[C. MacP #5] The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I told Dario what I'd been up to. “No luck so far. Do you have e-mail? I have a photo attachment for you to show the people in your village.”

  “E-mail, si, certamente. Why don't you bring the picture yourself? I'd like to see you. Everyone would like to see you again.” He dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “Or maybe I can come there.”

  Somehow I didn't think that would go down well with Ray.

  “I don't know how long we'll be in Alcielo. E-mail's best. I'll see you another time.”

  “Sure, bella. Send it, send it. I will ask zio Domenico and everyone else,” he said. He gave me the address slowly and carefully. I'd never heard anyone make an e-mail address sound sexy before. Some people just have the knack.

  Ray handled the forwarding of the photo. As soon as the e-mail was dispatched, Ray and I left the piazza and began a labyrinthine trip through the centre of Alcielo, during which I could have sworn we doubled back on ourselves three times. There was no concept of a block, no space between buildings which all seemed to be three stories high, at least. Some structures seemed to have other buildings constructed on top of them. I wasn't sure I was seeing that right.

  “Look at that,” Ray said, pointing. “That overhead passage connecting both sides of the street has windows in it. And laundry hanging out.”

  “Obviously someone's home sweet home.”

  The streets split in unexpected locations, one going down, another going up. Some had stairs built into them, others felt like long curving ramps, vanishing into blind corners. The old-fashioned lamps seemed like electrified versions of the gas lamps from a hundred years earlier. We puffed up hills and down stairs and down hills and up stairs. At one point, we arrived at a solid, wooden door that must have been there for centuries. Behind the door was a shop with two wide windows filled with furniture and beautiful objects that would have made my sisters melt. The sign said Giansante e Figlia Restauro. An alley no wider than my shoulders ran between the building and its neighbour. I peered into it, half expecting to find Mrs. Parnell, however silly that may sound. Except for the pile of boxes stacked there, the alley was empty.

  Ray and I meandered around, leaning into each other. We didn't find a single soul who spoke English, but my Italian was enough to confirm that no one had seen Mrs. Parnell, and that, certamente, Annalisa Franchini lived at the very top of the town. She was out of town. From the expressions, I gathered there was something special about signora Franchini. Whatever it was, nobody seemed to miss her.

  At the top of the hill, a pair of elderly ladies gestured toward Annalisa's house. It was a narrow three storey, with a smartly painted front door, bits of brass, newly restored stone facing and cast iron pots of bright flowers on the steps and in window boxes. No one was home. “È partita! È partita la donna!” the ladies shouted helpfully.

  Ray was still chuckling when we reached the centre of a reconstruction project on top of the hill, although work had stopped for mid-day. He said, “Enough fun for today. I'll head over to the police station, introduce myself, and see what kind of reaction I get. I realize you hate that idea and have been stalling me. Still, it's got to be done.”

  “I do hate that idea. They have a lot of different police jurisdictions over here. Do you even know whether you want to talk to the carabinieri or the state police? They're practically in competition with each other. Be careful, that's all I have to say. I've heard horror stories.” I ignored the look he gave me. He is, after all, a cop.

  Our first enquiry told us the posto di polizia was situated on the opposite side of town and up another serious hill. On the way down, Ray stopped to examine some official-looking signs, with the architect's renderings of the reconstruction work for the medieval fortifications. “There's access through the underground passages,” he said.

  “Gives me the creeps,” I said.

  He gave me a nudge. “Want to explore it?”

  “We're not on holiday,” I snapped. “Shoot, I'm being a jerk, but I can't relax. I wouldn't blame you if you had gone to Mexico with another woman.”

  “That's never going to happen. And I'm not in any kind of race, Camilla. I know Italy has a lot of memories for you, and that's on your mind too.”

  That came as a surprise, since I hadn't really talked much about being here with Paul, just mentioned we'd spent our honeymoon here.

  He glanced down at me. “We'll do what we have to. I want you to think about this: your friend has played you like a violin. Is that going to affect the way you feel about her afterwards?”

