Speak Ill of the Dead

by Maffini, Mary Jane

  That gave me a breather to soak in a very deep, very hot apricot-scented bubble bath. After their dinner, they more or less ignored me, which was fine with all of us. Except the calico, who decided to join me in the bathroom. She swayed in, took a long look at the tub and somehow managed to fly through the air and land just on the edge, where she promenaded back and forth, her belly swaying. She took the opportunity from time to time to swipe at the bubbles and give me long, meaningful looks.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I told her.

  I ditched the teal suit in favour of a casual aqua cotton knit top and skirt Donalda had given me for my birthday. Of course, I had to lift the calico cat off and give the top a shake before I could put it on.

  “You’re eating too much, you weigh a ton. Get any bigger and you’ll need your own apartment. Not that it’s such a bad idea.”

  She just settled down on my bedspread and purred at me.

  I finished off my look, if you can call it that, by yanking a comb through my hair and slashing on a bit of pinkish lipstick. Just enough to keep the family off my back about my appearance.

  I picked up the bag from the joke shop and I was ready to go. The little three-coloured cat rubbed against my ankles, purring. The others were dozing on the newspaper, snoozing on my teal jacket and lounging on my pillow.

  * * *

  “Stan,” I said, with a shark-like smile, “wonderful to see you.”

  He shot a little glance of surprise at my unfamiliar good mood.

  “Good evening, Camilla.”

  As I slid into the passenger’s seat of the LeSabre, clutching the bag from the joke shop, I neglected to check for strange bulges on the seat. Too late. Rude noises from the Whoopee Cushion filled the car. Tears of joy filled Stan’s eyes.

  “Your diet, Camilla,” he said, chortling, “you’ve got to do something about your diet.”

  I just sat there, thinking, I’ll give you something to chortle about, Stan.

  “Your sisters,” Stan said, when he managed to get a grip on himself, “your sisters are very, very concerned about you. You’re never in your office. You’re never at home. You’re cranky and distracted. They’re going to want to talk to you about it. Please try to be mature and understanding,” said Stan, as we drove south to Nepean.

  Mature and understanding? Fine words from Mr. Whoopee Cushion, I thought.

  “Sure,” I said, “just watch me.”

  The highlight of the evening was Edwina’s reaction when she saw the fake cigarette burn on her newly upholstered sofa.

  The package directions instructed: Place the cigarette burn on the table or other places and watch the fun. Great joke at a party. The package directions did not lie. Stan’s the only smoker, and he picked up a few bruises before Edwina caught on to the joke. Let’s just say, there was a chill in the air for the rest of the evening. Even the rubber chocolates I seeded in the candy dish weren’t quite such a hit afterwards.

  * * *

  Stan drove me home and waited while I opened the main door to the foyer. I was still smiling to myself over the way dinner had gone.

  Stan seemed a bit aloof, even if he did his duty and made sure I got into the building safely.

  “Don’t worry about it, Stan. Your bruises will fade. And nothing much can happen to me here.”

  A look of what seemed like regret flicked over his face.

  I was humming as I walked down the corridor to my apartment. Until I saw the cats in the hallway.

  The door was open. Just an inch or two. But enough. I scooped up the black one and the ginger tom and tossed them through the door. How the hell did they get the door open? I hoped it hadn’t been opened by the Super, following a complaint from you know who.

  I tossed the two cats through the door and went back for the white one with the black paws and the grey Persian, who showed remarkable energy in escaping from me. Once I had captured them, I looked around. No more cats in the hallway.

  The three-coloured one and the tabby must be still inside, I decided. Unless. Unless they had oozed into someone else’s apartment or gotten on an elevator.

  The calico was snoozing on the sofa. It was only when I got to the bedroom that I spotted the tabby lying on the pillow, her neck at a strange angle.

  No, it can’t be, I told myself, edging closer, heart thudding. But it was.

  The tabby was dead. Still warm but dead, her neck snapped. A note was attached to her collar.

