“What did Dr. Beaver say?” I asked Mr. Findlay on the way out.
“He’s going to put her back in the hospital if she doesn’t start to eat. Maybe get her some psychiatric help. She doesn’t want it.”
“Shhh,” said Mrs. Findlay from the sofa.
Must have been an important part.
* * *
I spent the rest of Saturday in the office trying to catch up. I worked halfway through one mountain of paper, but two more had sprung up. Tomorrow, I said, and went back to thinking about Robin.
Since the murder, everyone’s reactions to Robin had been emotional. Poor Traumatized Robin. Or, in the case of the police, Guilty as Sin Robin. It was time for me to take a more reasoned approach to my friend and her very big problem.
I worked through a little flowchart of possibilities. For instance, Robin either killed Mitzi or she didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to believe she had, so I pursued the no side. Robin either saw the killer or she didn’t. If she had seen the killer, she either knew the killer’s identity or she didn’t. If she saw someone she didn’t know, she would have no apparent reason for not describing him or her. If she knew the killer, she was refusing to talk for some reason that made sense to her. Fear? Protectiveness? If it were fear, who could scare Robin so much that she would not describe a murder to the police?
Robin and I knew many of the same people. Of course, she’s met quite a few more people through St. Jim’s Parish and the Humane Society and dishing out food at the Food Bank and even her office. But somehow, I didn’t think these organizations would be the sources for Mitzi’s murderer. Just to be on the safe side, I made a note to nose around in all four. But my heart wasn’t in it, these were not people to inspire fear. And Robin, for all her fragile blonde looks and current attacks of the vapours, was no chicken.
Fine, then. The last variant was that Robin saw the killer and chose to protect him or her for some reason. I chewed on my pencil and tried to figure out what reason Robin could have to protect a killer.
When I slunk out of the office, full of questions, I bumped into Ted Beamish.
“Think nothing of it,” he said, dusting off his knees.
“Sorry, Ted, I wasn’t expecting anyone. It’s Saturday.”
“Sure, I know.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, I was heading for the Mayflower and I…I saw your light on and I thought I’d see if you had time for a beer, catch up a bit.”
A good enough story, except that my office was past the Mayflower, and you can’t see the window from the street.
“Why not,” I said, before realizing that I was ticked off at Mr. Ted Beamish, but good.
“How’s Robin?” he asked as we sat down and ordered.
“If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you ask me about her when she was taken in for questioning?” I snapped.
“Taken in?” Ted turned white. “If she’s being questioned, why are we sitting here?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t know about this?”
“I’ve been away at a hearing,” he said. “God, poor Robin.
Why would they suspect her?”
“Because she was the last person to see Mitzi before she was found dead, because only her fingerprints and Mitzi’s were found in the room, because…”
“Sounds pretty fluffy to me.”
I nodded. “And because I think Robin is protecting someone.”
“Who?” he inhaled.
“Well, I’m not sure, but she either knows or suspects someone of killing Mitzi, and she’s making herself sick over it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know who, or I would have my elbow in his throat right now. But maybe someone from work, or church or her volunteer stuff. I think I’ll nose around a little bit.”
“I’ll help you.” Ted’s face lit up at the prospect.
“No, that’s all right…”
It fell again as I started to turn him down. Wait a minute, I said to myself.
“…that’d be great, Ted. Why don’t you schmooze the girls in her office and the Humane Society. We can both do a bit of the Food Bank.”
He was nodding. “I can do that.”
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll just confine myself to stalking the criminal elements. I feel more comfortable having my own niche than spreading myself all over the map.”
“I’d like to see her, too,” he said.
“Sure,” I lied, knowing Robin wouldn’t want to see any new man in her current state, “I’ll set that up for you.”
“What do you mean set it up?”
I could tell by the look in his eyes that I had gone too far.
“I’ll just drop in myself sometime tomorrow and give her some encouragement.” He said it in a way that didn’t allow for argument.
* * *
By eight o’clock on Sunday morning, I was at Robin’s, surprising her father in the middle of making cinnamon rolls.
“These’ll be ready in half an hour,” he said, as I skipped up the stairs.
“I can’t,” Robin whined, as I manoeuvred her into the bathroom.
“You’d better,” I told her, as she sat on the little blue chair, and I rummaged through the dozens of shampoo bottles, “Otherwise an attractive male colleague is going to drop in to see you and find you looking like a bleached sardine.”
“What do you mean, a bleached sardine?” she asked, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes.
“Pale and greasy.”
I looked up from under the sink to see she was laughing, just a little silent shake, but it gave me hope.
While Robin was in the shower with a lemon fragrance shampoo, I kept up a running conversation, talking about Ted Beamish, talking about Alvin, talking about anything but the murder. I was on the alert, ready to grab her if she collapsed.
Mr. Findlay whipped into her bedroom and changed the sheets when we were out of the room. He left a pot of steaming coffee, two blue and white china mugs and fragrant, warm cinnamon buns with icing glaze on top.
Back in bed with her yellow hair blow-dried and smelling lemon-fresh, she leaned against the blue roses on the pillowcase.
“Ted Beamish,” she said, “I can’t quite place him.”
“I don’t know how you could forget him. He’s…” I searched for the right word… “dashing. And persistent.” True enough, and more appealing than pudgy, red-headed, receding-hairlined and forgettable-faced.
“Persistent?”
“You have no idea. But listen, you’d better get on a little warpaint. I don’t know if he’s persistent enough for a bleached sardine.”
Robin managed a little pink lipstick, a smudge of blue eyeliner and a few sweeps of mascara before she fell back on the pillow.
I had no mercy. “Cheek stuff,” I hissed, “what do you call it?”
“Blusher,” she whispered.
“Where is it?”
“In