Читать книгу Camilla MacPhee Mysteries 6-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 14

“Thank 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.

“Mrs. Parnell…”

“But I think I saw you last night leaving with someone who looked a bit like a Saint Bernard, carrying cats which looked exactly like cats. And I do have to tell you, young lady, that you will have to do something about those noisy beasts.”

Behind her, a bird peeped in agreement.

“What about birds?”

“If you mean Lester and Pierre,” she said, nodding towards the cage with purse-lipped satisfaction, “birds, Ms. MacPhee, don’t disturb anyone.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Parnell, that persistent chirping gives me migraines.”

“Very funny, but don’t try to change the subject. I knew those cats were there. And now look what’s happened. The police are asking about it. I didn’t like to turn you in, but I won’t be able to hold out forever.”

I looked at her with astonishment. “But, Mrs. Parnell, the police don’t care about cats in the apartment. That’s a civil matter.”

“Not too civil if you ask me,” she said, with a glance at the love birds.

“I mean, not criminal. You see…”

“Depends on your point of view,” she sniffed.

“Mrs. Parnell, one of those cats was murdered last night. To my knowledge, the occasional loud meow doesn’t merit the death penalty in this country.” I leaned forward with fire in my eyes. Perhaps it was the Bristol Cream taking effect.

“Murdered!”

“That’s right, its neck was broken,” I snapped my fingers.

“Dear me,” she said. “It’s the disintegration of society.”

“I don’t really see it as the disinteg…”

“How shocking for you. Goodness, you need that drink topped up.” She was spry enough to hop up and get the Harvey’s bottle. She filled her own glass to the brim right after mine. “So what are you going to do with the other three, now that this one’s dead?”

“The other five.”

“Five! I only spotted three, I must be losing it.” She polished off half the glass. “Oh well. May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

“Mrs. Parnell, this is a serious business. I need your help. From time to time you may accidentally see something from the peephole in your door.” That was the kindest way I could think of to mention that Mrs. Parnell’s eyes were rarely far from that peephole. “When you’re checking up on suspicious noises.” I didn’t want to alienate her by adding that she was the nosiest woman I’d ever encountered.

She nodded at me and leaned forward. This Bristol Cream is the secret to promoting neighbourliness, I thought. I dug out the package of photos from my purse.

“Did you see any of these people going into my apartment last night?”

She kept nodding as I showed her each one of them. We went through them twice.

My heart banged a bit when she pointed to my new friend, Large-and-Lumpy.

“Are you sure?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t.

“Pretty distinctive, don’t you think? Looks like a bear. I thought at the time he must have been a boxer or something. He didn’t seem to be your type, but…” she shrugged her shoulders, “who can tell these days.”

I was clutching my sherry glass so hard the crystal pattern dug into my palms. Large-and-Lumpy, not my oldest buddy, but I’d felt a rapport with him, and now, to find out he’d been in my apartment the night the tabby was killed. On Wendtz’s orders, I was sure. It told me something I wanted to know: Wendtz was implicated, despite his alibi, and he didn’t want me digging around in Mitzi’s activities. It told me something I didn’t want to know, as well. Large-and-Lumpy would do anything he was directed to by Wendtz. Frightening me. Killing a cat. I swallowed the rest of the Bristol Cream and thought the next logical thought: Would he also have killed Mitzi on Wendtz’s orders? Did Large-and-Lumpy have an alibi for the time of Mitzi’s death?

Mrs. Parnell poured another healthy dose into my glass and added a discreet amount to her own.

“Well,” she said. “Well, well, well. Isn’t this exciting?”

Exciting wasn’t the word I was searching for.

“That explains, I suppose, that man who was working on your door today. And that the Super was up too. Good thing you and the Saint Bernard took the cats away last night.”

Two and three-quarters glasses of sherry were enough to make my head spin, and I still had to drop in to see Richard for a civilized little drink. Mrs. Parnell was good enough to call the Super to bring up my new keys. She must have a way with him. I’ve never gotten action that fast.

While we waited, I took a couple of shots of her peach-faced love birds for her. And got a nice one of her standing next to the cage.

“The police said something about cats, Mrs. Parnell,” said the Super as Mrs. P. opened the door and whisked the keys from his sweaty little hand.

“I think they said bats,” she told him. “The burglars were out of there like bats out of hell.”

I waved to him from the sofa.

As I staggered across the hallway to my empty apartment, I turned and asked her, “Promise me, Mrs. Parnell, that you’ll let me know if anyone comes to my apartment in the next few days. Here’s my office number. Thanks for the drinks. And for keeping my secret.”

