The Icing on the Corpse (10 page)

“No, you're not.”

“I am now.”

“I thought you gave up your practice.”

“I'm a licensed Member of the Bar. Ready to go at a moment's notice.”

“Do you think I'll need a lawyer?”

“Yeah, right. Maybe a psychiatrist would be better.”

“No seriously, I mean, you can't buy this kind of publicity.” She gripped my arm. “It's great.”

“Trust me, it's a lot of things, but great isn't one of them.”

“C'mon, what can go wrong?”

“To begin with, you could get charged with murder in the first degree, go to trial, get convicted and because of the bizarre, premeditated aspects of the case, you could get the full weight of the law—twenty-five years. Of course, reformers are trying to get that extended so…who knows.”

“Camilla. You know perfectly well that won't happen. And you have to admit this presents such a wonderful opportunity to highlight the plight of battered women and to show the world people like Benning do exist and they can be stopped.”

“Please do not say that or you may be highlighting this very plight from a correctional facility. Might be another wonderful opportunity for you. You'll find many situations need fixing in the slammer. What a terrific outlet for your energy. Congratulations.”

“Don't be silly, Camilla. After all, it's not like I'm guilty.”

“It's so cute the way you think only the guilty go to jail.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, you come on. Why do you think the system needs two sides, prosecution and defence?”

“Okay, sure, but lets face it. Most murderers get caught and they're fairly convicted.”

“Four little words for you: Marshall, Morin, Milgaard, Sophonow.”

This did not have the desired effect on Elaine. “You're right. I should get involved. There's only so many hours in the day but, I guess I should give the Elizabeth Fry Society a call. Maybe John Howard too. And what's the group that works with the falsely convicted? I feel a bit ashamed of myself that I've never done a thing for those people. Isn't there another organization that works to reopen hopeless cases? What's it called? Yes, I lose perspective sometimes.”

“Like right now, for instance. Look, forget your crusade. Just tell me what they asked and what you answered. And then don't say one word to anyone under any circumstances. Not to the police and especially not to the media.”

“Are you kidding? This is my chance. Nothing will shut me up.”

“Don't be like that, Conn. We're family. And besides, non-disclosure of pertinent information to the defence can get your carefully constructed case tossed out of court.” I didn't like the stubborn way McCracken's jaw jutted out. “You hear me? I said
tossed out of court”

He shrugged.

“Hey, your call. No hard feelings,” I said. “Wonder if it's too late today to get a court order.”

McCracken turned his head and stared at the empty wall.

I said, “That is an exceptional wall. I wonder if we should get a camera and get a couple of shots of it, send them to the media.”

“Funny. You want to know what happened?”

“I want to know what she said.”

“No problem.” He reached into his rumpled suit pocket and yanked out a small white notebook.

“That's more like it.”

“Let's see, where are we? Oh, yeah,” He flipped the pages. Lucky he hadn't called my bluff about the judge, because I prefer to reserve court orders until my back is to the wall. “Okay, Camilla, here's what your client said.”

I held my breath.

“All right. To the first question, name and address, she refused to answer. Then she gave us the following responses:

“I don't believe I can answer that question.

“No, officer, I don't remember.

“Seems to have slipped my mind.

“I have no idea.

“Hard to say.

“Are you sure? I don't recall.

“It could be, but I'm not certain.

“I prefer not to comment.

“My mind is blank there.

“I must have been asleep.

“My apologies, officer, but what can I say?

“Gosh, I wish I could help but.…”

McCracken smirked when he snapped the notebook closed. “Lucky you, your client has no recollection of leaving the property on Echo Drive last night during the key hours when Benning would have been dumped in Confederation Square.”

I pursed my lips.

“She'll be a big hit with a judge. Can't wait to see that.”

That Elaine. There's no one in the world quite like her. “You have to admit she is polite.”

“She's the only person I can think of who's more irritating than you, Camilla.”

“Oh, come on, she's not trying to irritate you. She wants to protect WAVE.”

“Don't be so sure.”

“But I am sure. Elaine Ekstein has a heart as big as the world. She might have hated Benning for what he stood for and what he did to women, but she would be totally unable to commit a murder. I know that the way I know my own sister's name.”

“Well, that's great, Camilla.”

“What are you smirking about?” I asked.

“Might it be the video surveillance footage of the big-hearted Elaine Ekstein as she wheels a box out of a parked van and down into the centre of an ice sculpture? Nice thing about this video camera: it recorded the time and the date.”

I tried to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.

