SPEAK ILL OF THE DEAD
by
Mary Jane, Maffini


Text 1999 by Mary Jane
Maffini

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior consent of the publisher.

Cover art: Christopher Chuckry

We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the
Arts for our publishing program.

Napoleon Publishing/RendezVous Press Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Printed in Canada

05 04 03 02 01 00 99 54321

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

Maffini, Mary Jane, date Speak ill of the dead

ISBN 0-929141-65-2 I .  Title.

PS8576.A3385S63 1999 C813'.54 C99-931189-1

PR9199.3.M3433S63 1999

I am most grateful for the endless support and firm opinions of my
writing group: Joan Boswell, Vicki Cameron, Audrey Jessop, Sue Pike and
Linda Wiken.  And also to Linda Berndt, Susanne Fletcher, Janet
MacEachern and Dr.  Lome Parent for their advice, and to Georgia Ellis
for the fictional use of her balcony.  Many thanks to my publisher,
Sylvia McConnell, for believing in me, and to Allister Thompson, the
most courageous of editors.

Much of Ottawa is as it is portrayed, although it is only fair to
mention that Justice for Victims and the Harmony Hotel are both
figments of my fevered mind, as is St.  Jim's Parish.  Don't waste your
time looking for them.  Strangely enough, the one million tulips are
real.

-MJM

One

That particular morning all I could think about was getting rid of
Alvin.

It was the thirteenth of May.  After the three feet of snow that came
in November and stayed topped up all winter, I should have been paying
attention to the signs of spring.  I stomped along the bike path
bordering the Ottawa River, not looking for groundhogs or robins and
unaware of the fresh buds on the deciduous trees.  Instead, black
thoughts of Alvin clogged my mind.

All down Wellington Street and up on Parliament Hill thousands of
tulips had popped out of the ground, on schedule for the annual tulip
festival.  I didn't notice them.

My mind was focused primarily on liberating my office from Alviris
presence, and secondarily on dealing with my large, meddlesome family,
so Alvin or someone just like him never happened to me again.

By the time I picked up an extra large Colombian Supremo and honey
oatmeal muffin across from my Elgin Street office, I was concentrating
on the family part and my theory that I'd been switched at birth.
That's how I account for being short, stocky and dark-haired in a
family where everyone is tall, slender and fair.  My sisters are
long-boned and ash-blonde, beautiful still in their late forties.  The
pleats in their good wool slacks always lie flat; there's never a
button missing on

their silk shirts; their hair is just the way they want it to be.

I'm lucky if I can find my clothes on the chair in the morning, and my
hair doesn't even bear talking about.  And if I don't take the
fifty-three minute walk to and from work every day, I go off the top
end of the scale.

Even now, thirty-two years after my birth, my father still looks at me
with surprise.  It's a look I remember well from my childhood.
Surprise--when he found me hanging upside down from a tree, or when he
discovered six frogs in the bathtub, or when he read a note from The
Nun of the Year saying I had played hookey from First Communion
Class.

My beautiful sisters would just laugh.  They were perfect.  So they
could afford to think it was amusing when I got fished out of ponds,
ejected from Sunday School, stranded on the school roof.  And one of
them, Edwina or Alexa or Donalda, would rescue me, take me by the hand
and make sure that even my father could see the humour in the
situation.  I would stand there, looking way up at a tall, fair man,
hoping he would recognize me.

Donalda was named for my father, Donald MacPhee, and like him she was
cool, detached, correct.  Alexa and Edwina were named for my mother's
brothers.  Good Cape Breton names, although a bit out of place when we
moved to Ottawa--a city of Barbaras and Beverlys and Susans.  It's a
tribute to my sisters' elegance as teenagers that they were never
tormented about their names.  Just floated through high school with
their lovely long straight noses in the air, their blonde hair just so
and lots of boys to carry their books.  I suppose it didn't hurt that
my father was the principal of St.  Jim's.

All I got was the best name, Camilla, from my mother, who died when I
was born.

My sisters returned to Nova Scotia to get good solid degrees in
English at St.  Francis Xavier or Mount St.  Vincent or to train in
nursing at St.  Rita's.  They returned with tall, respectable
husbands--a dentist, an accountant and in Alexa's case, a doctor.
Alexa's a widow now, but she still retains all the points she got for
snagging the doctor.

