Speak Ill of the Dead (22 page)

“Tea, Camilla?” Alexa called from the kitchen.

“Tea would be lovely,” Mrs. Parnell said.

“Yes, please,” I said.

Alexa poked her head out the kitchen door and gave Mrs.

Parnell a dirty look, wasted as Mrs. Parnell was facing me.

“I have a question of my own, Mrs. Parnell. How did you get into my apartment?”

Mrs. Parnell snorted. “Well, Ms. MacPhee, the wailing of your cats became so pronounced during the late evening and early morning that it disturbed my sleep. I had no choice but to conclude that you had failed to provide them with the necessities of life and that it was up to me to get some sustenance into their whiny little mouths before one of the nosier neighbours called the police.”

One of the nosier neighbours?

Alexa fumbled the tea tray at that one.

“But Mrs. Parnell,” I said, unwilling to let go, “how did you get into the apartment?”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Parnell, accepting a china cup from Alexa.

“You should use these more often,” Alexa said, turning and adding in a whisper, “instead of that moss-encrusted mug you keep in the sink.”

“I’m very curious about it,” I said to Mrs. Parnell, who showed no signs of answering my question. “How did you get into the apartment?”

“Well,” she said, and took a sip of her tea.

I waited.

“I felt I had no choice.”

I nodded.

“I asked the super for a key.”

“You what?”

“I asked the super for a key. I explained that you had asked me to water your plant and I had misplaced the key that you’d left me and I was in a panic.”

“What plant?” said Alexa. “Camilla doesn’t have any plants.”

I motioned to her to keep quiet. “And he gave it to you?”

“Yes. Oh, he offered to do it himself. But I assured him that the plant had to be watered at 9 o’clock sharp because I knew he was tied up then.”

“And he believed you?”

“Naturally. He’s not exactly a rocket scientist.”

“You weren’t bothered by the fact that this was against the law?”

“Not in the least,” said Mrs. Parnell. “As much as I dislike the idea of animals in our building, I didn’t want the beasts to starve.”

Four of the cats were clustered near her feet, basking in the warmth of their newfound friendship. Only the fat little calico waddled over to me. I had to lift her on to the sofa.

“Camilla thinks she found a body lying in a large amount of garbage. We’re not certain that this idea did not come about as a result of her head injury,” Alexa said in a conversational tone.

Mrs. Parnell nodded in agreement. “Very unsettling, head injuries. I’ve had a few myself.”

“There was a body,” I snarled, “and I’m sure the lab boys are going to agree once they finish going through that apartment.”

“Fascinating,” said Mrs. Parnell, “and were you alone at the time? No other witnesses.”

“That’s right.”

“Hmm. And how did you get into the apartment where the body was?”

“The door was open.”

I shot her a glance. Sure enough, I saw a little glimmer of amusement. Point to Mrs. Parnell.

Fifteen

I
had trouble sleeping after the incident in Sammy’s apartment. I dreamed about tan shoes and garbage. I wanted comfort. I wanted someone to pat my hand. I wanted a shoulder to wipe my nose on. I think I even wanted to be cuddled. But I found myself alone.

Since we were kids, Robin’s been the one who comforted me when I needed it. Now, of course, it was out of the question to go to her with my problems.

Richard, I thought, was suited to comforting, and I could see myself sniffing on the padded shoulder of his navy suit. Richard could have done a hell of a good job, but he was in Toronto doing something tedious at corporate headquarters.

That left my family.

Sunday dinner at Edwina’s was their way of easing me back into normal life after my brush with violence. Even Stan refrained from practical jokes in the course of the evening, although he did have a suspicious bulge in his jacket pocket.

The conversation was cautious. Everyone stared at me when they thought I wouldn’t notice. My father looked more puzzled than usual. I was certain they were all convinced the entire Sammy in the garbage scene was a product of the blow to my head.

So no one mentioned it.

We spoke about the poached Atlantic salmon, which was very nice, the parslied potatoes, which Edwina always did so well and the fiddleheads, which a friend of Stan’s had picked and sent by Priority Post from the Restigouche. Praise was heaped on the dinner rolls and hollandaise sauce.

