“And you can make a living this way?”
“More or less. We get grants from various levels of government and personal and corporate donations. I supplement with a bit of legal work on the side, and I get asked to participate in task forces looking at the victim perspective.”
I didn’t tell him my expenses were minimal to run Justice for Victims. The office was sub-let from the association next door. Alvin came subsidized, although not quite subsidized enough. I also didn’t mention I had to top up my own living expenses, not that they were high, out of Paul’s estate. Still it was worth it as far as I was concerned.
“I can see why you would be so committed to victims’ rights, after what happened to Paul. And that guy getting away with it.”
I didn’t let myself think about this too often. The wounds were still there. Paul, brilliant and funny, would have been thirty-four in three weeks if a drunken lout hadn’t polished off a two-four of beer, then lurched onto the road with his RX-7 and mangled Paul’s little Toyota. It had taken three hours to cut his body from the wreckage. Longer than his killer served.
“One year suspended sentence. Gotta give the guy a chance. After all, he never killed anyone before.” My hands were choking my coffee mug as I talked. Choking the drunk driver, choking the judge.
“Tough on you.”
I wanted to change the subject. I wasn’t in the habit of discussing just how tough it was.
“Right,” I said, “so what else are you going to do on your day off?”
“I’m treating this like a Saturday, so I’m doing Saturday stuff,” he said. “Drop over to the market and get a few things, go to the library and stock up, see how the tulips are coming up…”
Those damn tulips again.
“…maybe go to a movie tonight.”
He’d been looking into his empty coffee cup, but now he flicked a glance at me.
“I don’t suppose you’d feel like a movie tonight.”
“I’m not ready to see other people yet. Sorry.”
This time the flush surged up past his hairline and down through his shirt collar. I could have sworn his hands got pink.
“Oh, of course not,” he said, “I realize that. Just talking about a couple of people watching a movie.”
“Don’t mind me, I’m being a jerk,” I said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind and it’s making me surly.”
I noticed he didn’t leap to deny this.
“This thing with Mitzi Brochu has thrown me. You remember Robin, I guess.”
“Of course,” he said. “I remember seeing the two of you together a lot at law school.
“Well, she’s just devastated by the whole thing and doesn’t seem to be getting over it, so that’s a strain. The police have been complete creeps about it.”
“Hmm.”
“So the point is, once life gets back to normal and I’m not such a jerk, sure, let’s get together and go to a movie. Maybe Robin could come too.”
That might be just what she needed, I thought to myself. And this little guy might be the perfect match for her. Pleasant enough. Appreciates tulips. Probably likes cats too. Maybe a movie with a single man would be enough to get Robin to climb out of bed and comb her hair.
“I’ll get your number,” I said, “and let you know when would be a good time.”
He wasn’t the type to insist on paying the bill. He got a point from me for that.
“I’ll be off to the library,” he said as we stepped out of the Mayflower and into the very bright sun.
“I’ve got some stuff to check out. Let’s walk over to together,” I said. Death Row reprieve for Alvin.
“Sure.”
He was the kind of person you could be comfortable with, without talking. I liked that.
As we reached the corner of Elgin and Laurier West, across the street in Confederation park, 15,000 tulips exploded into view. He stopped to look. Robin would have too. This could be a perfect match.
We jostled by the camera-toting tourists enjoying the Festival of Spring. By my calculations, there was a tourist for every tulip.
“So,” I said, while we raced the light across Elgin, “did I ever tell how I feel about the parole system?”
“Let’s not ruin a perfect morning.”
We said good-bye inside the library. I galloped up the stairs to reference and he headed for fiction. He was planning to do the W’s. Wodehouse. Westlake. Wright. Wolfe.
I was planning to do the W’s too. Wendtz.
There was only one Rudy Wendtz in the city directory. He had an address on the Queen Elizabeth Driveway and his employment was listed as prmtr. After a while, I figured out this must mean promoter. But what did promoter mean?
I let my fingers do the walking and sure enough, in the yellow pages under Promotional Services, I found “Events by Wendtz”.
What kind of events, I wondered, give you the kind of income you need to live at that address on the Queen Elizabeth Driveway?
* * *
Back in the office, there was no sign of Alvin. With luck, he’d caught the first flight back to Sydney to resolve the family crisis.
Wherever he was, I had free access to the phone. I checked in with the Findlays. Robin was in bed.
“Perhaps when Brooke gets here…” Mrs. Findlay let her sad, flat voice trail off. “It’ll be good to see her.”
“Well, yes,” I said, “especially after her long walk.”
Mrs. Findlay always pretends she doesn’t hear my Brooke comments.
“And you too, will you be here tonight?”
“Count on it,” I said.
“Oh, that’s good. Robin has been finding the visits from the police very upsetting. Wait a minute, here she is. She says she wants to talk to you. Are you sure you should be out of bed, dear? Dr. Beaver says…”
“What police? What visits?” I shouted into the receiver. But no response.
“Camilla?” Robin sounded like an exhausted mouse. “I think they’re going to arrest me.”
* * *
She looked like hell when I shot through her front door twenty minutes later. In sharp contrast to the perky, bright, blue flowers marching across every free inch of the Findlays’ kitchen, Robin had definite grey undertones. She was wearing an old United Way campaign tee-shirt with tea stains down the front, grey jogging pants with a hole in the knee and pink pig slippers. Deep half-circles were gouged under her eyes. Her blonde curls hung in greasy strands. She clutched a china cup of camomile tea, and her knuckles were white.
Why? I asked myself. I’d seen the same body, minutes afterward. Why was she so psyched out? Not that it wasn’t distressing. Not that you wouldn’t have nightmares. I still jerked awake in the night with Mitzi’s dead eyes winking at me. But I wasn’t reduced to a psychiatric case. Logic told me that stable, sensible, unimaginative, dependable old Robin should have been in the same state I was. After all, it wasn’t someone she loved or even someone she knew as far as I could tell. I knew it could be explained, and I knew Robin was keeping something from the people who loved her. I wanted to grab Robin and shake the truth out of her.
So