Speak Ill of the Dead (30 page)

“I hope,” said Wendtz, unbending out of my chair, “you get the point of this exercise. You are a little lady, and you are playing with the big boys. You are stirring up trouble, and you are upsetting a lot of people. Take a lesson and mind your own business.”

I slumped against the desk, oozing with relief and resentment. My stomach felt like there was a dogfight going on in it.

He gave a lazy, arrogant stretch, secure in his power, knowing he had gotten through to me. Completely.

I glanced over to Denzil, who was showing his bad teeth. I did a double-take when I saw the third person
.
From behind the open door, a movement.

I whipped around to speak to Wendtz just as his head exploded like a pumpkin landing on the road. I dove for cover. From what? From whom? I didn’t know. And from the frozen look on Denzil Hickey’s face, he didn’t either.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when the office lights went out; after all, the switch was in the hallway outside, along with someone wearing tan shoes. I grabbed the side of the desk and crawled around it, trying to stay away from Wendtz’s body. The room was deep grey rather than black. A deeper something moved on the other side of the desk. I could distinguish the shadow that was Denzil before the flash that finished him. With his last scream echoing in my skull, I lay cowering behind the desk for an eternity. But it was really less than a hour. Time enough to think, though. Who had killed Wendtz and Denzil? Had I really seen the same tan shoes again? And was the killer coming for me too?

*   *   *

“Excuse me while I call somebody,” I said to McCracken. “I’d like to use another telephone though.”

Bits of Wendtz were splattered over my own phone, and I couldn’t see myself picking up the receiver.

It was only after the police arrived with their sirens and heavy shoes that I began to shake. I could see my hands vibrating, and I stuck them in my jeans pocket. I tried to keep the wobble out of my voice, but didn’t quite manage.

“I’ll come with you,” said McCracken.

I didn’t know if that was procedure or some violation of it.

But it suited me. Someone had killed Wendtz and Hickey, someone who knew about my involvement in the Mitzi Brochu case.

“How did you know?”

McCracken held my arm as we walked down the stairs together. He did it well, so that I felt supported and not diminished.

“We received a call from an anonymous source.”

“Ah.”

He nodded gravely.

“Perhaps whoever shot them?”

“Could be.”

Across the street at the Mayflower, McCracken anted up for coffee and chocolate banana cake for two while I made my call.

When I finally reached Richard and told him what had happened, it was all I could do to keep him from coming over.

“No,” I said, “I’d like you to be as far away from this as possible. I’ll see you tomorrow instead. I’ll enjoy the time with you more if we don’t have the same images in our heads.”

“I guess so,” he said. “Will you be up to it then?”

“Yep. Come after dinner for drinks. I can’t count on getting things organized.”

“Tell you what, why don’t I bring dinner? I’ve got excellent connections in the kitchen here. Think you could rustle up two plates and a bit of cutlery?”

“Sure. See you about seven.”

I gulped down the coffee when it came, but pushed away the cake. The taste of dust from the office floor and the smell of blood had done bad things to my appetite. And even though Wendtz and Hickey had been bottom crawlers, I had still seen them die.

I went over and over the sequence of events with McCracken. So much better here than in the office. In the course of our discussion, we each had two more coffees and McCracken ate my cake.

I talked while he ate.

“Who do you think killed them? And why do you think they didn’t kill me? And why did they call the police? Or if they didn’t, who did? Could this be some kind of turf war between rival drug distributors? How were Mitzi Brochu and Sammy Dash connected? Who were Wendtz’s rivals? And how did that link up with my office? Are you going to talk to Brooke Findlay? Her miserable life might be in danger too.”

McCracken blotted his mouth with a napkin. “Do you really want me to answer, or are you just going to keep spewing questions?”

“And that poem,” I said, referring to the scrap of paper McCracken had picked up by the door when he arrived, “that’s the same motif as Sammy and Mitzi. What do you think about that?”

“I think that the deaths are most likely linked to the industry. After all, they all knew each other.”

