The Icing on The Corpse
Mary Jane Maffini
Text © 2001 by Mary Jane Maffini
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Cover art: Christopher Chuckry
We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program
Napoleon Publishing/RendezVous Press
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
2nd printing 2007
11 10 09 08 07 5 4 3 2
13-digit ISBN 978-0929141-81-7
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication
Maffini, Mary Jane, date—
The icing on the corpse: a Camilla MacPhee mystery
ISBN 0-929141-81-4
I. Title.
PS8576.A3385I25 2001 C813'.54 C2001-901970-X
PR9199.3.M3428I25 2001
I owe special thanks to Mary Mackay-Smith, Janet MacEachen and Keary Grace for their generous help with this book. I am also grateful to Dr. Lome Parent and Kate Jaimet for their time and information.
The Ladies Killing Circle: Joan Boswell, Victoria Cameron, Audrey Jessup, Sue Pike and Linda Wiken continued to supply their eagle eyes, sound judgment and firm friendship. My daughters, Victoria Maffini and Virginia Findlay and my husband, Giulio Maffini, to whom I present an ongoing challenge, have shown endless support.
I am most fortunate to have Sylvia McConnell as my publisher and Allister Thompson as my editor. They never fail to be unflappable and enthusiastic.
You won't find Mimi Melanson's Bridal Bower, Women Against Violence Everywhere, St. Jim's Parish or the exact location of the Justice for Victims office anywhere in Ottawa. However, you can certainly eat Beaver Tails on the canal and skate to work if your timing's right.
One
Work is what saves me. It has been four years since that loser chug-a-lugged a six-pack then swallowed a palmful of downers and hurtled his RX-7 into the Toyota Tercel carrying my husband. Now Paul is just a picture above my desk, forever thirty, but the lowlife who killed him still breathes and drives.
Perhaps a time will come when I can forgive.
If I didn't see people much worse off than I am every day, who knows how far down the greased ladder of self-pity I could slide. But I do see them and, when I do my job well, I believe I can make a difference.
When I do it well.
It was still dark when I snapped awake. Lindsay Grace s file was on my mind. This was one case where I had to make that difference. Because with Lindsay, we were talking the difference between life and death. I was prepared to do anything. Depositions. Court appearances. Appeals. Calls to the media. Hunger strikes. Name it.
This one mattered.
I remembered the first day she had come to see me. She was tentative but pumped up by my friend, Elaine Ekstein, the Executive Director of Women Against Violence Everywhere. Elaine had explained that WAVE was committed to assisting women like Lindsay, and I damn well should be too. I listened to Lindsay's story, and Elaine squeezed her hand.
Then it was my turn to talk about legal options. That's why I run Justice for Victims. I talked long and hard. Nearly two hours later, Lindsay began to imagine the possibility of life without the man who could stub his cigarette on the soft skin of her belly after they'd made love.
I found it hard to picture the high-flyer Lindsay Grace had been. Hard to understand why a successful and attractive financial analyst would let herself become the emotional hostage of someone like Benning. It was harder still to keep my personal opinions to myself and concentrate on the job at hand. I bit my tongue.
Somehow, after that session, Lindsay Grace found the strength to testify against Ralph Benning. She stood in court and faced him. She knew, as we all did, that if Ralph Benning ever had the chance, he'd kill her without letting the smile slip from his handsome face.
Convictions weren't enough to keep her safe. During his previous trial for assaulting his wife, twelve jurors took less than an hour to express society's revulsion. The judge expeditiously sentenced Benning to the maximum allowable sentence for the crime. Not soft time in medium or minimum security. Kingston Penitentiary. The real deal. But the law's the law, and it cuts both ways.
Mandatory supervision placed Ralph Benning back on the streets eighteen months later. He'd had long enough to work up a good head of steam against the women who had put him in maximum security. Against Rina Benning, his damaged wife. And the girlfriend he had trusted to perjure herself for him. The woman who had let him down with a little help from her friends.
Lindsay Grace. He hadn't found Lindsay.
Rina Benning hadn't been so lucky. It was a hard six months before she got out of rehab. She hadn't been well enough to testify at his current trial for damn near killing her. Not that it mattered.
No thinking person would believe for a minute Ralph Benning could end up a free man. Not after those photos of his wife's bruises, not after the X-rays showed the damage a baseball bat had done to her ribs, not after the dry, flat tone of the expert witness describing the internal injuries, not after seeing Rina Benning with her jaw still wired, one eye sightless.
What court could fail to find him guilty? It was his twenty-sixth conviction. All that remained was the sentencing. But it would take more than that to put Lindsay Grace's mind at ease.
Peace bonds. Restraining orders. Lindsay Grace knew well enough that you can't count on papers to work with someone who doesn't feel bound by the rule of law. Someone like Ralph Benning.
How many times had Benning made the news for being totally out of control? And how many times had he been on the street in less than a year? Ten years wouldn't be enough to civilize Benning. It was time to put him behind bars and let him rot.
As Benning's sentencing hearing drew closer, the media was paying attention. It was an open secret the Crown was planning to bring an application to have him declared a dangerous offender. Benning was always news in our town. Rina Benning had declined to be interviewed about her husband. Persistent calls from reporters and the flash of cameras outside her Hunt Club residence wouldn't be doing her nerves much good.
Lindsay Grace was no better off. Even though Elaine Ekstein and I were supposed to be the only people who knew where she lived, she still spent the days in tears and the nights in panic.
Now, in four short hours, after one trial too many, the Crown would apply to launch the long process. I'd done my best to help. I was one hundred per cent certain Ralph Benning would reoffend. The stakes were high enough. If he weren't locked away at the pleasure of the Queen, Lindsay Grace would never have another peaceful moment.
I'd had my kick at the can. I had delivered documents, statements, evidence, addresses, files, you name it, to the Crown Attorney's office. Anything that would help.
They'd have to do it without Lindsay. She was far too frightened to come out of hiding, terrified of facing