Читать книгу Camilla MacPhee Mysteries 6-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 20

“Gee, hi,” I said. “Imagine meeting you here. I was just on my way over to take a look at the tulips. Aren’t they great?”

I might have been a maggot on the stem of one of those tulips the way Deb Goodhouse looked at me. It wasn’t just that she was splendidly casual in a full patterned cotton skirt and matching blouse that I thought might be from Suttles and Seawinds while I had on my ancient blue jeans and an oversized tee-shirt that said “I’m With Stupid”. Maybe she just wasn’t used to people sneaking up on her right in her own neighbourhood.

“Mind if I walk along with you?” I asked, walking along with her.

“I’m in quite a hurry.”

Deb Goodhouse had been meandering along until I sidled up behind her. A typical Saturday stroll for someone lucky enough to live in a fashionable townhouse smack in the middle of the Golden Triangle.

“I’ll try to keep up,” I said, picking up my pace to match hers. “I’m not sure if you remember me….”

“Of course I remember you.”

“Oh good, that makes it easier. I have a couple of questions for you.”

Her mouth compressed.

“Well, just to clear things up. You see, you told me you had never met Mitzi Brochu. The funny thing is there are people who claim they saw you visit her in the Harmony Hotel. People who could not help but notice you were upset.”

I looked at her with what I hoped was a guileless expression. She was two shades paler after I dropped my little bombshell. Of course, it didn’t do to underestimate Deb Goodhouse. I gave her one more little push.

“I’m not sure what the police will make of this information,” I added.

“I don’t intend to stand around listening to you slandering me,” she snapped. “I have nothing to say to you on this or on any other subject. Now if you don’t get out of my way, I will call the police.” She stepped onto the street to pass me, stepped back onto the sidewalk again and kept going toward Elgin.

“That was an incorrect use of the term ‘slander’”, I called after her, but she didn’t seem to hear me. “Bingo,” I added to myself. Everything about Deb Goodhouse’s body language and expression told me I had gotten what I had come for.

Jo Quinlan was the next name on the list I fished out of my jeans pocket. Alvin had provided me with an address along with a very interesting tidbit of information. Luckily for me, Alvin had also put in a little map, because Jo Quinlan lived on the Quebec side, over in Chelsea.

I retrieved my car and double checked the map. I was still chuckling over Deb Goodhouse as I crossed the Portage Bridge five minutes later and spun along towards Highway 5.

Jo Quinlan, according to the notes left in Alvin’s backhanded scrawl, lived in the country and kept horses. Alvin’s directions were better than his office skills, and not long after, I found myself pulling into a tree-lined driveway with a mailbox marked Quinlan/Belliveau.

A man in a pickup truck was pulling away as I nosed my car into the driveway as far as it would go and stopped.

I stuck my head out the window and bellowed. “Jo Quinlan around?”

“She’s out back,” he hollered. “You might need to yell a bit to get her attention.”

The German Shepherd beside him in the cab sat there assessing me.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” His pickup was already rolling down the drive.

“Hello?” I yelled a few times as I walked towards the back of the house. “Hello?”

The house was one of those modern cedar designs with floor to ceiling windows and skylights. In back the property took a spectacular slope, a view well worth looking at.

Another German Shepherd came loping across the lawn.

“Hello?” I continued to holler as I approached the nearest of the two barns.

The Shepherd was in front of me and seemed to be considering if I would be tastier with or without mustard.

“Hello!” I roared as loud as I could.

The Shepherd barked back at me, moving forward at the same time.

Jo Quinlan took that minute to walk out of the barn.

“What is it, Maggie?” Behind her, horsy sounds emerged through the barn door.

“Hello,” I breathed.

She looked at me for a long minute, running me through her own internal computer.

“Health Club,” she said. “You were asking questions about Mitzi Brochu.”

“Exactly. I wonder if you could spare a couple of minutes. There are some things I need to understand. I’m trying to help my friend, the one who found the body.”

“Sure, why not?” she said. “You want to come inside? Have a coffee or something?”

Saturdays seemed to agree with Jo Quinlan.

I followed her across a large deck, though a large door into a large country kitchen. With a wood stove and a lot of pine furniture.

