Speak Ill of the Dead (19 page)

“Thank you, Merv.” I stopped short of slathering him with all that partner bullshit.

My last call was to set up a meeting with my old friend, Elaine Ekstein. Elaine was hard at work setting up a support network for refugee women. She was glad to talk to me.

“Sure,” she said, “I’ll find her for you. She’s probably scared to death. Especially if she’s a new arrival and she doesn’t speak much English. I’ll translate for you.”

I just had time to hop into the car and hightail it back to Elmvale Acres. My little visit with Robin confirmed what I’d hoped. Brooke was still home, but preparing to go out. Her mother was parked in front of the television watching
Days of
Our Lives
and steaming Brooke’s going-out outfit. She didn’t even glance over when I snapped a picture of her.

“Be careful,” Brooke called down, “it’s new and it’s linen. I don’t want anything to happen to it, Ma.”

“My God,” said Ma, “can you believe Marlena would let him do that?”

Mr. Findlay followed me up the stairs with fresh sandwiches, chicken on brown bread, cut in little triangles and some lemon custard for dessert. Hot tea, too. That man knew how to put a tray together.

“Say cheese,” I said, capturing the moment on film.

He grinned. “Just like old times, you and that camera.”

From the sounds of preparations and shouted instructions, Brooke was quite a way from take-off. I could enjoy my lunch and try to get Robin to enjoy hers as well.

“Don’t even think about taking my picture,” Robin said.

I knew she meant it.

“How are the pussies?” she asked as we settled in with our little sandwiches and tea.

“Great! They miss you! But they seem to be enjoying life.”

Robin put down her tea cup and stared at me.

My God, I thought, could she tell what had happened to the tabby just by looking at me? Did the words DEAD CAT appear on my forehead?

“They communicate with you?”

“No, but they…purr. And then every now and then they get a faraway look in their little green eyes, and I know they’re thinking about you and about how they want you to get well and go home and be with them again.” I folded my hands in my lap.

Until I noticed that tears were streaming down Robin’s cheeks. She also appeared to have stopped breathing.

“My God, I’m sorry, I’m only trying to…”

“Hahahahahah.” At least she was alive.

“Stop laughing, or I’ll eat all the sandwiches. Then you’ll be sorry.”

“You can tell all that from their eyes? You should go on Oprah.”

The door shot open and Brooke bellowed through: “Keep it down, will you, I’m trying to catch something on the radio.”

Robin’s laugh was cut off mid-whoop.

“Don’t mind her. She can’t help it. She’s under a lot of career pressure lately.”

Nothing like she’s going to be, I thought as I ate my sandwiches.

When I left the Findlay house, still ahead of Brooke, I pulled away from the curb, rounded the corner and pulled in again. I had a few minutes to sit there and admire the trees leafing out in the warm weather.

I was fiddling with the car radio when Brooke drove by in her fire-engine-red BMW. I wasn’t too worried about following her, not even when she checked her rear view mirror. She was far too self-absorbed to notice anyone else.

I drove along with a smile on my face, wondering where she’d be meeting Sammy Dash this time. And what they’d get up to.

It wasn’t always easy trailing Brooke, since she showed a disinclination to signal lane changes or even turns. We wound along Alta Vista and down Pleasant Park to Riverside Drive, and then followed Riverside to Bank. Except for having to keep an eye on Brooke, it was a pleasant drive, water, lots of green space. Brooke turned right on Bank, drove to the Glebe and parked on Fourth Avenue.

I watched, slouched down in my car, as she headed for the ATM. I had to admit, she would make a first-rate representative for “Walk in the Woods”. Her blonde hair just cleared her shoulders and fluttered in the breeze. The vanilla-coloured linen suit with its elegant wrinkles showed off Brooke’s slim shape. The cut of the skirt above the knees confirmed my long-held suspicion that Brooke was eighty percent legs.

She smiled into the sunshine. Her public smile. A middle-aged man stopped walking and stared.

Too bad she’s such a bitch, I thought. Some of my reaction may have been related to my short legs. Who knows.

I almost lost her as we edged onto Bank Street again. Brooke headed for the Queen Elizabeth Driveway, which winds along the canal on the opposite side to Colonel By.

