Читать книгу Camilla MacPhee Mysteries 6-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 8

Alvin was settled in at the desk, humming, so I found myself huddled in the back of the office, surrounded by work I should have been doing. It was just after nine in the morning, but already I did not feel like working. All I could think about was rat-faced Mombourquette waiting for his chance to scurry through the Findlays’ front door and drag Robin off to the station, still in her pink pig slippers.

No, the best thing, I told myself, was not to sit in the office listening to Alvin sing his favourite Fred Eaglesmith song for the eighty-second time. The best thing would be to get out and stir up a little dust to distract Ottawa’s finest from my very, very vulnerable client. I had a few strong options based on reading about Mitzi’s favourite victims. A phone call was all it took, and I was on my way.

“You’re spooking the horses,” Alvin sang, “and you’re scaring me.”

“Good,” I said, just before I slammed the door.

* * *

Deb Goodhouse was one of those rare women who look good in red. Very good. Her hair was still dark brown, almost black, cut in a dutch-boy style. Her dark eyes and ivory skin showed to advantage with her red blazer and matching slash of lipstick. She looked like Snow White, grown middle-aged and professional. She smiled and shook my hand till my bones ached. But I could tell she was not at all glad to see me.

“Well,” she said, “imagine. Alex and Donnie’s little sister. What can I do for you?”

I wondered if she could have been one of the handful of Ottawans who had missed the sight of Robin and me being hustled away from Mitzi’s murder site by the cops. Somehow I doubted it.

Still, she’d been willing to see me, which was the only way I could have gotten past the long-faced security guards and into the labyrinth of offices in the West Block of the Parliament Buildings.

Deb Goodhouse’s assistant, tall, beautiful and black, had ushered me in through the antechamber to the M.P.’s office.

“Thanks for seeing me. This is great,” I said, gawking like the rest of the tourists on the Hill. I had got past the area designated for the public.

The soft leather padding on the door made me wonder, but Deb Goodhouse’s office was less opulent than I expected, even taking the leather sofa, the brass floor lamp, and the very good rug under the mahogany coffee table into consideration. A television set stood within easy view from the desk or the sofa. Citations from dozens of civic organizations hung around with portraits of former Prime Ministers. A small Canadian flag sat on the desk.

“I always wondered what it was like inside a Member of Parliament’s office.”

Deb sat behind her massive desk, her fingers pressed together in a tent. She wore red nail polish and a chunky square-cut silver bracelet with matching earrings. Her body language said “shut up and get out of here”, but her red lips stayed curved in a tight little smile.

Mitzi had done a real number on her. I thought back to phrases such as “Polyester Goes to Parliament”, “Pound for Pound the Voter’s Choice” and “The Hulk on the Hill”. It seemed absurd to think of Deb Goodhouse in those terms. She was a large woman, but polished and attractive, looking younger than her fortysomething years. Her overall image was one of competence and calm. Of course, she was a little tense, but that was because I was there.

“Mitzi Brochu.” I met her eyes as I said it.

“What about her?”

“I’m sure you know she’s been killed, and in a most gruesome manner. A client of mine is being investigated for the murder and, as part of the background work for the defense, I’m looking into what kind of woman the victim was.”

A little snort escaped from Deb Goodhouse’s red lips.

I stopped.

“Go on,” she said.

“Well, there were some Ottawa people she liked to skewer in her columns and on her broadcasts. You were one of them. That makes me think you couldn’t be a fan. I wanted to get a sense of how the non-fan would describe her.”

I sat back in my chair. Alex and Donnie’s little sister from hell.

“Well,” she said, “how would you like to pick up your mail some day and see your flowered butt in full-colour spread across the pages of one of your magazine subscriptions? Of course I wasn’t a fan. She didn’t want me to be a fan. She wanted me to be one of her victims.” She paused and watched my face. “I don’t make a good victim, Ms. MacPhee.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. But what did you think of her? What emotions did she arouse in you?”

She laughed.

“You don’t get elected, you know, by giving in to your emotions on every little thing. You’ve got to save your energy for what counts.”

“So she didn’t bother you?”

