Speak Ill of the Dead (12 page)

*   *   *

Back in the office, I was still steaming. And there was no sign of Alvin to take it out on. I’d had a twelve-ounce Colombian to calm me down, and for some reason it wasn’t working. I was too jangled to even consider tackling any of my cases, so I settled for making notes on Mitzi’s murder in a little book.

I started a few lists. Like who had a reason to kill Mitzi.

I thumbed through the issues of
Femme Fatale
which were still stacked on the desk, looking for other local people who’d been skewered. Deb Goodhouse and Jo Quinlan were the only two who showed up. I put them on the list.

I left a note to Alvin instructing him to get to work finding out who else in the Ottawa area had been roughed up by Mitzi, either in print or on the air.

Of course, Mitzi’s killer could have come from anywhere, and I knew it. Still, I told myself I’d deal with possible non- Ottawa candidates later on. If I had to.

I added a bit to Alvin’s note, instructing him to get a list of everyone Mitzi had ever targeted in any medium and their address. And to do this quickly. I underlined “quickly” twice, adding “P.S. Alvin, if at anytime in the future I receive a call from, about or in any way pertaining to Robin and you do not give a clear message and stand on your head to locate me, I will truss you up with the telephone extension wire and ship you back to Sydney in an urn.”

I felt a certain satisfaction when I turned my attention to my own list.

I added Rudy Wendtz’s name, in light of their big argument the night before Mitzi’s death. And I put Sammy Dash’s name, too, just because I hated the little jerk.

Then I remembered Richard’s comment about Mitzi’s next project. A book on Members of Parliament, senators, backroom boys. That could make for a pretty long list. I translated it to political connections and added it to the other names.

On my To Do list, I made a note to find out who had complained about Mitzi’s fight with Rudy and what the other guests had heard.

Would Richard help me get their names, I wondered.

Five minutes later, I knew the answer.

“You must be kidding. How long do you think I’d hold onto my job if I gave out that kind of information and you badgered my clients?” Amusement wafted over the phone lines. “I hope you’re a good sport about it, because I’d really like to see you again.”

“Me?” I said, “Richard, Goodsport is my middle name.

Why don’t I drop in for a drink in your very nice bar when I finish up here at the office?”

“Great, I’ll wait for you.”

I had a smile on my face as I hung up and departed the office for the ATM down the street. I hoped that Richard would forgive me my trespasses.

*   *   *

“I can’t give you that information,” Stephanie gasped, her big hair quivering with outrage.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I would be grateful.” I pushed the symbol of my potential gratitude towards her on the polished top of the reception desk at the Harmony.

She took a quick look at the warm red-orange tones of the fifty and quivered a little bit more.

“No,” she said, “Mr. Sandes would be very upset. I could even lose my job.” Her eyes strayed to the bill.

I added a second one to the first. She licked her lips.

“All right. It would take a little while, but I could mail you the information.”

“Sure,” I said, tearing the fifties in two and handing her one half of each. “And when I get the information, I’ll send you the balance on my account.”

She wrote out her home address on a piece of Harmony stationary, and I handed her one of my cards. We’d just completed our little transaction, when Stephanie gulped.

I turned and saw Richard heading towards us.

“Here he is, dear,” I said, “no need to call him for me at all. But thanks for your help.”

Stephanie nodded, whitely, and tried to smile.

I didn’t have to try. My smile bloomed by itself as Richard got closer.

*   *   *

As I unlocked the door to my office the next day, the phone was ringing.

Alvin had left a note. Gone out, it said.

I answered the phone myself.

“Where have you been?”

“Alexa, it’s not like you to be peevish.”

“Just answer the question, dear. Don’t be evasive.”

I decided to answer the question before Alexa and I tossed any more adjectives at each other. “I’ve been all over the place. There was a murder, in case you forgot, and Robin was brought in for questioning. I’ve been busy.”

“Robin was brought in for questioning!”

“Don’t you listen to the news?”

“I just got back from the cottage. Where is she? Don’t tell me she’s in….”

I reached for my cup of coffee to steady myself and interrupted her. “They haven’t arrested her. They’d have to show probable cause. And since she didn’t do it, that’s unlikely.”

