Speak Ill of the Dead

by Maffini, Mary Jane

  The Chardonnay was excellent. We discussed it for a while.

  We might have been meeting for the first time at a dinner party.

  “The weather’s been lovely,” said Alexa.

  “Very nice,” said my father.

  “Great for the Tulip Festival. Tourists all over the place,” said Stan.

  “The tulips are spectacular. They really are,” said Donalda.

  “Is everyone ready for lemon mousse cheesecake and coffee?” Edwina prefers action to talk.

  No one said much of anything while she and Alexa and Donalda bustled around in the kitchen.

  I fiddled with my napkin. Stan patted his pocket. My father looked at me with his brow wrinkled.

  For the first time in my life, I would have preferred to help out in the kitchen. But I’m never allowed to. Something about my track record with china.

  By the time we were all settled in with lemon mousse cheesecake and steaming coffee, I’d had it with pussyfooting. “So,” I said, digging into my cheesecake, “looks like I was right.”

  Everyone looked at everyone else, before everyone spoke at once. “Right about what?”

  I pointed to my mouth to indicate I couldn’t talk.

  They watched me munch on my cheesecake.

  Edwina drummed her fingers on the table until Alexa reached over and gave her a little nudge.

  I took my time. When I finished, I dabbed at my mouth with a linen napkin.

  “Well,” I said, pausing for effect.

  Everyone leaned forward.

  “Sergeant McCracken of Ottawa Police Services phoned me this afternoon.”

  I looked around the table, beaming. “Do you all remember Conn McCracken?”

  “Get on with it.” Edwina has a hard time maintaining a gentle, nurturing pose.

  Alexa blushed.

  “Well,” I repeated, “he called me today to give me the results of one of the tests taken at Sammy Dash’s apartment.”

  I took another mouthful of cheesecake, savouring it.

  “For God’s sake, Camilla, what were the damned results!” Edwina exploded.

  My father shook his head at her. It was enough to get Edwina to stop, but I noticed her fingers started drumming again.

  “How did he sound?” asked Alexa.

  That was sufficiently peculiar to direct attention away from me. Of course, that wasn’t my intention.

  “In this particular test, they use a chemical, which will cause blood stains which have been cleaned up to show under certain light.” I smiled.

  “And?” asked Donalda.

  “Well,” I said, smiling around at everyone, “the results were very interesting.”

  “Get to the point,” Edwina barked.

  “The test showed, and I must say I feel vindicated by the results,” I paused for a breath, during which there were definite signs of rebellion at the table, “the test showed what must have happened.”

  “Camilla,” said my father, in the voice he’d perfected as a school principal, “stop teasing your sisters.”

  “Well, the test showed large quantities of blood at the spot where I told them the body had been lying. It must have soaked through the carpet.”

  Everyone gasped at once. Most gratifying.

  “My God, you were lucky…”

  “You must have interrupted the killer.”

  “You could have been murdered.”

  “It must be a maniac.”

  I leaned back and enjoyed the reaction for a minute.

  When they started to settle down, I added, “There was something else Sgt. McCracken said.”

  I took the expectant silence as an indication of interest. “They found blood stains all over the place. On the walls and even on the ceiling.”

  Stan said, “Somebody must have really hated this guy.”

  “Or else, it was someone completely ruthless, without compassion,” said Donalda.

  Exactly. And with the kind of psychotic sense of drama needed to lug in a pile of garbage in a packing box just to add substance to the sentiment. I wondered if Sammy Dash had had one encounter too many with Denzil Hickey, acting on behalf of Rudy Wendtz.

  “You were in real danger.” My father could always cut through to the real issue. “I regret that we didn’t believe your version of the events, the first time. It is not like the MacPhees not to take each other seriously.”

  I spent the rest of the evening smirking at my sisters and making faces at Stan when no one was looking.

  * * *

  “I don’t know where your photos are,” Alvin said.

  It was Wednesday before I was pronounced ready to go back to work. Alvin was still peevish when I walked in. I put it down to jealousy, since I’d gotten closer to a murder than he had.

  “You just don’t remember where you put them,” he added.

  “That’s right, I don’t. But I know they were either in my apartment or in my briefcase or here in the office.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, and they’re not in my briefcase.”

  “Umhum.”

  “And they’re not in my apartment. I’ve been through every inch of it.”

  Alvin shrugged.

  “Soooo, they must be here. Let’s get moving and find them.” By this I meant, you get moving and find them.

  It was a distressing thought, searching through the piles of paper in the office. Paper was piled everywhere. The twin disasters of Alvin’s arrival and my preoccupation with Mitzi’s murder looked like the undoing of Justice for Victims.

  “I already looked through everything. They’re not here,” he whined.

  I stared at him, long and hard.

  “Maybe someone, the murderer I guess, stole them from your briefcase in Sammy’s apartment. When you were out cold.”

  Maybe, indeed. I couldn’t even remember if the photos had been in my briefcase. My head was still fuzzy enough to blur the events just before my visit.

  “Maybe someone broke into your apartment and stole them.” This was said with enthusiasm on Alvin’s part.