“Unusual to have poetry written to commemorate murders in the drug trade.”

He shrugged. “You see a lot of real strange stuff in this business. C’mon, I’ll drive you home now. Maybe get Alexa to come over and keep you company. Have a drink together or something.”

“She’ll be more upset about hearing this story than I was living through it. You have a drink with her. It’ll do everybody more good.”

“Maybe. But you better take care anyway. One good thing.

Since you have no idea about any of this stuff, at least you’ll stop playing detective. Wouldn’t want you to run into those tan shoes again and get hurt.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

For the first time since I’d met him, I felt good knowing Conn McCracken.

*   *   *

My phone rang at 8:30 in the evening.

“Camilla,” Robin breathed. “Dad just called. The police took Brooke in for questioning as soon as she got in tonight.

My mother’s hysterical.”

“Gosh,” I said.

“She’s going to need a lawyer.”

“I suppose she will.”

“Couldn’t you…?”

“Robin, your sister took part in a plot to lure me into my office, where I was terrorized by two thugs, who are incidentally now dead. This will have the effect of depriving Brooke of her much-needed cocaine, but aside from that they will not be mourned. So let me make myself clear. Your sister is in much greater need of protection from me than from anyone else.”

“She took part in a…?”

“She phoned pretending to be someone in great danger knowing I would present myself in my office, alone in a deserted building on a Sunday, to be met by two very dangerous men.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right. And do you know why she did that? She did it because she let her relationship with Wendtz and her need for drugs override her resistance to anything. She was willing to have me threatened and maybe even assaulted. She’s nothing but trouble, and more to you than to me.”

“Even so, she’s my sister.”

I had to let it drop there. My own sisters had been calling all afternoon, trying to entice me to spend the night with them.

Edwina had ended up by slamming the phone down in my ear at my final refusal. But I’d felt safer sipping Harvey’s Bristol Cream with Mrs. Parnell, which was what I’d been doing all evening.

I hung up after Robin’s call and returned to my guest, who was amusing herself by coming up with new and unlikely suspects.

“Humph,” said Mrs. Parnell, showing no sign of ever returning her peach-faced lovebirds. “Are you sure you trust that boy in your office?”

“I trust him to be Alvin, who, with all his faults, is not a killer.”

“Tell me what the poem said again.”

I managed to cover my sherry glass with my hand before she refilled it. I waited until she’d filled her own before I repeated it from memory.

Ruining lives and still unjailed
It’s time you bastards both got nailed
Perfidy should be unveiled
To let you live would mean I’d failed

The police could make all the statements they wanted to about Denzil and Rudy being killed by underworld elements, but I knew it was the same person who had crucified Mitzi and perforated Sammy. The same person who had deliberately left me alive.

“Well, it’s not Shakespeare.”

“You’re right, Mrs. P., but who is it?”

The phone rang again ten minutes after Mrs. Parnell had finally teetered home.

“You okay?” asked Richard.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. See you tomorrow night.”

I found myself smiling into the phone, even after he had hung up. But the smile disappeared soon enough as I lay stiffly in my bed, replaying the day’s events. The night was just as bad, drifting through dreams, flashes of gunfire, running feet, tan shoes. I woke up at three, sweating, remembering where I’d seen those shoes.

*   *   *

Monday was suitably grey. A decent follow-up to murder in the office. I decided to give Justice for Victims a miss, since it would have been impossible to concentrate on clean-up and insurance matters. Anyway, the police were probably still hanging around.

I read both the papers. The headlines were sufficiently gratifying to clip. “No Justice for These Victims” one paper chirped, while the other one screamed “Bloody Shootout in Refuge for Crime Victims Leaves Police Baffled.” The shot of the crime scene added a jolting dose of reality.

I stood on the balcony and savoured the warm air. The hot-pink geraniums were flourishing in their cast-iron container. Summer was on its way. Too bad it was blighted by what I had figured out. Whatever thoughts I’d had on human motivations before were nothing compared to what I had now.

