Speak Ill of the Dead Read online

  * * *

  Alvin was right. It was a hike to the Harmony. I clomped along Elgin Street and snapped left at Laurier West, not giving a glance to the hundred thousand tulips in the park. People jumped out of my way as I plunged along the sidewalk. I’m told I get this look on my face when I’m concentrating. Sort of a short, square Terminator.

  What was Robin upset about? Was Mitzi Brochu planning an article on creeping polyesterism in the legal profession? “Lumpy Lawyers on the Loose?” or “Barristers: the View from Behind?” That wouldn’t have bothered Robin. From kindergarten through law school, she never worried about fashion or appearances at all, just went through life being her serene, reliable self. And it would take more than a mean-mouthed pseudo-celebrity to make her panic.

  I was running through the fourth or fifth scenario (Robin had a client who wanted to sue the silk underwear off Mitzi the Mouth) when I passed the National Parole Board Office on Laurier West.

  “Sorry,” I said, without sincerity, to a man who had misjudged my velocity.

  “Camilla MacPhee,” he said, stepping back on to the sidewalk.

  I looked at him, trying to remember who he was.

  “Ted Beamish, remember me?” he said. “You were a year behind me in law school. I was a pretty good friend of Paul’s.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “It’s good to see you. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “It’s the running shoes.”

  He blinked. “No, something else.”

  I didn’t want to dwell on this theme. Ever since Paul was killed, people keep telling me I look different. It bothers them.

  “I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the way you…”

  “So, Ted, what have you been doing with yourself since Law School?” Men always like questions like that.

  “I’m at the Parole Board now. What are you doing?”

  “While you try to make sure they get out, I try to make sure they stay in.”

  He flushed. A deep, mottled red clashing with his coppery hair. Then he plunged on. “Everyone deserves a chance.”

  “Tell that to the victims.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, with the flush up to his cheekbones and rising, “I remember hearing you were heading up an advocacy group. I guess you have your reasons. Well, I have mine, too.”

  “Sure,” I said, tapping my foot. Two-thirty was coming fast.

  “Listen, you got time for a cup of coffee?”

  “Late for a meeting.”

  “Some other time then.” The flush flamed past his ears and kept going to the top of his head. And you could see it right through the thinner bits of red hair in front.

  * * *

  The Harmony had been designed back when people thought the nineties would be a time of tranquillity. Soft aqua shades on walls. Deeper turquoise in the carpets. Mountainous silk flower arrangements backing onto mirrors. The lighting was misty and indistinct, and generic music was oozing out of the walls. I tried to remember the Harmony Hotel slogan. What was it? Oh yes, “Harmony Hotels, where the client never has to worry.”

  There was no sign of Robin. I checked the slip with the phone message, but it was hard to read under the coffee stains.

  At the registration desk, I asked for Mitzi Brochu’s room.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t give you that information,” the little trainee with the big hair trilled. Her brass name tag said Stephanie.

  “She’s expecting me.”

  “Well, I can put you through by phone. She can give you the room number herself. Sorry, it’s a policy.” She handed me the house phone.

  It rang and rang until I slammed it down. I gave Stephanie a dirty look and stalked over to a cluster of love seats.

  I sank into the turquoise and silver striped upholstery to wait for Robin. I hoped she wasn’t expecting me in whatever the suite was. But she wasn’t. I spotted her capturing an elevator.

  “Robin!” I bellowed, dashing for the elevator, but the door had already closed.

  I got to the eighth floor without looking at myself in the mirrored walls but not without asking myself if the Mormon Tabernacle Choir could possibly have recorded their own version of “Satisfaction”.

  The eighth floor was done in shades of peach and gold. It would have been very relaxing if I hadn’t been so revved up. I fished out the message again. Suite 8 something something wasn’t going to get me to Mitzi, but I held the paper up to the light just in case.

  One door stood open, with a maid’s cart heaped with fresh towels and toilet paper and all those little bottles they put in bathrooms.

  “Hello,” I hollered into the room. “Halloooo.”

  A dark-haired woman in a uniform popped out of the bathroom and stared.

  “Hello,” I said. “Can you help me? I’m meeting my friend Mitzi Brochu here and I can’t remember which room she’s in.”

  “Sorree. Not speak mooch Engleesh.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. Fine.

  The next step was to pound on the doors of every suite on the floor. Not so bad. The suites would be in the corners, four to a floor.

  No answer at the first door. The door of the suite across the hall stood open. This must be it, I thought, starting towards it.

  “May I help you?”

  I spun around. A man had appeared out of nowhere behind me. He was tall, thin and very good-looking, with a slash of grey at each temple. And he scared the bejesus out of me. Until I saw the little brass tag that said Richard Sandes, General Manager.

