Читать книгу Speak Ill of the Dead - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 7
ОглавлениеSomeone had hated Mitzi. Hated her enough to tie her arms to the curved ends of the brass bedpost, gag her, and stab her through the heart with a sharpened stake. Hated her enough to write a poem on the wall over her head. In blood.
Here she dies Full of lies Hell will be her Well-earned prize
My stomach lurched as the still-red letters dripped on the wall. Mitzi’s open, staring, dead eyes seemed to carry traces of the terror she must have felt as she died. Don’t be stupid, I told myself, she’s dead. She can’t feel anything.
I concentrated on Robin, who was babbling and weeping. And throwing up.
The police should be able to help, I thought. In this case, I was off the mark. The troops were led by Detective Connor McCracken, sizeable, cool, and, under normal circumstances, probably quite good natured.
This time, he and his fellow detective kept asking all of us, but especially Robin, probing questions in that monotone they must learn in police college. If they’d had any training at all, they would have noticed Robin alternating between deep flush and dead white. Her hands shook during certain parts of her story. I knew what that meant, and I hoped the detectives didn’t.
“You can’t be here, you’re also a witness,” he said.
“Like hell,” I said, “I’m her lawyer. Race you to the Supreme Court.”
Detective Conn McCracken shrugged, sat Robin down in a chair and walked her through the events in Mitzi’s suite. He was large, late forties, and looked like he might coach little league on the week-ends. He smiled at Robin and even patted her hand. The good cop. Soften up the suspect before you turn her over to the bad cop.
The bad cop was called Mombourquette. He had a rodent’s face and mean little eyes to match. He was just waiting for a chance to take a bite out of Robin. I kept flicking my eyes from Robin to McCracken to Mombourquette to make sure everybody behaved.
When McCracken asked for the third time what Mitzi had wanted and Robin started to shake all over again, I put my foot down.
“Can’t you see she’s in shock?” I said. “She needs a doctor, maybe even a hospital. You guys push her around any more and I’ll file a complaint with the Police Commission and you can read your names in the newspaper. Look at her. You can see her again when her doctor says it’s all right.”
“We need a bit more information,” said Mombourquette, showing his sharp little teeth.
“I saw nothing,” Robin said. She looked at me when she said it.
“What else do you need to know? She’s already told you Mitzi Brochu, a well-known writer in women’s magazines, invited her up to the suite. She didn’t know why she was invited and when she got there the victim was dead. She didn’t see it happen and she didn’t see anyone leaving the room. She touched the body to see if there was still a pulse, and that’s how she got blood all over her. And now, as you might expect, she’s in a state of shock. Tell me, boys, would your mothers or sisters have behaved any differently?”
“Good enough,” said McCracken, disappointing Ratface.
I decided that Robin would be better off with her parents than alone in her townhouse. I got up and called them, telling them to get the family doctor mondo quicko and suggest this would be a good time for a house call.
Of course, I knew Robin was lying to the police. I just didn’t know why.
They say everybody is capable of murder under the right circumstances. But it would have taken a lot more than Mitzi with her trendy vindictiveness to turn Robin into a killer. And she never would have been able to tie those knots. She couldn’t even manage that for her Brownie badges.
Conn McCracken took me aside, just before I bundled Robin into a blanket.
“You’re Donald MacPhee’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Jeez, I remember him from St. Jim’s. And Alexa’s your sister, right? I used to date her a bit. You were just a little kid when I saw you last. So, um, how is she?”
I found it hard to drop my antagonistic mood. “Alexa? So so. Her husband died last fall and she’s still getting over it.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said, not looking sorry in the least.
“Well, tell her I said hi.”
“Sure.”
* * *
As we left the Harmony Hotel, escorted by a pair of olice officers, the flash bulbs went off in the lobby and the TV cameras homed in. Jo Quinlan, strapping and capable news anchor, barred our way, holding her microphone, telling her viewers everything she knew about Mitzi’s death.
The cameras got some nice footage of Robin looking like Bambi on speed.
Robin didn’t say a word in the cab. She seemed to have crawled up inside herself and shut the rest of us out. Only the pressure of her hand clutching mine told me we were still connected. I was relieved when we got to her parents’ home and found Dr. Beaver all ready for us. Her father and I slid her into her old bed and Dr. B.’s hypodermic did the trick. Even her mother ripped herself away from The Young and the Restless and stood there, wringing her hands.
“Robin’s in shock,” Dr. Beaver said. “Just shock. She’ll be fine.”
He hovered over her as she twitched and moaned in her sleep. He offered the same kind of down-to-earth advice we’d had from him as children, scared to get vaccinations. We’d always relaxed and giggled around him because he had huge buck teeth and looked like he’d be at home in a pond.
