Little Boy Blues (2 page)

The crowd was now wedged inside Edwina’s home, the ideal place for Alvin’s going-away party. Not everyone has that many Waterford crystal wine glasses. I looked around, mellowed by the event. I smiled at my favourite sister, Alexa. Alexa looked wonderful. Marriage to Detective Sergeant Conn McCracken obviously agreed with her. I felt a twinge of guilt. I’m told I’d behaved like a jerk during the preparations for her wedding the previous winter. Maybe it had been jealousy because my own husband, Paul, had been killed by a drunk driver at the age of thirty-one, and now Alexa was getting a second chance at happiness. Maybe because I am the short, stocky, dark-haired sister misplaced in a family of willowy and elegant blondes. Maybe because I can be a pain in the ass.

Whatever.

Alexa seemed to have forgotten all about it. I raised my glass to her, fondly.

“Speech! Speech!” Who the hell was yelling that? I realized I was three sheets to the wind, teetering on an upholstered chair, feeling unusually sentimental and wearing a pair of borrowed high-heeled mules. So a speech wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

My father looked up at me. He is the only person in the world who scares me. Even when he’s looking up. Even if he’s
eighty-one years old. Even if he scarcely remembers my name.

“Um, Camilla. I know you’re terribly upset to see Alvin go, but he deserves a proper send-off.”

“He sure does, Daddy.”

“Then, you should do it. The MacPhees are not afraid to show their deepest emotions when it’s appropriate.”

My deepest emotion over Alvin’s decision to leave was unrestrained joy. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share that with this crowd.

My father said, “You are equal to the task.”

And so I gave it my best shot.

“Alvin Ferguson is surely the most unbelievable office assistant anyone ever had. Justice for Victims will not be the same without him,” I began. That meant, among other things, our utility bills would be paid, the collect calls from Sydney would cease, messages would be passed on, outgoing correspondence would not contain coffee spills, and no topless bathers would be painted on our solitary window. It might also mean no more pilfered library materials would land on my desk.

Alvin had lasted twenty-six long months at Justice for Victims only because my father would never let me fire him. I chose not to mention that.

“Hear, hear!”

“I feel confident the management of the Gadzooks Art Gallery will continue to be surprised, no, amazed, when they realize what kind of gallery assistant they’ve snagged in our Alvin.” And by the time they did, I figured I would have had the locks changed at Justice for Victims.

I swayed on the chair. The crowd gazed on expectantly. I noticed some of them were getting a bit fuzzy. Perhaps they’d had a bit too much hooch.

What the hell. Sometimes you’ve got to let go. Why not tell the truth?

“As many of you know, I owe Alvin my life, and I will always be grateful to him. To Alvin! There’s no one quite like him.”

I was telling the truth. The truth but not the whole truth. Sure, I’d be dead if it weren’t for Alvin. Sure, he could ferret out more information by quasi-legal means than anyone else. But that didn’t mean I wanted to be cooped up in a fifteen by fifteen office with someone who sported nine visible earrings, a fresh tattoo, a fondness for bad music and major attitude.

Al-vin. Al-vin. Al-vin.
People chanted and waved their Waterford stemware and sloshed their red wine on Edwina’s new pure wool cream carpet.

I continued, “Alvin, as you know, risked his own life to put a murderer behind bars.”

My seventy-nine year old neighbour, Mrs. Violet Parnell, put down her new high-end digital camera long enough to beat a military tattoo on the frame of her walker. “Bravo, young Ferguson.”

Alvin, splendid in a tuxedo jacket over his skinny lizard-skin patterned jeans, stared at the floor modestly.

I continued, “It has been an astounding experience working with him.” Working might have been stretching it.

Alexa began to cry. People blew their noses. My father stood proud. Edwina blotted the carpet.

I shouted, “After Alvin, we have nowhere to go but down.” They tell me that’s when I fell off the chair.

By Monday morning, when you would think they’d still be doing the dishes after the party, my in-laws and outlaws were massed at the airport security gate ready to begin a three-week jaunt
en famille
through an unsuspecting Scotland. I was half the send-off party. Leonard Mombourquette, my brother-in-law Conn McCracken’s partner on the force, made up the other half.

