The Benning brief wasn’t quite distracting enough. Mitzi, seen from different angles, superimposed herself on every page of notes. Even my endless doodles were gruesome.
And I kept thinking about Robin.
For my own peace of mind, I needed to know what Robin had been doing in Mitzi’s room. And what she had meant by “not now.”
The phone rang, jerking me back to the present. “Long distance, for Mr. Alvin Ferguson. Will you accept the charges?” “No, Mr. Alvin Ferguson is not here and, no, I will not accept the charges.”
The operator was pretty unemotional about the whole thing, but I slammed down the phone and made a mental note to check the next bill.
I couldn’t concentrate on the Benning brief. And things administrative paled next to the enormity of being involved in a murder. What made her go there? Robin, sensible, flat-shoed real estate lawyer. Singer in the church choir. Disher out of food at the Food Bank. What was her connection with Mitzi Brochu, shredder of egos?
Mrs. Findlay answered the phone in a whisper.
“No, dear, she’s still out like a light. Dr. B.’s been here again to give her something. She woke up at 6 in the morning and almost gave her father a heart attack, screeching.”
“What was she, um, screeching?”
“Something like, ‘you can’t do that to her. I won’t let you do that to her.’” A little quaver sneaked into Mrs. Findlay’s voice. “Oh, dear, what do you think it all means?”
“I don’t know.”
I didn’t either. But I had to ask myself, if Robin had seen the killer, had the killer seen Robin?
Why would she deny it? Especially to me?
Thanks to the vigilance of the local paparazzi, her face and name had blasted its way into every home in the region.
What had it felt like to preside over the media interpretation of the death of someone who had humiliated you on the pages of the magazine with the widest circulation in the country? Had there been a look of satisfaction on Jo Quinlan’s face?
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Findlay,” I lied, “just make sure she’s not alone. I think that will be much better for her.”
“You’re right, dear. Brooke’s on her way home from Toronto now. She’ll be a great help, I’m sure.”
I murmured soothing remarks, casually omitting agreement that Robin’s little sister would be a great help. I felt confident Brooke would be the self-centred and pampered vapour-brain she’d always been. It seemed inappropriate to mention this to her mother.
* * *
What the hell, I thought, I’m a taxpayer. And with Alvin out of the way, I was able to get to the phone.
“Oh, yeah,” said McCracken, when I identified myself. “How are you today?”
I stopped myself from saying, “Oh, you know, the way I always feel the day after I’ve found my best friend non compos mentis in the presence of a warm corpse.” Instead I said “Getting there.”
“Great,” he said.
“I’d like a bit of information.”
“Not much I can say. Aren’t you a defence lawyer?”
“Not usually. I’m an advocate for victims. My philosophy is toss the perpetrators in the hoosegow, slam the gates and turf the key.”
“Oh,” he said, “I guess that’s good. I’m afraid I still can’t give you any information. But how’s your sister?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
“Fingerprints.”
“Shoot.”
“Nothing but the deceased, your little friend and the housekeeping staff.”
“My sister’s fine.”
“Do you think she’d mind if I gave her a call sometime?” he asked.
I cleared my throat in a meaningful way.
“We’ve interviewed all the staff and the other guests and no one saw anyone except your friend Robin enter the scene of the crime. Ms. Brochu had no apparent enemies.”
“My fanny, she didn’t. Did you ever read anything she wrote?”
“I’m telling you what the witnesses tell me.”
“Maybe you should talk to them again.”
“Maybe. But the way I hear it, your friend was upset before she ever got near the victim.”
This was true and I knew it, but I just kept silent on my end of the line. Until it was McCracken’s turn to clear his throat.
“Hard to say with Alexa,” I told him. “You better just give her a call and find out.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“No problem,” I said.
Alexa wasn’t home when I dialled.
I nibbled my nails for a long time after talking to McCracken. It sounded to me like Robin could turn out to be an easy solution for the police. I would have to make sure that didn’t happen.
I knew Robin hadn’t had enough time to kill Mitzi. But I didn’t even need to know that—I knew her.
Alvin, considerate as always, had laid out a few more issues of Femme Fatale with Mitzi articles for me. He’d added a note, suggesting I might find them amusing.
Mitzi, it turned out, had an annual feature, “Mitzi Picks the Glitz and Mitzi Picks the Zitz.” These issues, Alvin mentioned in his note, were hard to come by, as someone had already stolen them from the library. Lucky for me (he said) he had friends.
“Mitzi’s Glitz” turned out to be a mix of svelte men and women with impeccable style sense and verve and hectares of spare cash for clothes. A dozen glitzers in all, but no real surprises. The wife of a department store magnate, a bakery magnate and a magazine magnate. And, of course, the magnates themselves, indistinguishable in white tie. A CBC cultural guru. A model whose furry eyebrows, pointy cheekbones, and pouty lips were on every second cover of Femme Fatale. A real estate developer. A classical guitarist. An actress. A former Prime Minister. Mitzi had burbled on in praise of their superb taste and élan.
Who gives a shit, I thought. But the real fun stuff was reserved for the “Zitz”. Poor old Zitz. Just minding their own business and then one day, one too many cream puffs and, poof, they’ve made the list.
