Читать книгу Camilla MacPhee Mysteries 6-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 22

Sunday morning I woke up early, my breathing laboured because of a great weight on my chest. The cats had chosen to forgive and forget. The black and white one apparently found me quite comfortable. All four of them were miffed when I had the nerve to get out of bed.

I bumped around the kitchen, yawning and fumbling. Cat food into the dishes, coffee into the coffee maker. Fragments of the night’s dreams clogged my head and zoomed forward now and then, causing me to gasp. Robin and Alvin and Deb Goodhouse had filled those dreams, had been dead in them.

I was glad when the coffee was ready. I took a couple of sips and went to phone Alvin at home.

“Wha’?” he asked after a considerable amount of banging with the receiver. “Whoosis?”

“It’s Camilla, merely checking on your well-being. I’m glad to see you survived the night. Well, good-bye now.”

“I’m claiming overtime for this.” He managed to slam down the phone before I did.

Still, he was alive and back to his old self. My second call got a positive response. I had another cup of coffee to celebrate. I had my feet up on the coffee table and was reading the Sunday paper when the doorbell rang. Another success.

Ted Beamish looked as furtive as a pudgy man with thinning red hair can look. The large doughnut box he was clutching seemed to have a life of its own, shifting and swaying in his grasp. From her open doorway, Mrs. Parnell peered at him with undisguised interest.

They both stared at me. Perhaps because I was still in Paul’s old blue pyjamas, with the legs kind of rippling on the floor past my toes. What the hell, it wasn’t like either one of them made much of a fashion statement.

“I got it,” Ted hissed.

“Got what?”

He whipped around to stare back at Mrs. Parnell, who had asked the question.

I swear he made a peeping sound.

“The answer to our troubles, Mrs. P.,” I said. “Come on over. It’ll save you having to lean against my door with a glass in your hand and maybe losing your balance and hurting yourself.”

“No need to be snotty,” she said as she hobbled into the apartment.

“Well,” I said, “let’s have a look in that box. Have we solved the problem?”

Ted flipped open the top, and a small round calico cat hissed at him.

“Perfecto,” I said.

“You found it!” said Mrs. Parnell.

“Not it, but one that looks just like it. What do you think?

Robin will never catch on,” I said “Boy, that’s a relief,” said Ted. “I wasn’t sure I could find one with a face like a pansy. I wasn’t even sure exactly what a pansy looked like.”

“You did well, young man,” said Mrs. Parnell, whipping out a cigarette to mark the occasion. “It looks like the same cat to me. A little slimmer perhaps.”

“Robin will probably attribute that to my cooking. I owe you, Ted. Was it hard to find?”

“My contacts at the Humane Society paid off. You’re absolutely sure Robin won’t catch on? She was pretty ticked off about the restaurant. I wouldn’t want to have another strike against me.”

“Let’s show a little backbone here.”

I thought I’d calmed him down, but he still jumped at the sound of the doorbell.

“You get a lot of company, for a Sunday morning.”

Robin’s voice chirped through the intercom and silenced us. By the time she arrived at the apartment, we were all sitting stiffly around the living room, trying to look like we had nothing to do with any conspiracy.

“Hello-o,” she called pushing open the front door. “Here kitties.”

“Robin,” I said, “this is great. How did you get here? Do you feel well enough to drive?”

“Brooke dropped me off. She had somewhere urgent to go.”

Kitties appeared from everywhere, showing great interest in Robin. She scratched behind their ears and snuggled up to them. The grey one, the black and white one, the Persian, the ginger. She looked at the little calico with surprise.

“Aren’t you cute,” she said. “Who are you? Don’t tell me that Camilla finally broke down and got a pet.”

My throat felt very, very dry as I said, “That’s your little calico cat, Robin.”

She stared at me, astounded.

“That’s not my cat.”

“Of course, it is,” I told her firmly.

Robin’s voice went up a notch. “This is not my cat. I know my cats, and this is not one of them. Where is my calico cat, Camilla?”

I blundered on. “Perhaps, Robin, the effects of your recent…”

“Enough bullshit. Has something happened to Myrtle?”

She looked around just in time to see Ted and Mrs. P. exchanging looks that any jury in the world would accept as a sure sign of guilt.

