After the Findlays, Ted Beamish seemed normal. Once I had called him, he insisted on picking me up to go to the movie. I’d slipped into my favourite old jeans and yanked on a pullover. The warm May day had been replaced by a nippy night with a frost warning, but you could still smell the fresh green leaves in the air.
He ordered bagels and lox at Nate’s, while I went for the traditional smoked meat sandwich. The Bytowne was right across the street and Hear My Song was playing.
“So,” he said, once we were settled in and our food had arrived, “how’s Robin doing?”
I crunched my pickle and thought about how Robin was doing. Better perhaps with her sister there, taking her mind off the murder. But not good. I thought back to her waxy skin and glazed eyes. Eyes following her sister’s every move, eyes filled with questions. Not once had Brooke referred to Robin’s experience. Except for an airy little cheek kiss, she hadn’t acknowledged her at all. Brooke liked to be concerned with Brooke. For this she was rewarded, in life and by her family.
To Ted I said, “Not great. She’s a long way from being better.”
To myself I said, what are you holding back?
“That’s too bad. Well, keep me posted. We’ll get out together soon enough, I guess.”
Later as we sat in the theatre, I considered this. I’d thought he wanted to go out with me. But maybe he’d been angling for Robin all along and I was just too arrogant to see it. But if he did want to go out with Robin all along, why wouldn’t he just call her up and ask her out? She would have been tickled. Not bitchy like me.
It did not compute, and in the dark of the theatre I turned away from the screen to look at Ted Beamish, enigma.
He blinked and offered me some more popcorn. What the hell, I told myself, you think too much.
* * *
The next morning, the sun was splashing deep-pink stripes across the sky as I rose. I got up early and ready for action.
I had a lot to do if I wanted to keep my buddy out of the hoosegow. Of course, six cats had to be fed before I did anything.
The temperature was about 13 degrees Celsius as I sat out on the balcony in my fuzzy-green winter housecoat, sipping from a large mug of extra-strong Colombian and making lists. Stuff to pick up at the grocery store. Things to do at the office. People to talk to. Suspects to badger.
The pink sun accentuated the bit of the Harmony Hotel visible from the balcony. I added Richard Sandes to my list of people to talk to.
The temperature was inching up as I stalked down the path by the river. It was the first time in days I’d had the mental space to enjoy the blue and silver ripples on the water, to listen to the birds, to grin at the nosy groundhog.
The grass along the sweeping lawns separating the Parkway and the shore was deep-green and dewy, and the deciduous trees sported clouds of tiny, fresh leaves. It was going to be a great day.
I clomped into the Harmony about 40 minutes after I had left home.
Two young women, wearing the house uniform of deep turquoise jackets and navy mini-skirts, were at the reception desk. One was Stephanie, the trainee I remembered from my first visit. The other one was Naomi. She’d been on duty the night I had visited Richard in his office, and later at the bar.
They both had very big hair and fresh faces. One wore little flats and the other one had on spiky pumps. I looked down at my Nikes and wondered if it was time to change my look. At least when visiting the Harmony.
Mr. Sandes was in a meeting and would not be available for another hour, they explained. My disappointment must have showed because they offered to take a message, in stereo. I wanted to move a little faster in my investigations, not that I was dying to see him.
I left my work number, telling myself it was just business.
As I turned to walk away, I remembered something and decided to try my luck.
I dug the magazine picture of Sammy Dash out of my purse and asked them if they had ever seen the photographer around the Harmony when Mitzi was staying there.
A little spark of tension flickered among the three of us. They exchanged glances.
“No,” said Stephanie.
“I don’t think we can discuss anything like that with you before we talk to Mr. Sandes,” said Naomi.
“There must be some things you do without checking with Mr. Sandes,” I pointed out.
“Right,” said Naomi, “but this isn’t one of them.”
I decided I liked her.
I’d been hoping they would have identified Sammy Dash as one of Mitzi’s frequent visitors and maybe offered me a little poop on him. Their reluctance just made me more interested in Sammy, the long shot.
* * *
“Alvin,” I said, “you’re looking lovely today.”
He flashed an inky look at me from behind the cat’s eye sunglasses he was, for some reason, wearing in the office. His hair was glossy and caught in a smooth ponytail and there was a scrubbed look about him and his black clothing which I was sure he would try to eradicate, if only he realized it. I sniffed the air. Sure enough, fabric softener.
I had made up my mind if I couldn’t beat Alvin, I would join him. Although I felt like beating him.
“Some guy named Sandes called you.”
I’d have been damned before I would have let Alvin know about the little frisson I felt at this news.
“A date?” asked Alvin.
“No, not a date. And not your business.”
Stuff like that just rolls off Alvin.
This was where the joining not beating came in.
“You hang around with an artsy crowd. Did you ever hear of a photographer named Sammy Dash?”
He scrunched up his face in an effort of recalling. Very uncool, I thought.
“Nah,” he said, “don’t think so.”
“Oh,” I said, simulating grave disappointment with some success.
“I suppose I could find out. I’ve got a lot of connections in that line.”
“Would you?”
“Sure, I’d do it right now, but I have all this typing to do.” He pointed to the one letter and three envelopes I’d left for him in the box I’d labelled TO DO ALVIN AND MAKE IT SNAPPY.
I figured I could do the letter and envelopes myself before Alvin hit the end of Elgin Street on his way to the cafés in the Byward market. Where everyone wore black. Where you’d go to find out about a photographer named Sammy Dash.
“Sayonara,” I said, trying to resist pushing him out the door.
As his feet thudded down the stairs, it began to dawn on me that Alvin might turn out to be useful. An Archie Goodwin of sorts.
Once I was sure he was gone, I picked up the message from Richard Sandes. Archie Goodwin had neglected to write down the number. I pulled out the telephone book and found the Harmony. As I lifted the receiver, I could feel my heart pick up the pace a bit.
For God’s sake, I told myself, it’s not time yet. Paul’s only been dead three years. You’re not ready. You’re not interested in other men. And even if you were, would you pick a man who must be past fifty, with a grown family, wherever they are?
Too ridiculous.
I dialled the number.
“Richard?” I breathed, when the switchboard connected us.
Seven
Jo