The Chardonnay was excellent. We discussed it for a while.

We might have been meeting for the first time at a dinner party.

“The weather’s been lovely,” said Alexa.

“Very nice,” said my father.

“Great for the Tulip Festival. Tourists all over the place,” said Stan.

“The tulips are spectacular. They really are,” said Donalda.

“Is everyone ready for lemon mousse cheesecake and coffee?” Edwina prefers action to talk.

No one said much of anything while she and Alexa and Donalda bustled around in the kitchen.

I fiddled with my napkin. Stan patted his pocket. My father looked at me with his brow wrinkled.

For the first time in my life, I would have preferred to help out in the kitchen. But I’m never allowed to. Something about my track record with china.

By the time we were all settled in with lemon mousse cheesecake and steaming coffee, I’d had it with pussyfooting. “So,” I said, digging into my cheesecake, “looks like I was right.”

Everyone looked at everyone else, before everyone spoke at once. “Right about what?”

I pointed to my mouth to indicate I couldn’t talk.

They watched me munch on my cheesecake.

Edwina drummed her fingers on the table until Alexa reached over and gave her a little nudge.

I took my time. When I finished, I dabbed at my mouth with a linen napkin.

“Well,” I said, pausing for effect.

Everyone leaned forward.

“Sergeant McCracken of Ottawa Police Services phoned me this afternoon.”

I looked around the table, beaming. “Do you all remember Conn McCracken?”

“Get on with it.” Edwina has a hard time maintaining a gentle, nurturing pose.

Alexa blushed.

“Well,” I repeated, “he called me today to give me the results of one of the tests taken at Sammy Dash’s apartment.”

I took another mouthful of cheesecake, savouring it.

“For God’s sake, Camilla, what were the damned results!” Edwina exploded.

My father shook his head at her. It was enough to get Edwina to stop, but I noticed her fingers started drumming again.

“How did he sound?” asked Alexa.

That was sufficiently peculiar to direct attention away from me. Of course, that wasn’t my intention.

“In this particular test, they use a chemical, which will cause blood stains which have been cleaned up to show under certain light.” I smiled.

“And?” asked Donalda.

“Well,” I said, smiling around at everyone, “the results were very interesting.”

“Get to the point,” Edwina barked.

“The test showed, and I must say I feel vindicated by the results,” I paused for a breath, during which there were definite signs of rebellion at the table, “the test showed what must have happened.”

“Camilla,” said my father, in the voice he’d perfected as a school principal, “stop teasing your sisters.”

“Well, the test showed large quantities of blood at the spot where I told them the body had been lying. It must have soaked through the carpet.”

Everyone gasped at once. Most gratifying.

“My God, you were lucky…”

“You must have interrupted the killer.”

“You could have been murdered.”

“It must be a maniac.”

I leaned back and enjoyed the reaction for a minute.

When they started to settle down, I added, “There was something else Sgt. McCracken said.”

I took the expectant silence as an indication of interest. “They found blood stains all over the place. On the walls and even on the ceiling.”

Stan said, “Somebody must have really hated this guy.”

“Or else, it was someone completely ruthless, without compassion,” said Donalda.

Exactly. And with the kind of psychotic sense of drama needed to lug in a pile of garbage in a packing box just to add substance to the sentiment. I wondered if Sammy Dash had had one encounter too many with Denzil Hickey, acting on behalf of Rudy Wendtz.

“You were in real danger.” My father could always cut through to the real issue. “I regret that we didn’t believe your version of the events, the first time. It is not like the MacPhees not to take each other seriously.”

I spent the rest of the evening smirking at my sisters and making faces at Stan when no one was looking.

*   *   *

“I don’t know where your photos are,” Alvin said.

It was Wednesday before I was pronounced ready to go back to work. Alvin was still peevish when I walked in. I put it down to jealousy, since I’d gotten closer to a murder than he had.

“You just don’t remember where you put them,” he added.

“That’s right, I don’t. But I know they were either in my apartment or in my briefcase or here in the office.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, and they’re not in my briefcase.”

“Umhum.”