  “Nobody broke into my apartment.”

  “Yes, they did. Remember the dead cat?”

  “Of course I remember the dead cat. How could I forget the dead cat? However, I still had the photos after that.”

  “Oh.”

  Of course, I knew Alvin was right. Someone had stolen the photos. From me. From my apartment, my briefcase or my office. No question about it. Someone who had been in one of the photos. Someone who didn’t want me going around asking questions. But I hated to give Alvin the satisfaction.

  I also hated to go around snapping the suspects again. And one of them was dead.

  Alvin’s face lit up a bit. “Of course, I have the negatives.”

  “Good, where are they? We can get copies made and you can head off to the Harmony to do your back hall investigations.”

  “They’re here somewhere.”

  “What do you mean ‘they’re here somewhere?’”

  “I filed them.”

  “Well, get them out of the file.”

  “Give me a minute. I need to think of what I filed them under.”

  I glared at him while he stared at the ceiling as if the file title might be written there. I thought about how much I wanted to file Alvin under Employees, Former.

  The blast of the phone startled both of us. I grabbed it before Alvin could.

  McCracken.

  I gestured to Alvin to get his head back into the files.

  “So,” said McCracken, “looks like you were right.”

  When Alvin pulled the negatives out of the Miscellaneous file, I was caught up in what McCracken was saying. I pointed in the direction of the Rideau Centre and hoped that Alvin would understand that meant take them in to get printed again.

  McCracken was saying Sammy Dash had turned up in a dumpster, outside a renovated building. He had been punctured, many times, by something very sharp. And he’d been there a while.
/>   Underneath him, a poem was clutched in what was left of his hand. McCracken read it to me, over the phone:

  Here lies Sammy Dash

  Who sold trouble for cash

  Now he’s where he belongs

  With the rest of the trash

  I heard about it again on the evening news as I passed through the Findlay living room on my way up to see Robin.

  “Oh, look,” said Mrs. Findlay, “they’ve identified that man they found last night. Isn’t that terrible? We’re not even safe in our beds anymore. Even Camilla here found another body. What is the world coming to?” she asked Brooke.

  But Brooke, who’d been slumped on the sofa, surrounded by Holt Renfrew bags, choked on her cigarette. She took the stairs two at a time and slammed the bathroom door.

  I could hear her retching as I passed the door on my way to Robin’s room.

  “What’s wrong with Brooke?” Robin asked.

  “Reality struck too close to home this time, I guess.”

  Robin is used to my more oblique remarks and she let that one slide.

  “My mother says you found a body. Is that true?”

  She was looking better. A little more pink and white, a little less yellow. And she was sitting up, with her hair combed and her eyes clear.

  “It’s true.”

  “My God,” she said. “What happened?”

  I hesitated, but it was time to talk straight.

  “Yes,” I said, “while crawling around town to investigate the murder which caused you so much psychological distress, I visited one Sammy Dash. Mean anything?”

  I watched her face. Sammy Dash was a new name to her.

  “He was Mitzi’s Brochu’s photographer. And some people say he wanted to be more than that.”

  She shook her head.

  “I wanted to talk to him about his relationship with Mitzi and a few other things, and I went to his apartment. Someone hit me over the head when I found his body.” I rubbed the sore spot.

  Robin gasped. She leaned forward, grasping my arm.

  I hated to do it, but I said, “He was a good friend of Brooke’s.”

  Her head hit the pillow with an audible plop.

  I pressed on. “That’s why she’s in the bathroom throwing up. He was her friend. And now he’s been killed and dumped in a pile of garbage with a little note.”

  Robin was shaking her head, trying to keep the words out.

  I grabbed her shoulder. “It’s the same person. The same person killed them both. You’ve got to tell me how Brooke’s involved before something else happens.”

  But Robin had covered her face with her hands. “Stop, please,” she whispered.

  I put my face next to hers. “I can’t stop. You’re my friend and this is destroying you. And people are being killed, even if they’re not very nice people.”

  “Oh, God, don’t try to find out any more. Please.”

  I was attempting to shake some sense into her when the door jerked open and Mrs. Findlay stuck her head in.

  “My heavens, girls. The news is enough to…what’s wrong? Why are you crying? What have you done to her, Camilla MacPhee? For God’s sake, don’t you think she’s been through enough without you upsetting her? And she was just starting to get better too. Get out of here.”

  I stared. Robin snuffled something incomprehensible.

  “You heard me,” said Mrs. Findlay, “and don’t come back until you’re willing to behave in a civilized fashion.”

  Mr. Findlay was just starting up the stairs with a plate of brownies when I stormed past. I know it was childish of me to slam the door. But I got a lot of satisfaction out of the way the glass rattled.

  * * *

  Lucky for Alvin when I swung open the door of Justice for Victims on Thursday morning and opened my mouth to snarl at him, he said the right thing.

  “There’s a message from that guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “You know, what’s his name from the hotel. Richard. You talk about him enough.”

  “Richard called? When?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. He lost his cool when I didn’t know where you were or when you’d be back.”