Maggie stayed outside, whining through the screen.

“This is a wonderful place,” I said, settling myself in at the large kitchen table.

“Yep.” I could see this was an understatement on her part. Her colour was high, her eyes were bright.

“Sorry to bother you on a Saturday. A nice man told me you were in back.”

“That’d be Dan. My husband.” She laughed a bit. “I still find it sounds a bit strange. We’ve only been married for six months. You want to make that cappuccino?”

Aha. No wonder Jo Quinlan seemed to shine. She was living happily ever after with a new husband, a spectacular place in the country and a cappuccino machine.

“Sammy Dash,” I said, after the cappuccino was in my hand.

“What about him?” she said, the smile slipping.

I took a little sip, to help rid myself of the sudden chill. “I understand you were very good friends for quite a long time.”

“Yes.”

The quintessential interviewer knew how to clam up when it came to her own personal life. She looked at me for quite a long time, her hazel eyes cool.

I felt a surge of relief when she started to talk.

“We grew up in the same area, we met in high school and I guess we were inseparable from that point until…we broke up.”

“You must have felt terrible about his death.”

She hesitated. “Well, you have to be repelled by the way he died. But, if you’d known Sammy, known how manipulative and cruel he was…”

“You mean you were expecting something like that?”

“No, of course not, not exactly like that. But something, for sure.”

“Mind telling me why?”

She exhaled, and I noticed she was pale. The effort of talking about Sammy Dash had undone all the good of her Saturday in the country with the horses and the dogs.

“He was always asking for trouble, all his life. When I was a teenager, I thought he was great. A real rebel. Smart but undisciplined. He brought me a lot of trouble too. My parents hated him, and when I stuck with him it weakened my relationship with them. All my relationships.”

“Why did you stick with him?”

Her smile held a bit of self-mockery, I thought. “Because he was powerful and sexy and I was caught in his net. He liked to have women caught in his net. And once you were caught, he didn’t like to let you go.”

I considered what I knew of Sammy Dash. The lazy arrogance, the macho stances, the way that women’s heads turned when he was around. The public way he’d touched Brooke Findlay outside the restaurant in the market. It fit.

“By the time I got through Journalism at Carleton and landed my first job, I began to realize not every relationship was like ours, with one top dog and the other one the snivelling slave.”

It was hard to imagine Jo Quinlan as a snivelling slave. I said so.

“I know. I seem in charge, I guess, but it was a long, hard fight to get away from him and become a bit tougher.” She looked at me. “Okay, a lot tougher. At work anyway.”

“How did you do it?”

“Well, for one thing I felt I had to. He was not only treating me like dirt, screwing around, slapping me, drinking too much, hassling me at work, but he was getting more and more implicated in the whole drug scene. Getting involved with the big guys.”

“Like Rudy Wendtz.”

“Like Rudy Wendtz.”

“So you left him.”

She nodded. “And he hassled me until the day he died.”

“How?”

“Calls at work, calls at home, threats, embarrassments. Sammy didn’t like women walking out on him. He didn’t handle rejection well.”

I thought about the story that Sammy had been after Mitzi. Could he have killed her because she mocked him? And then who killed him? Wendtz for revenge? What a tangle.

“The photos and stories about you in Femme Fatale?”

“I’m pretty sure the stories were orchestrated by Sammy. I never had any dealings with Mitzi Brochu at all. I was stunned when she first started to make fun of me in the press. Until I figured out the Sammy connection.”

I thought back to the photos, nasty, sneering invasions of Jo Quinlan’s privacy. “You must have been pretty uptight, not knowing when he was going to stick his head out of a bush and snap.”

She shrugged. “By that time I had my job as an anchor, I had self-esteem and I even had Dan. Sammy had sunk to nuisance value.”

“What about your career? Didn’t all this sneering commentary hurt that?”

“On the contrary. It seemed to help. I started to get calls and mail in support. That’s how I met Dan. He picked up a copy of Femme Fatale by mistake in a dentist’s office. It was the first one where Mitzi and Sammy took a real shot at me. Dan was outraged. He called me at the station to tell me he thought I was,” she flushed, “beautiful the way I am. I think I fell in love over the phone.”