As for me, I went charging through the University of Ottawa and wound
up with a Law degree and no man in my life but Paul, whose dead face
still smiles down at me from his picture on the wall in my office,
three years after the accident that changed my life.

When I was growing up my sisters used to look at me with affectionate
amusement--"Oh Camilla, how could you do that to Daddy's new car?"  Now
they pucker their perfect faces with worry and bite their
Clinique-covered lower lips and try not to pester me about working
seventy hours a week and forgetting to get my hair done.

My father still regards me with surprise.

But that's not the problem.  The problem is he spends fifty percent of
his time rescuing the children and grandchildren of old friends. People
who, through no fault of their own, have fallen on hard times. Like
Alvin.

"This particular boy," my father had said, meaning Alvin, "this
particular boy never had a chance.  Not like you, dear, with every
opportunity."

I gave it my best defensive play.

"There's no space in my office for another person, Daddy.  You know I
just have the one room, and it's fifteen by fifteen, and it's full of
files and equipment.  Where would he sit?"

"That's just it, he could help with the files.  Put them in the filing
cabinets for you.  He could answer your phone.  Do the correspondence.
Run the photocopier.  You have a law degree,

dear.  Even if you insist on running this agency for victims, you
don't need to do everything yourself.  Give Alvin a chance.  You won't
even have to pay his salary.  The government training program will pick
up eighty per cent of it.  At any rate this poor boy doesn't even want
a salary, just a chance to get some experience.  Having some help in
the office will give you time to think."

Time to think?  I definitely didn't want time to think-about Paul,
about the kind of life we might have had if he had lived.

"Sorry, Daddy.  No deal."

"Alcoholic father, God rest his soul, poor old Mike, and that brave
little woman struggling to put all those children through university.
Be a big weight off her mind.  Mine, too.  You don't seem to have any
life at all, dear.  Which reminds me, your sisters want to have a
family dinner after Mass on Sunday.  I don't suppose you'd consider
going to..."

By the time I had tucked my styrofoam cup and my muffin under my arm,
fiddled with my key and kicked open the door of the Justice for Victims
office, Alvin had started his third week on the job.  He'd already told
me he was looking forward to a career in the World of Art, and that
office work was not his first love.

He was in fine form that morning, and the sunlight glinted off his nine
visible earrings as he brushed the remains of his breakfast from my
Globe and Mail and into the wastepaper basket.  "The Bear", a local
rock station, blasted from the radio.

"Mitzi Brochu," he said.

"Gesundheit," I told him, as I moved a stack of research notes and put
down my own breakfast.  "I hope you're not coming down with a cold. But
if you are, please feel free to

stay home until you feel completely better.  Better yet, have you
considered going home to your mother in Sydney?"

But this subtlety was wasted on Alvin.

"Robin Findlay called.  She wants you to go with her to meet Mitzi
Brochu."  The look on Alvin's face indicated this was some kind of big
deal.

"Mitzi who?"

"You're kidding me, right?"

I wasn't.  I scooped a stack of envelopes from the chair and sat
down.

"Wow," he said.  "You got to cut down on your working hours and get a
life.  Everyone in the country knows Mitzi Brochu.  The Sultana of
Style, the Queen of Cool, the High Priestess of..."

"Okay, I get the picture."

I remembered Mitzi Brochu, a scrawny fashion writer and broadcaster,
with a poison pen and a tongue like a switchblade.

The phone rang.

"Justice for Victims," Alvin chirped.  "No, I'm sorry, Mizzz MacPhee is
in a staff meeting.  No, no idea when.  Sure, try later."

He hung up before I could snatch the receiver from his hands.

"What meeting?  What meeting am I in?"

"This is important.  This woman can make or break you.  Any chance you
could skip home and put on your teal suit?  And ditch those running
shoes?"

"No, there is no chance I will skip anywhere.  And, furthermore, this
woman cannot make or break me.  I am not trying to make a fashion
statement, I am running an advocacy agency for victims of violent
crime.  I don't give a

shit about Mitchy Bitchy."

"Mitzi Brochu," said Alvin.  "That's too bad, because Robin said it was
really important.  Incredibly important.  Let's see, where did I put
that message?"

