April Fool by William Deverell Page A

there were only supposed to be two of us.”
    â€œTell her I’m fine,” Felicity yells. “I was just going to visit, but I’m staying. It’s super up here.”
    â€œI’ll break it to her. You guys need anything else?”
    â€œThanks, Corporal Al, we’re great,” Margaret says. Gleeful. Arthur doesn’t like the way she was hugging Cud, he’s thankful Felicity is there to share his cot or whatever they’ll sleep on.A hairy-armed brute with tattoos. A nose broken in a storied fight at the old Brig Tavern. His satiric nickname: Cuddles.
    â€œWhat I see going on here,” says Zoller, working his way into one of his convolutions, “is that conspirators are being turned a blind eye to because one of them is the wife of a prominent lawyer.”
    â€œCivil matter, out of my jurisdiction,” Corporal Al says. He is on his radio, trying to get a message through to Felicity’s mother, obviously not relishing the task. Tabatha Jones is displeased that her daughter is seeing a man twenty-two years older who is said to have deflowered many local maidens.
    Arthur looks up at his smiling reckless wife, her arms defiantly folded. She is enjoying this far too much. She asked the recluse for legal help, and has cleverly compelled him to give it. He feels manipulated, a sensation seared into memory from his years with Annabelle.
    The girl in the Rise Up top is looking knives at Clearihue, who’s making an effort not to see her. “This is ridiculous, Arthur,” he says. “We’re going to have reporters–do we really want that here?”
    He’s counting on Arthur being embarrassed by Margaret’s direct action: he is well known from his years in the courtroom. A book has been written about him, his important trials. And yes, he feels embarrassment, but it pales against a fear for his wife, for her safety.
    â€œWhen the reporters come, Todd, I can only hope we offer our island’s traditional hospitality.”
    The media might find novelty here, a reprieve from the catastrophe-laden six o’clock newscast. Next up, we’ll meet some feisty tree-sitting Gulf Islanders. But comedy will spiral into tragedy when the defendants are enjoined to stop trespassing or face damages, costs, and possibly jail.
    Noggins beckons him. “Someone I want you to meet, Arthur.”
    â€œI’ll be there presently, Reverend Al.” His given name is Aloysius, but no one can pronounce it. He is ruddy, fifty-five, and was a lifelong bachelor until the island’s most careless carpenter winged his way to heaven after falling off the church roof. Bequeathing to the pastor not just guilt but his widow, Zoë.
    The someone-to-meet would be the dark-haired gamin, who is grinning jauntily at Arthur, her T-shirt challenging him to rise up. One of those radicals who infest good causes with their banners and slogans–how is it she is friendly with the Anglican minister? Reverend Al may be a conservationist, but he is a Tory.
    Arthur isn’t looking forward to this encounter. For the time being, he’s saved by a squad of reporters–tipped off, it would seem, to catch the morning ferry–who emerge from the woods like guerrillas, armed with cameras and microphones. They zero in on Todd Clearihue, who, Arthur senses, wants to rush off to seek his restraining order.
    â€œMr. Clearihue, what’s your next move?”
    â€œCooler heads will prevail, I am sure. One of the parties up there, Margaret Blake, she’s a fine lady, I have a lot of respect for her. Oh, you may not know her husband–this is Arthur Beauchamp, the lawyer.”
    â€œMr. Beauchamp! I covered the Hogarty double murder, remember me?”
    â€œOf course I do.”
    â€œWhat’s your reaction to this, Mr. Beauchamp?”
    Arthur raises his noble nose above the half-circle of microphones, points it at the platform, at Margaret. He wants to ask,