“Not really,” I said.

“Then where is she?”

“She is not here right now. However, I’m certain she’ll be back shortly. In the meantime, this lovely creature will permit you to return home with five cats.”

“You tried to trick me, didn’t you?

“Certainly not.”

“And you,” she said, turning to Ted, “were you in on this duplicity too?”

Ted uttered a strangled sound.

“What he means to say,” I said, “is that he knows nothing about this. He merely came here in response to my request that he help me improve security in my apartment. He’s what they call an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire.”

Robin nodded. At least she accepted that.

“And Mrs. Parnell is an innocent bystander too. Just dropped in for a bit of tea.”

“I should have known you could concoct something so ridiculous all by yourself.”

“I’m not really innocent,” said Mrs. Parnell, drawing off the enemy fire, “I seem to have let your little cat escape. It was not Camilla at all. She wanted to spare you any additional pain. I agree the idea was naïve, perhaps even asinine, but it was well-meant.”

“Robin,” Ted blurted, “I’m not really innocent either. I found this cat and brought it here.”

What is the matter with these people, I asked myself.

“It’s okay, Ted, I understand you wanted to help.”

She turned to me. I raised my chin.

“But you should have known better. You should consider the consequences of the things you do.”

* * *

I was damned glad to be alone when they left, Robin to go back to her apartment, accompanied by Ted, Mrs. Parnell to spy on the rest of the neighbours, the cats to their castle.

I was slumped on the sofa, telling myself I liked the place better without cats anyway, when I had an idea.

“Camilla!,” Richard said, when he answered, “Are you feeling rested or still jumpy?”

“A bit of both. Irritated too. How about if I tell you everything tonight? I really feel like spending some time with someone who won’t lecture me and who will see the humour in my existence.”

“That someone sounds a lot like me.”

“Great. Do you feel like coming here?”

“What time?”

“Seven?”

It gave me something to smile about, and I considered not answering the phone when it rang two minutes later.

The woman on the phone sounded panicky, breathless and far away. A familiar voice, familiar because so many women who have been victims are frightened of being victims again.

“You’ve got to help me. They’re going to let him out.”

“Who is this?”

“Please help me. I’m afraid.”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know who you are.”

“My boyfriend. He’s out on parole. He’s coming after me.”

“There are things you can do. How can I get in touch with you?”

“You can’t. He’ll find out. I need to see you now.”

“Fine.”

“Can I meet you in your office?” She sounded like she was hyperventilating.

Why not? Despite the pull of the Mitzi Brochu case, helping real or potential victims was my business. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d spent Sunday with a terrified woman.

“Sure.”

“When?

“In an hour.” Long enough to change and walk.

“Please, I can’t take the chance of anyone else knowing.”

Who the hell else do you think is hanging around on a Sunday morning with nothing better to do than listen to our conversation, I thought.

“All right,” I said.

I took time to shower and change into my jeans and a tee-shirt. I pulled on a light plaid blazer on top in case I needed to look the tiniest bit businesslike.

As I left the apartment and pulled the door closed behind me, I was humming. Even a trip to the office couldn’t take that away from me.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Parnell,” I said to her half-open door.

* * *

The walk to Elgin Street was wonderful, and I needed it. The combination of head injuries and high drama had played hell with my regular exercise program.

The smell of new leaves, grass and general spring aromas tickled my nose, leaving me with the wish that I could enjoy the sun, the grass and the water instead of barrelling on toward the office. With luck, I told myself, I could amble back, stopping to check out the tulips, which were tantalizing the tourists.

I took Wellington Street all the way, enjoying the strollers and amblers and the splashes of tulip colour up on Parliament Hill.

All down Elgin Street, people were heading to and from restaurants and parks. My turn will come, I thought, as I entered the little foyer that led to the empty stairs that in turn led to Justice For Victims. Too bad the woman I was meeting had been so terrified. She would probably reject my suggestion that we move to the Mayflower’s open air café for our discussion.

I turned the key in the lock and gave a little push. Stuck. Must be the start of the damn summer humidity, I thought, banging against it. The door opened suddenly and I shot across the room and hit the desk.