Jo Quinlan and Deb Goodhouse were way down on the Zitz list at numbers 11 and 12. Still, they were on it. No wonder there weren’t any copies left on the local stands.
I’m not a person who cares about appearances, my own or others, but still I was surprised Jo Quinlan would have let herself be photographed wearing those particular spandex shorts and that halter top. Particularly in profile. Although from the gas barbecue in the background, the tongs in her hands and the look on her face, it appeared the scene was her own backyard and the photographer had just stuck his nasty little camera over the fence.
“Massive Media Menace” was the caption over Jo’s photo. Underneath it read: “Try mud-wrestling, dear, you already have the wardrobe, and leave the screen to those who don’t fill every inch of it.”
Still, Jo Quinlan got off better than Deb Goodhouse. Or “The Goodhouse Blimp”, as Mitzi dubbed her. The rear view shot of Deb Goodhouse walking up the stairs of the Centre Block of the Parliament Buildings had a cartoon string drawn around her ankle. The angle of the camera had enhanced the rear expanse. “Is our Princess of Polyester full of hot air or worse? Will she rise in the House and float through the ceiling? If looks could kill, she’d be six feet under,” the commentary read.
The articles featured pictures of Mitzi too. Looking much better than the last time I had seen her. Emaciated, with blood-red lips and a crow’s nest of black hair. All in black with bare shoulders, black gloves past the elbow, black hose and pointed black spike heels. The photo of Mitzi floated without background, a judge, ruling without mercy on fashion crimes.
Somebody had taken revenge on Mitzi. Just a glance at these articles told me there would be a long list of candidates. Not to mention the hundreds of others who must have suffered at Mitzi’s hands. I hoped the police would do a good job of checking out Robin’s competition. If not, I decided I’d have to do it myself.
Alexa was home this time when I called to warn her.
> “Oh good, Camilla,” she said. “I was just about to call you. Edwina wants us all to have dinner at her place. Six o’clock…”
I interrupted. “I had no choice but to suggest you might be willing to get a call from this cop you used to know in high school. Sorry. But you can always take your phone off the hook.”
“A policeman? Oh, not Conn McCracken, was it?”
“Yes, look, I’m sorry….”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much, just how were you.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you were so so.”
“Oh, Camilla.”
“And I told him that Greg died.”
“That’s all?”
“What did you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Did he ask how I looked?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, he might call you and you can tell him how you look yourself.”
“Oh, Camilla.”
“Gotta go, I hear the dreaded Alvin approaching.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Alexa breathed. “Does he still have all his hair?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“For God’s sake, Camilla,” she said and hung up.
The only good thing about being the boss is making up rules and then changing them without reason or warning as you go along. So when Alvin crashed back into the office, dropped his bags, and snarled something about how can you stand all those fucking tulips all over the place, I beamed as I picked up my jacket and opened the door.
“So long, Alvin. There’s plenty to keep you busy. I see about fifty linear feet of filing on the floor. By tomorrow, I expect to be able to see the pattern of the carpet.”
His wail followed me down the stairs. “Don’t you want these panty-hose?”
Three
After twenty years or more, the tall respectable husbands collected by my sisters had begun to settle into middle age and to develop creeping hairlines, baby paunches, and minor peculiarities, some easier to adjust to than others. Take, for example, Donalda’s husband, Joe, each year withdrawing more and more into a world of his own, of golf and fishing and imaginary trophies. Or Edwina’s Stan with his collection of dribble glasses, plastic dog turds and fake vomit. I wish I had some kind of coin for every time I encountered a whoopee cushion in the passenger seat of Stan’s Buick LeSabre.
“Better take it easy on the baked beans,” he always said.
I suggested to Edwina that perhaps Stan was developing Alzheimer’s and should be locked away for his own protection, but I noticed she still kept sending him to pick me up for family get-togethers. This dinner was no exception.
A hand mirror lay on the passenger seat as I opened the door.
“Would you mind moving that?” Stan said.
As I picked up the mirror, it screamed with laughter and kept on laughing after I threw it on the floor.
“Perhaps you should get your hair done more often,” Stan said, between his own screams of laughter.
“Perhaps you should get a life, Stan,” I suggested, not laughing but giving some thought to screaming myself.
HAHAHAHAHAHA, howled the mirror from the floor, just before I picked it up and chucked it out the window.
Stan was still sulking when we reached Nepean and pulled into the driveway, which I think Edwina vacuums twice weekly.
“Aw, Camilla, the girls would have gotten a big kick out of that at dinner,” he said.
“Like hell,” I told him.
If “the girls” had sent Stan to get me into some kind of a mellow mood after a distressing day spent mulling over Mitzi’s death and Robin’s continuing state of withdrawal, “the girls” were going to be let down.
They were hanging around the entrance, three vultures with dish cloths, when we arrived. I could tell they’d been bustling around the kitchen, discussing my mental state, when they’d heard the car. Now they were trying to look like they’d all accidentally ended up near the front door just as we got there.
They scanned my face and turned to Stan. He shrugged, before perking up a bit.