  I said, “I don't care. She'll have had her reasons. I just don't know what they are. Maybe I'll never find out. She is my friend, and she didn't ask me to chase after her. She didn't ask me to do anything. So I guess I deserve whatever I get.”

  He raised a sandy eyebrow but kept a straight face. “Even getting locked in the supply cupboard at the car rental?”

  “I was never in danger of anything greater than embarrassment. Face it, I was a legal aid lawyer for years, I eat embarrassment for breakfast.”

  Ray's grin broke through. “Yeah, you criminal lawyer types. You've all got it coming.”

  “Don't push your luck,” I said. “I'll just rub those Italian cops the wrong way if I go with you, so I'll mosey around town while you make contact.”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Saving me the trouble of telling you that you'd only get under their skin. You have to be careful on other people's turf.”

  “Right. Careful's not my best thing. There will be someone who speaks English there. If you're stuck, you can find me and I'll go back with you to translate. I'll try to behave.”

  “Don't go far.”

  I continued to make the rounds with my poster. A woman with two string bags full of groceries frowned at the image of Mrs. Parnell. She smiled, showing shiny new-looking dentures. She pointed across the hill to the hilly part of the old town we had just walked all over.

  Oh, just great. What was all this hobbling up and down steep roads going to do to her condition? Should I head up there again myself? Before I settled on a course of action, I spotted Ray stomping towards me. His mouth was clamped in a thin line.

  “Need an interpreter?” I said.

  “Nope. The guy I spoke to had a good handle on English. Cousins in Prince George, it turns out. They hung on to the poster. They'll keep an eye out for Mrs. Parnell. I've been firmly instructed to leave it to them.”

  “Did you tell them everything? About the hit and run and the attacks at home?”

  “Well, sure I did.”

  “The black Mercedes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mention Sergio and Annalisa?”

  “I told them everything, Camilla. And I was politely reminded I'm a foreign national. I was pretty well put in my place. They said I have to be careful not to defame anyone. Defamation's a pretty serious crime over here, apparently.”

  “I can see how that could be convenient in certain lines of work.”

  “No kidding. Anyway, he gave me the name of a few good restaurants, and suggested that we find one this evening.”

  “Like we couldn't find a restaurant in this place. There's a new one every ten feet.”

  “The point was that we should cool it and let them make enquiries. And that's what we'll do.”

  Speak for yourself, I thought.

  Ray yawned. “They know the locals. Let's give them a chance. They also suggested the Hotel della Collina.”

  “That means the hotel on the hill. Hill number three actually.”

  “Figures. We'll get settled and have an early dinner. The time difference is catching up with me. Let's head for the payphone first. I'd like to touch base with my girls.”

  “I'd like to check in with Alvin once more. In case.”

  That was easier said than done. I left a message giving the name of the hotel.

  The cop at my side didn't have any better luck. His home line was busy.
r />   * * *

  What the Hotel della Collina lacked in red velvet and dark furniture, it made up for with a huge modern bathroom. I enjoyed a long shower without actually touching the walls. I emerged some time later, towelling my hair, to find Ray crashed on the orange-patterned bedspread, snoring. Jet lag. You gotta love it. I decided to let him sleep a bit. I didn't feel like being cooped up in the hotel room though, so I headed back to the square and the payphone to try Alvin one more time.

  People were still straggling through the streets making their way home from work and school. The lovely day had been replaced by the now familiar creeping mist. Off the square, you could see it swirl around the old fashioned lights. They shone eerily through the shadows.

  The police hadn't told me not to do anything. I figured I could continue to ask these locals if they'd seen Mrs. Parnell. I hustled across the square, which was filled with cars, and headed to the side of the hill where she had last been seen. Ray and I had been all over the area, and I didn't really expect to see her out on the street. Never mind, I had to do something. I set off up the narrow street.

  The dark doors and shuttered windows allowed no glimpse into who lived there, just the odd glimpse of warm light hinted at lives lived behind these stone walls, at people sitting down for dinner, or homework or television.

