The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Who could forget them? Betty Connaught was a bit hoity-toity, too good for the likes of me. The kind of gal who'd say one thing and mean another. Now we'd call her passive-aggressive. Now that Hazel Fellows was a pretty thing, always up for a party, loved to laugh. And Violet Wilkinson, she was the best, just splendid. Never met anyone like her.”

  “Me neither,” I said.

  He said. “Hasn't changed a bit. After all these years. Still has that look in her eyes. Not to be trifled with, Vi wasn't, then or now.”

  I blurted out, “Did you stay in touch with her?”

  His eyes flicked away. “Not really. I carried a torch for her all over Europe, but she had her heart set on Harry Jones, that's this fellow here.” He pointed to the first golden boy with the debonair grin. “So there wasn't much point in hoping.”

  Something told me there was still a spark left in that torch, even after more than sixty years. Guy Prendergast continued, “By the time I found out that fool Harry had jilted her, she was going out with this Parnell fella. I knew him a bit too. Stuffy as all get out, but he was stubborn. He wouldn't have given up like I did. My own fault. What is it the kids say nowadays? You snooze, you lose?”

  “I'm sorry,” I said.

  “I tried again after that Parnell fella died. Wrote to her, hoping to get things going. I never heard back. That time I took the hint and found myself a nice girl, got married and turned my attention to making money and raising kids.”

  By this time, I'd decided the quaver in his voice was age or illness rather than emotion or nervousness.

  “Mrs. Parnell is in Italy now.”

  He peered at me over the half-moon glasses.

  I said, “She's investigating what happened to Harry Jones in the war. She's visiting people who might know something about him.”

  “Really?” he said, taking off the glasses and slipping them into his pocket.

  “Yes. And we've been told she came here to see you.”

  “Have you. Well, you can't keep secrets if you're a foreigner in Italy. The locals know everything. Walk into the bakery, and everyone behind the counter is already up on what you had for dinner last night.”

  I fought down a flash of impatience. “We'd like to get to the point. Mrs. Parnell needs medical help. We have to find her before something bad happens. I want to know what she was doing here.”

  “Medical help? What kind?” That was news to him. The dark leathery skin paled at least two shades.

  “She's in grave danger of having a cardiac arrest. Her doctor is outraged that she would even consider flying to Italy in her condition. I don't care if she told you to stonewall anyone who came looking for her. She needs help, and you'd goddam well better help us.” So much for the well-mannered guest.

  Ray looked more than a bit surprised by my outburst. Guy Prendergast took it in his stride. Maybe someone had prepared him to be yelled at. “I didn't know she wasn't well. I should have guessed from the look of her. Not herself at all. Can't say I blame her. Thing is, we were all so wrong about Harry, weren't we? It had to come out some time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, no one would ever have expected it. He seemed such a fine fellow, way better for a fine gal like Violet than a layabout like me. Something changed him. He…”

  We were on to something new now, and I couldn't stop myself from interrupting. “Changed him how? Please get to the point.”

  “War does strange things to people. It can wreck your mind and heart. Some never get over it. Some rough and ready fellas grew up on the front lines, came back stronger and tougher. Others hear screaming shells and the shrieks of dying comrades all their lives. They end up wrecks of human beings. Nervous breakdowns, drinking.” He raised his glass and chuckled. “Who am I to talk, with my vino rosso at ten thirty in the morning?”

  “One last time, how did Harry change?”

  “Well, if you ask me, Harry just plain went bad.”

  Ray had been quiet up to this time. He said, “Bad? What kind of bad?”

  “First of all, Perce was shot down, then Harry was seriously injured. I guess you know that. They were together all their lives. Harry was always the good influence, and Perce was the wild one, he was always in trouble, some of it serious. I don't think Harry got over Perce dying. Never was the same afterwards.”

  I frowned. “I never heard anything about Perce being in serious trouble. Hazel alluded to childhood pranks, that was all. Are you sure? I thought he was such a heroic guy.”

