* * *
Alvin was right. It was a hike to the Harmony. I clomped along Elgin Street and snapped left at Laurier West, not giving a glance to the hundred thousand tulips in the park. People jumped out of my way as I plunged along the sidewalk. I’m told I get this look on my face when I’m concentrating. Sort of a short, square Terminator.
What was Robin upset about? Was Mitzi Brochu planning an article on creeping polyesterism in the legal profession? “Lumpy Lawyers on the Loose?” or “Barristers: the View from Behind?” That wouldn’t have bothered Robin. From kindergarten through law school, she never worried about fashion or appearances at all, just went through life being her serene, reliable self. And it would take more than a mean-mouthed pseudo-celebrity to make her panic.
I was running through the fourth or fifth scenario (Robin had a client who wanted to sue the silk underwear off Mitzi the Mouth) when I passed the National Parole Board Office on Laurier West.
“Sorry,” I said, without sincerity, to a man who had misjudged my velocity.
“Camilla MacPhee,” he said, stepping back on to the sidewalk.
I looked at him, trying to remember who he was.
“Ted Beamish, remember me?” he said. “You were a year behind me in law school. I was a pretty good friend of Paul’s.”
“Right,” I said.
“It’s good to see you. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s the running shoes.”
He blinked. “No, something else.”
I didn’t want to dwell on this theme. Ever since Paul was killed, people keep telling me I look different. It bothers them.
“I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the way you…”
“So, Ted, what have you been doing with yourself since Law School?” Men always like questions like that.
“I’m at the Parole Board now. What are you doing?”
“While you try to make sure they get out, I try to make sure they stay in.”
He flushed. A deep, mottled red clashing with his coppery hair. Then he plunged on. “Everyone deserves a chance.”
“Tell that to the victims.”
“Oh yes,” he said, with the flush up to his cheekbones and rising, “I remember hearing you were heading up an advocacy group. I guess you have your reasons. Well, I have mine, too.”
“Sure,” I said, tapping my foot. Two-thirty was coming fast.
“Listen, you got time for a cup of coffee?”
“Late for a meeting.”
“Some other time then.” The flush flamed past his ears and kept going to the top of his head. And you could see it right through the thinner bits of red hair in front.
* * *
The Harmony had been designed back when people thought the nineties would be a time of tranquillity. Soft aqua shades on walls. Deeper turquoise in the carpets. Mountainous silk flower arrangements backing onto mirrors. The lighting was misty and indistinct, and generic music was oozing out of the walls. I tried to remember the Harmony Hotel slogan. What was it? Oh yes, “Harmony Hotels, where the client never has to worry.”
There was no sign of Robin. I checked the slip with the phone message, but it was hard to read under the coffee stains.
At the registration desk, I asked for Mitzi Brochu’s room.
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you that information,” the little trainee with the big hair trilled. Her brass name tag said Stephanie.
“She’s expecting me.”
“Well, I can put you through by phone. She can give you the room number herself. Sorry, it’s a policy.” She handed me the house phone.
It rang and rang until I slammed it down. I gave Stephanie a dirty look and stalked over to a cluster of love seats.
I sank into the turquoise and silver striped upholstery to wait for Robin. I hoped she wasn’t expecting me in whatever the suite was. But she wasn’t. I spotted her capturing an elevator.
“Robin!” I bellowed, dashing for the elevator, but the door had already closed.
I got to the eighth floor without looking at myself in the mirrored walls but not without asking myself if the Mormon Tabernacle Choir could possibly have recorded their own version of “Satisfaction”.
The eighth floor was done in shades of peach and gold. It would have been very relaxing if I hadn’t been so revved up. I fished out the message again. Suite 8 something something wasn’t going to get me to Mitzi, but I held the paper up to the light just in case.
One door stood open, with a maid’s cart heaped with fresh towels and toilet paper and all those little bottles they put in bathrooms.
“Hello,” I hollered into the room. “Halloooo.”
A dark-haired woman in a uniform popped out of the bathroom and stared.
“Hello,” I said. “Can you help me? I’m meeting my friend Mitzi Brochu here and I can’t remember which room she’s in.”
“Sorree. Not speak mooch Engleesh.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. Fine.
The next step was to pound on the doors of every suite on the floor. Not so bad. The suites would be in the corners, four to a floor.
No answer at the first door. The door of the suite across the hall stood open. This must be it, I thought, starting towards it.
“May I help you?”
I spun around. A man had appeared out of nowhere behind me. He was tall, thin and very good-looking, with a slash of grey at each temple. And he scared the bejesus out of me. Until I saw the little brass tag that said Richard Sandes, General Manager.
I exhaled. In my line of work I deal with too many women who have come off second best in chance encounters with strange men.
“I’m looking for Mitzi Brochu. I have an appointment with her. Can you help me find her suite?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. We can’t give out the room numbers of our guests. I’m sure you appreciate that when you’re staying in a hotel. But we can connect you with her on the house phone.”
“Tried that,” I said. “Wait a minute. What’s….”
I heard Robin cry out from the suite and I started to step through the open door into a little antechamber.
“You can’t just go in there!” Richard Sandes yelped as I elbowed him out of the way.
We both recoiled as a long gagging shriek tore through the air and Robin stumbled out into the hallway, her eyes rolling back into her head. Her mouth opened and shut and opened again. All without a word. She clutched at my skirt with her bloody hands as she slid to the floor and passed out on the peach carpet.
Two
Someone had hated Mitzi. Hated her enough to tie her arms to the curved ends of the brass bedpost, gag her, and stab her through the heart with a sharpened stake. Hated her enough to write a poem on the wall over her head. In blood.
Here she dies Full of lies Hell will be her Well-earned prize
My stomach lurched as the still-red letters dripped on the wall. Mitzi’s open, staring, dead eyes seemed to carry traces of the terror she must have felt as she died. Don’t be stupid, I told myself, she’s dead. She can’t feel anything.
I concentrated on Robin, who was babbling and weeping. And throwing up.