Speak Ill of the Dead (17 page)

Alexa was bustling around in an off-white silk blouse with a pair of taupe twill pants.

“Anything else I can get for you?”

I wasn’t sure how I would get through what was already there.

Alexa arrived at the table with a steaming pot of fresh coffee. Up close I could see she had on her pearl earrings, a nice light make-up, a smile and distinct traces of cat hair around the ankles.

“So,” she said, sliding into a chair and smiling at me, “do you think he’ll come back and pick you up?”

I shook my head. “I don’t imagine he ever wants to see me again.”

The smile dipped, but Alexa is a trooper. “I hope you’ll spend a couple of days here, at least until the police are through with your apartment. I don’t know how you can even consider going back there.”

“It may not be much, but it’s home,” I said. “But I would appreciate you taking care of the cats until the new locks are on.”

I thought I heard a meowing sound from behind the laundry room door.

“Oh sure,” said Alexa. But I could tell her day was already ruined, whether from the absence of McCracken or the presence of the cats was hard to tell. “So,” she added, “I guess you won’t be talking to him.”

“Why don’t you call him yourself?” I said, breaking down. “I have his number. I think he’d be very pleased if you did.”

“I can’t throw myself at him!”

I gave up at that point. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way out with the camera case slung over my shoulder.

“Are you taking up photography again?” Alexa asked.

“Just temporarily.”

“That’s good. It used to drive us all crazy you snapping pictures every two minutes and catching people with their mouth full. I guess that was before…” She stopped.

“Before Paul died” is what she stopped herself from saying.

Back when I was playful and frisky and had a life. I’d put away my Nikon and lenses after he died. But now was a good time to dust them off again.

Alexa dropped me off at my building to pick up the car. I didn’t even go upstairs to change. No time to spare. I spun my wheels out of the garage and made tracks toward my quarry. Starting with the early birds.

I clicked the zoom lens and waited for Deb Goodhouse to emerge from her fashionable brick townhouse along the canal, in the part of town real estate people call the Golden Triangle. She took the time to check the front garden, for signs of new life I suppose, and never glanced my way. She looked good for that time of the day. A little red cropped blazer and a long navy skirt. I could see her red lipstick from the car. On the other hand, I was blending into the scenery. She didn’t see me snap a very good series of shots of her.

From there, I drove out along the Parkway and crossed over the Champlain Bridge to the Chateau Cartier Sheraton on the Quebec side. I hung around the parking lot waiting for Jo Quinlan to show up for her workout. It took half an hour before the silver Toyota Supra pulled in and parked three cars away from me. Jo didn’t pay any attention to the drab little blue Mazda and its occupant and she didn’t hear the shutter clicking.

So much for the early risers. My next stop was the Queen Elizabeth Driveway. I parked where I couldn’t be seen from the windows of Rudy Wendtz’s big place, but close enough to spot the great man coming or going. I made a point of checking around for signs of the local constabulary. But wherever McCracken was this morning, he wasn’t there.

I got to hear a bit of
This Morning
on the radio while I waited. In the middle of the third interview, Wendtz emerged from the door, looked around and gave me an opportunity to zoom in on his nasty face with the three day growth of beard and the black ice eyes.

I put the camera down and opened the city map over it to plan my route for the next stop.

The knock on the window made me hit my head on the roof. Something that would leave a dent. Large-and-Lumpy leaned in when I opened the window.

“Shouldn’t be here,” he said.

I knew what he meant.

“Mr. Wendtz won’t like it.”

“I thought we were friends. Don’t feel you have to tell him.”

He smiled, displaying the few teeth he had. “Take a hint,” he said as he lumbered back toward the huge house.

I crossed my fingers and prayed he couldn’t see what I was doing as I slipped the camera out from under the map and got a couple of nice clean shots of my buddy.

Everything was going my way. The last of the targets, Sammy Dash, showed up at his favourite market café just as I finished a tricky bit of parallel parking in front of it. I was sweating when he stalked past the Mazda.

