Speak Ill of the Dead (14 page)

I had to sit down, since standing on the flooral gave me the feeling of hurtling through space.

The Hammerheads blasted from the sound system at about 100 decibels, so I decided to fire Alvin in the kitchen and avoid the tea thing altogether. On the way, I discovered the mess.

The large table in the dining “ell” was covered with magazines, newspapers, print-outs and cassettes. More were stacked on the ground. Sheets from flip charts had been ripped off and taped to the walls. Each contained long lists of names under different headings, like
Femme Fatale
, the local satirical magazine
Peeping Tom
and its relatives in other cities, and Mitzi’s broadcasts. There were also lists by type. Alvin had cross-referenced many of the names from one list to another.

So that’s what he’d been doing. It was going to be tough to fire the miserable little creature now.

“How are things at the office?” Alvin emerged with a silver tray carrying an old pink and gold china tea pot, creamer and sugar bowl and two cups and saucers, with tiny silver spoons. He passed me in the ell and plunked himself down cross-legged on the floor, leaving me to decide whether I would join him or perch on the sofa like a fool.

I picked the sofa. The floor made me dizzy.

“Well,” he said, looking up, “you got here just in time. I’m at the last list. Some interesting stuff is showing up there. We’ll have our tea and then see if you can find the most important patterns.”

“Sure,” I said, adding, “beautiful tea set.”

“Thanks, it was my grandmother’s Anniversary Rose. Mom gave it to me when I left. She figured it’d just get broken by the other kids at home. I think it adds a nicely jarring note of discontinuity with the floor, don’t you?”

“Indeed,” I said, as Alvin poured my tea.

“So, where did you get this very interesting floor design?”

He looked at me with surprise. “I painted it, of course. What did you think that I did with my spare time?”

I hesitated to mention I’d thought he spent his spare time frying his tiny brain with chemicals. Instead I said, “Beautifully done, Alvin. Tremendous precision, especially with the electric can openers.”

Was it my imagination, or did the faintest trace of a blush cross Alvin’s chalky cheeks?

When the tea was finished, we moved to the dining room to inspect the project.

Sure enough, there were patterns all right. Alvin’s list entitled Key Targets identified them by type.

Women Politicians, Royalty, Television Personalities, Singers, Actors and Models, and Anyone Fat were the headings Alvin had picked.

“Everyone she ever targeted in print or broadcast fits into one or more of these categories,” he explained.

“I guess people like to see the powerful and popular get skewered. It gives them a sense of superiority if the winners have warts.”

“Right,” said Alvin. “Look at the tabloids the next time you’re in the supermarket. They’ll give you tremendous insights into human nature.”

I considered the spectre of Alvin in the grocery store.

There were few surprises when we reviewed the lists. Each name had a check mark for every time Alvin had found a reference to that person in print or on air, he explained.

“It wasn’t easy getting video copies of her broadcasts,” he said. “You’ll have to reimburse me for some expenses encountered by a certain individual in getting them.”

I opened my mouth to speak.

“In cash,” he added.

I let that pass and noted that Deb Goodhouse had thirteen checkmarks, compared to one or two for most of the others. Alvin had circled her name in red marker.

On the media list Jo Quinlan was also circled in red, no doubt because of the nineteen checkmarks.

“Almost every show and every ‘Zits’ article had a little dig about Jo Q.,” Alvin said.

Nothing much of interest in the Singers and Actors list. A country-style singer had three checks by her name, as did an east coast pop fiddler. A great lady of Canadian theatre merited two. The initials B.F. were the last on the list with a question mark and a cross reference to the lists labelled Models, General Gossip and Coming Soon.

Brooke Findlay’s name appeared on all three.

I walked back into the black living room and poured myself another cup of Earl Grey.

Ten

I
spent the evening examining the many complex lists compiled by Alvin, trying to find a few other leads. By midnight, I gave up. Jo Quinlan and Deb Goodhouse were still on my own, and they’d been joined by Brooke Findlay.

Brooke, according to Alvin’s mysterious sources, had been lined up in Mitzi’s sights, scheduled for a special treatment in the coming months.

“Why?” I’d asked.