Too bad. Mombourquette always brings out the worst in me, especially if I have a hangover. I think it’s his strong resemblance to a rodent, although no one else seems to notice it. But I suppose someone had to bring McCracken’s car home.

“Good luck, Braveheart,” Mombourquette said, as McCracken disappeared through the security gate.

“He’ll need it.”

“Better him than me,” Mombourquette added, in case I’d missed the point.

“Oh, I don’t know. Conn will have a great time with the girls.” I’d caught the dead man walking look on McCracken’s face as he was frog-marched through security by my sisters. But that was his problem. I couldn’t stop smiling. Not even when my iced
latte
dribbled down the front of my silk blouse.

“I can’t believe they asked you to look after Stan’s new Buick.” Mombourquette eyed the blotched blouse as we headed for the parking lot. “Are they crazy?”

“He’s worried about vandalism. And face facts, nothing’s going to happen to it.” I clicked the snazzy remote to open the Buick’s door.

“With you driving it?”

“I am not planning to
drive
it. They asked me to park it in the garage at my place. We have video surveillance and on-site security.”

I didn’t mention the space was available because my Honda Civic had never fully recovered from certain events the previous winter. This time, the transmission was on the fritz. I didn’t want Mombourquette to bring up the circumstances of the Honda’s troubles.

“And I like to walk.” In fact, I needed to walk because of the ten pounds I’d packed on while my broken leg healed.

“I think Stan’s out of his ever-loving mind. It’s like praying for bad luck.”

I didn’t care for his smirk. “Speaking of bad luck, you better keep your eye peeled for black cats, Leonard.”

Very restrained of me, considering the company.

Half an hour later, I tucked the Buick safely in the garage of my apartment building and looked forward to a tranquil morning. Most people would take the day off in lieu of the Canada Day holiday, which had fallen on Sunday, but I had planned a pleasant stroll to work in my empty office at Justice for Victims. No relatives. No appointments. No Alvin.

It doesn’t get any better. I was in an excellent mood, even though I had to change my blouse. It was a sunny twenty degrees, amazingly fresh for July in Ottawa. I had no need to rush. That meant I could linger over my coffee. I slipped into Bermudas and a tee, then joined Mrs. Parnell’s little calico cat on my balcony. I enjoyed my jumbo mug of French roast. Mrs. Parnell’s cat enjoyed a bowl of milk.

From the sixteenth floor, I get the long view down the Ottawa River. The green roof of the Parliament buildings are just visible to the East. To the West I can see the white sails at the Britannia Yacht Club.

I got a glimpse of tents popping up for Bluesfest. After five years as a widow, it was time for me to get a life. I hadn’t quite got the hang of it, but this year I’d kept the Bluesfest program. I’d read it cover to cover. Twice. The blue booklet lay open on the table, waiting to be read for the third time. The pages were dog-eared. I picked it up and stuck it in my backpack.

My phone rang the minute the apartment door closed behind me and the lock clicked in. It rang on and on as I headed down the hall. I figured it could wait. All my clients had my cellphone number.

The door to apartment 1608 creaked open as I strode by. “Good morning, Ms. MacPhee.” Mrs. Parnell leaned on her walker in the doorway, getting ready for a busy day spying on the occupants of the sixteenth floor. “You’ve had an active morning.”

I nodded and tried to keep walking.

“Do you have time for a visit?” Behind her, the lovebirds, Lester and Pierre, squawked.

I had a fifty-five minute walk ahead of me to get to the office. On the other hand, I owe a lot to Mrs. Parnell.

“Afraid not. I’ve got some catching up to do. How about tonight?”

She blew out a splendid stream of Benson and Hedges smoke. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Something wrong?”

She sniffed. “Young Ferguson’s gone on to greater adventure and glory.”

“We both know Alvin’s gone on to work in the Gadzooks
Gallery. Avant garde, I admit, but definitely not glorious.”

The tip of her Benson and Hedges turned red. “They could have an armed robbery. A heist.”

“I don’t think Alvin is hoping for a heist and, even if he is, I feel confident his new employers are not.”

She leaned forward, bony and angular. A long convalescence will do that to a person. I might have gained ten pounds after my injuries last winter, when we had taken on a murderer, but she’d lost at least that. She looked every one of her seventy-nine years.