Click. Click. I enjoyed doing this. Stalking the stalker. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, then scratched his bum. I captured the moment for posterity. And a few other moments, too. Sammy lighting up. Sammy giving passing women the once over. I felt quite at ease. It’s amazing how invisible you are in a middle-aged blue Mazda, when the world wants to look at Porsches.

I was glad I was so invisible when I saw who Sammy’s date was. Brooke Findlay, in an outfit that showed a lot of leg, moved up next to him, smiling and allowing her bottom to be stroked in a way that indicated they’d met before.

I was smiling too, as I lifted the camera.

Twelve

T
hank God,” said Alvin when I trooped into the office, after lunching on a very dangerous pair of burritos. “I thought you might be dead or something when you didn’t show up for such a long time.”

He was working on a guilt-inducing look. You’ve hurt me and I don’t expect to ever get over it, his body language said. I’d seen Mrs. Findlay pull the same routine on Robin more than once. No doubt Alvin had picked up the technique from his own mother. It was one of many things I’d missed out on.

“Who the hell are you to talk? You vanished for days without any word at all.” The burritos put a little extra venom into my words.

“That’s different,” he said, with his long, pointed nose in the air. “You gave me assignments, which, might I add, I completed in record time. I can’t be in two places at once. And anyway, don’t you want to know what I found out?”

I did.

His almond-shaped black eyes glittered as he filled me in.

“So you can imagine,” he said, “what kind of career Brooke Findlay would have had, if Mitzi had gone ahead and printed her piece on the ‘Walk in the Woods’ woman as a serious cokehead.”

A serious cocaine user. That explained something about Brooke’s behaviour. And her choice of friends.

“‘The Walk in the Woods’ people would yank little Brookie’s contract in a nanosecond. Adios fame and fortune.” Alvin’s pixie smile twinkled.

“And Mitzi knew it.”

“You bet. And enjoyed knowing it, from what I hear. She was so pissed off about Brooke and Rudy Wendtz, she would have done anything.”

“So Brooke had a real motive,” I said.

“So did Wendtz.”

And Robin, I thought, as I tried to concentrate later, how much had she known about all this? At least it was beginning to make sense. If Robin had any suspicion that Brooke was involved, there was nothing she wouldn’t do to draw attention away from it. Complete collapse, for instance. “I saw nothing,” she’d told me. And told the police. It was probably true enough as far as it went. But what did Robin think had happened in Mitzi’s room?

Alvin seemed to take a certain pleasure in reminding me of outstanding chores.

“A lot of people are hot on your trail,” he said, waving stacks of little yellow messages in my face.

He was right. It was imperative that I call my contacts at the Department of Justice, at two separate provincial offices and at the City. Funding depended on it.

“Some of those people are getting impatient.”

“What have you been telling them?”

“I’ve been telling them the truth, that I have no idea where you are or if or when you’re coming back. And I’ve been offering to take messages.”

“Offering to take messages? Well, well. That is a distinct service improvement. But may I suggest that you varnish the truth somewhat when dealing with real and potential funders and supporters of Justice for Victims. Tell them something compelling, that I’m in conference, that I’m at meetings, that I’m out of town on business. Use your imagination.”

“Fine,” he sniffed.

“And, while I return my stack of phone calls, can you slip over to the Rideau Centre and get a film developed? And get some cat treats from the pet shop.” I fished out a fifty dollar bill from my secret money stash, in the Miscellaneous file. I reminded myself to hit the ATM for a bit more cash, and to find a new spot for the secret stash, since Alvin seemed to file just about everything under Miscellaneous.

“The Rideau Centre? Now? Can’t it wait until I’m on my way home?”

“No, it cannot. But here, let me get a shot of you to make it worth your while.”

I snapped it, hoping he hadn’t had time to replace the look of petulance with one of supreme nonchalance before the camera caught it.

None of the real or potential funders were at their desks when I called back. I left messages. At least the ball was in their court.

I tried to return Merv’s call, but he hissed into the phone that he couldn’t talk just at that moment.

Ted Beamish just wanted to catch up on the news about Robin.

“Not much change,” I told him, “except someone killed one of her cats.”

He listened without interruption as I explained about the tabby’s demise.