“You heard Dr. B.,” I said to my unconscious friend. “You’ll be fine.”
She opened her eyes wide and squeaked, “The cats! What will happen to the cats?”
Oh no. Not that.
“She means her cats, the six she keeps,” her father whispered. “They can’t come here. Mrs. Findlay’s allergic to cats. Oh my God, now Robin’s going to fret about them.”
I didn’t need anyone to tell me what she meant. I am no fan of cats, and this particular six irritated me every time I dropped in to see Robin. But this wasn’t the right moment to mention it.
“Don’t worry about the cats,” I said, feeling a sudden, regrettable largeness of spirit. “I’ll make sure they’re all right.”
I gave Robin’s hand a little squeeze and felt her squeeze back, just as her eyes closed.
Once Robin was out cold, Mrs. Findlay slipped back in front of the boob tube and lit up a cigarette. As long as I can remember, she’s been addicted to soap operas. Once Robin told me her mother had been at the grocery store with a long lineup at the cash. When she realized she might miss Another World, she left her groceries and hightailed it home.
Robin’s father and I just kept bumping into each other and not having anything to say. What could you say? I didn’t want coffee. I didn’t want a drink. I didn’t want to try the lemon poppyseed muffins which were still cooling on the counter. Neither of us mentioned the police and their questions. We both knew Robin’s troubles were just beginning.
“Don’t worry, there’s no need for you to hang around, chewing your nails. Thank you for helping. There’s nothing you can do right now. You go home, and I’ll let you know when she can talk,” he said. “Camilla’s leaving now, dear.”
Mrs. Findlay butted out her latest cigarette and tore her eyes away from a blonde woman and a dark-haired man who were engaged in some kind of wrestling match under a sheet. And in the afternoon, too.
“God almighty, those two scamps, eh?” Mrs. Findlay lit another cigarette and pointed to the TV with it. But it was too late, an ad for detergent which would get your sheets sparkling clean replaced the wrestling scene. “That Nina. If they’re not careful, her husband will catch them. Then there’ll be hell to pay.”
“I can imagine,” I murmured.
“You just try and relax,” said Mr. Findlay as he opened the door for me.
* * *
Just relax. Sure. You can picture just how relaxing it was at my place once my nearest and dearest got a gander at Robin and me on the six o’clock news. Hot and cold running relatives, everywhere you looked.
“Would you like a martini? Some warm milk? Toast? A nice boiled egg? Something else? Although there’s not much in your fridge.” That was Alexa. She believes in the efficacy of food and drink in the face of any disaster.
“Not really hungry.”
“Would it help if I did a bit of this laundry?” Donalda. She’s only comfortable in a well-administered household. Whenever she visits me, she perches on the edge of the sofa and stares into the kitchen at the dishes in the sink. “I could wash up those dishes for you, if you’d like.”
“Sure, anything you want.”
“I think your home would be much improved by the addition of some dining room furniture. Nothing too avant-garde, just a couple of nice chairs and a good table. I don’t know how you can stand to have a desk in there. Why don’t you spend a little of your money on fixing it up? You could even get a pretty desk and put it in the living room.” Edwina. House Beautiful has always been her bible.
The burbling of decorating tips was drowned out by the squeal of the blender in the kitchen and the roar of the vacuum cleaner around our feet. Robin’s cats took refuge in my bedroom. My father sat in the armchair in the corner and studied me with keen interest.
No one mentioned the murder. And I sure wasn’t going to.
“Something else? What about a nice little rum and coke to settle you down?” Alexa never forgets our Nova Scotia roots.
To tell the truth, it felt rather good to have them bustling around, dispensing elbow grease and unsolicited advice, their voices blurring. Usually I protect my territory and independence and try to keep a handle on their surplus domesticity.
“A filing cabinet would help a lot. The light from your balcony would be perfect for a ficus benjamina. Can I top up your drink?”
The second rum and coke hit me like a piano from a second story window. As I crawled naked into my freshly made bed and curled into the fetal position, I could hear the gentle thudding of the washer-dryer and the hum of sisters chatting. I closed my eyes. Six cats settled themselves around my feet.
All that night and into the next day, Mitzi’s dead face kept flashing through my mind, with Robin’s wailing voice in the background. “No, no,” she kept saying, “not dead. Not like this. Please not now.”
