Speak Ill of the Dead (29 page)

“For God’s sake, Stan, this is hardly the time for your stupid jokes.”

It’s not like Edwina to give Stan hell, and he had the grace to blush.

I picked up the tiny toy dog with the powerful bark from the floor and removed the batteries. I dropped the batteries into my pocket and tossed the stupid mutt through the door of my bedroom with full force.

“It’s okay, you can come back now,” I called to the cats. “As I was saying, Edwina, do you remember what Deb Goodhouse was like as a girl?”

“Why on earth do you want to know that? Don’t you have more important things to think about?”

“Indulge me.”

Edwina narrowed her eyes. She seemed to feel I was up to something.

“It’s hard to remember. She was kind of self-conscious.

Worried about how people looked at her. She always had to shine at something, like Debating Society or Drama Club or some damn thing. She wasn’t pretty and she wasn’t popular, and she didn’t have any decent clothes. I don’t remember her ever having a boyfriend.”

This didn’t sound too bad. I’d been pretty much the same, except for the self-conscious and worried part.

“How come she hung out at our place? All of you were always popular.”

Edwina shrugged. “I don’t know. I think Alexa felt sorry for her. And she always wanted to be around us. It used to irritate me from time to time, but Alexa and Donalda always stuck up for her. Why don’t you ask them?”

“Yes, well…”

“And please don’t think that this inquiry will distract me from the main purpose of this visit. You are to stop all your ridiculous and dangerous attempts at detecting.” She got to her feet with great dignity, marred only slightly by the clumps of cat hair stuck to her rear end.

I smiled.

“Come along, Stan,” she said, “and forget about that silly toy.”

“But, Edwina…” he said We both knew he was out of luck.

Even after they left, no cats appeared, suffering no doubt from a crisis of confidence in the management of their current hotel. It was fine with me, I had things to do. I was whistling as I picked up the phone.

Twenty

S
unday morning I woke up early, my breathing laboured because of a great weight on my chest. The cats had chosen to forgive and forget. The black and white one apparently found me quite comfortable. All four of them were miffed when I had the nerve to get out of bed.

I bumped around the kitchen, yawning and fumbling. Cat food into the dishes, coffee into the coffee maker. Fragments of the night’s dreams clogged my head and zoomed forward now and then, causing me to gasp. Robin and Alvin and Deb Goodhouse had filled those dreams, had been dead in them.

I was glad when the coffee was ready. I took a couple of sips and went to phone Alvin at home.

“Wha’?” he asked after a considerable amount of banging with the receiver. “Whoosis?”

“It’s Camilla, merely checking on your well-being. I’m glad to see you survived the night. Well, good-bye now.”

“I’m claiming overtime for this.” He managed to slam down the phone before I did.

Still, he was alive and back to his old self. My second call got a positive response. I had another cup of coffee to celebrate. I had my feet up on the coffee table and was reading the Sunday paper when the doorbell rang. Another success.

Ted Beamish looked as furtive as a pudgy man with thinning red hair can look. The large doughnut box he was clutching seemed to have a life of its own, shifting and swaying in his grasp. From her open doorway, Mrs. Parnell peered at him with undisguised interest.

They both stared at me. Perhaps because I was still in Paul’s old blue pyjamas, with the legs kind of rippling on the floor past my toes. What the hell, it wasn’t like either one of them made much of a fashion statement.

“I got it,” Ted hissed.

“Got what?”

He whipped around to stare back at Mrs. Parnell, who had asked the question.

I swear he made a peeping sound.

“The answer to our troubles, Mrs. P.,” I said. “Come on over. It’ll save you having to lean against my door with a glass in your hand and maybe losing your balance and hurting yourself.”

“No need to be snotty,” she said as she hobbled into the apartment.

“Well,” I said, “let’s have a look in that box. Have we solved the problem?”

Ted flipped open the top, and a small round calico cat hissed at him.

“Perfecto,” I said.

“You found it!” said Mrs. Parnell.

“Not it, but one that looks just like it. What do you think?