“Dan must have hated both of them then.”

Just what I needed, a new suspect to up the confusion level. But the more I thought about it, the more it worked.

“Don’t even think that,” Jo said, her eyes hard. She reached into a basket on the table and tossed a business card at me. “He was at work that afternoon. Easy enough for you to confirm.”

Maybe, I thought, deciding to dig further. Tan shoes, I reminded myself, were all I knew about whoever attacked me and killed Sammy. To my satisfaction, Maggie started a ruckus outside.

“Mind if I use your bathroom?” I asked Jo as she moved to the door to check it out.

“Go right ahead. The one downstairs isn’t working right, try the one at the top of the stairs.”

I scuttled up the stairs, pausing to peek into the downstairs closet. No luck. Upstairs, I ducked into the master bedroom, not paying attention to the country style decorating, sticking my head into the walk-in closet and checking out the men’s shoes. I couldn’t see any tan ones. I peeped under the bed. Nothing.

I ducked into the hall bathroom just as the front door slammed. Dan was back, standing at the foot of the stairs, when I emerged one loud flush later. I could only pray he hadn’t seen me explode out of the bedroom.

I smiled at him when I walked into the kitchen. Jo was giving me facial signals I interpreted to mean don’t talk about Sammy, don’t talk about the murders.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know what got into that dog today.”

Maggie whimpered from the deck.

I accepted the offer of another cappuccino, because it gave me a chance to check out Dan.

He was not as tall as he looked in the pick-up truck. I think it was the heavy shoulders and large upper body that led me to expect a near-giant. Standing, the top of his head reached Jo’s ears. From the look on her face, that was just fine with her.

I smiled at him in a way I hoped wouldn’t let him know I had just added him to my list of possible murderers. Close-cropped grey hair, silver-rimmed glasses. Wearing jeans, and, I checked, running shoes.

“Camilla,” said Jo, “is looking into Mitzi Brochu’s murder and she was wondering whether I could…give her some insights into what Mitzi was like.”

He flicked a glance at me. It was a lot chillier than the way he looked at Jo. The room, which resonated with Jo and Dan’s feelings for each other, was an uncomfortable place for me.

“Terrible woman,” I said, having no qualms about speaking ill of the dead. “Everything I hear about her confirms it.”

“You getting anywhere, um, looking into her murder?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “nowhere at all. I seem to be wasting my time.

Everybody disliked this woman. I’m probably going to have to give up.”

“What’s Mitzi Brochu’s murder to you?” His eyes behind the metal-rimmed glasses were as grey and cold as the Atlantic.

“A very good friend of mine found the body. The police are giving her a hard time.”

He watched me as he inhaled the cappuccino.

“I told you about that, honey,” she said.

I couldn’t wait to get out of that room.

Jo walked me to my car.

“I don’t imagine you’ll find out who killed them. But I kind of hope you do. It would make a hell of a story.”

“Right.”

I climbed into my car and bumped down the long drive. As I turned on to the main road, I could see Jo Quinlan still standing there. I waved.

Ten minutes later, I pulled up outside Alvin’s apartment in the centre of downtown Hull. I was skipping through the front door when two children selling candy bars stepped out.

It only cost me two dollars. Banging on Alvin’s door gave me a certain satisfaction. I was almost sorry when he answered, standing there in his jockey shorts squinting, without his cat’s eye glasses.

“You look like death,” I said, slipping past him. I didn’t say a word about his belly-button ring.

“God, it’s not even noon. And it’s Saturday,” he said, leaning against the wall.

“Get dressed, I need you to come with me.”

Another ten minutes passed as I sat in the black living room, staring at the blenders and electric frying pans painted on the floor and covered with about eight coats of high-gloss plastic. From the rest of the apartment came sounds of flushing and brushing.

Five minutes later, the Alvin I knew emerged, tucking his tee-shirt into his jeans, the fake leopard skin vest in place. His pony tail was slicked back, and he picked up his best leather jacket from the coat rack, although it was the hottest day so far in the year.

