“I like it. It’s pretty much on my way home from work. I don’t have a lot of spare time, so if you can tell me what…”
“I know what you mean.” It wasn’t like I had all the time in the world. “Finish up. I’ll wait.”
She flicked the dryer back on, waving it around and fluffing her hair with her fingers, squinting with dissatisfaction. I thought her hair looked great. Deep auburn, little soft kinky waves, cut a bit asymmetrical. I figured her haircut cost more than my month’s groceries.
I waited.
When she finished, she flicked off the dryer and tucked it into a blue and violet gym bag. She stared at herself with narrowed eyes in the mirror. I didn’t think she liked what she saw. It was hard to figure why.
I saw a woman, close to six feet tall, with broad shoulders and tan skin dusted with light freckles. She must have been a star basketball or volleyball player back in high school, and she was still in shape.
I felt easier asking her questions once she’d put her underwear on. Ladies changing rooms rattle me. It’s a legacy from the nuns.
“Mitzi Brochu,” I said, as she pulled on a cream-coloured silk man-style shirt.
I didn’t miss the quick look she shot me.
“What about her?”
“She mentioned you in several articles.”
She’d turned away from me and slid herself into a pair of faded black jeans. But even from behind I could see those strong shoulders tense.
She turned back to me. “I noticed.”
“I’m not surprised. They were extraordinarily vitriolic. And deliberately cruel.”
“Tell me about it,” she said, snaking a tan woven leather belt into the belt loops of the jeans.
“Any idea why she picked you as a subject?”
“None. I came home one night and there was my subscription to Femme Fatale and there was I, paraded for all the world to see. Photographed in front of my dad’s barn down in Buckingham. The caption read ‘Which one is the barn?’ How would you like that?”
“I wouldn’t. No one would.”
“Right.” She tugged on a tweed blazer with tan, black, cream and hunter green in it and pulled the shoulders straight. “Mind telling me why you’re asking me these things?”
“Not at all. I’m a lawyer and my client is suspected by the police of putting Mitzi out of her misery. I’m trying to find out more about Mitzi and her relationships.”
“Can’t say I blame you. Did your client get the Femme Fatale treatment too?”
“No. I don’t think she ever had anything to do with Mitzi.”
“Hmm,” she said, and I could tell she was thinking back. “Okay, she’s the little blonde lady who left the Harmony. You were with her, if I remember correctly. Robin Findlay.”
“Right.” I remembered that Jo Quinlan was a reporter first and had a good grasp of the background.
“Did it give you any satisfaction to know that the woman who’d made you miserable had one of her victims turn on her?”
Of course, this was quite out of line, but I asked it anyway. Jo picked up her black leather purse and her gym bag before she answered.
“Mitzi Brochu didn’t make me miserable. Sure, she tried and I’m certain that she would have tried again. But it didn’t work. I wasn’t miserable and I never would have been. Irritated, yes. Pissed off, yes. But not miserable.”
She met my eyes with her steady green ones. And I believed her.
“And since you asked me straight out instead of beating around the bush, yes, her death did give me a certain satisfaction. She was playing with fire. And maybe someone snapped. Possibly someone who was afraid to be the next victim. Whoever it was did the world a favour. But it wasn’t me. So I guess that doesn’t help your client much. Good luck elsewhere.”
I was thinking about her comments as she strode out of the changing room, leaving me surrounded by bodies I had no wish to see. I caught up to her as she was climbing into her Toyota Supra in the parking lot.
“Why did she single you out from among the media?”
“God damned if I know,” she said, settling herself in and fastening her seat belt. “I never figured that out. She did, and she sicked her photographer on me, and that’s all I know.”
“What about the photographer?”
“What about him?”
“What’s he like?”
If Jo had managed to keep a cool head during the chat about Mitzi, she had a bit more trouble talking about Sammy Dash. Her hands clenched around the wheel and the muscles on her neck stood out in ropes.
“He’s a shitty little weasel who stalks his victims with great enjoyment. You can see it in his beady eyes when he catches you. Maybe he’s just mad at the world because he can’t get it up.”
“Can’t he?”
“How the hell would I know?” She pressed the power button for the window and I yanked my hand out just in time.
I looked after her for a long time after she peeled out of the parking lot on two wheels. Maybe she hadn’t killed Mitzi Brochu, although she was strong enough and she had motivation enough. But Sammy Dash would have the fight of his life if he ever ran into her in a dark, lonely place.
And she’d given me a very interesting comment to chew on.
* * *
When I arrived at the Findlays’ around six, everyone had already eaten. The fragrance of roast chicken hung over the kitchen and the living room, where Mrs. F., surrounded by sewing gear, was concentrating on the television screen. A man and a woman (Clarissa and Jake) lay naked and alone (except for the camera crew) and not only that, they were about to say something of great importance.
“Hello, Mrs. Findlay,” I said.
“Shh. Not now, dear,” she said without taking her eyes off the screen.
Mr. F. grabbed my arm and hustled me into the kitchen, closing the door so we couldn’t break the spell with any idle chatter.
“Lemon meringue pie?” he whispered.
I almost explained that I was going out and shouldn’t eat dessert first, when I recognized the small-minded beliefs that lay behind such a statement.
“Love some.”
“Good girl. New recipe.”
“How’s Robin?”
“So-so. Here, we’ll take this upstairs and you can try to cheer her up.”
Together, we crept past Mrs. F. and up the stairs with a plate of pie and a pot of tea.
Robin was propped up in her bed talking to Brooke when we opened the door. Brooke broke off in mid-sentence. Both of them stared at us as if we were some new species of spider. Pushing her father aside, Brooke left the room without a word, but with a backward look at Robin that said lots. Mr. Findlay crept out after her. The scent of Brooke’s expensive fragrance hung around after she left, irritating me.
“You’re dressed up,” Robin said, leaning back on her pillow and closing her eyes.
“No, I’m not,” I said, pouring the tea.
“You are so.”
“Not. And anyway, how would you know? Your eyes are closed.”
“Look at your shoes.”