I did.
His almond-shaped black eyes glittered as he filled me in.
“So you can imagine,” he said, “what kind of career Brooke Findlay would have had, if Mitzi had gone ahead and printed her piece on the ‘Walk in the Woods’ woman as a serious cokehead.”
A serious cocaine user. That explained something about Brooke’s behaviour. And her choice of friends.
“‘The Walk in the Woods’ people would yank little Brookie’s contract in a nanosecond. Adios fame and fortune.” Alvin’s pixie smile twinkled.
“And Mitzi knew it.”
“You bet. And enjoyed knowing it, from what I hear. She was so pissed off about Brooke and Rudy Wendtz, she would have done anything.”
“So Brooke had a real motive,” I said.
“So did Wendtz.”
And Robin, I thought, as I tried to concentrate later, how much had she known about all this? At least it was beginning to make sense. If Robin had any suspicion that Brooke was involved, there was nothing she wouldn’t do to draw attention away from it. Complete collapse, for instance. “I saw nothing,” she’d told me. And told the police. It was probably true enough as far as it went. But what did Robin think had happened in Mitzi’s room?
Alvin seemed to take a certain pleasure in reminding me of outstanding chores.
“A lot of people are hot on your trail,” he said, waving stacks of little yellow messages in my face.
He was right. It was imperative that I call my contacts at the Department of Justice, at two separate provincial offices and at the City. Funding depended on it.
“Some of those people are getting impatient.”
“What have you been telling them?”
“I’ve been telling them the truth, that I have no idea where you are or if or when you’re coming back. And I’ve been offering to take messages.”
“Offering to take messages? Well, well. That is a distinct service improvement. But may I suggest that you varnish the truth somewhat when dealing with real and potential funders and supporters of Justice for Victims. Tell them something compelling, that I’m in conference, that I’m at meetings, that I’m out of town on business. Use your imagination.”
“Fine,” he sniffed.
“And, while I return my stack of phone calls, can you slip over to the Rideau Centre and get a film developed? And get some cat treats from the pet shop.” I fished out a fifty dollar bill from my secret money stash, in the Miscellaneous file. I reminded myself to hit the ATM for a bit more cash, and to find a new spot for the secret stash, since Alvin seemed to file just about everything under Miscellaneous.
“The Rideau Centre? Now? Can’t it wait until I’m on my way home?”
“No, it cannot. But here, let me get a shot of you to make it worth your while.”
I snapped it, hoping he hadn’t had time to replace the look of petulance with one of supreme nonchalance before the camera caught it.
None of the real or potential funders were at their desks when I called back. I left messages. At least the ball was in their court.
I tried to return Merv’s call, but he hissed into the phone that he couldn’t talk just at that moment.
Ted Beamish just wanted to catch up on the news about Robin.
“Not much change,” I told him, “except someone killed one of her cats.”
He listened without interruption as I explained about the tabby’s demise.
“Don’t tell her,” he said. “Wait till it’s all over and I’ll help you.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking he was not too bad.
“How did you manage to sleep there last night, after that?”
“I didn’t. I spent the night at my sister’s.” I felt, somehow, that this was a declaration of extreme cowardice.
“Good,” he said. “That was sensible. Let me know if you want me to go over there with you when you go back. I could hang around until you feel comfortable again.”
Seemed like a good idea to me.
Richard Sandes had left three messages. But I saved his call to the very end. After the locksmith. After the Mary Kay lady. When I got up the nerve to return it, I checked myself in the little mirror Alvin had installed on the desk. It didn’t cheer me up.
What do you care, I told myself, it’s not like he can see you or anything. Even so, I combed my hair and slapped on a little lipstick. There was nothing to be done about the sweater and skirt, now on their second day.
But it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t in his office.
I slumped in Alvin’s chair and gave myself a lecture. Richard Sandes had a wife. And he was waiting for her to get better, to come back. Anything else was just a filler.
You don’t want to get into a relationship with that kind of possible outcome, I said to myself. You’re just getting over the worst thing that could ever happen to anyone. Don’t ask for trouble.
Of course, a civilized little drink every now and then couldn’t hurt. As long as I kept it to that.
I was arguing with myself about the dangers of a civilized little drink, when Alvin flung himself into the room.
“Boy,” he said, “someone should tell these people about the notion of service. They keep you waiting, they have hidden charges, they’re surly and snotty.”
“Why don’t you open up a training school?”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” he said. “Just maybe.”
While he pondered the vast career potential in Alvin’s School of Customer Service, I dug through the photos, smiling to myself. I dropped the cat treats into my purse. Then I held out my hand for the change.
Alvin was just grumbling and digging for it, when the phone rang.
Richard.
“I feel like I still owe you an apology,” he said.
“You don’t. However, if you feel like grovelling, why not do it over a civilized little drink?”
We settled on seven, in the bar at the Harmony. With hints of dinner to follow.
I hung up and looked over at Alvin, who was immersed in some very important work at the back of the office.
“Alvin,” I said, “don’t let the smile on my face lead you to believe that I’ve forgotten the change.”
* * *
“So, Mrs. Parnell, let’s see if I understand. The police came. And you didn’t let them in.”
It was after work and we were seated in Mrs. Parnell’s living room. But where were the doilies, the knickknacks, the dozens of family photos? Where were the cushions and the afghans? Mrs. Parnell’s living room did not conform to known standards for little old ladies living alone in apartments. For one thing, the furniture consisted of a caramel leather sofa, a matching easy chair and ottoman and a massive glass coffee table. A small glass table by the side held Mrs. Parnell’s coffee cup and a hardcover book by Doris Lessing.
A serious sound system dominated the room. Records, compact-discs and cassettes filled the shelves. A modern metal sculpture was the only decoration. Unless you counted the three sets of hand-weights in jelly-bean colours. Three, four and five pounds, as far as I could tell. A pair of leg weights in matching lilac lay next to them.
The dining area was set up with a computer