* * *
“Crucified? Lord thundering Jesus,” said Alvin, filled with admiration for my cleverness in finding myself in the right spot at the right time. “What did she look like?” He picked up the receiver he’d dropped on the desk as I sagged through the door. “She’s here now, Mom, I’ll call you back later.” He hung up and looked at me with great expectation.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
After a night of spinning in the sheets, fighting nightmares filled with dead eyes and silent screams, the last thing I wanted was to relive finding Mitzi Brochu. And the only way to avoid talking about it was to get Alvin out of the office. I decided the solution was a series of low-level yet time-consuming errands requiring stops all over town.
“Panty-hose?” he said, reading the list I handed him. “You want me to pick up your panty-hose? That’s demeaning. It’s bad enough I have to go to the print shop and the post office and the library and pick up cat food. But I draw the line at panty-hose. That’s not part of my job.”
“Sure it is. It’s called Other Duties As Required. Take it or leave it. You can always go home to Mom.”
I hoped Alvin would leave it, for good. But as a consolation prize, I hoped he’d at least be gone for a couple of tranquil hours.
In the meantime, I was counting on the Benning brief to take my mind off what we’d found in Mitzi Brochu’s bedroom.
The Benning brief wasn’t quite distracting enough. Mitzi, seen from different angles, superimposed herself on every page of notes. Even my endless doodles were gruesome.
And I kept thinking about Robin.
For my own peace of mind, I needed to know what Robin had been doing in Mitzi’s room. And what she had meant by “not now.”
The phone rang, jerking me back to the present. “Long distance, for Mr. Alvin Ferguson. Will you accept the charges?” “No, Mr. Alvin Ferguson is not here and, no, I will not accept the charges.”
The operator was pretty unemotional about the whole thing, but I slammed down the phone and made a mental note to check the next bill.
I couldn’t concentrate on the Benning brief. And things administrative paled next to the enormity of being involved in a murder. What made her go there? Robin, sensible, flat-shoed real estate lawyer. Singer in the church choir. Disher out of food at the Food Bank. What was her connection with Mitzi Brochu, shredder of egos?
Mrs. Findlay answered the phone in a whisper.
“No, dear, she’s still out like a light. Dr. B.’s been here again to give her something. She woke up at 6 in the morning and almost gave her father a heart attack, screeching.”
“What was she, um, screeching?”
“Something like, ‘you can’t do that to her. I won’t let you do that to her.’” A little quaver sneaked into Mrs. Findlay’s voice. “Oh, dear, what do you think it all means?”
“I don’t know.”
I didn’t either. But I had to ask myself, if Robin had seen the killer, had the killer seen Robin?
Why would she deny it? Especially to me?
Thanks to the vigilance of the local paparazzi, her face and name had blasted its way into every home in the region.
What had it felt like to preside over the media interpretation of the death of someone who had humiliated you on the pages of the magazine with the widest circulation in the country? Had there been a look of satisfaction on Jo Quinlan’s face?
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Findlay,” I lied, “just make sure she’s not alone. I think that will be much better for her.”
“You’re right, dear. Brooke’s on her way home from Toronto now. She’ll be a great help, I’m sure.”
I murmured soothing remarks, casually omitting agreement that Robin’s little sister would be a great help. I felt confident Brooke would be the self-centred and pampered vapour-brain she’d always been. It seemed inappropriate to mention this to her mother.
* * *
What the hell, I thought, I’m a taxpayer. And with Alvin out of the way, I was able to get to the phone.
“Oh, yeah,” said McCracken, when I identified myself. “How are you today?”
I stopped myself from saying, “Oh, you know, the way I always feel the day after I’ve found my best friend non compos mentis in the presence of a warm corpse.” Instead I said “Getting there.”
“Great,” he said.
“I’d like a bit of information.”
“Not much I can say. Aren’t you a defence lawyer?”
“Not usually. I’m an advocate for victims. My philosophy is toss the perpetrators in the hoosegow, slam the gates and turf the key.”
“Oh,” he said, “I guess that’s good. I’m afraid I still can’t give you any information. But how’s your sister?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
“Fingerprints.”
“Shoot.”
“Nothing but the deceased, your little friend and the housekeeping staff.”
“My sister’s fine.”
“Do you think she’d mind if I gave her a call sometime?” he asked.
I cleared my throat in a meaningful way.
“We’ve interviewed all the staff and the other guests and no one saw anyone except your friend Robin enter the scene of the crime. Ms. Brochu had no apparent enemies.”
“My fanny, she didn’t. Did you ever read anything she wrote?”
“I’m telling you what the witnesses tell me.”
“Maybe you should talk to them again.”
“Maybe. But the way I hear it, your friend was upset before she ever got near the victim.”
This was true and I knew it, but I just kept silent on my end of the line. Until it was McCracken’s turn to clear his throat.