  I exhaled. In my line of work I deal with too many women who have come off second best in chance encounters with strange men.

  “I’m looking for Mitzi Brochu. I have an appointment with her. Can you help me find her suite?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. We can’t give out the room numbers of our guests. I’m sure you appreciate that when you’re staying in a hotel. But we can connect you with her on the house phone.”

  “Tried that,” I said. “Wait a minute. What’s….”

  I heard Robin cry out from the suite and I started to step through the open door into a little antechamber.

  “You can’t just go in there!” Richard Sandes yelped as I elbowed him out of the way.

  We both recoiled as a long gagging shriek tore through the air and Robin stumbled out into the hallway, her eyes rolling back into her head. Her mouth opened and shut and opened again. All without a word. She clutched at my skirt with her bloody hands as she slid to the floor and passed out on the peach carpet.

  Two

  Someone had hated Mitzi. Hated her enough to tie her arms to the curved ends of the brass bedpost, gag her, and stab her through the heart with a sharpened stake. Hated her enough to write a poem on the wall over her head. In blood.

  Here she dies

  Full of lies

  Hell will be her

  Well-earned prize

  My stomach lurched as the still-red letters dripped on the wall. Mitzi’s open, staring, dead eyes seemed to carry traces of the terror she must have felt as she died. Don’t be stupid, I told myself, she’s dead. She can’t feel anything.

  I concentrated on Robin, who was babbling and weeping. And throwing up.

  The police should be able to help, I thought. In this case, I was off the mark. The troops were led by Detective Connor McCracken, sizeable, cool, and, under normal circumstances, probably quite good natured.

  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 of this laundry?” Donalda. She’s only comfortable in a well-administered household. Whenever she visits me, she perches on the edge of the sofa and stares into the kitchen at the dishes in the sink. “I could wash up those dishes for you, if you’d like.”

  “Sure, anything you want.”

  “I think your home would be much improved by the addition of some dining room furniture. Nothing too avant-garde, just a couple of nice chairs and a good table. I don’t know how you can stand to have a desk in there. Why don’t you spend a little of your money on fixing it up? You could even get a pretty desk and put it in the living room.” Edwina. House Beautiful has always been her bible.

  The burbling of decorating tips was drowned out by the squeal of the blender in the kitchen and the roar of the vacuum cleaner around our feet. Robin’s cats took refuge in my bedroom. My father sat in the armchair in the corner and studied me with keen interest.

  No one mentioned the murder. And I sure wasn’t going to.

  “Something else? What about a nice little rum and coke to settle you down?” Alexa never forgets our Nova Scotia roots. />
  To tell the truth, it felt rather good to have them bustling around, dispensing elbow grease and unsolicited advice, their voices blurring. Usually I protect my territory and independence and try to keep a handle on their surplus domesticity.

  “A filing cabinet would help a lot. The light from your balcony would be perfect for a ficus benjamina. Can I top up your drink?”

  The second rum and coke hit me like a piano from a second story window. As I crawled naked into my freshly made bed and curled into the fetal position, I could hear the gentle thudding of the washer-dryer and the hum of sisters chatting. I closed my eyes. Six cats settled themselves around my feet.

  All that night and into the next day, Mitzi’s dead face kept flashing through my mind, with Robin’s wailing voice in the background. “No, no,” she kept saying, “not dead. Not like this. Please not now.”

  * * *

  “Crucified? Lord thundering Jesus,” said Alvin, filled with admiration for my cleverness in finding myself in the right spot at the right time. “What did she look like?” He picked up the receiver he’d dropped on the desk as I sagged through the door. “She’s here now, Mom, I’ll call you back later.” He hung up and looked at me with great expectation.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  After a night of spinning in the sheets, fighting nightmares filled with dead eyes and silent screams, the last thing I wanted was to relive finding Mitzi Brochu. And the only way to avoid talking about it was to get Alvin out of the office. I decided the solution was a series of low-level yet time-consuming errands requiring stops all over town.

  “Panty-hose?” he said, reading the list I handed him. “You want me to pick up your panty-hose? That’s demeaning. It’s bad enough I have to go to the print shop and the post office and the library and pick up cat food. But I draw the line at panty-hose. That’s not part of my job.”

  “Sure it is. It’s called Other Duties As Required. Take it or leave it. You can always go home to Mom.”

  I hoped Alvin would leave it, for good. But as a consolation prize, I hoped he’d at least be gone for a couple of tranquil hours.

  In the meantime, I was counting on the Benning brief to take my mind off what we’d found in Mitzi Brochu’s bedroom.