It’s amazing, I thought, this beautiful woman in her red Beamer is cruising along this beautiful road, and her activities are somehow tied to a murder.

I’d been keeping well behind her, and yet I still had to stand on my brakes to avoid her as she whipped, without a signal or a brake light, into Rudy Wendtz’s driveway.

I pulled over to the side of the road and crouched down again.

Seconds later, Wendtz pulled in after her and parked his black Mercedes.

I don’t suppose they see that many passionate clinches on Queen Elizabeth Driveway. But this one would have made up for any lack. Two tall people, pressed together, for all the world to see. Of course, the world wasn’t looking. Only me.

They deserve each other, I told myself, glancing away towards the front door of the house. That’s when I noticed Large-and-Lumpy watching back.

*   *   *

Elaine kept talking as she ran the red light. I just pressed myself to the back of the seat and tried to remember my Act of Contrition. The Jeep, which accelerated at the green light, missed us by an inch.

“You have no idea,” she said, “how often these people faced death. And how that must feel.”

“I think I do.”

“It’s very difficult for them to find themselves in such a different culture. They’re frightened a lot.”

“I don’t want to frighten her, Elaine. I’m not very frightening, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Elaine took her eyes off the road.

“You believe that, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, Elaine, I do.”

She was still watching me, shaking her head.

“On the other hand, you, Elaine, are terrifying and should not be allowed on the road.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m serious. You can be quite intimidating for such a small person. You come on strong and, if you’ll pardon me mentioning it, you can be quite ruthless.”

“I’ll pardon you mentioning it, if you’ll make an effort to avoid getting us decapitated by that truck ahead.”

A squeal of brakes followed.

“Don’t exaggerate, the truck was a good foot away. And back to the topic. These people are sensitive and fearful. They don’t need to be hassled by the police.”

“May I remind you that I’m not the police, Elaine.”

“I realize that. But if Maria has some information, then you may be forced to inform the police, and you know what stormtroopers they can be.”

“I do, indeed.”

“Maria was quite upset by the whole thing with Mitzi Brochu. I mean, she was so close to that dreadful murder. Can you imagine how traumatic that must have been?”

“Yes. I was there myself. So I know only too well.”

“Well then, you understand that we don’t want her to relive that trauma.”

Elaine stood on her brakes as if to punctuate her point. We stopped for seconds at a red light and then screeched away the moment it turned green.

“Let me repeat, Elaine, that I only want to show her some photos and ask if she has ever seen these people near Mitzi’s room. With particular reference to the day of the murder, when she was working right there on that floor.”

We pulled off Scott Street onto Parkdale and Elaine stopped under a No Parking sign.

“Here we are,” she said, opening her car door without looking. A passing driver swerved and turned back to shake his fist. Elaine didn’t notice.

I got out on the passenger’s side and considered mentioning that two wheels of the car were up on the sidewalk, but it didn’t seem worth it.

*   *   *

Was it just the language barrier? Did she not understand the question Elaine had translated? Elaine and I watched Maria Rodriguez give an affirmative nod to almost every photo. Even the ones that didn’t belong in the set of suspects. Like me, taken at a family dinner.

“You were there,” Elaine commented.

We were sitting around the dinette set in the dining ell on one of the few bits of furniture in Maria Rodriguez’s apartment. Even the sounds of her husband and children laughing at Bugs Bunny in the next room couldn’t lift the tension in the air.

You could see it in Maria’s black eyebrows and the lines around her mouth.

I’d seen it too in the stiff shoulders of both the Rodriguez adults and in the huge, dark eyes of their children. As Elaine said, these were people who’d already had enough trouble.

Maria studied the photos I’d spread out on the beige, formica-topped table. They were a mixture of business and pleasure, friends and family blended with my own crew of suspects.

Deb Goodhouse, Jo Quinlan, Rudy Wendtz, Brooke Findlay, Large-and-Lumpy, Sammy Dash all got the nod from Maria. So did Robin.

She didn’t recognize the rest of my family. Only me.

