Speak Ill of the Dead (11 page)

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get you home. Your car will be fine in our parking lot overnight. Armagnac for two, Gilles,” he told the waiter.

“Yes, Mr. Sandes.”

Richard and I exchanged grins as the waiter hurried off to get our drinks. He paused before one of the tall mirrors to straighten his hair. It couldn’t be easy, I thought, serving dinner to the General Manager.

I returned to the subject du soir.

“You don’t know her, Richard. She’s always been levelheaded and calm. She’s had plenty of time to recover her emotional balance since finding the body.”

I couldn’t figure out what there was about this man, but here I was blabbering on about Robin and my fears. Maybe there’s something about seeing a corpse together that helps to break down conversational barriers in later encounters.

He shook his head. “I don’t know about that. It was so gruesome. I’m still waking up in the middle of the night, dreaming about it. And I’m a tough old goat, not a young woman who stumbled onto a murder scene alone.”

The Armagnac arrived before I could say something cranky. In the interests of keeping the very pleasant evening very pleasant, I decided not to talk about Robin anymore.

Instead we talked about me growing up in Ottawa, my family, my weird job, even a bit about Alvin. The Alvin parts caused Richard to laugh, lightening his face, warming it.

I didn’t ask him much about his personal life, and he didn’t volunteer much. But the questions were bouncing around in my head, questions I wouldn’t hesitate to ask a man who didn’t interest me. Things like: are you planning to stay here permanently, does your wife have some kind of job commitment in Toronto that prevents her from joining you, are you separated, divorced, growing apart? Things like: do you feel lonely, how did you vote in the last election, what do you like for breakfast? I stopped myself at that last thought. Careful, careful. Don’t be an idiot.

“So,” I said out loud, all business, “thanks for your information about Rudy Wendtz.”

Richard had been nursing his Armagnac with a semi-smile on his face. His head snapped up at this.

“I’ve been thinking. I shouldn’t have told you about him at all. This is a very dangerous situation, and he’s a pretty sleazy guy. The police know about him. I think you should let them handle it.”

“Too late,” I said, “I’ve already tracked him down. And are you sure the police know about him?”

I didn’t mention that I hadn’t been able to talk to Wendtz yet. Some things are better left unsaid.

“Oh yes,” said Richard, “I made a point of letting them know. Just on the off chance he didn’t turn up in their investigation. Although it’s unlikely they would have missed out on someone so close to…the deceased.”

I nodded. We both knew that.

“Who knows what they’ll turn up about him.”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitated, “Well, I’ve got reason to believe he’s involved in some pretty bad stuff.”

“Like what?”

Richard shrugged, “Dealing drugs, I’m pretty sure.”

“What makes you think so?” I asked, having drawn the same conclusion myself on the very slim grounds that this guy had a lot of money and not much job to show for it.

“Information from the staff. They talked about everything Mitzi did and anyone who spent time with her. They tell me that Wendtz is involved in big league stuff. No facts, mind you, just gossip. But I believe it.”

“Hmmm.” Alvin could be put to work on this one too.

He smiled at me, “I hope we’re not going to be talking about this all night.”

“No,” I said, meeting his eyes. “Just one more thing.”

A sigh and then, “What is it?”

“The photographer, Sammy Dash, what do you know about him?”

Richard thought for a minute. “Not a lot. He was in and out. Acting like a big shot. Aggressive little creep. Making a play for good-looking women all the time, especially the tall, slim ones, and always looking for a shot that would sell. You know, paparazzi type.”

“Wow,” I said, with mock amazement, “here in Ottawa. Imagine.”

“Exactly. Here in Ottawa, they don’t like that sort of thing.”

He glanced away, and I spotted a well-known politician dining with a less well-known, but most influential, pillar of the consulting community.

“That must have given you a bit of grief.”

“It did. I had to speak to Ms. Brochu and tell her to keep him on a leash, or our special arrangement might have to end. I couldn’t risk a complaint whispered in the ear of the CEO or the Chairman of the Board by some outraged politico,” he twinkled. “And I enjoyed telling her, too.”