I took some satisfaction from waking Alvin.

“Whoa,” said Alvin, once he figured out what was going on, “right in our own office? That is amazing. So, what about work? Will the cops still be there?”

“Probably in and out. It’s best for us to stay away. I haven’t really been thinking about work.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, I could use a holiday. But I might want to get a look at the place.”

“Not a holiday. Just a day or so away from the office. But, wait a minute, since you’ll still be on the payroll, such as it is, I want you to find out something for me.”

“What?”

I told him what I needed to know and by when. I tossed in how to find it, just for good luck.

“Call the neighbours, tell them you’re a reporter doing a feature on the topic. Change your voice, sound like a woman.

Dig around,” I said.

I could hear him squawking on the other line.

“I thought you had connections,” I said.

This was a matter of pride to him. I assumed the silence to imply consent.

“And, Alvin.”

“Yeah?”

“Be discreet.”

Elaine Ekstein was next on my wake-up call list.

“Of course I was up,” she claimed.

“I need to see Maria Rodriguez again.”

“Why?”

“Another question.”

“For Christ’s sake. Haven’t these people been through enough as refugees without you grilling them all the time?”

“I’m not grilling them all the time. I just want to ask one little question.”

“I’ll call you back.”

I used the time to get dressed, not as easy as it might seem with the shortage of clean clothes. Finally, I found a navy linen skirt that looked all right with my aqua cotton sweater.

Normally, I would team it up with the plaid blazer I’d worn on Sunday with my jeans, but I was never going to wear that again. A dry cleaner might get out the blood stains, but nothing could remove the memory of the savage scene in my office.

Alexa called while I was pushing my cereal around in the bowl. I didn’t feel like putting any of it in my mouth.

Yesterday and all its tastes were still too close.

“Camilla,” she said, “are you all right?”

“Of course.”

“That was a terrible thing yesterday.”

“Indeed.”

“But it looks like it’s over.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Conn says that these people, well, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but…”

“Oh, go ahead.”

“Well, Conn says they were all involved with the drug trade in some way. Even Mitzi Brochu was tied to those people. They played with some very dangerous criminals, and they were dangerous themselves. This is the way it is, they get killed in disputes over territory or settling accounts. It’s not like they were innocent bystanders.”

“Like Robin.”

“Like Robin.”

“And me.”

“And you.”

“I hope Conn’s right.”

But I knew he was wrong. These deaths had been more than a settling of accounts. It had been someone with a major axe to grind. Someone torn up by memories. Someone who hated all four victims. More than business, this had been pleasure.

At nine o’clock, I made my first business phone call. And got the answer I’d expected and feared.

Twenty-One

Y
ou missed that pedestrian,” I said to Elaine. “Do you want to try again?”

“Very funny,” she said, swerving into the bus lane and jamming her foot down on the accelerator.

I closed my eyes until we pulled up in front of Maria’s apartment building.

Maria was not happy to see us. I didn’t blame her. This time her husband sat with us, the set of his shoulders sending a powerful message.

“I don’t want her to be upset. She’s been through too much already.” He gave Elaine a look, like she should know.

Elaine hunched in her chair and translated the look into a glare. For me.

“Make it snappy,” she said.

I had only one picture with me this time and only one question.

“Ask her how long this person was on the eighth floor the day of the murder, Elaine.”

I guess my excitement was evident when I got the answer I wanted. Long enough.

Maria must have translated my smile into a potential visit from the police. Her husband covered her hand with his.

“It’s time for you to go,” he said.

“Thank you for your help,” I said as we stood to leave.

“She doesn’t want to talk to the police,” Maria’s husband said.

The door closed behind us.

*   *   *

“Oh, it’s you,” I said.

My unexpected visitor stood at my doorway, holding a box.

“I’m really busy right now. Can we do this some other time?”

I gestured around the apartment, which I was cleaning up to pass the time while I waited for McCracken to call or show up. I still had to hide the dirty laundry in the closet and put the unwashed dishes under the sink.