He’d shrugged. “Unclear about that. Lot of shifty looks and sly remarks.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘Ask Rudy, if you have the guts.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Is this guy supposed to scare me?”

“I don’t know. He scares everyone else.”

“Give me a break. Do I have to drag every little bit of information out of you?”

“Okay, okay. He’s supposed to be like some kind of major supplier, you know.”

“You sure?”

Rays from the only light in the room glinted off Alvin’s black cat’s eye glasses. Coupled with the pointer in his hand, he looked like a deranged fairy godmother.

“Don’t be dense. That’s the word on the street. Big time. And too hot to handle. Nobody tangles with Rudy Wendtz.”

“Hmmm.”

*   *   *

All night I dreamed about killing Brooke Findlay in a variety of satisfying ways. In my dreams, justice prevailed and I found myself serving a ten-year sentence of Family Dinners. I jerked awake at eight o’clock when the phone rang.

“Dinner tonight,” Edwina said. “My place. Don’t try to weasel out of it.”

My God, it was starting.

“I won’t resist, Edwina. Will it be a long one?”

Silence drifted back to me over the phone.

“What time,” I asked, assuming she was still on the line, “and are you sending a guard for me?”

“Very funny. Stan will pick you up at six thirty.”

“All right.”

“And, Camilla.”

“Yes?”

“Do not, and I mean this, do not provoke Alexa.”

“Moi?” I asked.

But she’d already hung up.

*   *   *

It was after nine when I stepped out of the shower and dried my hair. I decided not to wait until I got to the office to make my first call.

“Oh sure,” said Merv. “I’ll just drop everything and find out about this guy for you. I was just sitting here waiting for your call anyway.”

“Very funny, Merv. But I’ll understand if you abandon Robin to her fate. Pressures of work. Nothing to be done about it.”

Merv made some sort of animal noise before he hung up.

It sounded promising to me.

I was wearing my pumps and my best court suit. I took my camera, just in case I needed it, and my Nikes, just in case I had a chance to walk somewhere.

One last call before leaving.

“She’s asleep,” Mr. Findlay whispered.

“How’s she doing?”

“A bit better. She had a visit from a very nice young man yesterday. Seemed to cheer her up. Maybe you could call a bit later in the mornings. Brooke needs to rest until eleven.”

I let the Brooke remark slide. At least Ted had done his Boy Scout bit and visited Robin.

As I stepped into the hallway, it occurred to me a photo of the cats might cheer Robin. I opened the door, said the magic words “Meow Mix”, and snapped the six of them as they whipped into sight.

“So long, guys,” I said, closing the door and almost tripping over Mrs. Parnell’s walker.

She opened her pursed-up mouth to say something.

“Smile for the birdie,” I squawked, as I clicked the shutter.

Darned if she didn’t blush.

I left for work with a good plan for the day. Beaver through the Benning file then move on to see Rudy Wendtz, as soon as he might be awake. I decided on eleven as the trend.

When I pulled into Rudy Wendtz’s driveway, I had to admit to myself that not one word of the Benning brief had made it past my eyes and into my brain, where it could have done some good. Tomorrow, I promised myself.

It was the perfect spring morning, bright yellow sun, bright blue sky, bright tulips in many colours. The temperature was a bright twenty degrees and climbing. The teal wool suit, although bright, was beginning to feel hot and scratchy, and it crossed my mind that I should get some new warm-weather clothes. But first things first.

Rudy Wendtz was polishing off breakfast in his conservatory which overlooked the canal. Very pleasant. His cotton terry robe had set him back a couple of hundred bucks. His bare feet were resting on a leather ottoman as he lounged in a leather chair, enjoying his breakfast cigarette.

Wendtz was large. Under the terrycloth robe lay long, powerful muscles. The presence of exercise machines and weights in the room may have contributed to the impression. There were no plants in this conservatory, but then you can’t have everything.

He didn’t get up when I was shown in by the large, lumpy individual who answered the door. Just studied me from behind semi-closed lids, while he blew out smoke. From the look on his face, I would rate about a 2 on a good day.

I didn’t care. Rudy didn’t rate too high with me, either.