Robin will never catch on,” I said “Boy, that’s a relief,” said Ted. “I wasn’t sure I could find one with a face like a pansy. I wasn’t even sure exactly what a pansy looked like.”

“You did well, young man,” said Mrs. Parnell, whipping out a cigarette to mark the occasion. “It looks like the same cat to me. A little slimmer perhaps.”

“Robin will probably attribute that to my cooking. I owe you, Ted. Was it hard to find?”

“My contacts at the Humane Society paid off. You’re absolutely sure Robin won’t catch on? She was pretty ticked off about the restaurant. I wouldn’t want to have another strike against me.”

“Let’s show a little backbone here.”

I thought I’d calmed him down, but he still jumped at the sound of the doorbell.

“You get a lot of company, for a Sunday morning.”

Robin’s voice chirped through the intercom and silenced us. By the time she arrived at the apartment, we were all sitting stiffly around the living room, trying to look like we had nothing to do with any conspiracy.

“Hello-o,” she called pushing open the front door. “Here kitties.”

“Robin,” I said, “this is great. How did you get here? Do you feel well enough to drive?”

“Brooke dropped me off. She had somewhere urgent to go.”

Kitties appeared from everywhere, showing great interest in Robin. She scratched behind their ears and snuggled up to them. The grey one, the black and white one, the Persian, the ginger. She looked at the little calico with surprise.

“Aren’t you cute,” she said. “Who are you? Don’t tell me that Camilla finally broke down and got a pet.”

My throat felt very, very dry as I said, “That’s your little calico cat, Robin.”

She stared at me, astounded.

“That’s not my cat.”

“Of course, it is,” I told her firmly.

Robin’s voice went up a notch. “This is not my cat. I know my cats, and this is not one of them. Where is my calico cat, Camilla?”

I blundered on. “Perhaps, Robin, the effects of your recent…”

“Enough bullshit. Has something happened to Myrtle?”

She looked around just in time to see Ted and Mrs. P. exchanging looks that any jury in the world would accept as a sure sign of guilt.

“Not really,” I said.

“Then where is she?”

“She is not here right now. However, I’m certain she’ll be back shortly. In the meantime, this lovely creature will permit you to return home with five cats.”

“You tried to trick me, didn’t you?

“Certainly not.”

“And you,” she said, turning to Ted, “were you in on this duplicity too?”

Ted uttered a strangled sound.

“What he means to say,” I said, “is that he knows nothing about this. He merely came here in response to my request that he help me improve security in my apartment. He’s what they call an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire.”

Robin nodded. At least she accepted that.

“And Mrs. Parnell is an innocent bystander too. Just dropped in for a bit of tea.”

“I should have known you could concoct something so ridiculous all by yourself.”

“I’m not really innocent,” said Mrs. Parnell, drawing off the enemy fire, “I seem to have let your little cat escape. It was not Camilla at all. She wanted to spare you any additional pain. I agree the idea was naïve, perhaps even asinine, but it was well-meant.”

“Robin,” Ted blurted, “I’m not really innocent either. I found this cat and brought it here.”

What is the matter with these people, I asked myself.

“It’s okay, Ted, I understand you wanted to help.”

She turned to me. I raised my chin.

“But you should have known better. You should consider the consequences of the things you do.”

*   *   *

I was damned glad to be alone when they left, Robin to go back to her apartment, accompanied by Ted, Mrs. Parnell to spy on the rest of the neighbours, the cats to their castle.

I was slumped on the sofa, telling myself I liked the place better without cats anyway, when I had an idea.

“Camilla!,” Richard said, when he answered, “Are you feeling rested or still jumpy?”

“A bit of both. Irritated too. How about if I tell you everything tonight? I really feel like spending some time with someone who won’t lecture me and who will see the humour in my existence.”

“That someone sounds a lot like me.”

“Great. Do you feel like coming here?”

“What time?”

“Seven?”

It gave me something to smile about, and I considered not answering the phone when it rang two minutes later.

The woman on the phone sounded panicky, breathless and far away. A familiar voice, familiar because so many women who have been victims are frightened of being victims again.

“You’ve got to help me. They’re going to let him out.”

