Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(14)
The message was not well coded. Arthur would have to put a turkey on, or steaks.
Among a scattering of customers in the store were Tabatha Jones, Taba to her friends, and her daughter, Felicity, talking earnestly by the baked goods. Last seen, Felicity had been climbing into Jason Silverson’s van, along with the entire infield of the Nine Easy Pieces.
Arthur overheard her: “You’ll love them, Mom, honest, they’re so spiritual.”
“I’ll take a pass,” said Taba, with an edge of exasperation.
Arthur wandered about, collecting his sundries, pausing at the rack of magazines and paperbacks, its bottom shelf offering “Canadiana” and “Garibaldiana.” Among the latter were a dozen thin books signed by Cudworth Brown, the local bawdy poet, and a few copies of Garibaldi Potpourri, an anthology by the island’s Literary Collective. Beside those stood the store’s last three copies of A Thirst for Justice: The Trials of Arthur Beauchamp. A thick volume, the cover of which had likely scared off many prospective buyers: squint-eyed Arthur with his eagle’s beak in profile.
Apparently it hadn’t deterred Jason Silverson. Discovery of an authentic life path. Almost spiritual. His overwrought guru-speak. It dismayed Arthur that the fellow knew all about his blemished past: his history of drunken revels, his stumbling failures with the opposite sex, his punishing first marriage to an indefatigably faithless partner.
His shopping done, Arthur stopped at the Canada Post counter, where Abraham Makepeace, store owner and postmaster, a gaunt man of funereal mien, was anticipating Arthur’s arrival by shuffling through the mail from the Blunder Bay box.
“Most of this is for Margaret. Bunch of flyers you don’t want.” He tossed those into a waste bin. “Your New Yorker, which I can tell you none of the cartoons make sense this week. This here’s a postcard for one of your Woofers, pretty hard to read, it’s mostly in Japanese except the smiley face. This big envelope is from the Trial Lawyers’ Association of the USA, I think it’s some kind of speakers’ kit.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m addressing their conference in Seattle.”
“I know.” He held a letter to the light. “And here’s an invite from the Transformers, an opportunity to find awareness.” He leaned forward as Arthur tore open the envelope. “I heard a theory they’re extraterrestrials, and we’ve been invaded by the mind invaders. It’s just like that movie I saw. Where they suck out your brains. Except these ones have a website.”
It was right at the top of the page: personaltransformationmission.org. The letter began “Dear friend,” but “friend” was crossed out and replaced by “Arthur” in longhand. It was an invitation to islanders to drop in to Starkers Cove to sample the new wares on offer, among them: yoga, “bodywork,” and something called “physioemotional release therapy.” All conducted by qualified trainers newly arrived from California for “affordable fees.”
Of even less interest to Arthur was a “not-to-be-missed opportunity” to learn awareness from “the great and universally loved Baba Sri Rameesh,” who would be the Mission’s guest for a few weeks in June. Arthur had enough awareness to see this as a con. There was no mention of a fee to enjoy the company of this fakir, but donations would be welcomed. Surely Silverson could not expect to make big bucks from these services, not from the small community of Garibaldi Islanders. What was his game?
Arthur stepped outside, observed that Nelson Forbish had risen from his bench and was talking with a pair of spandexed middle-aged cyclists toting camping equipment. Forbish had a map and, after giving them directions to Starkers Cove, began interviewing them. Fans of the universally loved Baba Sri Rameesh? Expensive bicycles, battery powered.
Arthur carried on to the Brig, the island pub. During his visits to Hopeless Bay, it was his custom to enjoy a tea break, weather permitting, on the tavern’s outdoor patio, a wooden deck cantilevered over a narrow inlet off the bay. From Arthur’s waterfront table, he could look below at waves surging and receding over the barnacles and the floridly coloured starfish.
A muffin, a hot mug of good black tea, a pretty view, Apollo riding high in the sky, all conspired to temper his sour mood. But he saw an opportunity to rekindle it.
At a pair of joined tables, half a dozen local scamps were quaffing pitchers of beer and ignoring the no-smoking sign as two men in RCMP harness appeared at the open doorway of the bar: Constable Irwin Dugald, a humourless hulk with a perpetual frown, and his volunteer Auxiliary, Kurt Zoller, who, when he wasn’t playing policeman, operated a water taxi business.
Life hadn’t been quite as relaxed since Dugald took up residence here a month ago for a two-year tour of duty on Garibaldi and nearby less-populated islands. He’d arrived here, as they all did, full of earnest intentions and imbued with a sense of duty. But he would learn, as they all did, that to survive Garibaldi, he’d have to adjust to its quirks and to mellow.
Zoller, a slight, wiry fellow, stiff in posture and manner, looked about hawkishly, sniffing the air, pulling out his notepad. “I’m taking names. Cud Brown is obviously holding a lit cigarette behind his back. Gomer Goulet was observed hawking a gob over the railing, so I also got him under the Health Act. Also, he appears to be in an illegal state of inebriation.”
Ernie Priposki scowled. “Hey, instead of hassling innocent civilians, why ain’t you guys out busting them Transformers at Starkers Cove? They’re preaching immoralism, free love.”