Speak Ill of the Dead (23 page)

Her head hit the pillow with an audible plop.

I pressed on. “That’s why she’s in the bathroom throwing up. He was her friend. And now he’s been killed and dumped in a pile of garbage with a little note.”

Robin was shaking her head, trying to keep the words out.

I grabbed her shoulder. “It’s the same person. The same person killed them both. You’ve got to tell me how Brooke’s involved before something else happens.”

But Robin had covered her face with her hands. “Stop, please,” she whispered.

I put my face next to hers. “I can’t stop. You’re my friend and this is destroying you. And people are being killed, even if they’re not very nice people.”

“Oh, God, don’t try to find out any more. Please.”

I was attempting to shake some sense into her when the door jerked open and Mrs. Findlay stuck her head in.

“My heavens, girls. The news is enough to…what’s wrong? Why are you crying? What have you done to her, Camilla MacPhee? For God’s sake, don’t you think she’s been through enough without you upsetting her? And she was just starting to get better too. Get out of here.”

I stared. Robin snuffled something incomprehensible.

“You heard me,” said Mrs. Findlay, “and don’t come back until you’re willing to behave in a civilized fashion.”

Mr. Findlay was just starting up the stairs with a plate of brownies when I stormed past. I know it was childish of me to slam the door. But I got a lot of satisfaction out of the way the glass rattled.

*   *   *

Lucky for Alvin when I swung open the door of Justice for Victims on Thursday morning and opened my mouth to snarl at him, he said the right thing.

“There’s a message from that guy.”

“What guy?”

“You know, what’s his name from the hotel. Richard. You talk about him enough.”

“Richard called? When?”

“Just a few minutes ago. He lost his cool when I didn’t know where you were or when you’d be back.”

“But you did know. You knew I was at Robin’s and…oh never mind. Why don’t you go check if the copies of those photos are ready yet?”

“Why should I go over when I can just call?”

“Because,” I said, lifting the receiver, “I’m on the phone.”

Richard’s reaction was enough to make me feel comforted. He asked all the right questions.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he said, “when I got in and saw this message from you. The office should have called me in Toronto. Bit of bad judgement there. That won’t happen again. And then I called your place and got that twit. He told me he was not at liberty to tell me whether you had been seriously injured. And furthermore, he was unaware of your plans for the day and could I call back. Tomorrow.”

“He sees his job as shielding me from a demanding public. Perhaps he’d be more suited to a large corporate office.”

“Oh sure. I’ll see if I can get him something at Harmony Corporate.”

“Richard?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me, too.”

*   *   *

I left work early. Alvin had been assigned to take the reprinted photos and prowl through the back passageways of the Harmony looking for anyone who’d seen our suspects moving around where they shouldn’t be. My money was still on Denzil Hickey, but I wouldn’t let Brooke Findlay or Jo Quinlan or Deb Goodhouse off the hook until I knew for sure. Even Sammy might have been there.

“Stop sulking. It’s only one afternoon and evening,” I snapped at Alvin, slamming the door to cut off any rejoinders.

I smiled all the way home, even on my many stops. Richard and I had plans.

It’s annoying what you can buy when you put your mind to it. I managed to pick up herb-crusted poached salmon, rice, a medley of five blanched vegetables, salad and two slices of killer chocolate cake. And some lobster and asparagus dip for starters.

I hit the liquor store feeling smug and picked up two bottles of Pouilly Blanc Fumé and a little Armagnac, just in case.

I don’t know what hit me, but I doubled back to the florist and bought a dozen tulips.

You’re getting worse than Alexa, I told myself.

By the time I raced out the doors by the corner of Laurier and Bank, I was uncertain of my ability to get all the way home with my bags, bottles, containers and tulips. It was one of the few days when it would have made sense to take my car.

Now a taxi was in order. As I snagged a Blueline, still smiling, a familiar face turned to stare.