“Of course, she bothered me. Wouldn’t she bother you?”

“She did bother me. And I wasn’t even one of her victims.”

“Neither was I, Ms. MacPhee. She wanted me to be, but I wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My mother always told me three things, ‘Doing well is the best revenge, look at yourself and see the truth and make sure you find the opportunity in every situation.’”

I raised an eyebrow at her.

“When Mitzi first started to skewer me, as you call it, I was pretty steamed. I talked to my lawyer and I slammed every cupboard door in the house.”

I liked this approach. It was the first feeling of warmth I’d felt for her.

“Then I tried my mother’s advice and took a good look at myself. In the mirror. I saw a woman who was large and dumpy and wearing plenty of flowered polyester, but no make-up. At the same time, I saw a woman who’d spent a career fighting to help other people—street kids, refugees, the working poor—but the only time she splashes across the pages of a national magazine is when some shark-woman in Toronto decides she’s not fashionable.”

For someone who saved her emotion for what counted, Deb Goodhouse’s neck was very red. Her lips were now clamped in a steely line.

“Not fair, really,” I encouraged.

“Of course, it wasn’t fair. But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point,” she said, pointing a red fingernail at me, “is I decided to take a few lessons. It doesn’t pay to be a laughingstock in this business. I didn’t sue the witch, that would just draw attention to her. But I changed my appearance, dropped the polyester, got professional advice, modified my hair a bit. Just gradually, over a year or so. And I didn’t say boo about Mitzi and her campaign of mockery. I got a lot of sympathy calls and visits from other people who thought I might be upset and a few smirks from so-called friends. But I’ve weathered it.”

“What about the photographer?”

“What about him?”

“Did you have any reaction to him?”

She shrugged. “Why should I? He was just doing his job. Mitzi was the driving force behind the articles.”

“Tell me, why did Mitzi pick you?”

“Who knows? Because I was there, I guess. I asked myself that often enough. I think she just liked to single out women who were doing something real and important and hold them up to ridicule.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

She shook her head. “Never wanted to. I might have had trouble holding my tongue, and I wouldn’t have wanted to read my comments in the media.”

“So,” I said, “you must have hated her, though.”

“I didn’t hate her. I have better uses for my energy.”

I thought her snarl took away from the sincerity of the statement. Deep down, Deb Goodhouse had harboured a red-hot hatred for Mitzi Brochu. Too hot to hide behind a cool exterior. Too hot to cool down even after Mitzi’s death.

“I’m sure you have.”

“Anything else you need to know, Ms. MacPhee?” She pointed at her in-basket. “As you can see, I have plenty to do.”

“You’ve given me lots to think about,” I said.

I stood up and shook her hand before she could take the initiative. It was sweaty, not at all like a politician’s should be. Stress can do that to you.

I said good-bye to the beautiful assistant, leaning over her desk to shake her hand.

“Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Manon. Manon Bruyère,” she said, with some reluctance. She seemed to think I was up to something.

I was.

Deb Goodhouse bellowed for her and I left, smiling.

I was still smiling as I strolled out of the West Block, through the tourists, and down the Hill to Wellington Street. Eighteen thousand blood-red tulips nodded at me, pleased with my results.

I thought about the woman I had just visited. The shoulder pads on Deb Goodhouse’s very good red jacket had been designed to draw the eye away from the size of her arms, but in my mind, there was no doubt about it: Deb Goodhouse would have been strong enough to hoist skinny little Mitzi by those ropes. Things were looking up. Another day like this and I hoped to be able to present a package of possibilities to the police.

* * *

“What kind of knots were used to tie those ropes?” I asked McCracken. I thought coming straight out with it would be the best approach. I thought wrong.

“That number doesn’t answer,” he said.

“It doesn’t?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s her number. I ought to know. I’ve been returning her calls for enough years.”

“Well, she doesn’t appear to be there.”

“She could just be out shopping.”

“I don’t think so. I tried all last night. And this morning from nine o’clock on.”

“Hmmm, well, I’m kind of busy now trying to find out what kind of knots were used on Mitzi. Once I find out, I could look into why Alexa isn’t answering her phone. In the meantime, I guess you could say I’m tied up.”