“My pleasure,” she said, with what might have been the beginnings of a smile.

* * *

A bath, a nap, a change of clothes and the intervening three hours weren’t enough to get me back to normal before I hit the Harmony. It had been a busy and distracting day even before the sherry.

It was the first warm evening of the season, and a frisky breeze ruffled my hair. Climbing out of the cab, I smoothed my deep green jersey dress and gave it a little tug. I wasn’t used to having things end above my knees, and I wasn’t sure what I had been thinking of when I bought it.

I was steady enough on the high heels though, plus I had clean hair, face and teeth and, best of all, I was fifteen minutes early. I also had my camera and plenty of film.

I recognized Naomi by her big hair and chirpy voice. She was working with Brad, who had lots of teeth set on perma-smile. “Hmmm,” chirped Naomi, “no, I’ve never seen him.” She pointed to Large-and-Lumpy in the photo and gave a little shiver, “how could you forget someone like that?” She took a look at Rudy Wendtz’s brooding expression. “Oh yes, he was here often when Miss Brochu was in town, wasn’t he, Brad?”

“Sure was,” said Brad. “Remember the night of the big fight? When we had to call in security?”

“Who could forget it?” Naomi rolled her eyes.

“And this one, too. I’ve seen him before.” She pointed to Sammy Dash. “I think he used to accompany Miss Brochu, too. Kinda cute, isn’t he?”

“These two women look familiar,” said Brad. I put it down to an attempt to change the subject. “I’ve seen them both before, but I’m not sure where.”

“One of them does the news and the other’s a politician, I think,” Naomi added. “But the one who does the news, she was here the day of the murder, I remember her with a camera crew and everything. But I think she might have been in earlier too.”

“Can you remember when?”

“Sorry,” said Naomi.

“But she’s been here all right,” said Brad, not to be outdone. “Who could forget a face like that?” He pointed to Brooke.

“Big deal, she didn’t look that great the day she was here.” Naomi was prepared to sulk a bit.

“Upset, maybe. But still beautiful.”

“When was that? Do either of you remember?” Naomi shrugged.

“Well, this is the first day I’ve been back from my holidays,” said Brad, “so it must have been just before I left. That would be the twelfth of May.”

May twelfth, the day before Mitzi’s murder.

“Who cares?” said Naomi.

“Great,” I said, ignoring her and focusing on him, “any idea what she was doing here?”

They both shook their heads.

“She came in looking like a million dollars and headed straight for the elevator. She knew where she was going, all right,” said Brad.

“And she came out again, a bit later, looking real upset. I think she’d been crying. Her mascara was running.” Naomi offered the comment with some satisfaction.

Okay, Brooke. Gotcha now.

I tucked myself behind a pillar, snapped on the zoom, bagging a good shot of Brad and Naomi still arguing about Brooke. For good luck, I caught the bell captain and two bell boys.

Then I sashayed into the bar to meet Richard, right on time. “Smile for the birdie,” I said, getting a nice image of him telling the waiter to give me special treatment.

* * *

I arrived at Alexa’s place that evening with a grin on my face and what was left of my Catholic conscience locked in the basement of my mind.

Alexa opened the door the second Richard’s car drove into the driveway, eliminating any mushy stuff. Just as well. After all, it had just been a civilized drink followed by dinner.

As I walked through the door, I sniffed L’air du Temps. I turned to wave good-bye to Richard.

Alexa was wearing very subtle yet effective make-up, creating a dewy, youthful appearance. An appearance bolstered by her soft, cream cowl-necked angora sweater and black pants with little patent flats. A very nice effect, but wasted on me at eleven in the evening.

“Is that him?” she whispered, watching the car pull out of the driveway.

“It’s a different him.”

“Oh. So who is he?”

“A friend.”

“How nice,” she said, sinking into a chair in the living room.

I could tell she wanted to talk, but I had to make a stop in the laundry room. I was feeling guilty about the cats. Maybe I could buy my way back into their favour with the cat treats.

“It’s very hard to keep them in the laundry room,” Alexa pointed out as she came up behind me. “They seem to want to get out and sit on the furniture.”

“I think I can understand that.”

“Yes, well,” she said, “they’re staying in.”

Ten eyes glowed with reproach when I opened the door. It would take a hell of a lot of cat treats to get back in their good graces.

I closed the door and faced Alexa, who was slumping against the wall.

“I’m sorry. I still think you should just give him a call. Save yourself all this stressful self-torment. I’ve got to go to bed now. Big day tomorrow.”

When I snapped her picture from the top of the stairs, she was sitting in the living room with the lights off. Mooning over McCracken.

Go figure.