Ted Beamish was crossing Bank Street. A taxi turning right nudged him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Camilla,” he said, racing around and sticking his head into the cab, “you look great. I heard about your terrible experience. You seem to have recovered. What’s all this?” he gestured toward the flowers, candles and food. “Planning something special?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I know you must have been very busy,” he said, with his flush starting to spread from his neck, “but did you ever get my messages?”

“What messages?”

“No one answered at your apartment and your office line is always busy. But I did get through a couple of times and I left two or three messages.”

“Sorry, Ted, I never got them. Maybe they’re stuck in a pile of papers or something. Was it something important?”

The taxi driver took that moment to rev his motor a little bit.

“No, nothing important. I just wanted to know how you were doing.” Ted said, with his entire face in full blush. “It’s okay, but maybe you can give me a call when you have a couple of minutes.”

“Sure,” I said, as the cab pulled away.

I looked back as we moved along Laurier Street. Ted was still watching the cab. But I have to admit, I didn’t give him another thought for the rest of the day.

*   *   *

When Richard arrived at 7:00, the apartment looked pristine. The reports and files, which had been stacked on the floors and on all available surfaces, were now stacked in the closets. Almost all the cat hair had been vacuumed up, and the felines were still a little miffed.

The furniture, what there was of it, was now in an intimate little grouping, and the lights were as low as they could go. I’d set the dining room table in the window by the balcony, where you could see the river.

I was wearing the kind of smile you might expect from a person who’d gotten everything done, right on schedule, and then soaked in a tub fragrant with Watermelon Foam Bath while sipping a glass of chilled Pouilly Fumé.

I was also wearing my red jersey dress.

I buzzed Richard through and waited by the door, my breathing a bit uneven. I was doing an excellent job of keeping my conscience quiet.

As I let Richard in, he stopped and stared. “You don’t look like you need too much comfort,” he said, handing me a bouquet of short-stemmed, peach roses.

“Try me,” I said.

Behind him in the hallway, from Mrs. Parnell’s open door, the red end of a cigarette glowed. I shut the door and forgot about her.

“You look great,” Richard said. “Getting hit on the head is obviously good for you.”

“I do like seeing those stars.”

He hugged me. The old-fashioned kind of hug you don’t plan, it just happens. Full of affection. Just like Paul used to do.

“You’re funny,” he said.

“And you haven’t even had dinner yet.”

I liked that hug. It reminded me there weren’t enough hugs in my life. I didn’t pull back until he did. We looked at each other for a long time, smiling.

“Mousse?” I asked.

We sat on the sofa, munching the mousse and crackers, talking, our thighs close enough to feel the heat from each other. Cats watched us from freshly vacuumed chairs, from the newspaper basket and from under the dining table. When the sunset turned the sky over the Ottawa River into a wall of flame, I remembered about dinner.

I got the salmon from the microwave to the table, turning down Richard’s offer to help.

When I raced by Richard to put the first casserole on the table, I noticed he was trying to entice one of the cats to join him.

“Don’t bother,” I said, when I swung back into the room with the rice and veg. “Cats will only come to you when you don’t want them to.”

When I trotted out the salad, I added, “You’re trying too hard.”

“I think you’re right.”

Three cats had left the room. The fourth, the black and white one, had turned its back on Richard and was watching the wall with great interest. The fat little calico was following me.

“This is it,” I said as I made my last trip into the room with rolls and the wine.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” said Richard.

The black and white cat jumped from the chair and stalked into the bedroom, tail twitching.

“They’re all in there now,” Richard said.

“Not true, the calico’s still in the kitchen. And don’t feel bad about it. It’s the nature of the cat to be in charge.”

“I suppose.”

“Trust me. When it becomes inconvenient to have cats around, they’ll be all over you.”

“If you say so. I’ve always had dogs, myself.”

“And who can blame you?” I said, fluffing the tulips and lighting the candles.

In the course of our dinner, the last traces of raging sunset disappeared. Not that we were paying attention.

By the time we were through our chocolate cake, the sky was dark and starry. We took our coffee and Armagnac on to the balcony and sipped it in the dark.

“You can see the dippers,” said Richard.

I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the dippers, because our knees were touching. Richard watched the stars, and I watched Richard. I didn’t think about his wife. I didn’t even know her name.