McCracken smiled. “Ain't technology grand?”

“I think I'd better see this video.”

W
ell.” I stared at the grainy video footage of a woman, muffled to the ears with a thick scarf, hair hidden by a slouchy hat as she struggled to wheel a large wooden box on a dolly down the loading ramp of a white van.

“Well, indeed,” McCracken said.

“I don't know. Could be anybody all bundled up with a scarf.”

“You think so?” he said.

I chose not to mention that I recognized the slouchy hat as Elaine's favourite faux leopard number, the ugliest and most recognizable article of her clothing. If you didn't count the matching coat. Moonlight lit the sky behind Elaine. Great. Maybe I could incorporate the full moon as part of a diminished capacity defence for her.

“Nice attention to detail,” McCracken said. “See how she sets it up at just the right angle, right in front of the original ice sculpture of Justice. Smooths it out. Adjusts the sign and all. She's a pro. And yet, she doesn't remember any of it.”

“You know, Conn, I'm not sure that's her in the video. In fact, I'm almost certain it's not. But, even in the unlikely event that it were, she'd have to be psycho to move a body in front of a surveillance camera. I'll make sure she gets a proper psychological evaluation.”

Mombourquette leaned forward and gazed at the screen. Elaine stood, apparently admiring the unboxed sculpture, her face turned away from the camera. She ran her hand over the smooth surface of the ice.

Mombourquette's pointy little teeth showed. “Spunky little gal, though, isn't she?”

Okay, so here's what I believe. Sometimes life can treat us roughly. Then we need a bit of help to cope with some of the slings and arrows. Big deal. I do my bit through Justice for Victims. I've seen what big bureaucracies, small minds and bad breaks can do. I'm happy to line up on the side of the angels and toss a few punches.

But that's where it ends. I do not believe victims have the right to make every one else miserable. I do not believe it gives you special privileges or absolves you from the responsibility of looking after yourself and just getting over whatever shit happened to you. And except in clear and immediate self-defence, I sure as hell don't believe it gives you the right to kill another human being.
Period.

Despite years in the law, I was foolish enough to believe in justice. I bored myself with my personal philosophy as I drove Mrs. Parnell's LTD back to Lindsay's place on Echo Drive. Elaine might be happy, locked in a cell in the Elgin Street station, waiting for her bail hearing, but I was not.

Her wacky perception of the public relations benefits for WAVE didn't do it for me. But something bothered me even more. All I needed to put my mind at rest was a couple of minutes upstairs at Lindsay's without anyone watching.

“Nothing, Merv. I'll tidy things up a bit. Take care of a bit of girl stuff.”

“You? Tidy up? Girl stuff? Holy shit, what can I expect next? A rain of red frogs?”

“There are thousands of comedians out of work,” I said. “Several of them are slumped on their butts in the kitchen. I wouldn't try to change jobs if I were you, Bucko.

“Some things scream for commentary, Camilla.”

“Right, and here's one. The cops are grilling Elaine about the discovery of Benning's body. They gave me the boot. I need to keep busy. But, as one of the brotherhood, you might be able to ferret out some information from the Ottawa police. I'll keep an eye on Lindsay.”

Merv stood and looked way, way down at me. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't upset Lindsay.”

“Why would you even suggest that, Merv? For one thing, she's sound asleep and sedated up the ying yang. And why would I want to upset her? I'm here to help my client, remember? I brought you here. Does that ring a bell? Who looked after Lindsay's interest while you bitched about driving over?”

“Yeah, yeah, you know what you're like.”

Tricky. What could I say? No, I don't know what I'm like? Or I'm not like anything? Neither served as a snappy comeback. After Merv reluctantly headed downstairs, I muttered, “I'm the good guy here.”

I said it to Lindsay. In fact, I leaned over and whispered it into her ear as she slept. Not so much as a twitch. Excellent. That gave me some time.

The funny thing about Lindsay was, no matter how terrifying her life became, her home and her bedroom remained pristine. So I found no piles of underwear, no rumpled clothes heaped over a chair, no shoes kicked in the corner. No brushes or makeup tumbled on the dresser tops. No stockings slung on the brushed metal doorknobs. No magazines open. I spotted the golden swirl of her bottle of Organza on the bathroom vanity counter. Her slippers were parked by the bed, waiting for her. That was the extent of the disorder.

