place. A sign reserves a roped-off area for Garlinc employees, a table with its glossy brochures, “In Harmony with Nature.” Todd Clearihue’s Audi is there. Another two dozen vehicles are strung down the road. Among the stumps, a banner, “Operation Eagle.” Tents have been erected. A Greenpeace information table. A Rainforest Alliance booth.

Corporal Al is on foot patrol and pulls Beauchamp over. “Let me take this rig off your hands, Arthur, or you’ll have an uphill hike. Everyone’s assembling to go to the heights to look for eagles, that’s why all the cars.” He leans into the cab. “Sure smells good.” Essences of soya and garlic waft from the cartons.

“War rations.”

“Actually a lot of folks are taking turns sending up hot meals.” He takes Arthur’s place in the Toyota. “Don’t see you much at Tai Chi these days.”

“I’ve been remiss.”

A six-minute hike brings him to the Gap. Clearihue is conferring with a woman, an investigator perhaps, making notes for court, taking pictures.

The regulars of the Save Gwendolyn Society are assembling with cameras and binoculars. They want to hear about the court procoeedings. They want Arthur to be honorary patron for the fundraising drive. They talk about auctions and bake sales, garage sales. Garlinc paid $8 million for this property. The last bake sale brought in $258.