“Wait a minute,” he said, flinging open the door to the basement and thundering down the stairs. “I think I have something else that might do just as well.”
“Are you all right?” Edwina asked.
“Well, I’ll never look in another mirror again.”
“He’s just trying to cheer you up, dear.”
“Let’s chat in the living room,” said Donalda, steering me, as if I hadn’t been there a thousand times.
Edwina’s entire house is picture-perfect polished mahogany, pastel brocade, flowers in silver or crystal vases. In the living room, my father glanced up from the newspaper, peering over the top of his little half-moon reading glasses. He matched the decor. Eighty-year old gentleman, distinguished, white-haired and slim, seated in wingback with matching ottoman.
“Hello, um, Camilla,” he said.
“Can I get you a little drink?” Alexa asked me. Her colour was high and she had a sparkle I hadn’t seen about her for months.
Donalda looked at my father after Alexa left the room. “Do you think she has a fever, Daddy?”
“No idea, dear,” said my father, with a flicker of worry.
“Maybe she’s in love,” I said.
“Oh, Camilla.”
Dinner was wonderful. Edwina knows her way around a kitchen and I have to confess it’s very pleasant to sit on well-padded dining room chairs, surrounded by the warm glow of mahogany, eating good food off Minton china. She presided over the distribution of the roast lamb stuffed with spinach and chèvre with the air of an artist at a show of her work.
And, in my family, we always find things taste even better when we’re discussing people who are not present.
“She did?” said Donalda, as we heaped the lemon rice onto our plates “Well, I’m not surprised. Did you see what she had on?”
“No wonder he practically dived down the front of her blouse,” said Edwina, passing the squash soufflé.
“Exactly,” said Alexa, and reached for the broccoli, “and I know we’re all human, but I don’t think church is the place for it.”
My father just concentrated on the food. He doesn’t approve of gossip. I concentrated on my food too, since I didn’t know any of the people whose blouses were under discussion.
When the neighbours and other parish members had been dealt with, they turned their attention to the murder. I was waiting for it. Mitzi Brochu’s murder had captured the imagination of the magazine-reading public in a big way.
“A crucifixion,” said Alexa, shivering. “It’s too gruesome.”
“Well,” I said, “it wasn’t really a…”
“Somebody absolutely had it in for her,” said Donalda.
“No kidding,” I said.
“Not surprising when you think about the sorts of things she wrote about people,” Edwina pronounced. “She literally ruined careers and brought terrible embarrassment to people, right here even in our community. People who were just minding their own business and had nothing to do with her.
She just selected them and burned them.” I wasn’t sure how the words were getting out with Edwina’s lips pursed like that.
“I know,” sighed Alexa, twisting her napkin. “Poor Deb Goodhouse.”
“She is a little bit broad in the beam, but even so…”
Donalda didn’t get to finish her sentence.
“Her beam is not the issue. The woman is a well-respected politician and a wonderful contributor to the community. She’s given a lot of herself to environmental projects and to helping the third world and what does she get in Canada’s best-selling women’s magazine? Not a word about her achievements, just her backside. After I read that article, I cancelled my subscription.”
Well, I bet that showed them, Edwina, I thought.
“Poor, poor Deb.” Alexa was still milking the poor Deb theme.
I’d never given a moment’s thought to the Hon. Ms. Goodhouse before I read the article in Femme Fatale. Somehow she seemed to be important to my sisters.
“She some kind of a friend?” I asked.
The three of them turned and looked at me.
“Oh, Camilla,” said Alexa.
“Of course, she’s a friend,” said Donalda. “Don’t you remember? We all went to St. Jim’s together. She used to be at the house all the time.”
“So what was I then? Seven years old?”
“All the same. You must remember Deb.”
“Right,” I said, referring to woolly memories of a beefy brunette scattered among the long blondes, all of them giggling and smoking cigarettes and listening to Pat Boone in the upstairs bedrooms.
“You must remember how excited we all were when she won her first federal election.” Edwina gestured around the table to indicate that I was not only unaware, but also alone, in my lack of excitement.
The other girls nodded, as did my father and Stan. Joe smiled to himself, managing a hole-in-one on his internal golf course.
“I guess I missed it.”
“It was around the time of…” Edwina started to say Paul’s death but was silenced by the tensing of muscles around the table, signalling the topic was about to change. Every one in my family is always worried that any talk of Paul will plunge me into some internal chaos, from which I will never recover. I’m not so sure they’re wrong. We don’t get nearly as agitated over Alexa’s much more recent widowhood. The topic veered to the highlights of Deb Goodhouse’s career.
“So was she upset by these articles in Femme Fatale?” I asked.
A rustle of relief around the table confirmed the tricky topic of Paul had not caused me to plummet into instant depression. I guess I was as relieved as anyone else.
“Oh, yes,” said Alexa. “She was very hurt. They were terribly personal and insulting.”
“And even worse,” Edwina broke in, “she thought they trivialized everything she’d been working on. You know, these women politicians, it’s a pretty tough life for them, and then, to have the only article ever written about you in a national magazine focus on your backside, well….” Edwina became speechless at this point.
Speak Ill of the Dead Page 3