“God, I hope she’s got a good lawyer.”

“Me.”

“Camilla!”

“I know, I think it’s crazy too. But she insists.”

“Do you have to deal with the police and everything?”

“That’s a really silly question from a sophisticated woman.”

She sighed. “I know.”

We both knew why she’d asked it.

“He hasn’t called me, you know,” she said.

“You’ve been at the cottage.”

“Well, he could have left a message.”

“Didn’t he?”

“There were a lot of clicks.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Why do you think he wouldn’t leave a message?”

“Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe he was afraid his wife would overhear him.”

After Alexa hung up on me, I spotted the envelope from Stephanie. The girl certainly was quick on her feet. I smiled at the contents. Sure enough. Three names, three addresses. Check-in times, check-out times. Room numbers at the Harmony. Home and work phone numbers. Stephanie was a girl who’d go far. I tucked the two half-fifties into a envelope and scribbled her home address on it. Alvin could get a little exercise delivering it. And I made a note to say nice things about her to Richard.

Now I had a little ammo in my war against Wendtz.

I picked up the phone.

Of the two people I reached, neither had clear memories of Mitzi and Rudy’s dust-up. Both were a bit confused about why I was calling.

Connie Dietz was my biggest hope. She’d had the room next to Mitzi’s.

“Sorry, Ms. Dietz will not be back in the office until May 25.” The voice was prim and officious. I couldn’t resist shaking it up a bit.

“This is regarding a police investigation.” True enough. “Ms. Dietz was staying in the hotel where Mitzi Brochu was murdered. We’re double-checking to see whether she heard anything of importance the night before the murder.”

“My heavens, I didn’t know anything about that. Ms. Dietz is travelling in the United States. You mean she was near that murder?” All signs of primness had disappeared from the voice.

“Can I reach her? Do you have her itinerary?”

“Sorry. She’s on holiday.”

“I imagine you gave that information to my colleagues when they called earlier anyway.”

“Well, no. I take all the phone calls here, and this is the first I’ve heard of it. Perhaps they just left a message. Here, let me check Connie’s voice-mails for you.”

I sat on the line listening to rustling sounds until she came back.

“There’s a few here from Ottawa. A Sgt. Mombourquette. Would that be it?”

“Right on.”

“Well, I’ll certainly get Connie to contact you the minute she shows up. And, Officer, good luck with the case.”

“Thanks, but don’t tell her to call me. I’m on the road quite a bit. I’ll contact her. Thank you.”

There was a breathless good-bye from Ms. Prim as she rushed to get off the phone and spread the news.

Not much information, but it told me Mombourquette had quit after leaving one piddling message. But then, his money had always been on Robin.

I picked up the phone. At least the defense had Connie Dietz in its back pocket.

“Merv,” I said, when the call connected me to my favourite tame Mountie, “you’ve gotta help me. Robin’s in real hot water.”

“Who is this?“ Merv asked, “Not Camilla, is it?”

“Of course it’s Camilla.”

“High time you called me back.”

“What do you mean, it’s high time I called you back?”

“What the hell do you think I mean?”

“Sorry, Merv. Are you saying you left messages for me?”

“Yes, I’m saying I left messages for you.”

It wasn’t necessary for him to mimic my expression with such enthusiasm.

“Oh,” I said, deciding to overlook the mimicking, “well, I didn’t get any messages.” I made a little note on the desk pad —Kick Alvin’s Butt.

“Yeah, well, who’s the guy who answers your phone? He needs some kind of lessons in something.”

“Yes, Merv, he does.”

“Right.” Still sulking.

“Anyway, Merv, I’m calling you because Robin’s in big trouble and…”

“Well, I know Robin’s in big trouble. Anyone in the country who’s read the headlines or listened to the news knows. Being found in the room with Mitzi Brochu’s body is big, big news. Why the hell did you think that I was calling and leaving all those messages?”

“Okay, so you know. Of course, I guess I just have been too busy tearing around to pay attention to the media. The police are focusing on her, and I’ve been scrounging for alternatives.”

“Jesus. Those guys are such peckerheads. You met this Mombourquette?”