  “Well, it would depend on who you asked. His family thought the sun shone out of his arse, if you'll pardon the expression. And Harry did too, always bailing Perce out. He'd have done anything for his buddy. Not everybody felt the same way. Perce was skating pretty close to the wire when he died. Maybe Harry snapped. Maybe he took over where Perce left off.”

  “What was Perce involved in?” A cop's tone edged into Ray's voice.

  “I couldn't really say. No proof.” He gestured toward the green hills that surrounded the villa. “Wouldn't like to lose all this in a lawsuit.”

  I looked him straight in the eye. “A lawsuit will be the least of any of our problems, if you don't start to treat this seriously. We're trying to keep someone we care about alive. You say you care about her too. Tell us what you know.”

  He let out a long sigh. “I've already caused enough harm. All right, Perce got mixed up with the wrong people, shady types. The kind who get court-martialed. Or shot because they find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Black market shenanigans, contraband, that sort of thing, back in England. At the time of his death, he was supposed to have been under investigation for some serious activities. That's what I heard from some of the RCAF guys I ran into after the war.”

  I butted in. “Let me guess. Did the bad stuff have to do with the looting at the Palazzo Degli Angeli?”

  Guy Prendergast picked up his wine, sipped it and frowned thoughtfully. “I don't know about that. There were rumours about looting at the Palazzo. Never saw any of it myself. We were busy trying to stay alive in 1944 and 1945. Having our friends bleed to death in our arms. Wasn't a shopping expedition, let me tell you. Canadian troops were high calibre. Even though the rumour was that the people who owned that Palazzo…”

  “The Degli Angeli family,” I interjected.

  “That's the name. They were supposed to have been very hospitable to the Nazis. I'm not so sure they really were. Some of the fellas might not have been too sympathetic if they did hear that kind of gossip. Anyway, none of the officers I encountered tolerated any monkey business.”

  “Perce could have been mixed up in it?”

  “I don't see how. He wasn't anywhere near there. He was an airman, flew bombers.”

  “Mrs. Parnell went to the Palazzo. Must be some kind of connection.”

  “Sure there was a connection, and the connection wasn't Perce, it was Harry. I told you he went bad afterwards. His regiment would have been moving up through that part of Italy, not all that far from here really. I'm pretty sure he could have been involved in looting fine artwork and other valuables from there and other places too. Wouldn't be surprised if that's what got him started doing so well after the war.”

  “Did you tell Mrs. Parnell this?”

  I knew the answer before he opened his mouth.

  “Oh, God, what the hell did I start?” He lifted the wine glass and drained it in one serious gulp.

  “Okay, so you did. How did she track you down here?”

  “I found her. It was awful lonely here after my wife died. Never stopped thinking about Violet. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut and let her have her memories. I was hoping maybe she'd have a place in her heart for me, I suppose. Two lonely people. One independent woman, one foolish old romantic with more money than brains. Did pretty well out of my business, and then got lucky with some investments. Bought up a few old farms around here years back, and they've paid off well too. Timing is everything, a
nd the Brits are crazy for this area. I figured the right art can give you a good return too, and, even if it doesn't, you get to enjoy it. So I started buying pieces, some good furniture, a few oils. A while back, I bought a lovely landscape that would suit this place. You walked by it on the way out here.” He pointed toward the house. “I dealt with an associate of Harry's. Figured you could trust a boy from back home, and the people he dealt with. Fella I got to know in the appraisal business dropped a hint my painting has a very iffy provenance. He hinted it might have been stolen from a church. He turned up his nose when I mentioned Brockbank & Brickle. I had gone through Harry's company for more than one purchase, and let me tell you, I was pretty steamed. I dug around a bit more, the lost art registry, that kind of thing, turned up a bit of mucky business about Harry and his lads. I never had enough solid stuff to go the police, especially here where there are a lot of hands in a lot of pockets.” He peered at us to see if we got the point.

  We had. This was something unexpected. I found my eyebrows up. Ray's jaw tensed.

  Prendergast said, “What I learned made sense of some of those wartime rumours.”

  I bit my tongue. Guy Prendergast sure liked to drag out a story.

