Now I had a little ammo in my war against Wendtz.
I picked up the phone.
Of the two people I reached, neither had clear memories of Mitzi and Rudy’s dust-up. Both were a bit confused about why I was calling.
Connie Dietz was my biggest hope. She’d had the room next to Mitzi’s.
“Sorry, Ms. Dietz will not be back in the office until May 25.” The voice was prim and officious. I couldn’t resist shaking it up a bit.
“This is regarding a police investigation.” True enough. “Ms. Dietz was staying in the hotel where Mitzi Brochu was murdered. We’re double-checking to see whether she heard anything of importance the night before the murder.”
“My heavens, I didn’t know anything about that. Ms. Dietz is travelling in the United States. You mean she was near that murder?” All signs of primness had disappeared from the voice.
“Can I reach her? Do you have her itinerary?”
“Sorry. She’s on holiday.”
“I imagine you gave that information to my colleagues when they called earlier anyway.”
“Well, no. I take all the phone calls here, and this is the first I’ve heard of it. Perhaps they just left a message. Here, let me check Connie’s voice-mails for you.”
I sat on the line listening to rustling sounds until she came back.
“There’s a few here from Ottawa. A Sgt. Mombourquette. Would that be it?”
“Right on.”
“Well, I’ll certainly get Connie to contact you the minute she shows up. And, Officer, good luck with the case.”
“Thanks, but don’t tell her to call me. I’m on the road quite a bit. I’ll contact her. Thank you.”
There was a breathless good-bye from Ms. Prim as she rushed to get off the phone and spread the news.
Not much information, but it told me Mombourquette had quit after leaving one piddling message. But then, his money had always been on Robin.
I picked up the phone. At least the defense had Connie Dietz in its back pocket.
“Merv,” I said, when the call connected me to my favourite tame Mountie, “you’ve gotta help me. Robin’s in real hot water.”
“Who is this?“ Merv asked, “Not Camilla, is it?”
“Of course it’s Camilla.”
“High time you called me back.”
“What do you mean, it’s high time I called you back?”
“What the hell do you think I mean?”
“Sorry, Merv. Are you saying you left messages for me?”
“Yes, I’m saying I left messages for you.”
It wasn’t necessary for him to mimic my expression with such enthusiasm.
“Oh,” I said, deciding to overlook the mimicking, “well, I didn’t get any messages.” I made a little note on the desk pad —Kick Alvin’s Butt.
“Yeah, well, who’s the guy who answers your phone? He needs some kind of lessons in something.”
“Yes, Merv, he does.”
“Right.” Still sulking.
“Anyway, Merv, I’m calling you because Robin’s in big trouble and…”
“Well, I know Robin’s in big trouble. Anyone in the country who’s read the headlines or listened to the news knows. Being found in the room with Mitzi Brochu’s body is big, big news. Why the hell did you think that I was calling and leaving all those messages?”
“Okay, so you know. Of course, I guess I just have been too busy tearing around to pay attention to the media. The police are focusing on her, and I’ve been scrounging for alternatives.”
“Jesus. Those guys are such peckerheads. You met this Mombourquette?”
“Yup. He’s got it in for Robin.” So far so good. Merv was getting steamed. He’d always had a soft spot in his heart for Robin, ever since we were teenagers and he was the young Mountie living across the street.
“I don’t know how anyone could even think for one minute she could hurt anybody. Does he look like a wharf rat or what?”
“Probably has a tail under his cheap suit,” I said.
“Jeez, somebody’s got to do something. Have you been over to that loony bin lately?”
“You mean the Findlay place?”
“I went over. Her mother’s stuck in front of the television having orgasms over the soaps and her father’s baking all the time, except when they’re both fussing over that useless bitch of a sister. And here’s Robin practically in a coma. Have you seen her?”
“I have, Merv. And I am doing something. And this is how you can help.”
“Shoot.”
“One of the guys I want to know about is Sammy Dash.
Can you check out the computer for his license plate and get me the guy’s address? And listen, you can tell if someone’s got a record from that file, right? I need that too, and if he’s got a history, I want to know for what.”
“You know I’m not supposed to give you stuff like that. I can’t even get into the files without giving a reason. I’m a year from retirement, and you want me to be breaking security.”
“Right. I’m sure you’ll think of a good official reason to check him out.”
“You just make sure you keep an eye on Robin. She needs you.”
“Sure will. Oh and Merv, that’s S-A-M-M-Y D-A-S-H.”
* * *
Alexa was sitting in my living room when I got home that night, much too tall, blonde and elegant for the surroundings. She tapped her long, patent leather toes on the leg of my table. After five minutes, I finally had to ask her what was wrong.
“Why are you doing that?”
She fixed me with a long, dirty look. “He doesn’t have a wife.”
“Who?”
“I think you know.”
“Oh, well, how was I to know he didn’t have a wife?”
“Well, now you know.”
“So he called, did he?”
“No, he didn’t, but I asked around. I have sources.”
“And no wife.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t think he’s gay, do you?”
