The cameras got some nice footage of Robin looking like Bambi on speed.
Robin didn’t say a word in the cab. She seemed to have crawled up inside herself and shut the rest of us out. Only the pressure of her hand clutching mine told me we were still connected. I was relieved when we got to her parents’ home and found Dr. Beaver all ready for us. Her father and I slid her into her old bed and Dr. B.’s hypodermic did the trick. Even her mother ripped herself away from The Young and the Restless and stood there, wringing her hands.
“Robin’s in shock,” Dr. Beaver said. “Just shock. She’ll be fine.”
He hovered over her as she twitched and moaned in her sleep. He offered the same kind of down-to-earth advice we’d had from him as children, scared to get vaccinations. We’d always relaxed and giggled around him because he had huge buck teeth and looked like he’d be at home in a pond.
“You heard Dr. B.,” I said to my unconscious friend. “You’ll be fine.”
She opened her eyes wide and squeaked, “The cats! What will happen to the cats?”
Oh no. Not that.
“She means her cats, the six she keeps,” her father whispered. “They can’t come here. Mrs. Findlay’s allergic to cats. Oh my God, now Robin’s going to fret about them.”
I didn’t need anyone to tell me what she meant. I am no fan of cats, and this particular six irritated me every time I dropped in to see Robin. But this wasn’t the right moment to mention it.
“Don’t worry about the cats,” I said, feeling a sudden, regrettable largeness of spirit. “I’ll make sure they’re all right.”
I gave Robin’s hand a little squeeze and felt her squeeze back, just as her eyes closed.
Once Robin was out cold, Mrs. Findlay slipped back in front of the boob tube and lit up a cigarette. As long as I can remember, she’s been addicted to soap operas. Once Robin told me her mother had been at the grocery store with a long lineup at the cash. When she realized she might miss Another World, she left her groceries and hightailed it home.
Robin’s father and I just kept bumping into each other and not having anything to say. What could you say? I didn’t want coffee. I didn’t want a drink. I didn’t want to try the lemon poppyseed muffins which were still cooling on the counter. Neither of us mentioned the police and their questions. We both knew Robin’s troubles were just beginning.
“Don’t worry, there’s no need for you to hang around, chewing your nails. Thank you for helping. There’s nothing you can do right now. You go home, and I’ll let you know when she can talk,” he said. “Camilla’s leaving now, dear.”
Mrs. Findlay butted out her latest cigarette and tore her eyes away from a blonde woman and a dark-haired man who were engaged in some kind of wrestling match under a sheet. And in the afternoon, too.
“God almighty, those two scamps, eh?” Mrs. Findlay lit another cigarette and pointed to the TV with it. But it was too late, an ad for detergent which would get your sheets sparkling clean replaced the wrestling scene. “That Nina. If they’re not careful, her husband will catch them. Then there’ll be hell to pay.”
“I can imagine,” I murmured.
“You just try and relax,” said Mr. Findlay as he opened the door for me.
* * *
Just relax. Sure. You can picture just how relaxing it was at my place once my nearest and dearest got a gander at Robin and me on the six o’clock news. Hot and cold running relatives, everywhere you looked.
“Would you like a martini? Some warm milk? Toast? A nice boiled egg? Something else? Although there’s not much in your fridge.” That was Alexa. She believes in the efficacy of food and drink in the face of any disaster.
“Not really hungry.”
“Would it help if I did a bit of this laundry?” Donalda. She’s only comfortable in a well-administered household. Whenever she visits me, she perches on the edge of the sofa and stares into the kitchen at the dishes in the sink. “I could wash up those dishes for you, if you’d like.”
“Sure, anything you want.”
“I think your home would be much improved by the addition of some dining room furniture. Nothing too avant-garde, just a couple of nice chairs and a good table. I don’t know how you can stand to have a desk in there. Why don’t you spend a little of your money on fixing it up? You could even get a pretty desk and put it in the living room.” Edwina. House Beautiful has always been her bible.
The burbling of decorating tips was drowned out by the squeal of the blender in the kitchen and the roar of the vacuum cleaner around our feet. Robin’s cats took refuge in my bedroom. My father sat in the armchair in the corner and studied me with keen interest.
No one mentioned the murder. And I sure wasn’t going to.
“Something else? What about a nice little rum and coke to settle you down?” Alexa never forgets our Nova Scotia roots.
To tell the truth, it felt rather good to have them bustling around, dispensing elbow grease and unsolicited advice, their voices blurring. Usually I protect my territory and independence and try to keep a handle on their surplus domesticity.
“A filing cabinet would help a lot. The light from your balcony would be perfect for a ficus benjamina. Can I top up your drink?”
The second rum and coke hit me like a piano from a second story window. As I crawled naked into my freshly made bed and curled into the fetal position, I could hear the gentle thudding of the washer-dryer and the hum of sisters chatting. I closed my eyes. Six cats settled themselves around my feet.
All that night and into the next day, Mitzi’s dead face kept flashing through my mind, with Robin’s wailing voice in the background. “No, no,” she kept saying, “not dead. Not like this. Please not now.”
* * *
“Crucified? Lord thundering Jesus,” said Alvin, filled with admiration for my cleverness in finding myself in the right spot at the right time. “What did she look like?” He picked up the receiver he’d dropped on the desk as I sagged through the door. “She’s here now, Mom, I’ll call you back later.” He hung up and looked at me with great expectation.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
After a night of spinning in the sheets, fighting nightmares filled with dead eyes and silent screams, the last thing I wanted was to relive finding Mitzi Brochu. And the only way to avoid talking about it was to get Alvin out of the office. I decided the solution was a series of low-level yet time-consuming errands requiring stops all over town.
“Panty-hose?” he said, reading the list I handed him. “You want me to pick up your panty-hose? That’s demeaning. It’s bad enough I have to go to the print shop and the post office and the library and pick up cat food. But I draw the line at panty-hose. That’s not part of my job.”
“Sure it is. It’s called Other Duties As Required. Take it or leave it. You can always go home to Mom.”
I hoped Alvin would leave it, for good. But as a consolation prize, I hoped he’d at least be gone for a couple of tranquil hours.
In the meantime, I was counting on the Benning brief to take my mind off what we’d found in Mitzi Brochu’s bedroom.
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