“You are correct, of course, Ms. MacPhee. Pay no attention. I’m finding myself yearning for excitement. Aren’t you?”

Our last bit of excitement had almost killed us. “No. I’m not. I’m really looking forward to a quiet summer with no trouble.”

I was humming “I Got My Mojo Working” as I hit the elevator button.

• • •

Usually the best part of my walk is along the river. It’s cool and silvery in the mornings, no matter how scorching the day ahead. The bike path I followed downtown meandered through Lebreton Flats, and I slowed a bit to catch a look at the set-up for the Bluesfest.

Five days to go, and the staging was already partly erected. I spotted a fleet of flatbed trucks near the acoustic stage up on the hill and more trucks by what looked like the Main Stage.

A trailer with a long line of porta-potties was pulling in.

I figured the rectangular tent off to the Northwest was probably the gospel tent.

It was the first time in years I had let myself get close to the
festival grounds. The Bluesfest was the last special place I’d been with Paul. Back when it was much smaller, a cosy, sexy, schmoozefest over in Major’s Hill Park.

The sight of the tents brought back Paul’s memory. I couldn’t imagine what the sounds and smells would do to me when I actually went.

But if I was going to get a life, I couldn’t think of a better place to find it.

By the time I got downtown, my T-shirt was stuck to my back. The Bermudas chafed my thighs. My feet smelled, and my head hurt. I clutched my iced
latte
from the Second Cup and finally pushed open the door of Justice for Victims. A rivulet of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. But I was alone, gloriously, wondrously alone.

I decided to get in the mood for the funding proposal by whipping the in-basket into shape. I started with the stack of bills. Quite a few of them had a telltale red strip on the return envelope. Apparently Alvin had been distracted during the previous three months. Half an hour later I confirmed it. JVF was in great shape, if you didn’t count the hydro, the business tax, the photocopier rental and the insurance. Our phone bill, now two months late, had an entire sheet detailing collect calls from Alvin’s mother in Sydney.

Then I found the note from the landlord outlining what to expect if we didn’t ante up the rent, pronto.

To offset the bills, I had practically no income and, unless I was wrong, I had missed our deadline to file for several key grants that keep organizations like Justice for Victims from going down for the third time.

Never mind. I was alone and loving it. With a song in my heart, I answered the phone. The song faded when the automated voice asked if I would accept the charges for a long
distance call from someone called Ferguson. I had a damn good reason to press one for yes.

“Mrs. Ferguson,” I said, before she could say a word, “Alvin, as you should be aware, does
not
work here any more. I suggest you direct your calls to his new place of business. I will be happy to provide you with that number.”

“Hello? Allie?”

I rubbed my temple.

“Who is this?” the voice said.

“Let me make my point again. Alvin does not work here. Not that he ever really did. You can find him at Gadzooks Gallery. Goodbye.”

“I need to speak to Allie.” You couldn’t mistake the hysteria in that crazy woman’s voice. No wonder Alvin was always so distracted.

“Sorry. Alvin doesn’t work here any more.” I enjoyed hanging up.

When the phone rang again, I was ready to press two for no, nay, never. But this time it wasn’t a collect call. It wasn’t Alvin’s mother either.

“Miss MacPhee?”

“Yes.”

“This is Tracy Ferguson. Alvin’s sister? We are so sorry to bother you, but we don’t know what to do. We know Allie has a new job, but we need your help.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I think it was because Tracy Ferguson was someone’s sister, and yet, she sounded gentle, nervous and utterly inept. My sisters are more like the offensive line for the Argos. Jump out of their way, or you’ll get grass up your nose.

Unless I was wrong, Tracy was the sister who taught elementary school. I could hear her speaking urgently to
someone in the background. “It’s all right, Ma, you lie down now. I’ll talk to her. Okay?”

I tried being reasonable. “As you know, Tracy, Alvin started his new job this morning. Let me get the number for you.” I flipped through my desk for the Gadzooks Gallery cards that Alvin had thoughtfully deposited around Justice for Victims during the final three weeks of his employment.

“But that’s it, Miss MacPhee. Alvin isn’t at the gallery.”

“Well, he isn’t here. He should be at Gadzooks.”