Her voice went up just a smidgen. “No, I don’t think he’s gay.”
“Just wondering, a man of that age. Not married…”
“He’s divorced.” She snapped it, sounding like a rifle report.
“Divorced! Does Dad know?”
“What does Dad have to do with it?”
“Well, I mean, here’s you, nice Catholic lady, widowed, entitled to see other nice Catholic widowed people and here’s him, D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D. You’ll be the talk of your Parish.”
Alexa sat up very straight.
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Nine
Idrove over to Elmvale Acres Saturday morning. Robin looked even worse. She must have lost twenty pounds since finding Mitzi.
“She was just pretending to eat a bit before, and now she’s not even pretending. We’re so worried.” Mr. Findlay stood by the door with a pan of lemon loaf held in his oven mitts.
Mrs. F. nodded her head from the sofa, which was something, I guess, acknowledging that the situation was serious. Even though her mind was on a taped episode of The Young and the Restless.
Mr. F. was glum. Rejection of his food struck at his self-image, I’m sure.
I still wasn’t prepared for the sight of her, shrunken and grey. It was hard to believe that anyone whose colour was that bad had blood in their veins. The skin on her face was loose.
“Robin,” I whispered when we were alone, “you better start eating or old Dr. Beaver’s going to stick a tube through your nose, down your throat and force feed you. Nibbling on your Dad’s fresh lemon loaf is a more pleasant alternative. Trust me.”
She tried to smile. “I do trust you. I just can’t eat. I just can’t. And I don’t want to.”
The rest of our conversation went nowhere. Just like every time I’d spoken to her since the murder. One thing I knew. I couldn’t count on Robin for help with the investigation.
“What did Dr. Beaver say?” I asked Mr. Findlay on the way out.
“He’s going to put her back in the hospital if she doesn’t start to eat. Maybe get her some psychiatric help. She doesn’t want it.”
“Shhh,” said Mrs. Findlay from the sofa.
Must have been an important part.
* * *
I spent the rest of Saturday in the office trying to catch up. I worked halfway through one mountain of paper, but two more had sprung up. Tomorrow, I said, and went back to thinking about Robin.
Since the murder, everyone’s reactions to Robin had been emotional. Poor Traumatized Robin. Or, in the case of the police, Guilty as Sin Robin. It was time for me to take a more reasoned approach to my friend and her very big problem.
I worked through a little flowchart of possibilities. For instance, Robin either killed Mitzi or she didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to believe she had, so I pursued the no side. Robin either saw the killer or she didn’t. If she had seen the killer, she either knew the killer’s identity or she didn’t. If she saw someone she didn’t know, she would have no apparent reason for not describing him or her. If she knew the killer, she was refusing to talk for some reason that made sense to her. Fear? Protectiveness? If it were fear, who could scare Robin so much that she would not describe a murder to the police?
Robin and I knew many of the same people. Of course, she’s met quite a few more people through St. Jim’s Parish and the Humane Society and dishing out food at the Food Bank and even her office. But somehow, I didn’t think these organizations would be the sources for Mitzi’s murderer. Just to be on the safe side, I made a note to nose around in all four. But my heart wasn’t in it, these were not people to inspire fear. And Robin, for all her fragile blonde looks and current attacks of the vapours, was no chicken.
Fine, then. The last variant was that Robin saw the killer and chose to protect him or her for some reason. I chewed on my pencil and tried to figure out what reason Robin could have to protect a killer.
When I slunk out of the office, full of questions, I bumped into Ted Beamish.
“Think nothing of it,” he said, dusting off his knees.
“Sorry, Ted, I wasn’t expecting anyone. It’s Saturday.”
“Sure, I know.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, I was heading for the Mayflower and I…I saw your light on and I thought I’d see if you had time for a beer, catch up a bit.”
A good enough story, except that my office was past the Mayflower, and you can’t see the window from the street.
“Why not,” I said, before realizing that I was ticked off at Mr. Ted Beamish, but good.
“How’s Robin?” he asked as we sat down and ordered.
“If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you ask me about her when she was taken in for questioning?” I snapped.
“Taken in?” Ted turned white. “If she’s being questioned, why are we sitting here?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t know about this?”
“I’ve been away at a hearing,” he said. “God, poor Robin.
Why would they suspect her?”
“Because she was the last person to see Mitzi before she was found dead, because only her fingerprints and Mitzi’s were found in the room, because…”
“Sounds pretty fluffy to me.”
I nodded. “And because I think Robin is protecting someone.”
“Who?” he inhaled.
“Well, I’m not sure, but she either knows or suspects someone of killing Mitzi, and she’s making herself sick over it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know who, or I would have my elbow in his throat right now. But maybe someone from work, or church or her volunteer stuff. I think I’ll nose around a little bit.”
“I’ll help you.” Ted’s face lit up at the prospect.
“No, that’s all right…”
It fell again as I started to turn him down. Wait a minute, I said to myself.