“Reef knots. Some people call them square knots.”

“What kind of people use square knots?”

“Sailors and boy scouts among others,” he chuckled.

“Thanks. Oh, and Conn, I just remembered. Alexa’s spending a couple of days opening up her cottage. Too bad she doesn’t have an answering machine.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

I could feel the chill on the line.

“Think nothing of it,” I said.

For my next phone call, I had to pinch my nose to change the sound of my voice. First, I found Manon Bruyère’s telephone number in the government telephone book.

“This is Mabel Hubley calling from the Headquarters of the Girl Guides of Canada. We’re double-checking our list of famous former guides. Can you tell me if Ms. Goodhouse is one?”

“Well, of course, she is. You must know that. She’s been on your Board of Directors.”

Oops.

Manon’s voice changed. “Wait a minute. Who did you say you were?”

But it was too late. I had what I needed.

* * *

I was alone in the office, planning my next coup, when Ted Beamish knocked. It was time to close up for the day and I’d sent Alvin off to the public library to get some books on knots. I’d made him promise to borrow them officially.

“Hi,” Ted said.

“Hi,” I answered, wondering why he was there.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure, why not?”

He settled into the chair, placing his briefcase on the floor and loosening his tie with the little palm trees.

“Just on my way home from the office and I thought I might check to see if you wanted to try that movie tonight.

And bring your friend.”

“Robin’s not in shape for a movie.”

“Oh.” Disappointment flashed across his face. I swear all the little palm trees on his tie drooped a bit.

“She’s a bit slow getting over finding Mitzi’s body. And the police are hassling her.”

He looked like a little red-headed kid whose popsicle had melted too fast.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to her about the movie. Maybe that’ll cheer her up a bit and speed the recovery.” I beamed at him, hoping he’d leave me alone.

“Sure,” he said.

“I’m sure she’ll want to go the minute she gets the old pep back.”

“Right.”

“No, I mean it.” I had no idea of how she’d react to the three of us going out to a movie. But I had an overwhelming urge to protect him.

“Okay. Do you think I could drop in with you and maybe help to cheer her up?”

I could just imagine what would happen if Robin discovered I’d brought one of Ottawa’s rare available bachelors to see her with her hair in strings and her feet in pigs.

“I’m afraid she’s sedated. Not allowed any visitors except family. They make me sit in the living room, and they relay my messages to her whenever she regains consciousness.”

I could tell he didn’t believe me.

“But I could go to the movie with you later. We could even grab a hamburger or something.”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. Hadn’t he been the one who jumped the gun about asking me to a movie? And here I was pleading with him to make it happen. And all because I didn’t want the little jerk to look sad.

“I guess so,” he said.

“Good. Good. Good. Good. Well, I’ll give you a call as soon as I get home.” I stood up and slipped into my jacket, hoping he’d get the hint. “You’d better give me your phone number.”

* * *

Brooke arrived from Toronto just after I settled in at the Findlays’.

“Surprise,” she said as she swept into the room, trailing garment bags.

I was surprised all right. Surprised it had taken her six days to manage the five hour drive from her Toronto penthouse.

We all looked up from the chocolate chip cheesecake muffins Mr. F. had just served.

With the exception of me, everyone switched into “Brooke’s here” mode, rustling about, fussing. Fetching her a chair, then a cushion for the chair, then a glass of wine and cup of coffee. Fretting because the coffee couldn’t be cappuccino. Trying to tempt her with the muffins.

Brooke leaned back, stretched out her mile-long legs and lit a cigarette.

“So many things are happening. I’ve been so frantic. I can’t wait to tell you all the news.”

They leaned forward in anticipation. Mrs. Findlay with the same expression she uses to watch the soaps. Mr. Findlay with a tray of mixed baked goods he’d assembled for Brooke. Robin still in the pink pig slippers. In fact, Robin hadn’t taken her eyes off her sister since Brooke blew through the door.

“Big new assignment,” said Brooke, smiling and taking a sip from the wine.

