''Saw you comin','' she says, chuckling, as though this fact alone spoke for some ingenious accomplishment. ''Been around here quite a bit of late, haven't you, Mr. Crane?''
''Just stretching the legs.''
''Well, well.''
She waits, but I have no words for her, so she fills the space herself.
''You want some coffee? There's some just made.''
''That would be great.''
''Get yourself in out of the cold, then, and have a seat.''
The choice of seating is limited, though, given that there are only two in the entire room and one (an overstuffed recliner shawled in a threadbare Hudson's Bay blanket) is obviously Mrs. Arthurs's roost. Sling my overcoat over a wobbly side table (a Queen Elizabeth II glass paperweight atop a sun-yellowed notepad from the Banff Springs Hotel) and take my seat, a pine kitchen chair apparently designed for dwarfs with extremely good posture.
''Milk? Sugar?'' the old woman calls out from around the corner where there's the rattle of cups and saucers being lowered from the top shelf.
''Whatever's going.''
When Mrs. Arthurs returns she carries a tray bearing two fancy bone-china cups (both murky with drops of cream) and a plate of assorted store-bought biscuits.
''Nice of you to drop by. Don't get many visitors anymore,'' she says, placing the tray down upon a footstool and falling into her chair. ''Don't get
''Well, I'm not exactly just visiting, Mrs. Arthurs. I've come to ask you a favor, as a matter of fact.''
''I can't imagine what I could help
''It involves the case I'm working on. A rather unusual request, actually.''
Lifts her cup and makes a sound like a vacuum being dunked into a pail of water.
''Is this about what I was telling you before?'' she asks when she pulls the cup away from her lips.
''No. Not directly, anyway. What I'm here to ask you is to assist me in a matter of evidence.''
''Cookie?''
''Thank you, no.''
The old woman crunches on a slab of shortbread.
''What I've come here to tell you is that I am currently in possession of something that may be incriminating to my own client in this case,'' I say. ''I'd rather not tell you how I came about it, if it's all the same to you.''
A moth hammers against the kitchen window behind me, beats exhausted wings over the glass loud enough that I feel my voice rising to shut it out.
''I'm asking you to present this evidence to the Crown as though you've discovered it yourself.''
''To lie, you mean,'' she says, sliding the back of her hand over her mouth.
''I suppose. In a manner, yes. To lie.''
''What sort of evidence would you be talking about?''
I dig into the outside pocket of my overcoat and pull out the newspaper-wrapped hair, place it on the tray next to my cup, and give her a moment to look it over.
''Hair,'' I say.
''I can see that.''
''I have reason to believe that it's the hair of Krystal McConnell and Ashley Flynn. If its DNA matches the hair found in the back of Tripp's car, it proves that they're dead, and that they died in this lake.''
''Doesn't prove he did it.''
''No. But it sure doesn't help him.''
''And you want me to take this into town and say I found it somewhere?''
''Washed up on your beach.''
''So your man will be blamed.''
''So the interests of justice may be advanced. Perhaps we could think of it in those terms.''
''Perhaps we could.''
The old woman considers the round package without distaste, lips pursed. Then she raises her eyes, looks at me as though I, too, were some kind of inanimate forensic exhibit.
''Why not give it to them yourself ?''
''Technically speaking, from the point of view of a lawyer's ethical duty, that would be the right thing to do in situations of this kind. Hand the evidence over to the police and withdraw from the case. But I can't do that.''
''And why's that?''
''Because even with this''--I cast my eyes over to the hair--''there isn't enough evidence to convict him. So if I withdraw, all it would mean is that some other lawyer would be brought in to finish the trial and Tripp would walk. That's why I have to stay with him.''
''But if this hair of yours isn't enough to get your man, why have me give it to the police at all?''
''It might help me talk to him. Get through. It might be enough for him to see that it's over.''
I keep my eyes on her jaw, its mechanical circles and clacks still working the biscuity paste around her mouth.
''But you know that I think the Lady did it,'' she says after swallowing.
''I'm not saying she didn't, exactly. But even you said you thought Tripp probably had a hand in it one way or another.''
''And that's what you believe?''
''I'm not sure I believe anything.''
''Sounds to me like you do. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you?''
I say nothing to this, and instead take a slurping gulp of coffee so hot, it instantly burns. Mrs. Arthurs watches me and rocks in her chair for a moment, its spring hee-hawing beneath her.
''So why me?'' she asks finally. ''There's plenty of others around here who'd like a turn at your man.''
''That's true. But I suppose I feel that you and I share something, Mrs. Arthurs.''
''Oh?''
''We both know the Lady is real.''
''How's that, then?''
''Just like you. I lost someone too.''
The rocking stops.
''That girl,'' she says. ''The one that drowned.''
The saucer lifting on its own to meet my cup with a crack of hollow bone.
''How do you know about that?''
''I
Clear my throat to recover from the prickling rush of surprise. Surprise at the fact that this one wrinkled widow, this believer in a dead woman rising from frozen waters, this most senior of citizens who lives outside of census takers, daily newspapers, and group aerobic classes, this accidental hermit, may be the only person on the planet who knows who I am.
''Had a feeling it was you,'' she says, bringing a selfcongratulating index finger to the tip of her nose. ''That I'd seen you before. Although you'd only have been a wee fellow at the time. And they called you something else then.''
''Richard.''
''Same as your father.''
''Richard senior and Ricky junior. It was thought of as very cute at the time. Then all the aunties and uncles got together to suggest it might be a good idea for me to change it. After what happened.''
The old woman considers me long enough that I can feel the space my body occupies shrinking before her.
''The thinking was it might help save me from being hounded by the press as I got older,'' I hear myself saying. ''But the fact is the press was never really interested anyway. 'Girl Drowns While on Holiday'--it happens every week up here in the summers. But now I think I know why they really did it.''