“So glad you could come,” Rudy Wendtz said from the other side of the desk.

The blinds were drawn so that no one from the condos in the next building could see in, and the lights were on. I didn’t like that.

I also didn’t like the look of Wendtz’s smile. It hardly reached the ends of his lips, let alone his eyes. His eyes held something else. Anticipation? Whatever it was, I didn’t like it either.

On the growing list of things I didn’t like was the sight of Denzil Hickey lounging near the door.

They didn’t even bother to close the door. No one was in the building to see the gun Denzil pointed, very deliberately, at my head. I don’t know much about guns, but this one looked like the type that could make a very large hole.

“Very fashionable, I’m sure,” I said. As long as my bladder didn’t betray me, I wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction.

I think I managed to look cool, but my heart sounded like someone knocking at the door.

“Give my regards to Brooke, I appreciated her acting ability on the phone,” I said.

Wendtz smirked.

“You may wish to recommend some additional coaching on the finer points. If I was able to see through her, think what the critics would make of such a performance.”

“Cute,” said Wendtz.

“Very,” I chirped, feeling I had little to lose. “Cute enough for me to catch on. And get back-up.”

He lifted an eyebrow and stared before his smile broadened, showing teeth.

“Let’s see how much good your back-up does you against Denzil.”

I took another look at Denzil and deduced that the long, cylindrical object he was attaching to the muzzle of the gun was a silencer.

“Keep talking, Mr. Wendtz, your threat to have Mr. Hickey aerate my head is being duly recorded by the police who know you are implicated in the murders of Mitzi Brochu and Sammy Dash.”

Denzil caressed the weapon.

“Nothing personal,” he said.

“I hope you got that, McCracken,” I bellowed. “That should be enough to hold them.”

Wendtz kept on smiling. “Nice bit of bullshit. I suppose if you want to die with dignity, that’s the way to do it.”

He nodded to Denzil. Denzil raised the gun.

There was nothing I could do against the two of them. I kept my eyes open, expecting to melt into blackness, expecting to die.

Not expecting Wendtz to laugh long and loud.

I watched with my mouth open.

“I hope,” said Wendtz, unbending out of my chair, “you get the point of this exercise. You are a little lady, and you are playing with the big boys. You are stirring up trouble, and you are upsetting a lot of people. Take a lesson and mind your own business.”

I slumped against the desk, oozing with relief and resentment. My stomach felt like there was a dogfight going on in it.

He gave a lazy, arrogant stretch, secure in his power, knowing he had gotten through to me. Completely.

I glanced over to Denzil, who was showing his bad teeth. I did a double-take when I saw the third person. From behind the open door, a movement.

I whipped around to speak to Wendtz just as his head exploded like a pumpkin landing on the road. I dove for cover. From what? From whom? I didn’t know. And from the frozen look on Denzil Hickey’s face, he didn’t either.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when the office lights went out; after all, the switch was in the hallway outside, along with someone wearing tan shoes. I grabbed the side of the desk and crawled around it, trying to stay away from Wendtz’s body. The room was deep grey rather than black. A deeper something moved on the other side of the desk. I could distinguish the shadow that was Denzil before the flash that finished him. With his last scream echoing in my skull, I lay cowering behind the desk for an eternity. But it was really less than a hour. Time enough to think, though. Who had killed Wendtz and Denzil? Had I really seen the same tan shoes again? And was the killer coming for me too?

* * *

“Excuse me while I call somebody,” I said to McCracken. “I’d like to use another telephone though.”

Bits of Wendtz were splattered over my own phone, and I couldn’t see myself picking up the receiver.

It was only after the police arrived with their sirens and heavy shoes that I began to shake. I could see my hands vibrating, and I stuck them in my jeans pocket. I tried to keep the wobble out of my voice, but didn’t quite manage.

“I’ll come with you,” said McCracken.

I didn’t know if that was procedure or some violation of it.

But it suited me. Someone had killed Wendtz and Hickey, someone who knew about my involvement in the Mitzi Brochu case.

“How did you know?”

McCracken held my arm as we walked down the stairs together. He did it well, so that I felt supported and not diminished.

“We received a call from an anonymous source.”

“Ah.”

He nodded gravely.

