This time, he and his fellow detective kept asking all of us, but especially Robin, probing questions in that monotone they must learn in police college. If they’d had any training at all, they would have noticed Robin alternating between deep flush and dead white. Her hands shook during certain parts of her story. I knew what that meant, and I hoped the detectives didn’t.
“You can’t be here, you’re also a witness,” he said.
“Like hell,” I said, “I’m her lawyer. Race you to the Supreme Court.”
Detective Conn McCracken shrugged, sat Robin down in a chair and walked her through the events in Mitzi’s suite. He was large, late forties, and looked like he might coach little league on the week-ends. He smiled at Robin and even patted her hand. The good cop. Soften up the suspect before you turn her over to the bad cop.
The bad cop was called Mombourquette. He had a rodent’s face and mean little eyes to match. He was just waiting for a chance to take a bite out of Robin. I kept flicking my eyes from Robin to McCracken to Mombourquette to make sure everybody behaved.
When McCracken asked for the third time what Mitzi had wanted and Robin started to shake all over again, I put my foot down.
“Can’t you see she’s in shock?” I said. “She needs a doctor, maybe even a hospital. You guys push her around any more and I’ll file a complaint with the Police Commission and you can read your names in the newspaper. Look at her. You can see her again when her doctor says it’s all right.”
“We need a bit more information,” said Mombourquette, showing his sharp little teeth.
“I saw nothing,” Robin said. She looked at me when she said it.
“What else do you need to know? She’s already told you Mitzi Brochu, a well-known writer in women’s magazines, invited her up to the suite. She didn’t know why she was invited and when she got there the victim was dead. She didn’t see it happen and she didn’t see anyone leaving the room. She touched the body to see if there was still a pulse, and that’s how she got blood all over her. And now, as you might expect, she’s in a state of shock. Tell me, boys, would your mothers or sisters have behaved any differently?”
“Good enough,” said McCracken, disappointing Ratface.
I decided that Robin would be better off with her parents than alone in her townhouse. I got up and called them, telling them to get the family doctor mondo quicko and suggest this would be a good time for a house call.
Of course, I knew Robin was lying to the police. I just didn’t know why.
They say everybody is capable of murder under the right circumstances. But it would have taken a lot more than Mitzi with her trendy vindictiveness to turn Robin into a killer. And she never would have been able to tie those knots. She couldn’t even manage that for her Brownie badges.
Conn McCracken took me aside, just before I bundled Robin into a blanket.
“You’re Donald MacPhee’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Jeez, I remember him from St. Jim’s. And Alexa’s your sister, right? I used to date her a bit. You were just a little kid when I saw you last. So, um, how is she?”
I found it hard to drop my antagonistic mood. “Alexa? So so. Her husband died last fall and she’s still getting over it.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said, not looking sorry in the least.
“Well, tell her I said hi.”
“Sure.”
* * *
As we left the Harmony Hotel, escorted by a pair of olice officers, the flash bulbs went off in the lobby and the TV cameras homed in. Jo Quinlan, strapping and capable news anchor, barred our way, holding her microphone, telling her viewers everything she knew about Mitzi’s death.
The cameras got some nice footage of Robin looking like Bambi on speed.
Robin didn’t say a word in the cab. She seemed to have crawled up inside herself and shut the rest of us out. Only the pressure of her hand clutching mine told me we were still connected. I was relieved when we got to her parents’ home and found Dr. Beaver all ready for us. Her father and I slid her into her old bed and Dr. B.’s hypodermic did the trick. Even her mother ripped herself away from The Young and the Restless and stood there, wringing her hands.
“Robin’s in shock,” Dr. Beaver said. “Just shock. She’ll be fine.”
He hovered over her as she twitched and moaned in her sleep. He offered the same kind of down-to-earth advice we’d had from him as children, scared to get vaccinations. We’d always relaxed and giggled around him because he had huge buck teeth and looked like he’d be at home in a pond.
“You heard Dr. B.,” I said to my unconscious friend. “You’ll be fine.”
She opened her eyes wide and squeaked, “The cats! What will happen to the cats?”
Oh no. Not that.
“She means her cats, the six she keeps,” her father whispered. “They can’t come here. Mrs. Findlay’s allergic to cats. Oh my God, now Robin’s going to fret about them.”
I didn’t need anyone to tell me what she meant. I am no fan of cats, and this particular six irritated me every time I dropped in to see Robin. But this wasn’t the right moment to mention it.
“Don’t worry about the cats,” I said, feeling a sudden, regrettable largeness of spirit. “I’ll make sure they’re all right.”
I gave Robin’s hand a little squeeze and felt her squeeze back, just as her eyes closed.
Once Robin was out cold, Mrs. Findlay slipped back in front of the boob tube and lit up a cigarette. As long as I can remember, she’s been addicted to soap operas. Once Robin told me her mother had been at the grocery store with a long lineup at the cash. When she realized she might miss Another World, she left her groceries and hightailed it home.
Robin’s father and I just kept bumping into each other and not having anything to say. What could you say? I didn’t want coffee. I didn’t want a drink. I didn’t want to try the lemon poppyseed muffins which were still cooling on the counter. Neither of us mentioned the police and their questions. We both knew Robin’s troubles were just beginning.
“Don’t worry, there’s no need for you to hang around, chewing your nails. Thank you for helping. There’s nothing you can do right now. You go home, and I’ll let you know when she can talk,” he said. “Camilla’s leaving now, dear.”
Mrs. Findlay butted out her latest cigarette and tore her eyes away from a blonde woman and a dark-haired man who were engaged in some kind of wrestling match under a sheet. And in the afternoon, too.
“God almighty, those two scamps, eh?” Mrs. Findlay lit another cigarette and pointed to the TV with it. But it was too late, an ad for detergent which would get your sheets sparkling clean replaced the wrestling scene. “That Nina. If they’re not careful, her husband will catch them. Then there’ll be hell to pay.”
“I can imagine,” I murmured.
“You just try and relax,” said Mr. Findlay as he opened the door for me.
* * *
Just relax. Sure. You can picture just how relaxing it was at my place once my nearest and dearest got a gander at Robin and me on the six o’clock news. Hot and cold running relatives, everywhere you looked.
“Would you like a martini? Some warm milk? Toast? A nice boiled egg? Something else? Although there’s not much in your fridge.” That was Alexa. She believes in the efficacy of food and drink in the face of any disaster.
“Not really hungry.”
“Would it help if I did a bit