  He said, “I knew Violet would have nothing but contempt for any dishonest dealings. Vi was all about King and Country. Duty. Straight as an arrow. I always kept tabs on her. I wrote her a letter letting her know I wanted to visit her. No response. I called her, and she said the past was the past. She didn't want to see me.” He stopped and chuckled. “Lots of spirit, that gal. Finally, I figured it was my last kick at the can. Not too many Canadian visits left in the old fella, far too comfortable here at Villa Rosa. To make a long story short, I made a trip to Ottawa, and I just dropped in on Violet, caught her unawares. I hauled out everything I knew about Harry and spilled the beans. I even had some photos of him and his boys in later years, with an Italian dealer known to be a slippery customer. I showed her that to prove Harry's no matinee idol now. Vi and I had been friends back in Canada, and I was hoping once she'd let me through the door, maybe one thing would lead to another, you know. Thought that might be more likely to happen if she didn't still half-worship that damned scoundrel. I figured I didn't have anything to lose, except the plane fare, and that's only money you can't take with you. I must have been nuts.”

  Ray was sitting forward on his rickety chair, drinking in every word. He'd be registering it all in his police officer's brain. Sixty years of unrequited love. There seemed to be quite a bit of that going around.

  I said. “What happened when you told her?”

  “She threw the photo into the garbage and tossed me out like last week's trash. Not physically. She said I had nothing to go on. Talked about slander, libel. Threatened me with her cane. Still quite the woman. You never want a gal like that to get mad at you.” He chuckled sadly.

  I didn't dare glance at Ray.

  “When was this visit to Canada?”

  “Just got back, not even a week ago. I'm not unpacked yet, suitcase is still on the table. Evelina never would have put up with that.”

  “Then Mrs. Parnell turned up here last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  He chuckled again. “Vi's not the type to turn down a glass of sherry. Not like you young pups, no staying power.”

  “Why did she come here to see you, if she was so angry?”

  “She'd given it some thought. Said she did a bit of research and decided I might be right after all. Wasn't too happy about it. Needed to know more about what he'd gotten up to. Wanted details, names.”

  “Is she still in Pieve San Simone?” I glanced at the house. What if she were hiding in it? There'd been no sign of a car.

  “She went on to Alcielo. Next stop. If I were that miserable bastard Harry Jones, I'd be shaking in my boots.” Guy Prendergast threw back his head and guffawed.

  “He's near death in an English nursing home.”

  “That a fact?”

  Ray said, “Any idea where in Alcielo?”

  “Annalisa's, I imagine. Wouldn't be surprised if she had a word with Sergio either.”

  Before I jotted down Sergio and Annalisa at the end of my long list of Italian names, I asked. “Do you have last names?”

  “Sorry. Alcielo's a small Italian town. Everyone knows them. Sergio's in restoration. Well, Annalisa's got a finger in a lot of stuff. Well, she did. She's getting on now, as we all are.”

  I leaned over to Ray, “People might be on Mrs. Parnell's trail. Alcielo's not that far from here. I'll go ahead and find her. You stay here and get Mr. Prendergast to fill you in on Harry Jones’ sins.”

  “That won't be happening, Camilla,” Ray said. “We'll stick together. We'll be back to see Mr. Prendergast as soon as we make sure Mrs. Parnell's safe.”

  “I'm not going anywhere,” Guy Prendergast said, struggling to his feet. “Hold on, what people might be on her trail?”

  “We don't know. Whoever they are, they're connected somehow.”

  He slumped back. The chair rattled and came close to tipping. “Thash terrible. Maybe I should come along too. I know Alcielo, and I speak the lingo.”

  “No,” Ray and I blurted together.

  I added, “Thank you. We'll be back if we need more information. Please be careful, and don't let anyone in.”

  Ray glanced meaningfully at the empty wine glass. “In fact, don't drive anywhere.”