The night was mild, with a sensuous little breeze. A taste of summer to come.

We talked. About the Harmony, about Justice for Victims, about his hobbies, about why I didn’t have any, about the Tulip Festival, about the weather. About my friends. About my family. About what it’s like to relocate in middle age.

I don’t know when we stopped talking. The silence that replaced the talking was intense, almost noisy. It was full of watching and tentative touching.

I need this, I thought, as we moved back into the living room, wrapped around each other. I need to feel together. I was tracing the outline of Richard’s ear as we sank onto the sofa. Two cats exploded off the cushions. We didn’t care.

I felt a bit catlike myself, stretching and purring.

“We might be more comfortable elsewhere,” Richard whispered in my ear after a long time.

“The cats are, um, elsewhere.”

“We could ask them to stay and that should get rid of 213 them.”

I was enjoying the sensation of laughing when a blast from the phone knifed through our mood.

“Don’t answer it,” he said, very close to me.

“It’ll just take a second. It could be Robin.”

He nodded, leaning back.

“Yes,” I breathed.

Squeaking sounds surged through the receiver. Richard leaned forward again when I gasped. His face creased with concern.

“Arrested? Where? For what?” But, of course, I knew. “Okay, calm down. I’ll be there. I said I will be there.”

“What is it? Has Robin been arrested?”

“Not Robin. Alvin.”

“Alvin?”

I nodded. It was going to get worse.

“What was it, drugs or something?”

I took a long, assessing look at Richard before I told him.

“He was prowling around the back corridors of the Harmony, and someone called the police.”

Richard nodded, approving. “We don’t take any chances with theft or attacks on guests.”

“He was just asking a few questions. But I guess someone had seen him there before, and he looked suspicious.”

“Well, I don’t know what the hell made him decide to do that, but I’ll bet he’s in hot water now.”

“Right. And I have to get him out.”

“Why? He’s not your responsibility.”

I took a deep breath before I started in on my explanation.

*   *   *

I hadn’t thought that Alvin could get any paler, but he managed it. I hadn’t thought he could get any snippier, but he managed that too.

We were crossing the Portage Bridge to Hull at the time. Close enough to the Peace Tower to see the time was 11:30 p.m.

“Okay,” I said, turning around to face Alvin in the back seat. “May I remind you that I was prepared to post bail for you? If necessary. But the charges have been dropped, haven’t they? You can thank Richard for that.” I pointed to Richard, who was driving.

Richard seemed a little on the stiff side to me.

Alvin sniffed. “I guess you should have been prepared to post bail for me, since you were the one who sent me on a criminal expedition in the first place.”

“Hardly criminal. Just asking a few questions in the hotel.”

“Then why did you ask me to be discreet?”

I could feel Richard’s eyes on me.

“So as not to scare off any potential witnesses. And I thank you for what was no doubt a very thorough and effective job.”

“I notice
you
didn’t have to sit in the slammer waiting for someone to bail you out, even though you were the brains behind the whole operation.”

I sighed. “There was no operation. And I’m beginning to think, no brains. I just need some kind of information that would ensure the police don’t come hounding Robin again over Mitzi’s murder.”

“Sure, let them hound poor old Alvin.”

“How did I know you were going to draw so much attention to yourself that you’d get arrested?”

I turned to Richard before Alvin could respond. “It’s not far from here,” I said. “Turn left, and then first left again, and then first right.”

As we stopped in front of Alvin’s place, he and I were still swapping recriminations.

“I’ll walk in with him,” I said to Richard. “He’s a little shaky.”

Alvin shot me a look that could have melted metal.

“It’s no trouble. Just want to make sure you’re all right.”

I hopped out of the car, grabbed his arm and propelled him to his door.

“Let go of me,” Alvin said, jerking away, “you’re going to leave bruises.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“Yeah, right,” he said.

“Okay, fine. I’ll leave you alone now. But tell me,” I stole a look back to the car where Richard was waiting, “what did you find out when you were in the Harmony?”