Lament for a Lounge Lizard. Mary Jane Maffini
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took my arm, and we turned and limped into the dining room, away from the clusters of poets, fellow drinkers, plus Benedict’s former and more recent lovers. We stood by the huge oak table decked out with smoked salmon canapés, vegetables and pâté, shortbread cookies, Nanaimo bars, maple mousse, scones, four kinds of jam and an immense earthenware pot of tea. Too bad I’d lost my appetite. I couldn’t even look at food. I stared out the window instead. I watched a bevy of damp reporters, at least one forlorn street person and the now familiar burly form of Sarrazin taking shelter under a tree. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the coroner out there batting her eyelashes at him. But then again, the rain would have ruined her hairdo.
Wait a minute. A street person? Since when did we have street people in St. Aubaine? Particularly on a hill with only houses? Puzzling about that was a welcome diversion from thinking about the police dogging my footsteps. I was distracted from my distraction when Bridget started to cry. Of course, on her, crying looked good.
The tears couldn’t diminish her pale, Irish prettiness. The copper waves, the warm blue eyes, the dusting of freckles, the pointed cheekbones, all that still worked well. Bridget was designed to wear black. If she had dewlaps, they weren’t showing.
“Anything at all. Just name it,” I said. Bridget brought out my latent guilt. She’d stuck by Benedict for years, drying him out, paying his bills. Not like me, putting him out of my mind and getting on with my life. Not even giving him a call on St. Patrick’s Day.
She squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. Some day we’ll find out who killed him and dumped him in your...”
I certainly hoped so. I’d already charged a new mattress and bedding to the tune of nine hundred smackers. Not to mention how the discovery of Benedict’s body had polluted my social life and caused the police to regard me with bearlike eyes. Worse, my wonderful little house no longer felt secure.
Bridget turned to me and took a deep, fluttery breath.
“Do you think it could have been your ex-husband?”
“I’m sorry, Bridget. You’d have to know Philip. He might murder someone, but he’d never touch a dead body. He won’t even empty a wastepaper basket without putting on rubber gloves.”
“Maybe he wore rubber gloves.”
“No, no,” My voice rose. “He’s in Vancouver on business. Anyway, Philip never even knew Benedict.”
“Maybe he found out. People can criss-cross the country in less than a day. Surely, you must want to know who killed him.”
“Of course I do. Although I already know Philip didn’t.”
“But who else would have wanted to kill him?”
Just about anyone, but only if they knew him. I couldn’t say that, so I didn’t say anything.
“What about your current boyfriend?”
Again with the boyfriend. “From the unlikely to the nonexistent.”
Perhaps I was a bit snappish.
Bridget teetered a bit. “Forgive me, I know it must be dreadful for you. Everyone thinking that either you did it or...”
“I was with Liz in full view of the world.”
Bridget’s best friend, Rachel, edged into our space, blinking behind her owl glasses and gently took Bridget’s arm. Bridget allowed herself to be led away.
“I particularly like all the poets,” Josey said, sidling up to me the second Bridget hobbled off.
I liked all the poets, too. Especially since they’d accepted my explanation that I simply had no idea how he’d ended up in my bed.
The poets were remembering the time Benedict got roaring drunk and tried to scale the Centre Block of the Parliament Buildings in the buff, aiming for the Peace Tower. Opinion was divided on whether or not Benedict had been tossed naked into the clink after that or dragged down, wrapped in a blanket and saved by his loyal followers. I wasn’t sure which version I preferred.
“Is Bridget a poet?” Josey popped back into question mode.
“At one time. But she felt the need to make a living. She has the wonderful Irish shop at the Marina, Forty Shades of Green. Remember those gorgeous Irish coffee glasses I treated myself to for my birthday? Bridget special-ordered them for me from Dublin. Of course, that was when I still had money in the bank.”
Josey whipped her head around. “She needed to make a living? Don’t poets make a living?”
“They have day jobs. They’re teachers and bureaucrats and carpenters and librarians. And...accountants.”
I knew it was all being tallied in Josey’s head. We hadn’t heard the end of this poetry business. “So you know all these people?”
“Hmm, it’s been a long time since I spent any time with Benedict, but I recognize the faces. The men were all part of what we used to call Benedict’s O’Mafia.”
“And the lady with the big eyes and the brush cut?”
“Abby Lake. She’s another old friend.”
“And the chunky one?” I felt a bit disloyal recognizing Rachel immediately. In fact, except that her body was shorter and her hair a bit longer, and she had a pale moustache instead of a five o’clock shadow, she looked like Sarrazin with glasses.
“Rachel Kilmartin. An old friend of Bridget’s.”
“She a poet?”
“No, she runs L’Auberge des Rêves, that nice bed and breakfast by the river. And she’s a caterer. She made all this wonderful food.”
“Bed and Breakfast? And catering.” New sidelines and career possibilities always appeal to Josey. It took a while before she directed her attention back to the lady poets.
“What about the lady with the long red braid and all the silver bracelets?”
“Zoë Finestone. A poet and a sculptor.”
“Wow. She looks like a witch. A big beautiful witch.”
She did.
“She’s sure giving you the evil eye,” Josey said.
Right again.
“I wouldn’t want her mad at me, that’s all I can say.”
Absolutely.
“Okay, so these people were Benedict’s real good friends.”
I couldn’t tell Josey every woman there, with the likely exception of Rachel, at one time or another had been one of Benedict’s lovers. Especially Zoë and Abby. From what I’d heard, Abby was very, very close to Benedict right until his death.
“And what about you? Were you another old friend?”
“About eight years ago, I was his student in a writing class.”
There’d been a lot more, but nothing suitable for her slightly protruding ears.
“Jeez,” Josey said, “is Bridget all right?”
Bridget slumped against a wall, white as toothpaste. I rushed to catch her before she collapsed.
“It’s okay. I’m fine now.” Her hand gripped mine.
People milled around us, munching on the food, chatting, laughing and crying. Sometimes all at once.
Bridget breathed deeply and started to relax. Until Abby Lake reached out and touched her.
When Abby hugged Bridget, she had to bend to do it. Abby hadn’t changed in all the time I’d known her. Lean and strong, with long bones and a dancer’s body, she showed distinct signs of weight training and had only the barest suggestion of pale hair. The hairless look accentuated her huge green eyes and peach skin. The eyes swam with