Читать книгу Camilla MacPhee Mysteries 6-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 11

I drove over to Elmvale Acres Saturday morning. Robin looked even worse. She must have lost twenty pounds since finding Mitzi.

“She was just pretending to eat a bit before, and now she’s not even pretending. We’re so worried.” Mr. Findlay stood by the door with a pan of lemon loaf held in his oven mitts.

Mrs. F. nodded her head from the sofa, which was something, I guess, acknowledging that the situation was serious. Even though her mind was on a taped episode of The Young and the Restless.

Mr. F. was glum. Rejection of his food struck at his self-image, I’m sure.

I still wasn’t prepared for the sight of her, shrunken and grey. It was hard to believe that anyone whose colour was that bad had blood in their veins. The skin on her face was loose.

“Robin,” I whispered when we were alone, “you better start eating or old Dr. Beaver’s going to stick a tube through your nose, down your throat and force feed you. Nibbling on your Dad’s fresh lemon loaf is a more pleasant alternative. Trust me.”

She tried to smile. “I do trust you. I just can’t eat. I just can’t. And I don’t want to.”

The rest of our conversation went nowhere. Just like every time I’d spoken to her since the murder. One thing I knew. I couldn’t count on Robin for help with the investigation.

“What did Dr. Beaver say?” I asked Mr. Findlay on the way out.

“He’s going to put her back in the hospital if she doesn’t start to eat. Maybe get her some psychiatric help. She doesn’t want it.”

“Shhh,” said Mrs. Findlay from the sofa.

Must have been an important part.

* * *

I spent the rest of Saturday in the office trying to catch up. I worked halfway through one mountain of paper, but two more had sprung up. Tomorrow, I said, and went back to thinking about Robin.

Since the murder, everyone’s reactions to Robin had been emotional. Poor Traumatized Robin. Or, in the case of the police, Guilty as Sin Robin. It was time for me to take a more reasoned approach to my friend and her very big problem.

I worked through a little flowchart of possibilities. For instance, Robin either killed Mitzi or she didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to believe she had, so I pursued the no side. Robin either saw the killer or she didn’t. If she had seen the killer, she either knew the killer’s identity or she didn’t. If she saw someone she didn’t know, she would have no apparent reason for not describing him or her. If she knew the killer, she was refusing to talk for some reason that made sense to her. Fear? Protectiveness? If it were fear, who could scare Robin so much that she would not describe a murder to the police?

Robin and I knew many of the same people. Of course, she’s met quite a few more people through St. Jim’s Parish and the Humane Society and dishing out food at the Food Bank and even her office. But somehow, I didn’t think these organizations would be the sources for Mitzi’s murderer. Just to be on the safe side, I made a note to nose around in all four. But my heart wasn’t in it, these were not people to inspire fear. And Robin, for all her fragile blonde looks and current attacks of the vapours, was no chicken.

Fine, then. The last variant was that Robin saw the killer and chose to protect him or her for some reason. I chewed on my pencil and tried to figure out what reason Robin could have to protect a killer.

When I slunk out of the office, full of questions, I bumped into Ted Beamish.

“Think nothing of it,” he said, dusting off his knees.

“Sorry, Ted, I wasn’t expecting anyone. It’s Saturday.”

“Sure, I know.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was heading for the Mayflower and I…I saw your light on and I thought I’d see if you had time for a beer, catch up a bit.”

A good enough story, except that my office was past the Mayflower, and you can’t see the window from the street.

“Why not,” I said, before realizing that I was ticked off at Mr. Ted Beamish, but good.

“How’s Robin?” he asked as we sat down and ordered.

“If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you ask me about her when she was taken in for questioning?” I snapped.

“Taken in?” Ted turned white. “If she’s being questioned, why are we sitting here?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t know about this?”

“I’ve been away at a hearing,” he said. “God, poor Robin.

Why would they suspect her?”

“Because she was the last person to see Mitzi before she was found dead, because only her fingerprints and Mitzi’s were found in the room, because…”

“Sounds pretty fluffy to me.”

I nodded. “And because I think Robin is protecting someone.”

“Who?” he inhaled.

“Well, I’m not sure, but she either knows or suspects someone of killing Mitzi, and she’s making herself sick over it.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know who, or I would have my elbow in his throat right now. But maybe someone from work, or church or her volunteer stuff. I think I’ll nose around a little bit.”

“I’ll help you.” Ted’s face lit up at the prospect.

“No, that’s all right…”

It fell again as I started to turn him down. Wait a minute, I said to myself.

“…that’d be great, Ted. Why don’t you schmooze the girls in her office and the Humane Society. We can both do a bit of the Food Bank.”

He was nodding. “I can do that.”

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll just confine myself to stalking the criminal elements. I feel more comfortable having my own niche than spreading myself all over the map.”

