Despite years in the law, I was foolish enough to believe in justice. I bored myself with my personal philosophy as I drove Mrs. Parnell's LTD back to Lindsay's place on Echo Drive. Elaine might be happy, locked in a cell in the Elgin Street station, waiting for her bail hearing, but I was not.
Her wacky perception of the public relations benefits for WAVE didn't do it for me. But something bothered me even more. All I needed to put my mind at rest was a couple of minutes upstairs at Lindsay's without anyone watching.
* * *
“Nothing, Merv. I'll tidy things up a bit. Take care of a bit of girl stuff.”
“You? Tidy up? Girl stuff? Holy shit, what can I expect next? A rain of red frogs?”
“There are thousands of comedians out of work,” I said. “Several of them are slumped on their butts in the kitchen. I wouldn't try to change jobs if I were you, Bucko.
“Some things scream for commentary, Camilla.”
“Right, and here's one. The cops are grilling Elaine about the discovery of Benning's body. They gave me the boot. I need to keep busy. But, as one of the brotherhood, you might be able to ferret out some information from the Ottawa police. I'll keep an eye on Lindsay.”
Merv stood and looked way, way down at me. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't upset Lindsay.”
“Why would you even suggest that, Merv? For one thing, she's sound asleep and sedated up the ying yang. And why would I want to upset her? I'm here to help my client, remember? I brought you here. Does that ring a bell? Who looked after Lindsay's interest while you bitched about driving over?”
“Yeah, yeah, you know what you're like.”
Tricky. What could I say? No, I don't know what I'm like? Or I'm not like anything? Neither served as a snappy comeback. After Merv reluctantly headed downstairs, I muttered, “I'm the good guy here.”
I said it to Lindsay. In fact, I leaned over and whispered it into her ear as she slept. Not so much as a twitch. Excellent. That gave me some time.
The funny thing about Lindsay was, no matter how terrifying her life became, her home and her bedroom remained pristine. So I found no piles of underwear, no rumpled clothes heaped over a chair, no shoes kicked in the corner. No brushes or makeup tumbled on the dresser tops. No stockings slung on the brushed metal doorknobs. No magazines open. I spotted the golden swirl of her bottle of Organza on the bathroom vanity counter. Her slippers were parked by the bed, waiting for her. That was the extent of the disorder.
First, I lifted the lid of the laundry hamper. I'd never seen anyone's dirty clothes folded before. Not even in a fashionable bleached cotton mobile hamper. For a bizarre second, I thought Merv might have done it, in a peculiar form of homage to Lindsay. But then I remembered Merv's living quarters. Merv didn't even fold clean laundry. Possibly Merv didn't even have clean laundry.
Fine. The folded laundry made it easy to check. But I didn't find what I was looking for.
The customized walk-in closet was the next hot spot. It equalled the size of my Grade Eight classroom at Saint Jim's but with a lot more mirrored surface. I hoped my sisters never got a look at this closet, or serious renovations could replace weddings as the next family obsession. Maybe Lindsay was fussy or a careful spender, but there weren't many clothes in the closet to check. She could have increased her wardrobe tenfold and not filled the hangers, drawers, shelves and shoe holders. I glanced over the jackets, dresses, blouses and slacks hung in colour order. I checked the drawers.
I returned to the bedroom and dropped to my knees to peer under the bed. Next I tried the laundry room. Someone that meticulous could run a load of laundry even when faced with immediate death. It made as much sense as folding your soiled bra. The laundry room was discreetly out of sight on the bedroom level. The one basket sat empty. So did the washer and dryer. Nothing hung on the little stainless racks.
I wasn't happy. I headed back to the bedroom and poked behind the shantung silk pillow shams and four pewter-coloured pillows. Lindsay had turned over. I checked the spot where she had been lying, but I didn't find what I was looking for.
Bad news. Or perhaps I was overreacting. After all, it hadn't been the most relaxed twenty-four hours in my life. So where the hell was the cream cashmere outfit Lindsay had worn the previous day and evening?
I sure as hell hoped it turned up. In the meantime, Lindsay had been through plenty already. I didn't plan to mention the tunic and pants. And if someone tipped the police that Lindsay's leather boots were sitting in a salty puddle by the front door, it damn well wouldn't be me.
She was a victim. In my book, she needed protection, not persecution. So I'd have to find out what happened to that tunic before some snoopy cop did. But of course, they had their hands full with Elaine.
* * *
“Thirty-two messages saved for you on the Justice for Victims voice mail,” Alvin said.
“Great.”
“You might want to listen to them.”
“We have enough on our plate here, Alvin. I'll listen to them when I get back to the office.”
“Let me suggest…”
“No, Alvin, let me suggest I'll get to them in my own sweet time. Just because you can phone in and get messages doesn't mean you have to. I'm not a slave to this goddam technology.”
Alvin shrugged. “Your choice, Camilla.”
“Yes, it is.” Everything always had to be an argument with that boy.
“There's something you should know.”
“Put a sock in it.”
“No problemo.” Alvin leapt out of his chair in Lindsay's kitchen and headed into the living room. Merv sipped his coffee and watched his retreating back. Alvin's bony shoulders were held high. I'd be paying for that “put a sock in it” remark, but I held my ground. Maybe sleeping on the living room floor and facing that particular sock at the crack of dawn had brought out the worst in me.
“Why the hell doesn't the little jerk get his mangy butt over to your office and open it up?” Merv said.
“We're off to a slow start today. It can wait. In case you didn't notice.”
“You never gonna get rid of that guy?”
“Give me time. At the moment, I have a full agenda.”
“Yeah, yeah, maybe you should show a little spine, Camilla.”
I put my own coffee cup on the table and stood up. “I'd better go up and talk to Lindsay.”
“She's asleep.”
“Well, time for her to wake up.”
* * *
She raised her head and opened her eyes.
“Be straight with me, Lindsay,” I said. “I have a question and I want you to tell me the truth.”
“Of course. Why wouldn't I tell you the truth?”
“Where are the clothes you wore last night.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your long cream sweater. The one you wore yesterday.”
She puckered her forehead. “Well, it's in the hamper.”
“No.”
“But it must be.”
“Listen to me. It. Is. Not.”
“Perhaps