There is a picture of Camellia Dupuis on the arm of officer-in-training Constable Monroe that same evening. The constable is slightly ahead of her, impeccably groomed, his free arm bent at the elbow to keep the curious back, and she is looking at the camera, wearing that black coat with the fur collar turned up. Though a torn, old coat, it looks new in the picture. That is, the picture makes her look like someone she never was, nor ever attempted to be.
Her dark hair is wavy, her eyes are cast up toward us. The closest you might come to it is the picture of the Black Dahlia—the woman in Los Angeles murdered about the same time. Both are striking women, both have a look of seductive charm, both are walking into a dark they cannot comprehend. This was the picture, then, that would be published alongside the seventeen-year-old picture of herself as a child, during the story of her father. The articles would state—from the Canadian wire service to the BBC—the strange coincidences, and how her adoptive father, who had once thought of becoming a minister, would now have to prosecute her. And because he was a religious man, he did not hesitate or fear the death penalty.
The story was heightened by acknowledging that Owen had been Lula’s sweetheart before the war.
GOOD SAMARITAN VICTIM OF LOVE TRIANGLE? the question posed now.
Constable Monroe knew the seriousness of these allegations—that is, that Owen and she had somehow committed a perfect crime, a theory promoted for over a month by Reggie’s cousin, who had been added to the list of prosecution witnesses and had come to town on government expense to view the body as well. Monk’s theory was the one to take hold—Reggie would be the last person to commit suicide. He must have been lured to his death by Camellia. He had come home to protect her, and had fallen victim to her snare. There was the idea that they had tried to put him in a trunk, and finally threw him into the water alone and still alive.
“Yes, that’s it,” people said, as if suddenly becoming wise. “Yessir, I can see it now.”
The provincial paper ran the picture of Camellia on Monroe’s arm and the headline stated: CAMELLIA ON WAY TO VIEW HUSBAND’S BODY—HAVING LEFT THE CELL OF ACCUSED MURDERER OWEN JAMESON.
She had become a single name to the province, and Owen’s lover. The headline already indicting both.
This had become a thriller of the town’s own making, each person playing a prescribed part. To continue to the end the thriller could not end. It had to continue in its relentless gravity. Monroe kept this picture and showed it around for the rest of his life.
“I’m still your friend,” one young woman she knew as a convent girl shouted, and waved slightly her thin hand into the vacant lot, while her boyfriend told her to shut her mouth.