  A young couple passed me, leaning into each other, laughing, glancing back at me and shrugging in unison. I felt a pang. I wished Ray were there with me at that moment. I could have happily leaned on him in the fog and gloom. As the young couple reached the top of the hill, I heard another burst of laughter. They rounded a corner, vanishing into the light and warmth of a restaurant.

  It seemed a bit odd to be knocking at strangers’ doors and asking in my bad Italian if anyone had seen my grandmother. I considered it anyway. I was low on choices.

  Huxtable Hall

  1 Huxtable Crescent

  Toronto, Ontario

  September 7, 1954

  Dear Violet,

  Please accept my condolences on the death of your husband. Car accidents always seem so senseless. How terrible for you that he was travelling in England at the time. I would have written sooner, but I just learned the sad news recently. You have always been strong and brave. You will weather this too, just as you did your war service. Do not let anger at your personal tragedy prevent you from living a productive life. I have seen that happen too often.

  I know that you will be a dignified widow, unlike some. You have probably heard that Hazel, after creating the most awful scandal by marrying a man more than twice her age, has remarried again in Kingston. Someone in the military this time, a Murphy, if you can imagine. Who knows, with a name like that, he might even be RC! Tongues are wagging. Hazel wouldn't care about that, as long as she had a new hat to wear. Consider yourself lucky that you managed to move to Ottawa in time. With your education and interesting job in the government, you would find her most tiresome.

  I have continued on with my own education, which has led, in turn, to a promotion to Assistant Headmistress here at Huxtable Hall.

  Yours truly,

  Elizabeth Connaught, B.A.

  Sixteen

  The streets were so disorienting that I had no idea where I was or where I had been. There was nothing to do except keep walking, now through a thin drizzle. I fished out my travel umbrella and flicked it open. A gust of wind yanked it from my hand. The umbrella tumbled down the steep, winding street. I bent to grab it and noticed a slight flutter of movement not far off. Something in the entrance to one of the houses. Or someone. I straightened up and stood still.

  Was it Ray? Awake and irritated at my walkabout? Most likely just another citizen hurrying home to dinner.

  I moved along the street, keeping an ear out, just in case. There's something about a foggy medieval town on a November evening that makes the hair on your neck rise. There. I heard something. Behind me. The soft splash of feet in puddles. I stooped and pretended to adjust my shoe. I peered over my shoulder. I was just in time to see someone wearing dark clothes duck into another front entrance. Definitely a he. I watched as he fiddled with a door. The door didn't open, because I could still see his shadow in the lamplight. I hustled my buns up that hill, turned a corner and ran like hell. I reached yet another crossroads and chose the left turn.

  Two could play the same game. I hugged the wall of an entrance, thankful I was wearing basic black, always just right for hiding out in the fog. I held my breath.

  The footsteps stopped at the corner, where yet another choice had to be made about which murky twisting street to check out next. He picked the same one I had and passed by my hiding place. I was pressed so tight against the wall that I could feel the rough stone wall surface through my jacket.

  I could have reached out and touched him, but I couldn't make out his face. His body outline showed clearly, though, as he moved stealthily past the next street lamp. He seemed tall, slim, fit, maybe even athletic. Definitely male, although I wouldn't have expected anything else. From his confident stride, he appeared to know exactly what he was looking for. Was I just being stalked by a pickpocket? An opportunistic mugger or rapist who had just picked a convenient victim?

  As soon as he moved out of sight, I ducked out of my hiding spot and dashed in the opposite direction. I splashed and puffed loud enough to be heard inside the houses as I ran past. I prayed my head start would get me back to the piazza before he caught up.

  I hadn't gone far when I heard footsteps behind me. I picked up the pace. I had wild thoughts about banging on the many doors I passed. Too bad it was impossible to tell which houses had people at home. And whoever he was, he was gaining on me.