She was wearing long, long, tight, tight jeans and a washed out blue tee-shirt. No make-up, no jewellery. Of course, she was getting a little long in the tooth for a model, close to twenty-five. But she was still breathtaking. Her parents and sister were, in fact, almost holding their collective respiration waiting for the news of the big assignment. I picked another muffin from the plate and asked myself how Elmvale Acres could have produced an amazing specimen like Brooke.

“Okay, just a little bit, Daddy,” the amazing specimen said, accepting the plate of goodies.

She picked up a brownie, took a tiny bite, put it back on the plate and licked her fingers. Everyone smiled in approval. Except me.

Perhaps you’re just jealous, I suggested to myself, because you’re not five-eleven, a hundred and eighteen pounds, and ash blonde with azure eyes and full pouty lips. Perhaps.

“It’s official. I’m going to be the face they use for the new ‘Walk in the Woods’ campaign. I’m the ‘Walk in the Woods’ woman! It’s all signed. Nothing can stop it now.”

Everyone gasped. Well, not everyone. But even I did a few mental calculations. “Walk in the Woods” make-up, toiletries and bath products were the biggest phenomenon in the Canadian beauty business. All natural products, no animal testing, great colours, politically correct and reasonably priced. “Walk in the Woods” was rolling over all the old stand-bys and even the new players in the cosmetics industry.

Even I had to admit it was some kind of big deal.

Mrs. Findlay turned to me. “Isn’t that wonderful? Our beautiful daughter. She’s just like Nina on my show, isn’t she? We’re so proud.”

I thought it would be inappropriate to gag, but it was tough resisting.

There was lots of other news from Toronto. Who Brooke had seen, lunched with, where she’d eaten dinner, what parties, what contacts.

What tripe, I thought, but everyone was spellbound, even Robin, who should have known better.

Brooke had lots of new clothes too, in the garment bags. Things needing a little nip here or a tuck there. Mrs. Findlay scuttled for her sewing basket. Mr. Findlay trotted out to the car to pick up the rest of Brooke’s luggage. Robin sat there, transfixed by her sister. And chewing her nails.

They didn’t pay too much attention to me as I left.

* * *

After the Findlays, Ted Beamish seemed normal. Once I had called him, he insisted on picking me up to go to the movie. I’d slipped into my favourite old jeans and yanked on a pullover. The warm May day had been replaced by a nippy night with a frost warning, but you could still smell the fresh green leaves in the air.

He ordered bagels and lox at Nate’s, while I went for the traditional smoked meat sandwich. The Bytowne was right across the street and Hear My Song was playing.

“So,” he said, once we were settled in and our food had arrived, “how’s Robin doing?”

I crunched my pickle and thought about how Robin was doing. Better perhaps with her sister there, taking her mind off the murder. But not good. I thought back to her waxy skin and glazed eyes. Eyes following her sister’s every move, eyes filled with questions. Not once had Brooke referred to Robin’s experience. Except for an airy little cheek kiss, she hadn’t acknowledged her at all. Brooke liked to be concerned with Brooke. For this she was rewarded, in life and by her family.

To Ted I said, “Not great. She’s a long way from being better.”

To myself I said, what are you holding back?

“That’s too bad. Well, keep me posted. We’ll get out together soon enough, I guess.”

Later as we sat in the theatre, I considered this. I’d thought he wanted to go out with me. But maybe he’d been angling for Robin all along and I was just too arrogant to see it. But if he did want to go out with Robin all along, why wouldn’t he just call her up and ask her out? She would have been tickled. Not bitchy like me.

It did not compute, and in the dark of the theatre I turned away from the screen to look at Ted Beamish, enigma.

He blinked and offered me some more popcorn. What the hell, I told myself, you think too much.

* * *

The next morning, the sun was splashing deep-pink stripes across the sky as I rose. I got up early and ready for action.

I had a lot to do if I wanted to keep my buddy out of the hoosegow. Of course, six cats had to be fed before I did anything.

The temperature was about 13 degrees Celsius as I sat out on the balcony in my fuzzy-green winter housecoat, sipping from a large mug of extra-strong Colombian and making lists. Stuff to pick up at the grocery store. Things to do at the office. People to talk to. Suspects to badger.