“Perhaps whoever shot them?”

“Could be.”

Across the street at the Mayflower, McCracken anted up for coffee and chocolate banana cake for two while I made my call.

When I finally reached Richard and told him what had happened, it was all I could do to keep him from coming over.

“No,” I said, “I’d like you to be as far away from this as possible. I’ll see you tomorrow instead. I’ll enjoy the time with you more if we don’t have the same images in our heads.”

“I guess so,” he said. “Will you be up to it then?”

“Yep. Come after dinner for drinks. I can’t count on getting things organized.”

“Tell you what, why don’t I bring dinner? I’ve got excellent connections in the kitchen here. Think you could rustle up two plates and a bit of cutlery?”

“Sure. See you about seven.”

I gulped down the coffee when it came, but pushed away the cake. The taste of dust from the office floor and the smell of blood had done bad things to my appetite. And even though Wendtz and Hickey had been bottom crawlers, I had still seen them die.

I went over and over the sequence of events with McCracken. So much better here than in the office. In the course of our discussion, we each had two more coffees and McCracken ate my cake.

I talked while he ate.

“Who do you think killed them? And why do you think they didn’t kill me? And why did they call the police? Or if they didn’t, who did? Could this be some kind of turf war between rival drug distributors? How were Mitzi Brochu and Sammy Dash connected? Who were Wendtz’s rivals? And how did that link up with my office? Are you going to talk to Brooke Findlay? Her miserable life might be in danger too.”

McCracken blotted his mouth with a napkin. “Do you really want me to answer, or are you just going to keep spewing questions?”

“And that poem,” I said, referring to the scrap of paper McCracken had picked up by the door when he arrived, “that’s the same motif as Sammy and Mitzi. What do you think about that?”

“I think that the deaths are most likely linked to the industry. After all, they all knew each other.”

“Unusual to have poetry written to commemorate murders in the drug trade.”

He shrugged. “You see a lot of real strange stuff in this business. C’mon, I’ll drive you home now. Maybe get Alexa to come over and keep you company. Have a drink together or something.”

“She’ll be more upset about hearing this story than I was living through it. You have a drink with her. It’ll do everybody more good.”

“Maybe. But you better take care anyway. One good thing.

Since you have no idea about any of this stuff, at least you’ll stop playing detective. Wouldn’t want you to run into those tan shoes again and get hurt.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

For the first time since I’d met him, I felt good knowing Conn McCracken.

* * *

My phone rang at 8:30 in the evening.

“Camilla,” Robin breathed. “Dad just called. The police took Brooke in for questioning as soon as she got in tonight.

My mother’s hysterical.”

“Gosh,” I said.

“She’s going to need a lawyer.”

“I suppose she will.”

“Couldn’t you…?”

“Robin, your sister took part in a plot to lure me into my office, where I was terrorized by two thugs, who are incidentally now dead. This will have the effect of depriving Brooke of her much-needed cocaine, but aside from that they will not be mourned. So let me make myself clear. Your sister is in much greater need of protection from me than from anyone else.”

“She took part in a…?”

“She phoned pretending to be someone in great danger knowing I would present myself in my office, alone in a deserted building on a Sunday, to be met by two very dangerous men.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right. And do you know why she did that? She did it because she let her relationship with Wendtz and her need for drugs override her resistance to anything. She was willing to have me threatened and maybe even assaulted. She’s nothing but trouble, and more to you than to me.”

“Even so, she’s my sister.”

I had to let it drop there. My own sisters had been calling all afternoon, trying to entice me to spend the night with them.

Edwina had ended up by slamming the phone down in my ear at my final refusal. But I’d felt safer sipping Harvey’s Bristol Cream with Mrs. Parnell, which was what I’d been doing all evening.

I hung up after Robin’s call and returned to my guest, who was amusing herself by coming up with new and unlikely suspects.

“Humph,” said Mrs. Parnell, showing no sign of ever returning her peach-faced lovebirds. “Are you sure you trust that boy in your office?”

“I trust him to be Alvin, who, with all his faults, is not a killer.”

“Tell me what the poem said again.”

I managed to cover my sherry glass with my hand before she refilled it. I waited until she’d filled her own before I repeated it from memory.

