A Trick of the Light

He himself made his way across the village green toward the Incident Room. As he walked across the grass he slowed, then veered off to his right. And sat on the bench.

“Hello, dick-head.”

“Hello, you old drunk.”

Ruth Zardo and Jean Guy Beauvoir sat side-by-side, a loaf of stale bread between them. Beauvoir took a piece, broke it up and threw it on the grass for the robins gathered there.

“What’re you doing? That’s my lunch.”

“We both know you haven’t chewed lunch in years,” Beauvoir snapped. Ruth chuckled.

“That is true. Still, you owe me a meal now.”

“I’ll buy you a beer later.”

“So what brings you back to Three Pines?” Ruth tossed more bread for the birds, or at the birds.

“The murder.”

“Oh, that.”

“Did you see her last night, at the party?” Beauvoir handed Ruth the photograph of the dead woman. She studied it then handed it back.

“Nope.”

“What was the party like?”

“The barbeque? Too many people. Too much noise.”

“But free booze,” said Beauvoir.

“It was free? Merde. I didn’t have to sneak it after all. Still, more fun to steal it.”

“Nothing strange happened? No arguments, no raised voices? All that drinking and no one got belligerent?”

“Drinking? Lead to belligerence? Where’d you get that idea, numb nuts?”

“Absolutely nothing unusual happened last night?”

“Not that I saw.” Ruth tore off another piece of bread and tossed it at a fat robin. “I’m sorry about your separation. Do you love her?”

“My wife?” Beauvoir wondered what prompted Ruth to ask. Was it caring or simply no sense of personal boundaries? “I think—”

“No, not your wife. The other one. The plain one.”

Beauvoir felt his heart spasm and the blood pour from his face.

“You’re drunk,” he said, getting to his feet.

“And belligerent,” she said. “But I’m also right. I saw how you looked at her. And I think I know who she is. You’re in trouble, young Mr. Beauvoir.”

“You know nothing.”

He walked away. Trying not to break into a run. Willing himself to stay slow, steady. Left, right. Left, right.

Ahead he could see the bridge, and the Incident Room beyond. Where he’d be safe.

But young Mr. Beauvoir was beginning to appreciate something.

There was no such place as “safe.” Not anymore.

*   *   *

“Did you read this?” Clara asked, putting her empty beer glass on the table and handing the Ottawa Star over to Myrna. “The Star hated the show.”

“You’re kidding.” Myrna took the paper and scanned it. It was, she had to admit, not a glowing review.

“What was it they called me?” demanded Clara, sitting on the arm of Myrna’s easy chair. “Here it is.” Clara jabbed a finger and poked the newspaper. “Clara Morrow is an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists.”

Myrna laughed.

“You find that funny?” Clara asked.

“You’re not actually taking that comment seriously?”

“Why not? If I take the good ones seriously don’t I have to take the bad too?”

“But look at them,” said Myrna, waving to the papers on the coffee table. “The London Times, the New York Times, Le Devoir, all agree your art is new and exciting. Brilliant.”

“I hear the critic from Le Monde was there but he didn’t even bother to write a review.”

Myrna stared at her friend. “I’m sure he will, and he’ll agree with everyone else. The show’s a massive success.”