He rummaged through the desk drawers one by one.  Five minutes later,
he located the message in the wastepaper basket and wiped a coffee
spill from it.

"Harmony Hotel, this afternoon at 2:30.  Suite..."  he held the message
up to the light, "it's a bit washed out ... but I think it's Suite
815."

"Come on.  I've got to get ready for Ralph Benning's parole hearing.
And I'm way behind on the brief to the Department of Justice.  Not to
mention the membership drive..."

"Camilla, Camilla, Camilla.  That's what I'm here for, membership
drives and that stuff.  It's called delegation, remember?"

"I do remember.  I remember it was all here to do before you came and
now you've been here for three weeks, it still is."

"I'll do it.  I'll do it.  But first, why don't I run over to the
library and get you some background on Mitzi?  You don't want to put
your foot in it."

There was only one place where I wanted to put my foot.  I thought
about it.  Sure would be easier to breathe in the minuscule office
without Alvin.  And easier to think without his radio.  Really, that's
the way I had set it up.  To work alone, long and hard.  The three
visitors' chairs were just enough for the devastated crime victims and
their relatives who found their shaky way to the office.  The rest was
all business.  Phone, fax, photocopier and mile-high files.  I loved my
mingy little office--when Alvin wasn't in it.

He stuck his head through the door just as I was enjoying the foot
thought.

"By the way, your sister called."

I forgot the foot.  "Which one?"

Alvin shrugged before he closed the door.  "I can't keep them all
straight."

I knew it didn't matter which order I called them in, it would be the
last one who left the message.  The other two would have plenty to say.
Sure enough, it was Edwina with an invitation.

"Why don't you come for lunch on Sunday?  Frank will pick you up."

Lunch with my family comes off the time you have to log in purgatory,
but no one wins arguments with Edwina, so I didn't bother.  I was just
finishing up with her when Alvin got back.

He tossed a pile of magazines on the desk.  All back issues of Femme
Fatale.  All with the Ottawa Public Library stamp still on them.

"There you go, here's the sort of thing our girl Mitzi's written in the
last two years."

"Alvin.  The library doesn't lend these magazines.  How'd you get them
past the security system?"

"It's easy when you know how."

"Well, I can't survive without using the library for research.  Don't
get me into hot water with them."

I got up and stuck my nose out into the hall to see if any librarians
had tracked Alvin back to the office.

He took advantage of my move to reclaim the chair at the desk.  "Take a
look at them.  You'll get an idea about Mitzi, anyway, before this
afternoon."

The Benning hearing was supposed to occupy my mind that morning and it
did.  I pored over the transcript of Ralph Benning's trial and the
newspaper reports of the same.  I reread notes from my interviews with
Myra Anderson, the victim,

and worked on a strategy for the hearing.  I made a note to myself to
talk to the prosecutor of the case.  But it was hard to concentrate.

"Do you mind not whistling while you type?"

"What, I'm just a happy guy.  It's better than you, grunting and
snarling to yourself over those files."  Alvin tossed a pile of
envelopes into the wastepaper basket.

"What's wrong with those?"

"Mistakes on them."

Since Alvin's arrival our garbage rate had soared.  We had become a
fifteen foot by fifteen foot, four-basket-a-day office.  I rescued the
envelopes from the garbage.

"Put labels over them.  If you can't think cheap, can you at least
think green?"

ur1

Sure.

Alvin flicked his coal-black ponytail over his shoulder and turned back
to the typewriter.  I pretended I didn't hear his next little remark
about hormones.

The rest of the morning yielded little.  By noon, I was hungry and
faced with a pile of paper with Benning doodled on it over and over,
surrounded by meaningless squiggles, crosses and puffs of smoke.

On a normal day, I like to eat a sandwich for lunch in the office.  But
Alvin was there, and I wanted to get away from him.  He handed me the
pile of Femme Fatale issues as I headed out.

"I can't take those," I said.  "They are clearly marked Ottawa Public
Library"

P\ip.  Slap.  The covers landed in the overflowing wastepaper basket.

"Happy lunching," said Alvin.

As I walked away from the door, I heard him answer the phone.

"Sorry," he said, "I have absolutely no idea if or when she'll be
back."