Ruining lives and still unjailed It’s time you bastards both got nailed Perfidy should be unveiled To let you live would mean I’d failed

The police could make all the statements they wanted to about Denzil and Rudy being killed by underworld elements, but I knew it was the same person who had crucified Mitzi and perforated Sammy. The same person who had deliberately left me alive.

“Well, it’s not Shakespeare.”

“You’re right, Mrs. P., but who is it?”

The phone rang again ten minutes after Mrs. Parnell had finally teetered home.

“You okay?” asked Richard.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. See you tomorrow night.”

I found myself smiling into the phone, even after he had hung up. But the smile disappeared soon enough as I lay stiffly in my bed, replaying the day’s events. The night was just as bad, drifting through dreams, flashes of gunfire, running feet, tan shoes. I woke up at three, sweating, remembering where I’d seen those shoes.

* * *

Monday was suitably grey. A decent follow-up to murder in the office. I decided to give Justice for Victims a miss, since it would have been impossible to concentrate on clean-up and insurance matters. Anyway, the police were probably still hanging around.

I read both the papers. The headlines were sufficiently gratifying to clip. “No Justice for These Victims” one paper chirped, while the other one screamed “Bloody Shootout in Refuge for Crime Victims Leaves Police Baffled.” The shot of the crime scene added a jolting dose of reality.

I stood on the balcony and savoured the warm air. The hot-pink geraniums were flourishing in their cast-iron container. Summer was on its way. Too bad it was blighted by what I had figured out. Whatever thoughts I’d had on human motivations before were nothing compared to what I had now.

I took some satisfaction from waking Alvin.

“Whoa,” said Alvin, once he figured out what was going on, “right in our own office? That is amazing. So, what about work? Will the cops still be there?”

“Probably in and out. It’s best for us to stay away. I haven’t really been thinking about work.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, I could use a holiday. But I might want to get a look at the place.”

“Not a holiday. Just a day or so away from the office. But, wait a minute, since you’ll still be on the payroll, such as it is, I want you to find out something for me.”

“What?”

I told him what I needed to know and by when. I tossed in how to find it, just for good luck.

“Call the neighbours, tell them you’re a reporter doing a feature on the topic. Change your voice, sound like a woman.

Dig around,” I said.

I could hear him squawking on the other line.

“I thought you had connections,” I said.

This was a matter of pride to him. I assumed the silence to imply consent.

“And, Alvin.”

“Yeah?”

“Be discreet.”

Elaine Ekstein was next on my wake-up call list.

“Of course I was up,” she claimed.

“I need to see Maria Rodriguez again.”

“Why?”

“Another question.”

“For Christ’s sake. Haven’t these people been through enough as refugees without you grilling them all the time?”

“I’m not grilling them all the time. I just want to ask one little question.”

“I’ll call you back.”

I used the time to get dressed, not as easy as it might seem with the shortage of clean clothes. Finally, I found a navy linen skirt that looked all right with my aqua cotton sweater.

Normally, I would team it up with the plaid blazer I’d worn on Sunday with my jeans, but I was never going to wear that again. A dry cleaner might get out the blood stains, but nothing could remove the memory of the savage scene in my office.

Alexa called while I was pushing my cereal around in the bowl. I didn’t feel like putting any of it in my mouth.

Yesterday and all its tastes were still too close.

“Camilla,” she said, “are you all right?”

“Of course.”

“That was a terrible thing yesterday.”

“Indeed.”

“But it looks like it’s over.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Conn says that these people, well, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but…”

“Oh, go ahead.”

“Well, Conn says they were all involved with the drug trade in some way. Even Mitzi Brochu was tied to those people. They played with some very dangerous criminals, and they were dangerous themselves. This is the way it is, they get killed in disputes over territory or settling accounts. It’s not like they were innocent bystanders.”

“Like Robin.”

“Like Robin.”

“And me.”

“And you.”

“I hope Conn’s right.”

But I knew he was wrong. These deaths had been more than a settling of accounts. It had been someone with a major axe to grind. Someone torn up by memories. Someone who hated all four victims. More than business, this had been pleasure.

At nine o’clock, I made my first business phone call. And got the answer I’d expected and feared.