A squeal of brakes followed.
“Don’t exaggerate, the truck was a good foot away. And back to the topic. These people are sensitive and fearful. They don’t need to be hassled by the police.”
“May I remind you that I’m not the police, Elaine.”
“I realize that. But if Maria has some information, then you may be forced to inform the police, and you know what stormtroopers they can be.”
“I do, indeed.”
“Maria was quite upset by the whole thing with Mitzi Brochu. I mean, she was so close to that dreadful murder. Can you imagine how traumatic that must have been?”
“Yes. I was there myself. So I know only too well.”
“Well then, you understand that we don’t want her to relive that trauma.”
Elaine stood on her brakes as if to punctuate her point. We stopped for seconds at a red light and then screeched away the moment it turned green.
“Let me repeat, Elaine, that I only want to show her some photos and ask if she has ever seen these people near Mitzi’s room. With particular reference to the day of the murder, when she was working right there on that floor.”
We pulled off Scott Street onto Parkdale and Elaine stopped under a No Parking sign.
“Here we are,” she said, opening her car door without looking. A passing driver swerved and turned back to shake his fist. Elaine didn’t notice.
I got out on the passenger’s side and considered mentioning that two wheels of the car were up on the sidewalk, but it didn’t seem worth it.
* * *
Was it just the language barrier? Did she not understand the question Elaine had translated? Elaine and I watched Maria Rodriguez give an affirmative nod to almost every photo. Even the ones that didn’t belong in the set of suspects. Like me, taken at a family dinner.
“You were there,” Elaine commented.
We were sitting around the dinette set in the dining ell on one of the few bits of furniture in Maria Rodriguez’s apartment. Even the sounds of her husband and children laughing at Bugs Bunny in the next room couldn’t lift the tension in the air.
You could see it in Maria’s black eyebrows and the lines around her mouth.
I’d seen it too in the stiff shoulders of both the Rodriguez adults and in the huge, dark eyes of their children. As Elaine said, these were people who’d already had enough trouble.
Maria studied the photos I’d spread out on the beige, formica-topped table. They were a mixture of business and pleasure, friends and family blended with my own crew of suspects.
Deb Goodhouse, Jo Quinlan, Rudy Wendtz, Brooke Findlay, Large-and-Lumpy, Sammy Dash all got the nod from Maria. So did Robin.
She didn’t recognize the rest of my family. Only me.
Maria wasn’t sure about Mrs. Parnell, but after some thought decided she hadn’t seen Mrs. Parnell at the Harmony.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s no problem. I’m glad somebody wasn’t there.”
I wasn’t sure how much it helped my investigation to have every suspect confirmed as a visitor to Mitzi Brochu’s suite at the Harmony the day of the murder.
“You sure you saw all these people, Maria?”
Elaine shook her head at me. “You’re pushing too hard.”
I decided to lighten up a bit and pointed to a picture of the cats.
The cats got a clear no.
At least it let the three of us laugh.
* * *
“She recognized all six suspects,” I said, accepting a refill. “So I have to ask myself, did she really recognize them or was she just unclear about the concept? And to think I risked Elaine’s driving, and I still don’t know whether Maria understood the questions or not.”
Richard smiled and sipped his Sambuca.
“It is not amusing,” I growled, before sipping my own.
The Sambuca was just the way I like it, with three coffee beans in the bottom of the snifter, still warm from being flamed. It took the edge off the growl.
“You know, I think I’d like to meet this Elaine.”
“Good idea, I’ll fix the two of you up for a Sunday drive sometime.”
“All kidding aside, any danger you might have been facing from Elaine’s driving is nothing compared to what you’re exposing yourself to if you continue to stalk this killer.”
“I can see you haven’t been in a car with her.”
“Listen to me. You’re dealing with someone who crucified a woman. Talk to the police.”
I was bathed in irritation. This was like lunch with my sisters.
“Sulk if you want. But I like you much better alive,” he said.
I could feel his hand on mine as he spoke. I remembered his daughter. And his wife. I jerked my hand away.
“Or I could talk to the police myself. Tell them you have this interesting stuff and they might like to chat with you about it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He tapped my nose with his finger and smiled. I would have gotten up and stomped out of the bar at that point except my knees were wobbling.
And of course, I didn’t have my car. I had to ask myself why I managed never to have my car when I was with Richard, so he always had to drive me home. For that matter, why was I wearing a knit dress instead of my chunky suit? And lipstick, for heaven’s sake.
We ended the evening by driving around before heading back to my place. Down Wellington Street and Sussex, past the glass sculpture that is the National Gallery and across the Interprovincial Bridge to Hull, admiring the lights shimmering on the green roofs of the Parliament buildings and the sensuous curves of the Museum of Civilization.
As we crossed back into Ottawa on the Portage Bridge and drove along the Parkway to my apartment, the river glistened in the surrounding blackness. When we stopped in front of my building, I felt disappointment that the civilized dinner and drink were over.
“Okay, I’ll talk to the police. I’ll show them the photos and suggest they might want to have a word with the subjects.” After I’ve had a word with them, of course, I added to myself.
Richard squeezed my hand. “I love it when you’re sensible.”
“You do not.”
“I do,” he said, watching my mouth.
Usually I’m not even conscious of having a mouth. But at that moment, it seemed like the supreme erogenous zone. I was surprised he couldn’t hear my pulse pounding.
I don’t know how long we sat there like that, stopped in time.
Then I remembered his wife.
* * *
I couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t just the cats lying on various parts of my body either. I lay staring around the room. The eggshell walls were stark in the moonlight. I tried to keep still, because when I didn’t, whatever cat was disturbed by the movement dug its claws into whatever part of my body had moved. And I didn’t feel like kicking cats off the bed. I was already too much of a bad guy.
So there wasn’t much to do. I could think about Richard if I wanted and get up and take a cold shower. Or I could think about Mitzi’s murder and get up and have a drink. Or I could think about dead cats.
For