  “Butt out,” it said.

  My hands shook as I picked up the phone to call the police. McCracken was off duty. I dug around in my suit skirt pocket for the number he’d given me.

  McCracken’s phone rang ten times before he picked it up. It gave me time to watch my hands shake and to feel the pulse in my ears. Someone had violated my apartment. Entered my space and contaminated it. Killed a defenceless, trusting animal to make a vicious point. Now I had something else not to butt out about.

  I was about to slam down the receiver when McCracken answered, breathless and hopeful.

  “Sorry to let you down, Sergeant,” I said, “but I think I’ll take you up on your offer of help.”

  Fifteen minutes later he was sitting on the sofa, looking tense as a high wire.

  “Sorry,” he said, “they just make me nervous.”

  “You’d better be careful. You keep stiffening your neck like that, and you’ll be at the chiropractor’s tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you do something with them?”

  I looked at the five remaining cats. They didn’t appear to be grief-stricken. The black one was leaning against McCracken’s calf, I guess because the Persian had already captured his feet and seemed to be dozing on them. The ginger Tom was facing McCracken on the sofa, purring at him aggressively. As I watched, the white cat with the black paws made a leap for his lap. Meanwhile, on the back of the sofa, the little three-coloured one paraded back and forth, making sure the tip of her tail brushed the back of McCracken’s neck every time she turned around.

  The rich sound of purring resonated in the room.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “nothing I can do. They’re out of control.”

  “I think I’m about to go out of control myself,” said McCracken.

  “Maybe if you had a drink?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, “that might help.”

  McCracken had earned his drink. He’d already checked under my bed and in my closets and shower, where a murderer might hide. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d already checked for murderers. But I appreciated the attempt.

  “So,” I said, after handing him a double dose of scotch.

  I had one myself.

  McCracken was sipping his scotch with a small smile on his face, showing no sign of wanting to pursue the required conversation.

  “So,” I said. Firmly, this time.

  McCracken looked up from the scotch and gave me his full attention.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “My guess is that you stirred up a certain amount of trouble when you started nosing around in the whole mess.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “That’s not advice. The advice is, stop looking for trouble and let the police handle the investigation.”

  “Well, I can’t do that, can I? Since the whole reason I’m investigating is to clear my friend’s name and the police seem determined to arrest her.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “We are pursuing other inquiries now. There’s a lot of forensic evidence from the crime scene that should soon be available. That’ll speed things up. Get some action.”

  Neither one of us believed him. I would have felt a bit sorry for him if he hadn’t let Robin get dragged in to the station.

  “We have some action,” I said, pointing to the small corpse covered with my plaid wool winter scarf. “We have a dead cat.

  Now I know dead cats don’t make The National the way Mitzi did, but whoever did this thought he was delivering a pow
erful message.”

  “Or she,” he said. “These are modern times.”

  Or she?

  I thought about this for a minute while McCracken polished off his scotch.

  “Anyway,” he said, breaking into my thoughts, “we’ve disturbed a crime scene here. You’d better spend the night somewhere else, and I’ll get a team in here tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to investigate the murder of a cat.”

  “That’s why I’m not calling them out tonight. Still, it’s pretty obviously related to the Brochu murder, so we’ve got no choice.”

  “I’ll stay here.”

  “I think the scene’s been disturbed enough by both of us. It’s better if you don’t. Besides, you should get that door fixed. Do you want to sleep in an apartment where the front door’s been kicked in?”

  Normally I would spend the night with Robin in an emergency, but I couldn’t face telling her about the cat. Edwina and Donalda would drive me crazy lecturing. That left Merv, who was as bad as Edwina and Donalda. And Alexa.

  What the hell, I couldn’t keep them apart forever.

  * * *

  Half an hour later we pulled into the driveway at Alexa’s place. McCracken was still tense. Maybe it was because we were headed for Alexa’s. Maybe it was because there were five cats prowling and howling in his car.