  I put on the afterburners and ran like hell. I turned a corner, expecting to see lights and people in the piazza at the bottom of the long hill. Where the hell was it? I'd been running longer than I'd been walking. Had I gone around in circles? The footsteps were closer now. I darted left and took a twisty street that I'd noticed on my earlier stroll with Ray. One house had a narrow garden court that ended with a low stone wall. I glanced over my shoulder as I approached the wall at full speed. Just at the point where the street curved behind me, I dashed across the garden and vaulted over the wall. I hoped like hell my pursuer went straight.

  I dropped onto the soft hillside below and rolled into another garden court, a half-street lower. A few stacked terra cotta pots clattered loudly around me. No lights flicked on in the windows of the house. I picked myself up, dusted my knees and kept going. This street had to lead back to the downtown area. I figured I'd shaken off my pursuer and stopped to catch my breath. My relief was short-lived. I realized that I had headed away from the downtown. I heard footfalls behind me, getting very close. Worse, the street appeared to be a dead end. I spotted a set of stairs that looked amazingly uninviting, but I was cut off from anything else. There wasn't even a door close enough to bang on. The stairs clanged a bit more than I thought they would. I wasn't expecting a metallic rattle in this world of old stone and wood.

  I felt my way into some kind of tunnel. It was too dim to read the large signs on the side. It had to be part of the reconstruction site for the fortifications.

  Aside from dripping water, the only sound was my own ragged breath as I felt my way along in the dimming light. Behind me, I heard the clang of the stairs. I was in my own personal horror movie, brought on by my own personal bad decisions.

  The floor sloped, and I bumped my head on some protrusion from the ceiling. I ducked down and lumbered forward in a fast crouch, groping my way along the damp and slippery walls. Behind me, someone grunted in pain. He must have hit that ceiling too. It didn't stop him long. I stumbled and landed on my knees. I scuttled sideways, intending to press myself against the wall, hoping to hold my breath until he passed. But there was no wall, just a gap where the wall had been. Would I fall into some ancient cistern? Tumble into a sewer? In my head I heard Mrs. Parnell's voice. Remain calm, Ms. MacPhee. Right. I used my ha
nds to try and find the extent of the gap, feeling to the left and right and then up. I inched forward to avoid falling into some unseen void. Just as the footsteps moved closer, I felt a solid wall about knee-height. I realized I'd been feeling around an entrance of some sort. I felt forward and encountered solid ground. Sanctuary. I crawled forward into it, banging my knees on what felt like broken bricks and jagged rock. I was cold, wet, shivering in the dark, breathing musty air. My knees and shins stung from being scraped by the broken bricks. I was scared shitless. Something slithered by my foot. The sinister foggy streets seemed very Martha Stewart in retrospect.

  No one in the world knew where I was. Ray would wake up and feel annoyed, then bewildered, and eventually betrayed. He'd been counting on a holiday, and he was getting a dead girlfriend whose body would probably never be found. I hadn't said goodbye to him. I knew the hard way how not saying goodbye could haunt you years later.

  My sisters would make new careers out of besieging the Italian embassy and bedevilling the Canadian Department of Foreign Affairs. They'd find a way to pester Interpol. Of course, it would be too late.

  I sniffed a bit thinking about them. Although they drive me nuts, at that moment I longed to hear their piercing voices. I thought about my father. He'd never again say, “Oh hello, um, Camilla.”

  And maybe Mrs. Parnell was right, maybe I was too hard on Alvin. Something about him always brought it out in me. Still, I had to admit Alvin is loyal, resourceful and never boring. That's pretty good. I would have given anything to have him show up at that moment. He could be as irritating as he wanted. Of course, I wouldn't see Mrs. P. again either. I'd never learn what trouble had driven her to Italy, setting off this weird chain of events. Seeing dead men, that was weird enough for anyone. I wouldn't be able to help or protect her. And who would look after her little calico cat? What would happen to Gussie? He'd already been discarded by the Fergusons. My sisters would never let a dog inside their pale cream houses. Alvin's apartments never allowed pets. Would wonderful stinky Gussie end up at the Humane Society?