“Don’t tell her,” he said. “Wait till it’s all over and I’ll help you.”

“Thanks,” I said, thinking he was not too bad.

“How did you manage to sleep there last night, after that?”

“I didn’t. I spent the night at my sister’s.” I felt, somehow, that this was a declaration of extreme cowardice.

“Good,” he said. “That was sensible. Let me know if you want me to go over there with you when you go back. I could hang around until you feel comfortable again.”

Seemed like a good idea to me.

Richard Sandes had left three messages. But I saved his call to the very end. After the locksmith. After the Mary Kay lady. When I got up the nerve to return it, I checked myself in the little mirror Alvin had installed on the desk. It didn’t cheer me up.

What do you care, I told myself, it’s not like he can see you or anything. Even so, I combed my hair and slapped on a little lipstick. There was nothing to be done about the sweater and skirt, now on their second day.

But it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t in his office.

I slumped in Alvin’s chair and gave myself a lecture. Richard Sandes had a wife. And he was waiting for her to get better, to come back. Anything else was just a filler.

You don’t want to get into a relationship with that kind of possible outcome, I said to myself. You’re just getting over the worst thing that could ever happen to anyone. Don’t ask for trouble.

Of course, a civilized little drink every now and then couldn’t hurt. As long as I kept it to that.

I was arguing with myself about the dangers of a civilized little drink, when Alvin flung himself into the room.

“Boy,” he said, “someone should tell these people about the notion of service. They keep you waiting, they have hidden charges, they’re surly and snotty.”

“Why don’t you open up a training school?”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” he said. “Just maybe.”

While he pondered the vast career potential in Alvin’s School of Customer Service, I dug through the photos, smiling to myself. I dropped the cat treats into my purse. Then I held out my hand for the change.

Alvin was just grumbling and digging for it, when the phone rang.

Richard.

“I feel like I still owe you an apology,” he said.

“You don’t. However, if you feel like grovelling, why not do it over a civilized little drink?”

We settled on seven, in the bar at the Harmony. With hints of dinner to follow.

I hung up and looked over at Alvin, who was immersed in some very important work at the back of the office.

“Alvin,” I said, “don’t let the smile on my face lead you to believe that I’ve forgotten the change.”

*   *   *

“So, Mrs. Parnell, let’s see if I understand. The police came. And you didn’t let them in.”

It was after work and we were seated in Mrs. Parnell’s living room. But where were the doilies, the knickknacks, the dozens of family photos? Where were the cushions and the afghans? Mrs. Parnell’s living room did not conform to known standards for little old ladies living alone in apartments. For one thing, the furniture consisted of a caramel leather sofa, a matching easy chair and ottoman and a massive glass coffee table. A small glass table by the side held Mrs. Parnell’s coffee cup and a hardcover book by Doris Lessing.

A serious sound system dominated the room. Records, compact-discs and cassettes filled the shelves. A modern metal sculpture was the only decoration. Unless you counted the three sets of hand-weights in jelly-bean colours. Three, four and five pounds, as far as I could tell. A pair of leg weights in matching lilac lay next to them.

The dining area was set up with a computer and printer, one chair, and a double bookcase, jammed with volumes. That left just enough room for the cage containing the peach-faced love birds.

I would have preferred the room to be more traditional. I was nervous enough sitting here with Mrs. Parnell. If I’d been wearing a tie, I’d have loosened it.

Mrs. Parnell considered my question about the police as she popped another cigarette into the holder.

“Well, I’m not sure they were the police. They seemed to be saying that they were, but anyone could say that, couldn’t they?”

“That’s right.”

“One of them looked too much like a rodent for my liking, so I decided against opening the door.”

Mombourquette.

“A good move, Mrs. Parnell.” I sipped my Harvey’s Bristol Cream and beamed at her. “So one of them looked like a rodent. By any chance did the other one look more like a middle-aged Labrador Retriever with a bit of a weight problem?”

“Just the ratty one was there. With a skinny young fellow, reminded me of a Blue Heron. I didn’t see the Lab,” she said before taking a healthy swig.