“Hold your horses,” I said to him, “till I get them all put away.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Alexa said, as I rushed by her on my way to the laundry room. “Why is he still sitting out there? I look a mess.” She stared at herself in the gilt-edged hall mirror.
I don’t know what she saw looking back at herself, because her sigh indicated some sort of desperation. I saw a woman, tall, blonde, elegant, wearing a three hundred dollar silk housecoat and still finding something to sigh about.
“One more trip.”
“Don’t let him in here!”
When I took the last cat from McCracken, I asked him to pass me my overnight bag. And my camera case.
“I can take it in for you.”
“Not tonight, Conn. You don’t want her to see you looking like that.”
“See me looking like what?”
“Covered in cat hair. And if you’ll pardon my saying so, smelling like a distillery. Another time would be better.”
It seemed to me Conn McCracken had a distinct slump as he backed out of Alexa’s driveway. I’m not sure if she got a real good look as she peered from behind the curtain.
* * *
Alexa still likes playing Mom. That meant at seven o’clock the next morning, I came face to face with two eggs, perfectly poached, bacon, crisp and fragrant and whole wheat toast, with a choice of marmalade or jam in little crystal bowls.
Alexa was bustling around in an off-white silk blouse with a pair of taupe twill pants.
“Anything else I can get for you?”
I wasn’t sure how I would get through what was already there.
Alexa arrived at the table with a steaming pot of fresh coffee. Up close I could see she had on her pearl earrings, a nice light make-up, a smile and distinct traces of cat hair around the ankles.
“So,” she said, sliding into a chair and smiling at me, “do you think he’ll come back and pick you up?”
I shook my head. “I don’t imagine he ever wants to see me again.”
The smile dipped, but Alexa is a trooper. “I hope you’ll spend a couple of days here, at least until the police are through with your apartment. I don’t know how you can even consider going back there.”
“It may not be much, but it’s home,” I said. “But I would appreciate you taking care of the cats until the new locks are on.”
I thought I heard a meowing sound from behind the laundry room door.
“Oh sure,” said Alexa. But I could tell her day was already ruined, whether from the absence of McCracken or the presence of the cats was hard to tell. “So,” she added, “I guess you won’t be talking to him.”
“Why don’t you call him yourself?” I said, breaking down. “I have his number. I think he’d be very pleased if you did.”
“I can’t throw myself at him!”
I gave up at that point. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way out with the camera case slung over my shoulder.
“Are you taking up photography again?” Alexa asked.
“Just temporarily.”
“That’s good. It used to drive us all crazy you snapping pictures every two minutes and catching people with their mouth full. I guess that was before…” She stopped.
“Before Paul died” is what she stopped herself from saying.
Back when I was playful and frisky and had a life. I’d put away my Nikon and lenses after he died. But now was a good time to dust them off again.
Alexa dropped me off at my building to pick up the car. I didn’t even go upstairs to change. No time to spare. I spun my wheels out of the garage and made tracks toward my quarry. Starting with the early birds.
I clicked the zoom lens and waited for Deb Goodhouse to emerge from her fashionable brick townhouse along the canal, in the part of town real estate people call the Golden Triangle. She took the time to check the front garden, for signs of new life I suppose, and never glanced my way. She looked good for that time of the day. A little red cropped blazer and a long navy skirt. I could see her red lipstick from the car. On the other hand, I was blending into the scenery. She didn’t see me snap a very good series of shots of her.
From there, I drove out along the Parkway and crossed over the Champlain Bridge to the Chateau Cartier Sheraton on the Quebec side. I hung around the parking lot waiting for Jo Quinlan to show up for her workout. It took half an hour before the silver Toyota Supra pulled in and parked three cars away from me. Jo didn’t pay any attention to the drab little blue Mazda and its occupant and she didn’t hear the shutter clicking.
So much for the early risers. My next stop was the Queen Elizabeth Driveway. I parked where I couldn’t be seen from the windows of Rudy Wendtz’s big place, but close enough to spot the great man coming or going. I made a point of checking around for signs of the local constabulary. But wherever McCracken was this morning, he wasn’t there.
I got to hear a bit of This Morning on the radio while I waited. In the middle of the third interview, Wendtz emerged from the door, looked around and gave me an opportunity to zoom in on his nasty face with the three day growth of beard and the black ice eyes.
I put the camera down and opened the city map over it to plan my route for the next stop.
The knock on the window made me hit my head on the roof. Something that would leave a dent. Large-and-Lumpy leaned in when I opened the window.
“Shouldn’t be here,” he said.
I knew what he meant.
“Mr. Wendtz won’t like it.”
“I thought we were friends. Don’t feel you have to tell him.”
He smiled, displaying the few teeth he had. “Take a hint,” he said as he lumbered back toward the huge house.
I crossed my fingers and prayed he couldn’t see what I was doing as I slipped the camera out from under the map and got a couple of nice clean shots of my buddy.
Everything was going my way. The last of the targets, Sammy Dash, showed up at his favourite market café just as I finished a tricky bit of parallel parking in front of it. I was sweating when he stalked past the Mazda.
Click. Click. I enjoyed doing this. Stalking the stalker. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, then scratched his bum. I captured the moment for posterity. And a few other moments, too. Sammy lighting up. Sammy giving passing women the once over. I felt quite at ease. It’s amazing how invisible you are in a middle-aged blue Mazda, when the world wants to look at Porsches.
I was glad I was so invisible when I saw who Sammy’s date was. Brooke Findlay, in an outfit that showed a lot of leg, moved up next to him, smiling and allowing her bottom to be stroked in a way that indicated they’d met before.
I was smiling too, as I lifted the camera.
Twelve
“Thank God,” said Alvin when I trooped into the office, after lunching on a very dangerous pair of burritos. “I thought you might be dead or something when you didn’t show up for such a long time.”
He was working on a guilt-inducing look. You’ve hurt me and I don’t expect to ever get over it, his body language said. I’d seen Mrs. Findlay pull the same routine on Robin more than once. No doubt Alvin had picked up the technique from his own mother. It was one of many things I’d missed out on.
“Who the hell are you to talk? You vanished for days without any word at all.” The burritos