Elgin Street was showing the first signs of spring.  Lily white, bare
arms were sticking out of short sleeves everywhere as I shlepped along
several crowded blocks to the Manx Pub.  Time to get out the summer
clothes.  That shouldn't be hard, since I hadn't had time to pack them
away over the winter.

I snagged the last table for two in the Manx and wiggled right in,
spreading my coverless magazines out on the other side.  I ordered the
pasta special and began checking out the samples of Mitzi Brochu's
style.  Her prime targets were overweight celebrities and royalty
("Porky Princess Should Shun Public Participation").  The Princess was
lucky enough to hightail it back to Europe after Mitzi skewered her.
The media people were not so fortunate.  Mitzi liked to take aim at the
fashion foibles of television personalities too.  "Dump the
Frumps--Ship Media Fashion Losers Back to the Boonies" targeted female
news anchors and talk show hosts across the country.  One of our local
news anchors, Jo Quinlan, got it right between the eyes with the
headline "From the Barn to the Big Time".  The caption under her photo
shrilled "Beefy country look is out: time for a makeover, Jo-Jo."

Every now and then, Mitzi scored a double play: "Fat and Frumpy--Dual
Deficit Punctures Polyester Politicians".  The rear view shot of local
political mover and shaker Deb Goodhouse bending over probably would
have cost the photographer his life, if she'd caught him snapping on
his wide angle lens.

Two minutes into the first article and I knew one thing: I had no
desire to meet Mitzi Brochu.

Femme Fatale was reputed to be outselling Chatelaine and Canadian
Living, the former leaders in the field of women's magazines.  I was
astonished that people paid to read it.

"Oh God, look at that," said my waiter as he deposited my plate on the
table.  "Mitzi Brochu, isn't she wicked?  My favourite one was her TV
piece on "Ban the Bum'.  A lot of people are still blushing over it."

"Hmmm," I said, only partly because I had a mouthful.  And partly
because I was asking myself what kind of person took such obvious
pleasure in holding other people up to ridicule.

Even on the walk to the office, I kept asking myself why Robin Findlay,
my oldest and closest friend, the most sensible person in the world,
who dreamed about picket fences and children, slept in blue flannelette
nighties and doted on her six cats, would want to see Mitzi Brochu.

When I opened the door, Alvin was pointing to his watch.  "Robin called
in a panic.  You just missed her."

I made room on the desk for the pile of Femme Fatale and dug out my
briefcase.

"Better hustle," he added.  "It's a hike over to the Harmony.  And she
sounds like she's going over the edge.  Oh, and don't give another
thought to your threads, maybe Mitzi will keep her eyes closed."

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 polyester ism 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 be jesus 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.



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 Mit/i 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 mon do 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?"

it\r

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 police 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 poppy seed 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 diem.  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.

The Benning brief wasn't quite distracting enough.  Mitzi, seen from
different angles, superimposed herself on every page of notes.  Even my
endless doodles were gruesome.

And I kept thinking about Robin.

For my own peace of mind, I needed to know what Robin had been doing in
Mitzi's room.  And what she had meant by "not now."

The phone rang, jerking me back to the present.  "Long distance, for
Mr.  Alvin Ferguson.  Will you accept the charges?"

"No, Mr.  Alvin Ferguson is not here and, no, I will not accept the
charges."

The operator was pretty unemotional about the whole thing, but I
slammed down the phone and made a mental note to check the next bill.

I couldn't concentrate on the Benning brief;.  And things
administrative paled next to the enormity of being involved in a
murder.  What made her go there?  Robin, sensible, flat-shoed real
estate lawyer.  Singer in the church choir.  Disher out of food at the
Food Bank.  What was her connection with Mitzi Brochu, shredder of
egos?

Mrs.  Findlay answered the phone in a whisper.

"No, dear, she's still out like a light.  Dr.  B."s been here again to
give her something.  She woke up at 6 in the morning and almost gave
her father a heart attack, screeching."

"What was she, um, screeching?"

"Something like, you can't do that to her.  I won't let you do that to
her."" A little quaver sneaked into Mrs.  Findlay's voice.  "Oh, dear,
what do you think it all means?"

"I don't know."

I didn't either.  But I had to ask myself, if Robin had seen the
killer, had the killer seen Robin?

Why would she deny it?  Especially to me?