  “Well, we’re here,” I said unnecessarily, since we were stopped in Alexa’s driveway. “You’d better stay with them while I check that she’s ready for them.”

  “Don’t be long,” he whispered.

  “Who is it?” Alexa asked from behind her door.

  “It’s your sister who called you and said she was coming right over. Remember?”

  “Yes, I remember,” she hissed, as she opened the door. “And I’ll thank you to remember if you’re asking to spend the night at my house with your five cats, that you can at least be civil to me.”

  “They’re not my cats. And I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m just tense and bitchy because a murder was committed in my home.”

  Alexa gasped. “A murder!”

  “Yes. The tabby. The reason I’m here.”

  “Oh, the cat. Really, you scared me. I thought you were talking something serious. A person. Not a cat.” She pulled her silk housecoat a bit tighter.

  “Well, it was serious to me. I found the cat murdered on my own pillow.”

  “I’m sorry. But I didn’t even know this cat.”

  I heard my voice go up an octave. “That’s not the point. The point is somebody killed the cat to give me a message. And the message was to stop investigating Mitzi Brochu’s murder.”

  “Well, I hope you’re going to. Leave that to the police,” she said, peering down the driveway. “Who’s that in the car?”

  “McCracken. Where do you plan to put the cats? Somewhere special or is it okay for them to make themselves at home on the furniture?”

  “Conn McCracken? Here?” I hate to say it, but her hands flew to her face. “I don’t have any make-up on, and I’m in my bedclothes!”

  “Well, it is bedtime. So where should he put the cats?”

  “He can’t come up here. Not while I look like this. God, I haven’t seen him for twenty-five years. I want to be prepared.”

  “Okay. But where will the cats go?”

  “I don’t care where the cats go. You just make sure that he doesn’t come up here when I’m like this. Understand?”

  Years of being a mom had given Alexa the training she needed to talk tough when necessary.

  “Right,” I said.

  Back at the car, I told McCracken, “Hand me those cats, two at a time please, and I’ll put them in the house.”

  With some difficulty, he managed to pass the ginger Tom and the black one through the window. “Doesn’t she want to…” he said.

  “I’ll be back in a tick,” I told him.

  I tossed the felines into the laundry room and jogged back for the next two.

  “Wait a minute,” McCracken whispered as I picked up the grey persian and the white-and-black.

  “Hold your horses,” I said to him, “till I get them all put away.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Alexa said, as I rushed by her on my way to the laundry room. “Why is he still sitting out there? I look a mess.” She stared at herself in the gilt-edged hall mirror.

  I don’t know what she saw looking back at herself, because her sigh indicated some sort of desperation. I saw a woman, tall, blonde, elegant, wearing a three hundred dollar silk housecoat and still finding something to sigh about.

  “One more trip.”

  “Don’t let him in here!”

  When I took the last cat from McCracken, I asked him to pass me my overnight bag. And my camera case.

  “I can take it in for you.”

  “Not tonight, Conn. You don’t want her to see you looking like that.”

  “See me looking like what?”

  “Covered in cat hair. And if you’ll pardon my saying so, smelling like a distillery. Another time would be better.”

  It seemed to me Conn McCracken had a distinct slump as he backed out of Alexa’s driveway. I’m not sure if she got a real good look as she peered from behind the curtain.

  * * *

  Alexa still likes playing Mom. That meant at seven o’clock the next morning, I came face to face with two eggs, perfectly poached, bacon, crisp and fragrant and whole wheat toast, with a choice of marmalade or jam in little crystal bowls.

  Alexa was bustling around in an off-white silk blouse with a pair of taupe twill pants.

  “Anything else I can get for you?”

  I wasn’t sure how I would get through what was already there.

  Alexa arrived at the table with a steaming pot of fresh coffee. Up close I could see she had on her pearl earrings, a nice light make-up, a smile and distinct traces of cat hair around the ankles.