“…that’d be great, Ted. Why don’t you schmooze the girls in her office and the Humane Society. We can both do a bit of the Food Bank.”
He was nodding. “I can do that.”
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll just confine myself to stalking the criminal elements. I feel more comfortable having my own niche than spreading myself all over the map.”
“I’d like to see her, too,” he said.
“Sure,” I lied, knowing Robin wouldn’t want to see any new man in her current state, “I’ll set that up for you.”
“What do you mean set it up?”
I could tell by the look in his eyes that I had gone too far.
“I’ll just drop in myself sometime tomorrow and give her some encouragement.” He said it in a way that didn’t allow for argument.
* * *
By eight o’clock on Sunday morning, I was at Robin’s, surprising her father in the middle of making cinnamon rolls.
“These’ll be ready in half an hour,” he said, as I skipped up the stairs.
“I can’t,” Robin whined, as I manoeuvred her into the bathroom.
“You’d better,” I told her, as she sat on the little blue chair, and I rummaged through the dozens of shampoo bottles, “Otherwise an attractive male colleague is going to drop in to see you and find you looking like a bleached sardine.”
“What do you mean, a bleached sardine?” she asked, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes.
“Pale and greasy.”
I looked up from under the sink to see she was laughing, just a little silent shake, but it gave me hope.
While Robin was in the shower with a lemon fragrance shampoo, I kept up a running conversation, talking about Ted Beamish, talking about Alvin, talking about anything but the murder. I was on the alert, ready to grab her if she collapsed.
Mr. Findlay whipped into her bedroom and changed the sheets when we were out of the room. He left a pot of steaming coffee, two blue and white china mugs and fragrant, warm cinnamon buns with icing glaze on top.
Back in bed with her yellow hair blow-dried and smelling lemon-fresh, she leaned against the blue roses on the pillowcase.
“Ted Beamish,” she said, “I can’t quite place him.”
“I don’t know how you could forget him. He’s…” I searched for the right word… “dashing. And persistent.” True enough, and more appealing than pudgy, red-headed, receding-hairlined and forgettable-faced.
“Persistent?”
“You have no idea. But listen, you’d better get on a little warpaint. I don’t know if he’s persistent enough for a bleached sardine.”
Robin managed a little pink lipstick, a smudge of blue eyeliner and a few sweeps of mascara before she fell back on the pillow.
I had no mercy. “Cheek stuff,” I hissed, “what do you call it?”
“Blusher,” she whispered.
“Where is it?”
“In my purse.”
I rummaged through gum, keys, at least seven pens, chequebook, a banana that had to be removed at once, two notebooks, sunglasses, dozens of little notes about things to do, perfume, an address book, wallet, a tennis ball, two packets of tissues, lottery tickets, a Mars bar and her blusher.
I dropped the banana into the wastepaper basket and the room took on the scent.
Dabbing on the bit of blush gave Robin an illusion of health, if you didn’t look too closely. If you didn’t notice the loose skin and glazed eyes.
“There,” I said, waving a hand mirror in front of her face, “you look great. And we can see your breath on the mirror, so we know you’re alive. This is good. When he comes through that door, he’s going to fall right off his horse.”
I don’t know why she thought that was so funny. I found myself laughing, too. We howled until tears ran down our cheeks. Even though two minutes earlier I’d been acting with all the humour of a women’s prison warden. At least Robin, the real Robin, was still kicking underneath her shrunken exterio
r.
The door to her bedroom burst open and our laughing choked off.
“For Crissakes,” Brooke shrieked, sticking her head in, “don’t you know people are trying to sleep?”
“My apologies, Brooke. We shouldn’t let the psychological recovery of your sister interfere with something as crucial as your rest.”
I would have continued on, but she was gone before I got revved up. She slammed the door, too, but only after she called me a bitch.
“Oh dear, poor Brooke,” said Robin, all signs of laughter disappearing.
“Poor Brooke, nothing,” I said, filling the mugs with coffee and handing one to Robin. “You have the right to laugh.”
“I heard her come in at three last night. She must be exhausted.”
“Maybe it’s time poor Brooke thought about you a bit. Maybe you’re the one who needs special attention and care. Maybe there are more important things in this world than Brooke and her stupid career as a vacuous face on the cover of a vapid magazine.”
From the look on Robin’s face, I’d gone too far again.
It took two cups of coffee, a bit of cinnamon roll and a lot of soothing talk before she smiled again. We patched up the makeup and she gave my hand a little squeeze.
“I know it’s hard for you to be so nice and patient, Cam. Thanks.”
“Well, anyway, at least you look okay in case what’s-his-name shows up.”
Before heading back to the office, I straightened up the room.
In the process I knocked over Robin’s purse. I did my best to replace everything in some kind of order, but after a while I gave up and piled in the chewing gum packages, notes, stamps, eye shadows, pens and other stuff. At least the banana was gone.
The writing on the last note caught my eye. Rudy Wendtz, it said. Nothing else.
I looked over at Robin.
“He might not come,” she said.
Speak Ill of the Dead Page 10