As we walked out the front door, a girl with long red and blue hair emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing a carelessly wrapped sheet and smoking something illegal.

“Alvin?”

“Go back to sleep,” he said, closing the door behind us.

We were back in Ottawa and zooming along the Queen Elizabeth Driveway, before he spoke.

“I’m thinking about going back to Cape Breton.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’ll help you make your arrangements as soon as we finish this little chore.”

The little chore was my impending visit to Rudy Wendtz and his tame gorilla, Denzil Hickey.

“You stay here, in the car. And if I’m not out of the house in twenty minutes, you call the police. Do you have that? Twenty minutes.”

“I forgot to put my watch on.”

“Use the clock on the dash.”

“I don’t think the time’s right. You didn’t adjust it after Daylight Saving Time, did you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, through my teeth. “Just twenty minutes after whatever it says. Got that?”

“No need to be snotty,” Alvin said under his breath.

I left him there and marched up to the tall and wide front door of Rudy Wendtz’s big house.

“Hi,” I said, shaking Denzil Hickey by the hand as soon as he opened the door. “Good to see you again. I can tell by the car in the driveway the man himself must be home. This’ll just take a minute.”

Denzil looked at me with eyes that reminded me of ball bearings. I tried not to think about him murdering the tabby.

I intended to deal with him on that matter later. He shrugged and I followed him down the hall to the conservatory. His shoes, I noticed, were black.

Rudy was working out with a set of hydraulic weights. He kept going without a pause as we entered the room. This was good, because I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to him.

It must be nice, I thought, to have enough money to have a house that overlooks the canal, and to have all the time in the world to develop your deltoids while watching the water ripple in the warm spring breeze. Wearing fashionable workout clothes and some kind of black running shoes.

I waited. Denzil lurked in a corner. After a while, I cleared my throat. Patience is one thing, but I didn’t have all day. And Alvin was set to call the police if I didn’t show up in twenty minutes.

“I just popped around to mention that you and Brooke Findlay were observed and overheard arguing over her intention to speak to a certain recently deceased media type and people are beginning to gossip. And also, since your friend here,” I gestured to Denzil, but he seemed to have stepped out, “was seen lumbering around the Harmony Hotel, the police may wish to reconsider your involvement. I thought I’d mention this to you, since we hit it off so well the last time.”

He didn’t seem to have heard me at all. Just kept on pumping that iron.

I waited for a while, checking out the plants, touching the equipment, before I glanced at my watch.

“Oh God,” I said, “will you look at the time. Gotta run.

Keep in mind what I said though.”

“The police,” said Denzil as I passed him in the hallway, “are not interested in little things like that. Or little things like you and your friends. They’re not going to bother Rudy. So you can save your concern.”

“Great,” I said, “I can sleep tonight.”

I skipped through the front door, down the stairs and past the black Mercedes, hoping that Denzil hadn’t been able to see my heart thumping through my tee-shirt.

Alvin was slumped over on the seat, snoozing. “Some lookout you are,” I snarled, giving him a shake as I climbed into the driver’s seat. I gasped as he toppled over onto me, his eyes closed, blood matting the back of his head behind the ear.

I sat there in the car, struggling to get my breath before I thought to lock the doors and drive poor damaged Alvin to the hospital.

* * *

The police were less than helpful.

“Rudy Wendtz. In front of his house. This happened in broad daylight in front of his house. Are the citizens of Ottawa not safe in their own cars?” Perhaps I’d raised my voice a bit with this. Other people in the emergency area turned to stare.

Mombourquette leaned against the door, smirking his ratty smirk, staying removed from our crisis. At least they took our statement.

Then I took Alvin home. I was left with the impression that since Alvin had not been attacked inside Rudy’s place and since Alvin never knew what hit him, there was unlikely to be a riot squad attack on Rudy Wendtz’s home to capture him and protect the decent people of Ottawa from scum.

By the time I pulled up in front of Robin’s place late in the afternoon, my stomach was growling. But at least Alvin was all right, resting at home, no doubt smouldering at his memories of me. So I was cranky when Mr. Findlay’s face appeared.

“Oh hi, Camilla,” he said, holding the door open.

