She was looking better. A little more pink and white, a little less yellow. And she was sitting up, with her hair combed and her eyes clear.
“It’s true.”
“My God,” she said. “What happened?”
I hesitated, but it was time to talk straight.
“Yes,” I said, “while crawling around town to investigate the murder which caused you so much psychological distress, I visited one Sammy Dash. Mean anything?”
I watched her face. Sammy Dash was a new name to her.
“He was Mitzi’s Brochu’s photographer. And some people say he wanted to be more than that.”
She shook her head.
“I wanted to talk to him about his relationship with Mitzi and a few other things, and I went to his apartment. Someone hit me over the head when I found his body.” I rubbed the sore spot.
Robin gasped. She leaned forward, grasping my arm.
I hated to do it, but I said, “He was a good friend of Brooke’s.”
Her head hit the pillow with an audible plop.
I pressed on. “That’s why she’s in the bathroom throwing up. He was her friend. And now he’s been killed and dumped in a pile of garbage with a little note.”
Robin was shaking her head, trying to keep the words out.
I grabbed her shoulder. “It’s the same person. The same person killed them both. You’ve got to tell me how Brooke’s involved before something else happens.”
But Robin had covered her face with her hands. “Stop, please,” she whispered.
I put my face next to hers. “I can’t stop. You’re my friend and this is destroying you. And people are being killed, even if they’re not very nice people.”
“Oh, God, don’t try to find out any more. Please.”
I was attempting to shake some sense into her when the door jerked open and Mrs. Findlay stuck her head in.
“My heavens, girls. The news is enough to…what’s wrong? Why are you crying? What have you done to her, Camilla MacPhee? For God’s sake, don’t you think she’s been through enough without you upsetting her? And she was just starting to get better too. Get out of here.”
I stared. Robin snuffled something incomprehensible.
“You heard me,” said Mrs. Findlay, “and don’t come back until you’re willing to behave in a civilized fashion.”
Mr. Findlay was just starting up the stairs with a plate of brownies when I stormed past. I know it was childish of me to slam the door. But I got a lot of satisfaction out of the way the glass rattled.
* * *
Lucky for Alvin when I swung open the door of Justice for Victims on Thursday morning and opened my mouth to snarl at him, he said the right thing.
“There’s a message from that guy.”
“What guy?”
“You know, what’s his name from the hotel. Richard. You talk about him enough.”
“Richard called? When?”
“Just a few minutes ago. He lost his cool when I didn’t know where you were or when you’d be back.”
“But you did know. You knew I was at Robin’s and…oh never mind. Why don’t you go check if the copies of those photos are ready yet?”
“Why should I go over when I can just call?”
“Because,” I said, lifting the receiver, “I’m on the phone.”
Richard’s reaction was enough to make me feel comforted. He asked all the right questions.
“I couldn’t believe it,” he said, “when I got in and saw this message from you. The office should have called me in Toronto. Bit of bad judgement there. That won’t happen again. And then I called your place and got that twit. He told me he was not at liberty to tell me whether you had been seriously injured. And furthermore, he was unaware of your plans for the day and could I call back. Tomorrow.”
“He sees his job as shielding me from a demanding public. Perhaps he’d be more suited to a large corporate office.”
“Oh sure. I’ll see if I can get him something at Harmony Corporate.”
“Richard?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me, too.”
* * *
I left work early. Alvin had been assigned to take the reprinted photos and prowl through the back passageways of the Harmony looking for anyone who’d seen our suspects moving around where they shouldn’t be. My money was still on Denzil Hickey, but I wouldn’t let Brooke Findlay or Jo Quinlan or Deb Goodhouse off the hook until I knew for sure. Even Sammy might have been there.
“Stop sulking. It’s only one afternoon and evening,” I snapped at Alvin, slamming the door to cut off any rejoinders.
I smiled all the way home, even on my many stops. Richard and I had plans.
It’s annoying what you can buy when you put your mind to it. I managed to pick up herb-crusted poached salmon, rice, a medley of five blanched vegetables, salad and two slices of killer chocolate cake. And some lobster and asparagus dip for starters.
I hit the liquor store feeling smug and picked up two bottles of Pouilly Blanc Fumé and a little Armagnac, just in case.
I don’t know what hit me, but I doubled back to the florist and bought a dozen tulips.
You’re getting worse than Alexa, I told myself.
By the time I raced out the doors by the corner of Laurier and Bank, I was uncertain of my ability to get all the way home with my bags, bottles, containers and tulips. It was one of the few days when it would have made sense to take my car.
Now a taxi was in order. As I snagged a Blueline, still smiling, a familiar face turned to stare.
Ted Beamish was crossing Bank Street. A taxi turning right nudged him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Camilla,” he said, racing around and sticking his head into the cab, “you look great. I heard about your terrible experience. You seem to have recovered. What’s all this?” he gestured toward the flowers, candles and food. “Planning something special?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I know you must have been very busy,” he said, with his flush starting to spread from his neck, “but did you ever get my messages?”
“What messages?”
“No one answered at your apartment and your office line is always busy. But I did get through a couple of times and I left two or three messages.”
“Sorry, Ted, I never got them. Maybe they’re stuck in a pile of papers or something. Was it something important?”
The taxi driver took that moment to rev his motor a little bit.
“No, nothing important. I just wanted to know how you were doing.” Ted said, with his entire face in full blush. “It’s okay, but maybe you can give me a call when you have a couple of minutes.”
“Sure,” I said, as the cab pulled away.
I looked back as we moved along Laurier Street. Ted was still watching the cab. But I have to admit, I didn’t give him another thought for the rest of the day.
* * *
When