I could see why Mitzi had kept him, though. He had a certain something, in that he was well over six feet and he radiated power. He looked as though he hadn’t shaved for several days, and he had a serious case of bedhead. His eyes were the eyes of a snake, and perhaps that’s why he looked dangerous.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Good morning,” I trilled. “How are you today?”

“I’m doing okay,” he said.

I didn’t doubt it. The three-story brick house, with its location on the Queen Elizabeth Driveway and its view of the sparkling canal, its long, green lawn, its conservatory and its God knows what else, must have set him back a few bucks. The black Mercedes in the driveway was a good indicator, too.

“Terrific,” I chirped. “I wonder if you can help me?”

“Maybe.”

“Great. You see my friend, Robin Findlay, was unfortunate enough to find the body of Mitzi Brochu, who I understand was a friend of yours. The police are being quite difficult about this, and I thought that I would chat with people involved and try to find out something that could help a bit.”

I beamed at him.

The large, lumpy individual poured out a mug of coffee for Wendtz. They both looked at me.

“Oh lovely,” I said. “I take mine with just a bit of cream.”

Glances heavy with meaning were exchanged before Large-and-Lumpy lumbered off. He returned with a black mug for me, filled it and added some cream. He looked like he was measuring my neck for a garotte.

“Mmm,” I said, taking a sip. “I hear you were great friends.”

“Who do you hear that from?”

“Oh, here and there, everyone seems to know.”

“Do they?”

“Mmmm. Yes, they do. Wonderful coffee.”

“My special blend,” said Large-and-Lumpy, with a shy pride.

“Just great,” I said.

“And a bit of French roast.”

“Good enough to market,” I said, thinking I had made a friend.

“I don’t think I can do much for you, Miss Um…?

“Oh, I’m sure you can, Mr. Wendtz.”

He turned the full force of his snake eyes on me. I sipped a bit more coffee and smiled.

“You see, I think that whatever Mitzi was working on might be the key to her murder. I know she was a very good friend of yours, but she seemed to alienate a good many people with her work.”

Wendtz lit another cigarette, and Large-and-Lumpy looked at me with understanding. I felt certain that Mitzi had alienated him, all right.

“I don’t know what she was working on.”

“You don’t?” I said, gazing with disappointment into my empty mug.

“No.”

“That’s too bad.”

Large-and-Lumpy moved around my chair and refilled my mug. I beamed at him like a soul mate.

“We didn’t mix business and pleasure,” Wendtz said, shooting a bit of smoke in my direction.

“A shame.”

He shrugged. This was a man born to shrug.

“There are some local people who were singled out by Mitzi for persistent treatment. I wondered if you might know whether they were targets for coming articles. It’s possible that one of them might have snapped. You see, I’m sure my friend couldn’t have done it. She’s too gentle and soft. She spends her time in the soup kitchens and feeding stray cats and rescuing other people.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you,” Wendtz said. His sneer might have been intended as a smile, but he lacked the practice.

“What about Deb Goodhouse?”

“What about her?”

“Mitzi slammed her often enough. Was she in the works?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jo Quinlan then. She was a favourite target.”

Was that a flicker that passed between Wendtz and my new friend?

Wendtz looked at his watch, which was large and Swiss and cost more than my car. He looked back at me. I smiled.

A pregnant cloud of silence hung in the air.

I think Wendtz was getting ready to splatter me all over the wall when I stood up.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” I said, “you are excellent company and I am tempted to spend the morning here with you in idle chatter, but I have important work to do, and I cannot allow you to entice me away from it.”

Large-and-Lumpy nodded. Wendtz looked at both of us in disbelief.

At the door I turned. “Oh, and Brooke Findlay, was there any connection between her and Mitzi?”

Bingo. Large-and-Lumpy gawked at me, more in sorrow than anger. Just as well, because enough rage flashed across Wendtz’s face for both of them. Most people get hot when they’re angry. Wendtz radiated coldness. I felt my body temperature drop, even in the thrill of finding a connection between Rudy Wendtz and Brooke Findlay.

Now we’re cooking, I thought, as I reached for the door to let myself out.

Large-and-Lumpy beat me to it.

“You shouldn’t of said that,” he whispered as I left.

*   *   *