“Yup. He’s got it in for Robin.” So far so good. Merv was getting steamed. He’d always had a soft spot in his heart for Robin, ever since we were teenagers and he was the young Mountie living across the street.

“I don’t know how anyone could even think for one minute she could hurt anybody. Does he look like a wharf rat or what?”

“Probably has a tail under his cheap suit,” I said.

“Jeez, somebody’s got to do something. Have you been over to that loony bin lately?”

“You mean the Findlay place?”

“I went over. Her mother’s stuck in front of the television having orgasms over the soaps and her father’s baking all the time, except when they’re both fussing over that useless bitch of a sister. And here’s Robin practically in a coma. Have you seen her?”

“I have, Merv. And I am doing something. And this is how you can help.”

“Shoot.”

“One of the guys I want to know about is Sammy Dash.

Can you check out the computer for his license plate and get me the guy’s address? And listen, you can tell if someone’s got a record from that file, right? I need that too, and if he’s got a history, I want to know for what.”

“You know I’m not supposed to give you stuff like that. I can’t even get into the files without giving a reason. I’m a year from retirement, and you want me to be breaking security.”

“Right. I’m sure you’ll think of a good official reason to check him out.”

“You just make sure you keep an eye on Robin. She needs you.”

“Sure will. Oh and Merv, that’s S-A-M-M-Y D-A-S-H.”

*   *   *

Alexa was sitting in my living room when I got home that night, much too tall, blonde and elegant for the surroundings. She tapped her long, patent leather toes on the leg of my table. After five minutes, I finally had to ask her what was wrong.

“Why are you doing that?”

She fixed me with a long, dirty look. “He doesn’t have a wife.”

“Who?”

“I think you know.”

“Oh, well, how was I to know he didn’t have a wife?”

“Well, now you know.”

“So he called, did he?”

“No, he didn’t, but I asked around. I have sources.”

“And no wife.”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t think he’s gay, do you?”

Her voice went up just a smidgen. “No, I don’t think he’s gay.”

“Just wondering, a man of that age. Not married…”

“He’s divorced.” She snapped it, sounding like a rifle report.

“Divorced! Does Dad know?”

“What does Dad have to do with it?”

“Well, I mean, here’s you, nice Catholic lady, widowed, entitled to see other nice Catholic widowed people and here’s him, D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D. You’ll be the talk of your Parish.”

Alexa sat up very straight.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

Nine

I
drove over to Elmvale Acres Saturday morning. Robin looked even worse. She must have lost twenty pounds since finding Mitzi.

“She was just pretending to eat a bit before, and now she’s not even pretending. We’re so worried.” Mr. Findlay stood by the door with a pan of lemon loaf held in his oven mitts.

Mrs. F. nodded her head from the sofa, which was something, I guess, acknowledging that the situation was serious. Even though her mind was on a taped episode of
The
Young and the Restless
.

Mr. F. was glum. Rejection of his food struck at his self-image, I’m sure.

I still wasn’t prepared for the sight of her, shrunken and grey. It was hard to believe that anyone whose colour was that bad had blood in their veins. The skin on her face was loose.

“Robin,” I whispered when we were alone, “you better start eating or old Dr. Beaver’s going to stick a tube through your nose, down your throat and force feed you. Nibbling on your Dad’s fresh lemon loaf is a more pleasant alternative. Trust me.”

She tried to smile. “I do trust you. I just can’t eat. I just can’t. And I don’t want to.”

The rest of our conversation went nowhere. Just like every time I’d spoken to her since the murder. One thing I knew. I couldn’t count on Robin for help with the investigation.

“What did Dr. Beaver say?” I asked Mr. Findlay on the way out.

“He’s going to put her back in the hospital if she doesn’t start to eat. Maybe get her some psychiatric help. She doesn’t want it.”

“Shhh,” said Mrs. Findlay from the sofa.

Must have been an important part.

*   *   *

I spent the rest of Saturday in the office trying to catch up. I worked halfway through one mountain of paper, but two more had sprung up. Tomorrow, I said, and went back to thinking about Robin.

Since the murder, everyone’s reactions to Robin had been emotional. Poor Traumatized Robin. Or, in the case of the police, Guilty as Sin Robin. It was time for me to take a more reasoned approach to my friend and her very big problem.