Surprise. I was half expecting to be a pariah among the Findlays.

“Robin’s upstairs changing. Excuse me, I have something to take care of in the kitchen.”

I walked through the living room. The TV was off. I’d never seen that in all the years I’d been coming to the Findlays.

“Mother’s at a funeral. I thought I’d better stay here in case Robin needed me.” Mr. Findlay’s voice drifted out of the kitchen. Although I was sure I hadn’t asked the question.

Robin’s room was empty. Shower sounds were coming from the bathroom. Good. I tiptoed down the hall to Brooke’s door and knocked. She looked surprised to see me, and stunned when I plunked myself down on her bed and started talking.

“I find it interesting, Brooke, to know you had a major problem with Mitzi Brochu trying to ruin your career. And you were seen in the Harmony minutes before her body was discovered, although your family believes you to have been in Toronto, too busy to come to your sister’s side. I also find it interesting you had a public battle with Rudy Wendtz, noted drug dealer and thug, about your intention to confront Mitzi, and I’m fascinated your consumption of cocaine is so well known. Not good news for the ‘Walk in the Woods’ image, I’d say. And while I’m talking, let me add, if you treat Robin with anything less than the care and respect she deserves, and if you cause her to take any responsibility for crimes, or if you attempt to have me kept away from this house, I will go to the newspapers. I’ll ruin you, and I’ll smile while I do it. The choice is yours.”

I left her, white-faced and shaking on her bed, and walked back to Robin’s room. Robin, wrapped in blue towels, including a blue turban on her head, was glad to see me.

“You look better,” I said.

“I feel better. And you? Are you staying out of trouble?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I think I can go home again, pretty soon. I talked to the people in the office. I might drop in on Monday.”

“Great.”

She reached over and grabbed my hand. “Thanks. Thanks for talking tough. I guess I’d made myself a bit crazy. Lost perspective.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

“Hmmm. I can’t wait to see my kitties.”

I took a deep breath. How long before I could tell her about the little tabby? Would it plunge her back into grief?

Mr. Findlay popped into the room behind us. “Hungry, girls?”

“Yes,” I said, not waiting for Robin’s reply.

“Got a couple of Monte Cristo Specials in the kitchen.

How’s that sound?”

“Perfect.”

Robin laughed. “Sounds good to me, too, Dad. We’ll eat downstairs.”

“Good.” Mr. Findlay turned as Brooke brushed by in the hallway.

“What’s the matter, honey? You don’t look too good.”

“Nothing,” she said, “just a headache.” The bathroom door closed behind her.

Mr. Findlay bustled downstairs to put the finishing touches on the Monte Cristo Specials. Robin started to change from towels to clothes.

“Tell me, Camilla, why you looked so guilty when I asked about the cats.”

“No reason. Nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Out with it,” she said.

I hesitated, not wanting her to know about the cat in her fragile state.

She sat on the bed, turning white. “Oh God! You’ve let them all escape.”

“No!”

“Tell me what it is before I flip.”

“One is…I mean, one of them, um, died.”

She sat down on the bed. “Died? Which one?”

“The little tabby.”

“Dahlia.”

I bit my tongue before I could say “whatever”.

“How did she die?”

I looked straight into Robin’s blue, blue eyes and said, “Natural causes.”

She blinked. “Well, of course. But what natural causes?”

“I don’t know. We’re talking about a cat. I didn’t have an autopsy done.”

A tear trickled down her cheek.

“I’m sorry. I know you loved your cat. But maybe she had some congenital disease that strikes without warning. I don’t think there’s anything either of us could have done.”

“You’re right,” she said. “She was just a little stray, but I loved her.”

I patted Robin’s bare arm.

“So sorry,” I said.

“I’ll be okay. I don’t want Dad to see me crying. Let me pull myself together. But it’s like losing a friend, you know.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

Later, as we hovered over the French-toasted cheese the Findlays all call Monte Cristo Specials, Robin had pulled herself together. But I could tell we’d be dealing with her grief for Dahlia for a while.

“What’s the matter, Robin,” Mr. Findlay joked as he served up chocolate layer cake, “cat got your tongue?”