Trial of Passion by William Deverell Page A

little pot and a fishing line. It’s what I do best now.”
    Under the apparently benign influence of Garibaldi Gold, Rimbold seems unable to still his tongue, and rambles on about his former life, his current doubts, his many alcoholic lapses. Until he washed up onGaribaldi’s shores several years ago, he had served in an inner-city parish in Montreal. Born in Dublin, studied for the priesthood there.
    The discursive Rimbold continues to bounce from topic to topic, but is finally silenced by a tug on his line. He pulls in a fair-sized rock cod. I am envious, and fear I shall prove to be luckless at this sport.
    But it is a pleasant time. Mists caress the water. A pair of cormorants sweep by. The surface of the Gulf of Georgia is a shimmering pane of glass.
    Now as we drift, Margaret Blake’s farm comes into view, and I am inspired to describe to Rimbold my run-in with the pig and subsequently with her. He emits a deep rumble of laughter.
    â€œWell, Margaret has no love for lawyers. Always taking the island despoilers to court, or the local government, then running into a brick wall of lawyers. She was sued for slander once, I believe, and had to take out a mortgage to pay the legal bills. And with her husband’s death .. . They were childless. We should be charitable to her.”
    â€œDid you know her husband?”
    â€œA fine man. Used to be our trustee, before Zoller. Played a hell of a fiddle, entertained a lot at parties. They came out here in the 1960s, hippies hoping to live off the land. The Blakes were among the few who succeeded at it. But poor Margaret has to do the work of two to manage things — I suspect she’s finding it quite a chore.”
    George has portrayed a brave woman. I feel badly now. I will work something out with her to avoid embarrassing her in court.
    A seal pokes its head above the water, then disappears. The competition. The mists swirl and rise and melt in the rising sun. A gull swoops down and analyses us, and is gone.
    I am jolted from the reveries that these sweet moments induce by a tug on my line. A bite!
    â€œGood on you,” says Rimbold. “Easy does it now.”
    The creature surrenders after a brave struggle and soon I haul it aboard, a ling cod weighing at least five pounds. Well, perhaps I overstate. But exaggeration is a part of the fishing business, is it not?
    Rimbold rolls up another marijuana cigarette and offers it, and in my elation I toss care to the wind, and take a tiny puff. But the marijuana — which I must say is vastly overrated — neither clouds senses nor encourages that talkative state of euphoria I have observed in Rimbold.
    As we motor back to the dock I am seized with an unaccountable panic about the state of my Phantom V.
    When I arrive at Stoney’s garage, I observe that parts of my beloved car are scattered to all corners of his work space. Even the seats are out. I stare at my car’s remains as one might an old comrade lying in a casket. I indulge in a few quiet moments of meditation.
    Finally, Stoney breaches the silence. “Found mice in it.”
    I am not sure if I have heard him correctly. My mind seems fuzzy.
    â€œQuite a few, actually. Coupla families.”
    â€œMice.”
    â€œWell, now, Mr. Beauchamp, that old garage of yours — and you wanna maybe think of replacing it soon — is probably overrun with them and they must’ve got in the car and started nests.”
    â€œBut, Stoney, why is it in a thousand pieces?”
    â€œWell, here’s the thing, they got into the wiring. Why they didn’t go for all the leather in here, I dunno, but they chewed up the wiring. You see, that’s probably why one of your headlights wasn’t working, and, uh, there was a nest behind the back seat, and you maybe been driving without tail lights, too.”
    He continues with a long, baffling speech about electrical systems. I sense he is nervous, in fear of me.
    â€œCan