The Ottawa river glittered as we drove along the Parkway. The usual blackness was lifted by the vigorous full moon beaming down on us. Aretha was belting out “Chain of Fools” on the car stereo, and I was thinking about Richard’s wife.

As we pulled into my quiet crescent and rolled to a stop in front of my building, I found it difficult to breathe.

Ask him, my internal voices screamed, ask him about his goddam wife. But all I managed was a goofy grin. It reminded me of all those nights after the Saturday dance at St. Jim’s, grinning at a new boy who’d walked me home.

Richard was much more mature.

“Please promise me that you won’t go barging after Sammy Dash or try seeing Rudy Wendtz.”

“I’m a big girl, Richard. I won’t step into the basement with either one of them. I promise that.”

“Funny,” he said, “I’m not sure that you realize how dangerous big players in the drug game can be, although in your line of work you should. And keep in mind that something very bad happened to Mitzi.”

“Mmm.”

“Mmm nothing,” he said in the tone he must have used with his daughter over the years. “You call me, or the police, or someone very large and mean if you decide to have any dealings with either one of them.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

He gave me a look that defied interpretation, but I was used to living on the edge.

“Good night, Camilla.”

He brushed a light kiss over my forehead. It could have been the kind of kiss you exchange in those first tentative moments when you think you may be falling in love with someone, and you are quivering with suppressed emotion. Or it could have been the kind of kiss you bestow on your favourite aunt as she recovers from a bit of bladder repair in the hospital.

As I jabbed my key into the lock of the interior door to the foyer, I wanted to scream “Just where the hell
is
your wife, anyway?”

Eight

S
ammy Dash lit his Gitane with care and respect, sucked in the results, and looked right through me.

I was perched at the next table in a black-walled café, watching Sammy watch the ladies. I’d followed Alvin’s list of likely sites for spotting Sammy, and sure enough, by the end of my round in the Byward Market area restaurants, bingo. I decided to let Alvin put his feet up on the desk for ten minutes on Monday morning.

Two women in jeans, sweaters and Birkenstocks sipped their second refill of coffee and wrinkled their sensible noses as the first whiff of the Gitane passed their way. I watched with amusement as they pointed out to the waitress the incongruity of Sammy exhaling right underneath the sign that said Non-Smoking Section.

The waitress was a curvy teenager in a black knit top and mini-skirt, which went well with her fishbelly skin, scarlet lips and fuck-me shoes. Her black hair was pulled up and off to one side in a Pebbles Gone Wrong look. The chewing gum was a nice touch, too.

She goggled at the two women. Then shot a glance at Sammy. He leaned back in his seat, exhaling a jet stream of Gitane exhaust in the direction of the complainants.

The waitress rolled her eyes and chewed her gum.

“Well,” she said, “there’s nothing I can do about it. Would you mind moving over by the window? No one’s smoking over there.”

“What do you mean, there’s nothing you can do about it? Tell that asshole to butt out. Tell
him
to move over by the window,” said one of the women.

“Well, I can’t. He owns this place.”

“To hell with this,” said the woman. “We’re out of here. Permanently.” She scraped back her chair, scooped up the tip that had been resting on the table and shoved the bills into her jeans pocket.

The waitress watched them stomp through the front door.

She shrugged.

Sammy smirked.

The café lost some business, Pebbles lost her tip, the two women lost their warm after-lunch glow. Everyone lost except Sammy Dash.

I could tell he’d enjoyed himself.

Sammy Dash made for good watching. He was lean and sinewy, not too tall, a great build for a sleaze photographer. He was wearing a black tee-shirt and chinos, tight around the crotch. Brown hair, cut short, and blue eyes, sharp and foxy. A black leather jacket, European style, hung over the back of his chair. His legs sprawled in the aisle, feet bare inside his sandals.

The café was crowded and noisy, but no one messed around with Sammy.

I had a gut feeling he was a key factor in Mitzi’s misfortune, and I wanted to get a better sense of what made him tick before I talked to him.

I watched him all the way through an open-faced smoked salmon on brown sandwich and then through my cappuccino.

Eye contact was his specialty. He singled out women who were already escorted. Tall women. More than one had to put a hand on her partner’s arm to head off a confrontation with Sammy. Sammy grinned whenever that happened.