“I’d like to see her, too,” he said.

“Sure,” I lied, knowing Robin wouldn’t want to see any new man in her current state, “I’ll set that up for you.”

“What do you mean set it up?”

I could tell by the look in his eyes that I had gone too far.

“I’ll just drop in myself sometime tomorrow and give her some encouragement.” He said it in a way that didn’t allow for argument.

* * *

By eight o’clock on Sunday morning, I was at Robin’s, surprising her father in the middle of making cinnamon rolls.

“These’ll be ready in half an hour,” he said, as I skipped up the stairs.

“I can’t,” Robin whined, as I manoeuvred her into the bathroom.

“You’d better,” I told her, as she sat on the little blue chair, and I rummaged through the dozens of shampoo bottles, “Otherwise an attractive male colleague is going to drop in to see you and find you looking like a bleached sardine.”

“What do you mean, a bleached sardine?” she asked, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes.

“Pale and greasy.”

I looked up from under the sink to see she was laughing, just a little silent shake, but it gave me hope.

While Robin was in the shower with a lemon fragrance shampoo, I kept up a running conversation, talking about Ted Beamish, talking about Alvin, talking about anything but the murder. I was on the alert, ready to grab her if she collapsed.

Mr. Findlay whipped into her bedroom and changed the sheets when we were out of the room. He left a pot of steaming coffee, two blue and white china mugs and fragrant, warm cinnamon buns with icing glaze on top.

Back in bed with her yellow hair blow-dried and smelling lemon-fresh, she leaned against the blue roses on the pillowcase.

“Ted Beamish,” she said, “I can’t quite place him.”

“I don’t know how you could forget him. He’s…” I searched for the right word… “dashing. And persistent.” True enough, and more appealing than pudgy, red-headed, receding-hairlined and forgettable-faced.

“Persistent?”

“You have no idea. But listen, you’d better get on a little warpaint. I don’t know if he’s persistent enough for a bleached sardine.”

Robin managed a little pink lipstick, a smudge of blue eyeliner and a few sweeps of mascara before she fell back on the pillow.

I had no mercy. “Cheek stuff,” I hissed, “what do you call it?”

“Blusher,” she whispered.

“Where is it?”

“In my purse.”

I rummaged through gum, keys, at least seven pens, chequebook, a banana that had to be removed at once, two notebooks, sunglasses, dozens of little notes about things to do, perfume, an address book, wallet, a tennis ball, two packets of tissues, lottery tickets, a Mars bar and her blusher.

I dropped the banana into the wastepaper basket and the room took on the scent.

Dabbing on the bit of blush gave Robin an illusion of health, if you didn’t look too closely. If you didn’t notice the loose skin and glazed eyes.

“There,” I said, waving a hand mirror in front of her face, “you look great. And we can see your breath on the mirror, so we know you’re alive. This is good. When he comes through that door, he’s going to fall right off his horse.”

I don’t know why she thought that was so funny. I found myself laughing, too. We howled until tears ran down our cheeks. Even though two minutes earlier I’d been acting with all the humour of a women’s prison warden. At least Robin, the real Robin, was still kicking underneath her shrunken exterior.

The door to her bedroom burst open and our laughing choked off.

“For Crissakes,” Brooke shrieked, sticking her head in, “don’t you know people are trying to sleep?”

“My apologies, Brooke. We shouldn’t let the psychological recovery of your sister interfere with something as crucial as your rest.”

I would have continued on, but she was gone before I got revved up. She slammed the door, too, but only after she called me a bitch.

“Oh dear, poor Brooke,” said Robin, all signs of laughter disappearing.

“Poor Brooke, nothing,” I said, filling the mugs with coffee and handing one to Robin. “You have the right to laugh.”

“I heard her come in at three last night. She must be exhausted.”

“Maybe it’s time poor Brooke thought about you a bit. Maybe you’re the one who needs special attention and care. Maybe there are more important things in this world than Brooke and her stupid career as a vacuous face on the cover of a vapid magazine.”

From the look on Robin’s face, I’d gone too far again.

It took two cups of coffee, a bit of cinnamon roll and a lot of soothing talk before she smiled again. We patched up the makeup and she gave my hand a little squeeze.

“I know it’s hard for you to be so nice and patient, Cam. Thanks.”

“Well, anyway, at least you look okay in case what’s-his-name shows up.”

Before heading back to the office, I straightened up the room.

In the process I knocked over Robin’s purse. I did my best to replace everything in some kind of order, but after a while I gave up and piled in the chewing gum packages, notes, stamps, eye shadows, pens and other stuff. At least the banana was gone.

The writing on the last note caught my eye. Rudy Wendtz, it said. Nothing else.

I looked over at Robin.

“He might not come,” she said.

“He’ll come.”

“Maybe not.”