Thanks to the vigilance of the local paparazzi, her face and name had
blasted its way into every home in the region.

What had it felt like to preside over the media interpretation of the
death of someone who had humiliated you on the pages of the magazine
with the widest circulation in the country?  Had there been a look of
satisfaction on Jo Quinlan's face?

"Don't worry, Mrs.  Findlay," I lied, "just make sure she's not alone.
I think that will be much better for her."

"You're right, dear.  Brooke's on her way home from Toronto now. She'll
be a great help, I'm sure."

I murmured soothing remarks, casually omitting agreement that Robin's
little sister would be a great help.  I felt confident Brooke would be
the self-centred and pampered

vapour-brain she'd always been.  It seemed inappropriate to mention
this to her mother.

What the hell, I thought, I'm a taxpayer.  And with Alvin out of the
way, I was able to get to the phone.

"Oh, yeah," said McCracken, when I identified myself.  "How are you
today?"

I stopped myself from saying, "Oh, you know, the way I always feel the
day after I've found my best friend non compos mentis in the presence
of a warm corpse."  Instead I said "Getting there."

"Great," he said.

"I'd like a bit of information."

"Not much I can say.  Aren't you a defence lawyer?"

"Not usually.  I'm an advocate for victims.  My philosophy is toss the
perpetrators in the hoosegow, slam the gates and turf the key."

"Oh," he said, "I guess that's good.  I'm afraid I still can't give you
any information.  But how's your sister?"

"What's it worth to you?"

"Fingerprints."

"Shoot."

"Nothing but the deceased, your little friend and the housekeeping
staff."

"My sister's fine."

"Do you think she'd mind if I gave her a call sometime?"  he asked.

I cleared my throat in a meaningful way.

"We've interviewed all the staff and the other guests and no one saw
anyone except your friend Robin enter the scene of

the crime.  Ms.  Brochu had no apparent enemies."

"My fanny, she didn't.  Did you ever read anything she wrote?"

"I'm telling you what the witnesses tell me."

"Maybe you should talk to them again."  "Maybe.  But the way I hear it,
your friend was upset before she ever got near the victim."

This was true and I knew it, but I just kept silent on my end of the
line.  Until it was McCracken's turn to clear his throat.

"Hard to say with Alexa," I told him.  "You better just give her a call
and find out."

"Thanks a lot."

"No problem," I said.

Alexa wasn't home when I dialled.

I nibbled my nails for a long time after talking to McCracken.  It
sounded to me like Robin could turn out to be an easy solution for the
police.  I would have to make sure that didn't happen.

I knew Robin hadn't had enough time to kill Mitzi.  But I didn't even
need to know that--I knew her.

Alvin, considerate as always, had laid out a few more issues of Femme
Fatale with Mitzi articles for me.  He'd added a note, suggesting I
might find them amusing.

Mitzi, it turned out, had an annual feature, "Mitzi Picks the Glitz and
Mitzi Picks the Zitz."  These issues, Alvin mentioned in his note, were
hard to come by, as someone had already stolen them from the library.
Lucky for me (he said) he had friends.

"Mitzi's Glitz" turned out to be a mix of svelte men and women with
impeccable style sense and verve and hectares of spare cash for
clothes.  A dozen glitzers in all, but no real

surprises.  The wife of a department store magnate, a bakery magnate
and a magazine magnate.  And, of course, the magnates themselves,
indistinguishable in white tie.  A CBC cultural guru.  A model whose
furry eyebrows, pointy cheekbones, and pouty lips were on every second
cover of Femme Fatale.  A real estate developer.  A classical
guitarist.  An actress.  A former Prime Minister.  Mitzi had burbled on
in praise of their superb taste and elan.

Who gives a shit, I thought.  But the real fun stuff was reserved for
the "Zitz".  Poor old Zitz.  Just minding their own business and then
one day, one too many cream puffs and, poof, they've made the list.

Jo Quinlan and Deb Goodhouse were way down on the Zitz list at numbers
11 and 12.  Still, they were on it.  No wonder there weren't any copies
left on the local stands.