The pink sun accentuated the bit of the Harmony Hotel visible from the balcony. I added Richard Sandes to my list of people to talk to.

The temperature was inching up as I stalked down the path by the river. It was the first time in days I’d had the mental space to enjoy the blue and silver ripples on the water, to listen to the birds, to grin at the nosy groundhog.

The grass along the sweeping lawns separating the Parkway and the shore was deep-green and dewy, and the deciduous trees sported clouds of tiny, fresh leaves. It was going to be a great day.

I clomped into the Harmony about 40 minutes after I had left home.

Two young women, wearing the house uniform of deep turquoise jackets and navy mini-skirts, were at the reception desk. One was Stephanie, the trainee I remembered from my first visit. The other one was Naomi. She’d been on duty the night I had visited Richard in his office, and later at the bar.

They both had very big hair and fresh faces. One wore little flats and the other one had on spiky pumps. I looked down at my Nikes and wondered if it was time to change my look. At least when visiting the Harmony.

Mr. Sandes was in a meeting and would not be available for another hour, they explained. My disappointment must have showed because they offered to take a message, in stereo. I wanted to move a little faster in my investigations, not that I was dying to see him.

I left my work number, telling myself it was just business.

As I turned to walk away, I remembered something and decided to try my luck.

I dug the magazine picture of Sammy Dash out of my purse and asked them if they had ever seen the photographer around the Harmony when Mitzi was staying there.

A little spark of tension flickered among the three of us. They exchanged glances.

“No,” said Stephanie.

“I don’t think we can discuss anything like that with you before we talk to Mr. Sandes,” said Naomi.

“There must be some things you do without checking with Mr. Sandes,” I pointed out.

“Right,” said Naomi, “but this isn’t one of them.”

I decided I liked her.

I’d been hoping they would have identified Sammy Dash as one of Mitzi’s frequent visitors and maybe offered me a little poop on him. Their reluctance just made me more interested in Sammy, the long shot.

* * *

“Alvin,” I said, “you’re looking lovely today.”

He flashed an inky look at me from behind the cat’s eye sunglasses he was, for some reason, wearing in the office. His hair was glossy and caught in a smooth ponytail and there was a scrubbed look about him and his black clothing which I was sure he would try to eradicate, if only he realized it. I sniffed the air. Sure enough, fabric softener.

I had made up my mind if I couldn’t beat Alvin, I would join him. Although I felt like beating him.

“Some guy named Sandes called you.”

I’d have been damned before I would have let Alvin know about the little frisson I felt at this news.

“A date?” asked Alvin.

“No, not a date. And not your business.”

Stuff like that just rolls off Alvin.

This was where the joining not beating came in.

“You hang around with an artsy crowd. Did you ever hear of a photographer named Sammy Dash?”

He scrunched up his face in an effort of recalling. Very uncool, I thought.

“Nah,” he said, “don’t think so.”

“Oh,” I said, simulating grave disappointment with some success.

“I suppose I could find out. I’ve got a lot of connections in that line.”

“Would you?”

“Sure, I’d do it right now, but I have all this typing to do.” He pointed to the one letter and three envelopes I’d left for him in the box I’d labelled TO DO ALVIN AND MAKE IT SNAPPY.

I figured I could do the letter and envelopes myself before Alvin hit the end of Elgin Street on his way to the cafés in the Byward market. Where everyone wore black. Where you’d go to find out about a photographer named Sammy Dash.

“Sayonara,” I said, trying to resist pushing him out the door.

As his feet thudded down the stairs, it began to dawn on me that Alvin might turn out to be useful. An Archie Goodwin of sorts.

Once I was sure he was gone, I picked up the message from Richard Sandes. Archie Goodwin had neglected to write down the number. I pulled out the telephone book and found the Harmony. As I lifted the receiver, I could feel my heart pick up the pace a bit.

For God’s sake, I told myself, it’s not time yet. Paul’s only been dead three years. You’re not ready. You’re not interested in other men. And even if you were, would you pick a man who must be past fifty, with a grown family, wherever they are?

Too ridiculous.

I dialled the number.

“Richard?” I breathed, when the switchboard connected us.