“Even supposing he doesn’t come, which he will, you still got yourself fixed up and you look very nice and fresh and I’m sure you feel a lot more comfortable.”

I didn’t mention finding Rudy Wendtz’s name in her purse. I would ask Robin about Rudy Wendtz when the time was right. She smiled a little bit when I left.

All the way home, I thought about that note. What was it doing there? How did Robin know about Rudy? Had she known him before she got summoned to Mitzi’s suite?

* * *

The next day, there was no Alvin in the office. While getting rid of him had been my major preoccupation not too long ago, now I was bothered by his continuing, unexplained absence.

A plain brown envelope with my name typed on it lay on the floor next to the door. I picked it up and tossed it onto the desk.

Alvin hadn’t been in to pick it up. Another strike against him. Still, his absence meant I could get to the phone without pushing him out of the way.

I called Ted Beamish.

“Now?” he said. “It’s not even ten o’clock. I can’t just disappear on the taxpayers’ nickel.”

“Make up the time,” I said, trying to sound like I must be obeyed, “we’re talking someone’s mental health here.”

“I was planning on dropping in to see Robin on my lunch or after work. I was going to call first.”

“Don’t wait. Don’t call. Go now.”

After a pause, he said, “All right. I guess I can do that.”

“But first,” I said, “tell me what you found out schmoozing the girls at Robin’s office and the Food Bank and the Humane Society.”

“Well, not that much. No one at the Humane Society knew anything. They were just worried about who was looking after her cats.”

And well they should be, I thought.

“At the office, I schmoozed the girls as you suggested. They seemed to feel Robin had been under some kind of strain for about a week or so. No one knew what, she just seemed very worried and distracted.”

“For a week?”

“Thereabouts. No one’s sure. And they can’t link it to anything. But they’d been talking about it themselves even before the murder.”

“Hmm. You got a contact there now you could just call for a bit of information?”

“Sure.”

“See if you can find out if she received any calls from her sister.”

“The model?”

“The one and only.”

“She’s kind of self-focused, isn’t she? I hear it’s all me, myself and I.”

“You got it.”

“Let me think, what else,” he added. “Right, the Food Bank. I tracked down two of the other volunteers who were on with Robin last week. One of them remembers her being very distressed, very distracted. It turns out this was the night before the murder. Something happened to her that day. This person didn’t know. But she might have told someone else. A close friend.”

I shook my head. I was her closest friend, and she hadn’t confided in me. Probably because she couldn’t reach me. If only I’d been at the office when she called. If only I’d intercepted her at the Harmony before she went into Mitzi’s suite. If only…”

Ted’s voice interrupted me.

“Well? What do you think?”

“Good stuff. Well, you should head off now. Robin needs you.”

I noted a trace of resentment in his good-bye.

Job number two was to find that little twerp, Alvin, and drag him back to indentured labour where he belonged. Or set him loose and find someone who could do the job. Yes. I could fire him for deserting his post.

I ripped Alvin’s file from the drawer and found his address. While I was searching for a pen and a piece of paper on the desk, I spotted the plain brown envelope again Probably his notice, and he was too chicken to give it in person, I thought as I ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of white bond. Sammy Dash, it said, DOB 29/03/58, no outstanding warrants. Previously convicted of possession of cannabis. Did not serve time. Several charges of assault on former girlfriend, later dropped. Suspected of involvement in cocaine traffic. Never charged.

Sammy’s address was included too. Well, well. Thanks, Merv.

When I found the pencil and paper, I copied Sammy’s address along with Alvin’s. I also cast a guilty glance at the pile of work. It seemed to me it had taken on an eerie, green glow and was beginning to pulsate a bit.

I’ll get to you, I said. The phone was ringing as I skipped out of the office.

* * *

Alvin was surprised to see me. Perhaps because I was leaning against his doorbell and had been doing so for five minutes. There was some interesting graffiti on the walls, and the corridor had a faint scent of illegal substances.

“Camilla,” he said, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you. What the hell do you think?”

“Gee. That is a surprise. Come on in.”

A surprise.

“I thought maybe you were dead. But, of course, that may have just been wishful thinking.”

“I wasn’t expecting you. The place is a bit of a mess.”

The place was less of a mess than I would have expected.

“I’ll get you some tea,” he said and disappeared from the room before I could tell him he was fired.

I headed for the sofa with the leopard-skin covering, passing the ancient refrigerator, painted silver, which was the focal point of the living area. There was no other furniture in the room, unless you counted the CD player and the chrome coat rack holding Alvin’s best studded black leather jacket. Or the toilet with the exuberant ivy growing out of it. No sign of the mess Alvin had alluded to, although it was hard to tell if the walls were clean or not, since they were painted black. The same applied to the floor, which was a giant abstract painting of household appliances and cleaning products, with a high-gloss finish. On a wall it would have been a mural. Was it a flooral? I wondered.

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.