Maria wasn’t sure about Mrs. Parnell, but after some thought decided she hadn’t seen Mrs. Parnell at the Harmony.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s no problem. I’m glad somebody wasn’t there.”

I wasn’t sure how much it helped my investigation to have every suspect confirmed as a visitor to Mitzi Brochu’s suite at the Harmony the day of the murder.

“You sure you saw all these people, Maria?”

Elaine shook her head at me. “You’re pushing too hard.”

I decided to lighten up a bit and pointed to a picture of the cats.

The cats got a clear no.

At least it let the three of us laugh.

*   *   *

“She recognized all six suspects,” I said, accepting a refill. “So I have to ask myself, did she really recognize them or was she just unclear about the concept? And to think I risked Elaine’s driving, and I still don’t know whether Maria understood the questions or not.”

Richard smiled and sipped his Sambuca.

“It is not amusing,” I growled, before sipping my own.

The Sambuca was just the way I like it, with three coffee beans in the bottom of the snifter, still warm from being flamed. It took the edge off the growl.

“You know, I think I’d like to meet this Elaine.”

“Good idea, I’ll fix the two of you up for a Sunday drive sometime.”

“All kidding aside, any danger you might have been facing from Elaine’s driving is nothing compared to what you’re exposing yourself to if you continue to stalk this killer.”

“I can see you haven’t been in a car with her.”

“Listen to me. You’re dealing with someone who crucified a woman. Talk to the police.”

I was bathed in irritation. This was like lunch with my sisters.

“Sulk if you want. But I like you much better alive,” he said.

I could feel his hand on mine as he spoke. I remembered his daughter. And his wife. I jerked my hand away.

“Or I could talk to the police myself. Tell them you have this interesting stuff and they might like to chat with you about it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He tapped my nose with his finger and smiled. I would have gotten up and stomped out of the bar at that point except my knees were wobbling.

And of course, I didn’t have my car. I had to ask myself why I managed never to have my car when I was with Richard, so he always had to drive me home. For that matter, why was I wearing a knit dress instead of my chunky suit? And lipstick, for heaven’s sake.

We ended the evening by driving around before heading back to my place. Down Wellington Street and Sussex, past the glass sculpture that is the National Gallery and across the Interprovincial Bridge to Hull, admiring the lights shimmering on the green roofs of the Parliament buildings and the sensuous curves of the Museum of Civilization.

As we crossed back into Ottawa on the Portage Bridge and drove along the Parkway to my apartment, the river glistened in the surrounding blackness. When we stopped in front of my building, I felt disappointment that the civilized dinner and drink were over.

“Okay, I’ll talk to the police. I’ll show them the photos and suggest they might want to have a word with the subjects.” After I’ve had a word with them, of course, I added to myself.

Richard squeezed my hand. “I love it when you’re sensible.”

“You do not.”

“I do,” he said, watching my mouth.

Usually I’m not even conscious of having a mouth. But at that moment, it seemed like the supreme erogenous zone. I was surprised he couldn’t hear my pulse pounding.

I don’t know how long we sat there like that, stopped in time.

Then I remembered his wife.

*   *   *

I couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t just the cats lying on various parts of my body either. I lay staring around the room. The eggshell walls were stark in the moonlight. I tried to keep still, because when I didn’t, whatever cat was disturbed by the movement dug its claws into whatever part of my body had moved. And I didn’t feel like kicking cats off the bed. I was already too much of a bad guy.

So there wasn’t much to do. I could think about Richard if I wanted and get up and take a cold shower. Or I could think about Mitzi’s murder and get up and have a drink. Or I could think about dead cats.

For as long as I’d lived in the apartment with the eggshell walls, I’d thought about Paul when I couldn’t sleep. I saved that time for him. Picking up each memory from my mental safety deposit box, touching it, admiring it, feeling it. Remembering the time we first met on campus with the leaves crunching under our feet, remembering sipping cheap wine and munching stale crackers in our first lumpy bed, laughing about crumbs, remembering…but memories of Paul, always so fresh and alive, playing like a new videotape in my head, no longer filled every space in my mind and no longer left their trail of pain. Why was that?

I stared at the walls. Maybe it was time to get a few pictures.