“And they’re not in my apartment. I’ve been through every inch of it.”

Alvin shrugged.

“Soooo, they must be here. Let’s get moving and find them.” By this I meant, you get moving and find them.

It was a distressing thought, searching through the piles of paper in the office. Paper was piled everywhere. The twin disasters of Alvin’s arrival and my preoccupation with Mitzi’s murder looked like the undoing of Justice for Victims.

“I already looked through everything. They’re not here,” he whined.

I stared at him, long and hard.

“Maybe someone, the murderer I guess, stole them from your briefcase in Sammy’s apartment. When you were out cold.”

Maybe, indeed. I couldn’t even remember if the photos had been in my briefcase. My head was still fuzzy enough to blur the events just before my visit.

“Maybe someone broke into your apartment and stole them.” This was said with enthusiasm on Alvin’s part.

“Nobody broke into my apartment.”

“Yes, they did. Remember the dead cat?”

“Of course I remember the dead cat. How could I forget the dead cat? However, I still had the photos after that.”

“Oh.”

Of course, I knew Alvin was right. Someone had stolen the photos. From me. From my apartment, my briefcase or my office. No question about it. Someone who had been in one of the photos. Someone who didn’t want me going around asking questions. But I hated to give Alvin the satisfaction.

I also hated to go around snapping the suspects again. And one of them was dead.

Alvin’s face lit up a bit. “Of course, I have the negatives.”

“Good, where are they? We can get copies made and you can head off to the Harmony to do your back hall investigations.”

“They’re here somewhere.”

“What do you mean ‘they’re here somewhere?’”

“I filed them.”

“Well, get them out of the file.”

“Give me a minute. I need to think of what I filed them under.”

I glared at him while he stared at the ceiling as if the file title might be written there. I thought about how much I wanted to file Alvin under Employees, Former.

The blast of the phone startled both of us. I grabbed it before Alvin could.

McCracken.

I gestured to Alvin to get his head back into the files.

“So,” said McCracken, “looks like you were right.”

When Alvin pulled the negatives out of the Miscellaneous file, I was caught up in what McCracken was saying. I pointed in the direction of the Rideau Centre and hoped that Alvin would understand that meant take them in to get printed again.

McCracken was saying Sammy Dash had turned up in a dumpster, outside a renovated building. He had been punctured, many times, by something very sharp. And he’d been there a while.

Underneath him, a poem was clutched in what was left of his hand. McCracken read it to me, over the phone:

Here lies Sammy Dash
Who sold trouble for cash
Now he’s where he belongs
With the rest of the trash

I heard about it again on the evening news as I passed through the Findlay living room on my way up to see Robin.

“Oh, look,” said Mrs. Findlay, “they’ve identified that man they found last night. Isn’t that terrible? We’re not even safe in our beds anymore. Even Camilla here found another body. What is the world coming to?” she asked Brooke.

But Brooke, who’d been slumped on the sofa, surrounded by Holt Renfrew bags, choked on her cigarette. She took the stairs two at a time and slammed the bathroom door.

I could hear her retching as I passed the door on my way to Robin’s room.

“What’s wrong with Brooke?” Robin asked.

“Reality struck too close to home this time, I guess.”

Robin is used to my more oblique remarks and she let that one slide.

“My mother says you found a body. Is that true?”

She was looking better. A little more pink and white, a little less yellow. And she was sitting up, with her hair combed and her eyes clear.

“It’s true.”

“My God,” she said. “What happened?”

I hesitated, but it was time to talk straight.

“Yes,” I said, “while crawling around town to investigate the murder which caused you so much psychological distress, I visited one Sammy Dash. Mean anything?”

I watched her face. Sammy Dash was a new name to her.

“He was Mitzi’s Brochu’s photographer. And some people say he wanted to be more than that.”

She shook her head.

“I wanted to talk to him about his relationship with Mitzi and a few other things, and I went to his apartment. Someone hit me over the head when I found his body.” I rubbed the sore spot.

Robin gasped. She leaned forward, grasping my arm.

I hated to do it, but I said, “He was a good friend of Brooke’s.”