When he sauntered out the café doors, I was right behind him. Still behind him when he climbed into a dark green Porsche and slid into the traffic. Naturally, he had a vanity plate.

How much money do photographers make, I asked myself as I eased my way into the traffic behind him. The middle-aged man in the grey Honda Accord behind me seemed to feel he’d been cut off. I waved back at him and blew a little kiss.

*   *   *

Robin’s trip to the police station capped the day.

“They did what?” I asked Mrs. Findlay. The phone shook in my hand.

“They took her in for questioning. To the police station.”

“When?”

“Hmmm. Just as
Another World
was coming on.”

“When is that?”

“Two o’clock,” Mrs. Findlay huffed. “And there’s no reason to snap at me, Camilla MacPhee.”

Snap, I thought, I’d like to do more than snap, you vapour-brained old bat. But I injected a note of respect into my voice and asked, “Who took her in? The big guy, McCracken?”

“No, the small one with the pointed nose.”

“Who went with her?”

“With her? Nobody.”

“NOBODY?”

“I’m not going to mention your tone again.”

“She went alone with the officer?”

“That’s right. Her father was out when they came.”

“And Brooke?”

“Brooke had an important appointment this afternoon. She couldn’t break it.”

“Right. And you couldn’t leave because
Another World
was on.”

I hung up, resisting the urge to go over there, kick in the door and insert her, head-first, into the television set.

*   *   *

The police station is new and concrete and designed to create the impression of efficiency. Not even the murals can soften its sterile, forbidding atmosphere.

McCracken met me at the Criminal Investigation desk.

“Where is she?” I said. “I’ve got the right to see her.”

He had the good sense to turn red.

“She’s at the General.”

“At the General Hospital?”

McCracken’s voice was gruff. “She collapsed during questioning. Hit her head on the desk, I guess. Anyway, they took her by ambulance, and when I went by earlier, they said she was going to be all right.

“Let me get this straight. You took a sick woman from her bed, allowed her to be brought in by a sadistic little weasel, and then let her injure herself?”

He grunted.

“I’m her lawyer. Nobody called me. You think you can get away with running things like it’s a police state?”

“She tried to call you. You weren’t in your office. Nobody knew where you were.”

Alvin. I’d kill him. But I didn’t lose time plotting Alvin’s death. McCracken was my target.

“When this case gets cleared up, you guys are gonna get roasted for badgering innocent citizens.”

“Look, I understand how you feel. Mombourquette got a bit too…zealous. She’s okay. Her father’s with her now.”

“Her father!” I exploded, even though I felt a wave of relief. “This woman is not only innocent, but she might have seen the real killer. Do you think the sixty-five year old muffin-meister will be able to protect her if the killer decides to eliminate a witness?”

“This isn’t New York,” McCracken fought back. “We think your friend is the real killer.”

As I turned and stormed out, McCracken called to me, “When can I get in touch with your sister?”

When you can go ice skating in hell, McCracken, I thought.

Turning, I said, “My sister’s a busy woman and a very attractive one. She seems to have developed a strong interest in a man who’s just entered her life.”

“Who?” McCracken blurted.

I shrugged. “The woman’s got to have some privacy. But I can tell you, she’s all keyed up waiting for his phone calls.”

McCracken slumped a bit at that. What can I say, he deserved it.

*   *   *

Robin had been sent home by the time I reached the hospital.

When I finally got to the Findlays’, she looked as bad as I’d expected. Her father didn’t look much better, his face grey as he sat next to her, holding her pale hand.

“Oh good,” I said, “I see the family finally rallied around.”

“They couldn’t go with her,” he said.

His eyes watered, and I knew he realized what that said about his family. And he knew I did, too.

I gave him a little hug.

“Sorry,” I said, “I know you’re one of the guys in the white hats.”

But Mr. F. wasn’t thinking about himself.

“Look at her. What’s wrong with her? What’s happening to Robin? I can’t understand it.”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure going to find out, no matter what.”

I meant it. I had a lot to find out and I still wasn’t sure where to go next. But I didn’t care who got dirt on them, if it meant getting Robin out of this mess.