  * * *

  Alcielo, when we finally squealed into it, turned out to be a medieval fortified hill town, plunked in the middle of the sprawling tobacco fields. It had an almost magical quality. Alcielo meant something like “to the sky” or “to heaven”. That fit the place. Too bad I wasn't there to be charmed. I pulled the Ka into the piazza, stepped out and stretched as Ray parked the Citroën next to me.

  “You ask around for Sergio and Annalisa,” Ray said. “There's an internet café right across the piazza. I'll see if Alvin sent that guy's photo. Don't go off by yourself.”

  “Of course I won't.”

  “I mean it. Do not. And don't bother to get huffy either. You ask in the shops. As soon as I check this, we'll head to the police station and see if we can get some help with finding Mrs. Parnell without alarming her. Maybe we'll have some luck on the Harry Jones front too. I want to take that photo image with me. The police will know who Sergio and Annalisa are too.

  I said. “You know what? I'm not sure I trust and believe this Guy Prendergast. Maybe Mrs. Parnell's not here after all. What do you think?”

  “I'm a cop. We don't really trust anyone.”

  “That's a bad attitude. Do you trust me?”

  “To do the most cautious and sensible thing, no. To go right out on a limb regardless of consequences, absolutely.”

  “Sorry I asked. Okay, I'll make a phone call while you check the e-mail. Considering the circumstances, I don't think it's too early to call Canada. Alvin and I have been trying to reach Hazel. She seems to be out all the time, so early morning might do the trick. She might remember something more about this Guy Prendergast. I'll run the Harry Jones stuff by her too for a reaction. I'll try Betty too.”

  “Sounds harmless.”

  Betty's answering machine picked up. Since I was unreachable, there was no point in leaving a message. The phone rang on and on in Hazel's house, no answering machine this time. Just as I was getting ready to hang up, a breathless voice answered.

  “Hazel?” I said. “Glad I caught you at home. We've been trying to reach you. Look, there's something I need to ask you about. It has to do with Harry Jones.”

  “Who is speaking, please?” The female voice sounded middle-aged yet oddly shaky, although I figured that might have been the phone line.

  “Camilla MacPhe,” I said. “Who is this?”

  “Val Desrochers. I'm Hazel's step-daughter.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “May I speak with Hazel?”

  “I'm sorry, she's…”
>
  “Look, it's urgent really. Tell her it has to do with her old friend Violet Parnell. I'm sure she'll take the call.”

  “I'm sure she would if she could,” she said.

  “Let's let her make that choice,” I snapped.

  “She can't. She's in hospital. ICU. She's been there for a couple of days.”

  “ICU? What happened?”

  “We don't know. One of the neighbours heard the phone ringing and ringing and eventually decided to check on her. He found the door open slightly. He came in and found her unconscious. They called the ambulance, then contacted us.”

  “I'm sorry. That's awful. She seemed so lively. Did she have a heart attack?”

  “A head injury. She must have tripped and hit her head on the corner of the fireplace hearth.”

  I remembered that raised hearthstone in Hazel's living room. I shook my head at the image of pretty little Hazel crumpled against it with blood spreading on the cream marble.

  I said, “That's terrible. It's a good thing the neighbour looked in.” I figured the phone calls must have been from Alvin. Maybe a couple from me.

  Val's voice choked up. I waited until she could speak again. “Yes, it was. We don't know how long she was here alone, but she was very dehydrated,” she said. “We only got together once a week for lunch, and the rest of the time we stayed in touch by phone. I feel so guilty. She always insisted she didn't need a babysitter. She was so independent. She was getting ready to head for Florida.”

  “She mentioned she liked her independence. I can't imagine anyone trying to interfere with her freedom,” I said.

  “I wish I had. She might have died here alone. Perhaps we should have insisted she move to a residence with more supervision.”

  “I'd like to keep in touch and see how she's doing. You may hear from me again or from my assistant, Alvin Ferguson. Is there a number where we can reach you?”

  “MacPhee, you said? C. MacPhee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your name was on the phone display. Quite a few calls. We wondered who you were.”

  That must have been Alvin calling from my place. I'd been meaning to switch my new phone number to unlisted, but now I was glad I hadn't gotten around to it.