  “So,” she said, sliding into a chair and smiling at me, “do you think he’ll come back and pick you up?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t imagine he ever wants to see me again.”

  The smile dipped, but Alexa is a trooper. “I hope you’ll spend a couple of days here, at least until the police are through with your apartment. I don’t know how you can even consider going back there.”

  “It may not be much, but it’s home,” I said. “But I would appreciate you taking care of the cats until the new locks are on.”

  I thought I heard a meowing sound from behind the laundry room door.

  “Oh sure,” said Alexa. But I could tell her day was already ruined, whether from the absence of McCracken or the presence of the cats was hard to tell. “So,” she added, “I guess you won’t be talking to him.”

  “Why don’t you call him yourself?” I said, breaking down. “I have his number. I think he’d be very pleased if you did.”

  “I can’t throw myself at him!”

  I gave up at that point. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way out with the camera case slung over my shoulder.

  “Are you taking up photography again?” Alexa asked.

  “Just temporarily.”

  “That’s good. It used to drive us all crazy you snapping pictures every two minutes and catching people with their mouth full. I guess that was before…” She stopped.

  “Before Paul died” is what she stopped herself from saying.

  Back when I was playful and frisky and had a life. I’d put away my Nikon and lenses after he died. But now was a good time to dust them off again.

  Alexa dropped me off at my building to pick up the car. I didn’t even go upstairs to change. No time to spare. I spun my wheels out of the garage and made tracks toward my quarry. Starting with the early birds.

  I clicked the zoom lens and waited for Deb Goodhouse to emerge from her fashionable brick townhouse along the canal, in the part of town real estate people call the Golden Triangle. She took the time to check the front garden, for signs of new life I sup
pose, and never glanced my way. She looked good for that time of the day. A little red cropped blazer and a long navy skirt. I could see her red lipstick from the car. On the other hand, I was blending into the scenery. She didn’t see me snap a very good series of shots of her.

  From there, I drove out along the Parkway and crossed over the Champlain Bridge to the Chateau Cartier Sheraton on the Quebec side. I hung around the parking lot waiting for Jo Quinlan to show up for her workout. It took half an hour before the silver Toyota Supra pulled in and parked three cars away from me. Jo didn’t pay any attention to the drab little blue Mazda and its occupant and she didn’t hear the shutter clicking.

  So much for the early risers. My next stop was the Queen Elizabeth Driveway. I parked where I couldn’t be seen from the windows of Rudy Wendtz’s big place, but close enough to spot the great man coming or going. I made a point of checking around for signs of the local constabulary. But wherever McCracken was this morning, he wasn’t there.

  I got to hear a bit of This Morning on the radio while I waited. In the middle of the third interview, Wendtz emerged from the door, looked around and gave me an opportunity to zoom in on his nasty face with the three day growth of beard and the black ice eyes.

  I put the camera down and opened the city map over it to plan my route for the next stop.

  The knock on the window made me hit my head on the roof. Something that would leave a dent. Large-and-Lumpy leaned in when I opened the window.

  “Shouldn’t be here,” he said.

  I knew what he meant.

  “Mr. Wendtz won’t like it.”

  “I thought we were friends. Don’t feel you have to tell him.”

  He smiled, displaying the few teeth he had. “Take a hint,” he said as he lumbered back toward the huge house.

  I crossed my fingers and prayed he couldn’t see what I was doing as I slipped the camera out from under the map and got a couple of nice clean shots of my buddy.

  Everything was going my way. The last of the targets, Sammy Dash, showed up at his favourite market café just as I finished a tricky bit of parallel parking in front of it. I was sweating when he stalked past the Mazda.

  Click. Click. I enjoyed doing this. Stalking the stalker. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, then scratched his bum. I captured the moment for posterity. And a few other moments, too. Sammy lighting up. Sammy giving passing women the once over. I felt quite at ease. It’s amazing how invisible you are in a middle-aged blue Mazda, when the world wants to look at Porsches.