“Hard to say with Alexa,” I told him. “You better just give her a call and find out.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“No problem,” I said.
Alexa wasn’t home when I dialled.
I nibbled my nails for a long time after talking to McCracken. It sounded to me like Robin could turn out to be an easy solution for the police. I would have to make sure that didn’t happen.
I knew Robin hadn’t had enough time to kill Mitzi. But I didn’t even need to know that—I knew her.
Alvin, considerate as always, had laid out a few more issues of Femme Fatale with Mitzi articles for me. He’d added a note, suggesting I might find them amusing.
Mitzi, it turned out, had an annual feature, “Mitzi Picks the Glitz and Mitzi Picks the Zitz.” These issues, Alvin mentioned in his note, were hard to come by, as someone had already stolen them from the library. Lucky for me (he said) he had friends.
“Mitzi’s Glitz” turned out to be a mix of svelte men and women with impeccable style sense and verve and hectares of spare cash for clothes. A dozen glitzers in all, but no real surprises. The wife of a department store magnate, a bakery magnate and a magazine magnate. And, of course, the magnates themselves, indistinguishable in white tie. A CBC cultural guru. A model whose furry eyebrows, pointy cheekbones, and pouty lips were on every second cover of Femme Fatale. A real estate developer. A classical guitarist. An actress. A former Prime Minister. Mitzi had burbled on in praise of their superb taste and élan.
Who gives a shit, I thought. But the real fun stuff was reserved for the “Zitz”. Poor old Zitz. Just minding their own business and then one day, one too many cream puffs and, poof, they’ve made the list.
Jo Quinlan and Deb Goodhouse were way down on the Zitz list at numbers 11 and 12. Still, they were on it. No wonder there weren’t any copies left on the local stands.
I’m not a person who cares about appearances, my own or others, but still I was surprised Jo Quinlan would have let herself be photographed wearing those particular spandex shorts and that halter top. Particularly in profile. Although from the gas barbecue in the background, the tongs in her hands and the look on her face, it appeared the scene was her own backyard and the photographer had just stuck his nasty little camera over the fence.
“Massive Media Menace” was the caption over Jo’s photo. Underneath it read: “Try mud-wrestling, dear, you already have the wardrobe, and leave the screen to those who don’t fill every inch of it.”
Still, Jo Quinlan got off better than Deb Goodhouse. Or “The Goodhouse Blimp”, as Mitzi dubbed her. The rear view shot of Deb Goodhouse walking up the stairs of the Centre Block of the Parliament Buildings had a cartoon string drawn around her ankle. The angle of the camera had enhanced the rear expanse. “Is our Princess of Polyester full of hot air or worse? Will she rise in the House and float through the ceiling? If looks could kill, she’d be six feet under,” the commentary read.
The articles featured pictures of Mitzi too. Looking much better than the last time I had seen her. Emaciated, with blood-red lips and a crow’s nest of black hair. All in black with bare shoulders, black gloves past the elbow, black hose and pointed black spike heels. The photo of Mitzi floated without background, a judge, ruling without mercy on fashion crimes.
Somebody had taken revenge on Mitzi. Just a glance at these articles told me there would be a long list of candidates. Not to mention the hundreds of others who must have suffered at Mitzi’s hands. I hoped the police would do a good job of checking out Robin’s competition. If not, I decided I’d have to do it myself.
Alexa was home this time when I called to warn her.
“Oh good, Camilla,” she said. “I was just about to call you. Edwina wants us all to have dinner at her place. Six o’clock…”
I interrupted. “I had no choice but to suggest you might be willing to get a call from this cop you used to know in high school. Sorry. But you can always take your phone off the hook.”
“A policeman? Oh, not Conn McCracken, was it?”
“Yes, look, I’m sorry….”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much, just how were you.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you were so so.”
“Oh, Camilla.”
“And I told him that Greg died.”
“That’s all?”
“What did you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Did he ask how I looked?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, he might call you and you can tell him how you look yourself.”
“Oh, Camilla.”
“Gotta go, I hear the dreaded Alvin approaching.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Alexa breathed. “Does he still have all his hair?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“For God’s sake, Camilla,” she said and hung up.
The only good thing about being the boss is making up rules and then changing them without reason or warning as you go along. So when Alvin crashed back into the office, dropped his bags, and snarled something about how can you stand all those fucking tulips all over the place, I beamed as I picked up my jacket and opened the door.
“So long, Alvin. There’s plenty to keep you busy. I see about fifty linear feet of filing on the floor. By tomorrow, I expect to be able to see the pattern of the carpet.”
His wail followed me down the stairs. “Don’t you want these panty-hose?”