  “But you did know. You knew I was at Robin’s and…oh never mind. Why don’t you go check if the copies of those photos are ready yet?”

  “Why should I go over when I can just call?”

  “Because,” I said, lifting the receiver, “I’m on the phone.”

  Richard’s reaction was enough to make me feel comforted. He asked all the right questions.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” he said, “when I got in and saw this message from you. The office should have called me in Toronto. Bit of bad judgement there. That won’t happen again. And then I called your place and got that twit. He told me he was not at liberty to tell me whether you had been seriously injured. And furthermore, he was unaware of your plans for the day and could I call back. Tomorrow.”

  “He sees his job as shielding me from a demanding public. Perhaps he’d be more suited to a large corporate office.”

  “Oh sure. I’ll see if I can get him something at Harmony Corporate.”

  “Richard?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Me, too.”

  * * *

  I left work early. Alvin had been assigned to take the reprinted photos and prowl through the back passageways of the Harmony looking for anyone who’d seen our suspects moving around where they shouldn’t be. My money was still on Denzil Hickey, but I wouldn’t let Brooke Findlay or Jo Quinlan or Deb Goodhouse off the hook until I knew for sure. Even Sammy might have been there.

  “Stop sulking. It’s only one afternoon and evening,” I snapped at Alvin, slamming the door to cut off any rejoinders.

  I smiled all the way home, even on my many stops. Richard and I had plans.

  It’s annoying what you can buy when you put your mind to it. I managed to pick up herb-crusted poached salmon, rice, a medley of five blanched vegetables, salad and two slices of killer chocolate cake. And some lobster and asparagus dip for starters.

  I hit the liquor store feeling smug and picked up two bottles of Pouilly Blanc Fumé and a little Armagnac, just in case.

  I don’t know what hit me, but I doubled back to the florist and bought a dozen tulips.

  You’re getting worse than Alexa, I told myself.

  By the time I raced out the doors by the corner of Laurier and Bank, I was uncertain of my ability to get all the way home with my bags, bottles, containers and tulips. It was one of the few days when it would have made sense to take my car.

  Now a taxi was in order. As I snagged a Blueline, still smiling, a familiar face turned to stare.

  Ted Beamish was crossing Bank Street. A taxi turning right nudged him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Camilla,” he said, racing around and sticking his head into the cab, “you look great. I heard about your terrible experience. You seem to have recovered. What’s all this?” he gestured toward the flowers, candles and food. “Planning something special?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. I know you must have been very busy,” he said, with his flush starting to spread from his neck, “but did you ever get my messages?”

  “What messages?”

  “No one answered at your apartment and your office line is always busy. But I did get through a couple of times and I left two or three messages.”

  “Sorry, Ted, I never got them. Maybe they’re stuck in a pile of papers or something. Was it something important?”

  The taxi driver took that moment to rev his motor a little bit.

  “No, nothing important. I just wanted to know how you were doing.” Ted said, with his entire face in full blush. “It’s okay, but maybe you can give me a call when you have a couple of minutes.”

  “Sure,” I said, as the cab pulled away.

  I looked back as we moved along Laurier Street. Ted was still watching
the cab. But I have to admit, I didn’t give him another thought for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  When Richard arrived at 7:00, the apartment looked pristine. The reports and files, which had been stacked on the floors and on all available surfaces, were now stacked in the closets. Almost all the cat hair had been vacuumed up, and the felines were still a little miffed.

  The furniture, what there was of it, was now in an intimate little grouping, and the lights were as low as they could go. I’d set the dining room table in the window by the balcony, where you could see the river.

  I was wearing the kind of smile you might expect from a person who’d gotten everything done, right on schedule, and then soaked in a tub fragrant with Watermelon Foam Bath while sipping a glass of chilled Pouilly Fumé.

  I was also wearing my red jersey dress.

  I buzzed Richard through and waited by the door, my breathing a bit uneven. I was doing an excellent job of keeping my conscience quiet.

  As I let Richard in, he stopped and stared. “You don’t look like you need too much comfort,” he said, handing me a bouquet of short-stemmed, peach roses.

  “Try me,” I said.

  Behind him in the hallway, from Mrs. Parnell’s open door, the red end of a cigarette glowed. I shut the door and forgot about her.

  “You look great,” Richard said. “Getting hit on the head is obviously good for you.”

  “I do like seeing those stars.”

  He hugged me. The old-fashioned kind of hug you don’t plan, it just happens. Full of affection. Just like Paul used to do.

  “You’re funny,” he said.

  “And you haven’t even had dinner yet.”

  I liked that hug. It reminded me there weren’t enough hugs in my life. I didn’t pull back until he did. We looked at each other for a long time, smiling.

  “Mousse?” I asked.

  We sat on the sofa, munching the mousse and crackers, talking, our thighs close enough to feel the heat from each other. Cats watched us from freshly vacuumed chairs, from the newspaper basket and from under the dining table. When the sunset turned the sky over the Ottawa River into a wall of flame, I remembered about dinner.

  I got the salmon from the microwave to the table, turning down Richard’s offer to help.