“Who is this?”

“Please help me. I’m afraid.”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know who you are.”

“My boyfriend. He’s out on parole. He’s coming after me.”

“There are things you can do. How can I get in touch with you?”

“You can’t. He’ll find out. I need to see you now.”

“Fine.”

“Can I meet you in your office?” She sounded like she was hyperventilating.

Why not? Despite the pull of the Mitzi Brochu case, helping real or potential victims was my business. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d spent Sunday with a terrified woman.

“Sure.”

“When?

“In an hour.” Long enough to change and walk.

“Please, I can’t take the chance of anyone else knowing.”

Who the hell else do you think is hanging around on a Sunday morning with nothing better to do than listen to our conversation, I thought.

“All right,” I said.

I took time to shower and change into my jeans and a tee-shirt. I pulled on a light plaid blazer on top in case I needed to look the tiniest bit businesslike.

As I left the apartment and pulled the door closed behind me, I was humming. Even a trip to the office couldn’t take that away from me.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Parnell,” I said to her half-open door.

*   *   *

The walk to Elgin Street was wonderful, and I needed it. The combination of head injuries and high drama had played hell with my regular exercise program.

The smell of new leaves, grass and general spring aromas tickled my nose, leaving me with the wish that I could enjoy the sun, the grass and the water instead of barrelling on toward the office. With luck, I told myself, I could amble back, stopping to check out the tulips, which were tantalizing the tourists.

I took Wellington Street all the way, enjoying the strollers and amblers and the splashes of tulip colour up on Parliament Hill.

All down Elgin Street, people were heading to and from restaurants and parks. My turn will come, I thought, as I entered the little foyer that led to the empty stairs that in turn led to Justice For Victims. Too bad the woman I was meeting had been so terrified. She would probably reject my suggestion that we move to the Mayflower’s open air café for our discussion.

I turned the key in the lock and gave a little push. Stuck. Must be the start of the damn summer humidity, I thought, banging against it. The door opened suddenly and I shot across the room and hit the desk.

“So glad you could come,” Rudy Wendtz said from the other side of the desk.

The blinds were drawn so that no one from the condos in the next building could see in, and the lights were on. I didn’t like that.

I also didn’t like the look of Wendtz’s smile. It hardly reached the ends of his lips, let alone his eyes. His eyes held something else. Anticipation? Whatever it was, I didn’t like it either.

On the growing list of things I didn’t like was the sight of Denzil Hickey lounging near the door.

They didn’t even bother to close the door. No one was in the building to see the gun Denzil pointed, very deliberately, at my head. I don’t know much about guns, but this one looked like the type that could make a very large hole.

“Very fashionable, I’m sure,” I said. As long as my bladder didn’t betray me, I wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction.

I think I managed to look cool, but my heart sounded like someone knocking at the door.

“Give my regards to Brooke, I appreciated her acting ability on the phone,” I said.

Wendtz smirked.

“You may wish to recommend some additional coaching on the finer points. If I was able to see through her, think what the critics would make of such a performance.”

“Cute,” said Wendtz.

“Very,” I chirped, feeling I had little to lose. “Cute enough for me to catch on. And get back-up.”

He lifted an eyebrow and stared before his smile broadened, showing teeth.

“Let’s see how much good your back-up does you against Denzil.”

I took another look at Denzil and deduced that the long, cylindrical object he was attaching to the muzzle of the gun was a silencer.

“Keep talking, Mr. Wendtz, your threat to have Mr. Hickey aerate my head is being duly recorded by the police who know you are implicated in the murders of Mitzi Brochu and Sammy Dash.”

Denzil caressed the weapon.

“Nothing personal,” he said.

“I hope you got that, McCracken,” I bellowed. “That should be enough to hold them.”

Wendtz kept on smiling. “Nice bit of bullshit. I suppose if you want to die with dignity, that’s the way to do it.”

He nodded to Denzil. Denzil raised the gun.

There was nothing I could do against the two of them. I kept my eyes open, expecting to melt into blackness, expecting to die.

Not expecting Wendtz to laugh long and loud.

I watched with my mouth open.