First, I lifted the lid of the laundry hamper. I'd never seen anyone's dirty clothes folded before. Not even in a fashionable bleached cotton mobile hamper. For a bizarre second, I thought Merv might have done it, in a peculiar form of homage to Lindsay. But then I remembered Merv's living quarters. Merv didn't even fold clean laundry. Possibly Merv didn't even have clean laundry.

Fine. The folded laundry made it easy to check. But I didn't find what I was looking for.

The customized walk-in closet was the next hot spot. It equalled the size of my Grade Eight classroom at Saint Jim's but with a lot more mirrored surface. I hoped my sisters never got a look at this closet, or serious renovations could replace weddings as the next family obsession. Maybe Lindsay was fussy or a careful spender, but there weren't many clothes in the closet to check. She could have increased her wardrobe tenfold and not filled the hangers, drawers, shelves and shoe holders. I glanced over the jackets, dresses, blouses and slacks hung in colour order. I checked the drawers.

I returned to the bedroom and dropped to my knees to peer under the bed. Next I tried the laundry room. Someone that meticulous could run a load of laundry even when faced with immediate death. It made as much sense as folding your soiled bra. The laundry room was discreetly out of sight on the bedroom level. The one basket sat empty. So did the washer and dryer. Nothing hung on the little stainless racks.

I wasn't happy. I headed back to the bedroom and poked behind the shantung silk pillow shams and four pewter-coloured pillows. Lindsay had turned over. I checked the spot where she had been lying, but I didn't find what I was looking for.

Bad news. Or perhaps I was overreacting. After all, it hadn't been the most relaxed twenty-four hours in my life. So where the hell was the cream cashmere outfit Lindsay had worn the previous day and evening?

I sure as hell hoped it turned up. In the meantime, Lindsay had been through plenty already. I didn't plan to mention the tunic and pants. And if someone tipped the police that Lindsay's leather boots were sitting in a salty puddle by the front door, it damn well wouldn't be me.

She was a victim. In my book, she needed protection, not persecution. So I'd have to find out what happened to that tunic before some snoopy cop did. But of course, they had their hands full with Elaine.

“Thirty-two messages saved for you on the Justice for Victims voice mail,” Alvin said.

“Great.”

“You might want to listen to them.”

“We have enough on our plate here, Alvin. I'll listen to them when I get back to the office.”

“Let me suggest…”

“No, Alvin, let me suggest I'll get to them in my own sweet time. Just because you can phone in and get messages doesn't mean you have to. I'm not a slave to this goddam technology.”

Alvin shrugged. “Your choice, Camilla.”

“Yes, it is.” Everything always had to be an argument with that boy.

“There's something you should know.”

“Put a sock in it.”

“No problemo.” Alvin leapt out of his chair in Lindsay's kitchen and headed into the living room. Merv sipped his coffee and watched his retreating back. Alvin's bony shoulders were held high. I'd be paying for that “put a sock in it” remark, but I held my ground. Maybe sleeping on the living room floor and facing that particular sock at the crack of dawn had brought out the worst in me.

“Why the hell doesn't the little jerk get his mangy butt over to your office and open it up?” Merv said.

“We're off to a slow start today. It can wait. In case you didn't notice.”

“You never gonna get rid of that guy?”

“Give me time. At the moment, I have a full agenda.”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe you should show a little spine, Camilla.”

I put my own coffee cup on the table and stood up. “I'd better go up and talk to Lindsay.”

“She's asleep.”

“Well, time for her to wake up.”

She raised her head and opened her eyes.

“Be straight with me, Lindsay,” I said. “I have a question and I want you to tell me the truth.”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I tell you the truth?”

“Where are the clothes you wore last night.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your long cream sweater. The one you wore yesterday.”

She puckered her forehead. “Well, it's in the hamper.”

“No.”

“But it must be.”

“Listen to me. It. Is. Not.”

“Perhaps I hung it up.” Her hands clenched and unclenched.

I shook my head.

“Oh. I guess I must have tossed it somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. I'd have to look.”

“I've already looked.”

“Maybe I hung something on top of it. Maybe it slipped behind a chair.”

I glanced around. “Somehow I don't see you tossing things.

Or letting your cashmere sweaters slip onto the floor.”

“Not usually. But this isn't usually.”

“So where's the sweater?”

She met my eyes. “What difference does it make?”

“What difference? Because Ralph Benning was murdered. Because you had a damn good reason to want him dead. Because we all fell asleep and you could have left the house. Because Elaine Ekstein will be charged with his murder. And because.…”

“Elaine?”

“That sweater is not in this house. It is nowhere. Ditto the leggings.”