I'm not a person who cares about appearances, my own or others, but
still I was surprised Jo Quinlan would have let herself be photographed
wearing those particular spandex shorts and that halter top.
Particularly in profile.  Although from the gas barbecue in the
background, the tongs in her hands and the look on her face, it
appeared the scene was her own backyard and the photographer had just
stuck his nasty little camera over the fence.

"Massive Media Menace" was the caption over Jo's photo.  Underneath it
read: "Try mud-wrestling, dear, you already have the wardrobe, and
leave the screen to those who don't fill every inch of it."

Still, Jo Quinlan got off better than Deb Goodhouse.  Or "The Goodhouse
Blimp", as Mitzi dubbed her.  The rear view shot of Deb Goodhouse
walking up the stairs of the Centre Block of the Parliament Buildings
had a cartoon string drawn around her ankle.  The angle of the camera
had enhanced the

rear expanse.  "Is our Princess of Polyester full of hot air or worse?
Will she rise in the House and float through the ceiling?  If looks
could kill, she'd be six feet under," the commentary read.

The articles featured pictures of Mitzi too.  Looking much better than
the last time I had seen her.  Emaciated, with blood-red lips and a
crow's nest of black hair.  All in black with bare shoulders, black
gloves past the elbow, black hose and pointed black spike heels.  The
photo of Mitzi floated without background, a judge, ruling without
mercy on fashion crimes.

Somebody had taken revenge on Mitzi.  Just a glance at these articles
told me there would be a long list of candidates.  Not to mention the
hundreds of others who must have suffered at Mitzi's hands.  I hoped
the police would do a good job of checking out Robin's competition.  If
not, I decided I'd have to do it myself.

Alexa was home this time when I called to warn her.

"Oh good, Camilla," she said.  "I was just about to call you.  Edwina
wants us all to have dinner at her place.  Six o'clock..."

I interrupted.  "I had no choice but to suggest you might be willing to
get a call from this cop you used to know in high school.  Sorry.  But
you can always take your phone off the hook."

"A policeman?  Oh, not Conn McCracken, was it?"

"Yes, look, I'm sorry "

"What did he say?"

"Nothing much, just how were you."

"What did you say?"

"I said you were so so."

"Oh, Camilla."

"And I told him that Greg died."

"That's all?"

"What did you want me to say?"

"I don't know.  Did he ask how I looked?"

"No, he didn't."

"Oh."

"Anyway, he might call you and you can tell him how you look
yourself."

"Oh, Camilla."

"Gotta go, I hear the dreaded Alvin approaching."

"Wait a minute.  Wait a minute," Alexa breathed.  "Does he still have
all his hair?"

"I didn't notice."

"For God's sake, Camilla," she said and hung up.

The only good thing about being the boss is making up rules and then
changing them without reason or warning as you go along.  So when Alvin
crashed back into the office, dropped his bags, and snarled something
about how can you stand all those fucking tulips all over the place, I
beamed as I picked up my jacket and opened the door.

"So long, Alvin.  There's plenty to keep you busy.  I see about fifty
linear feet of filing on the floor.  By tomorrow, I expect to be able
to see the pattern of the carpet."

His wail followed me down the stairs.  "Don't you want these
pantyhose?"



After twenty years or more, the tall respectable husbands collected by
my sisters had begun to settle into middle age and to develop creeping
hairlines, baby paunches, and minor peculiarities, some easier to
adjust to than others.  Take, for example, Donalda's husband, Joe, each
year withdrawing more and more into a world of his own, of golf and
fishing and imaginary trophies.  Or Edwina's Stan with his collection
of dribble glasses, plastic dog turds and fake vomit.  I wish I had
some kind of coin for every time I encountered a whoopee cushion in the
passenger seat of Stan's Buick LeSabre.

"Better take it easy on the baked beans," he always said.

I suggested to Edwina that perhaps Stan was developing Alzheimer's and
should be locked away for his own protection, but I noticed she still
kept sending him to pick me up for family get-tog ethers  This dinner
was no exception.

A hand mirror lay on the passenger seat as I opened the door.

"Would you mind moving that?"  Stan said.

As I picked up the mirror, it screamed with laughter and kept on
laughing after I threw it on the floor.

"Perhaps you should get your hair done more often," Stan said, between
his own screams of laughter.

"Perhaps you should get a life, Stan," I suggested, not laughing but
giving some thought to screaming myself.

HAHAHAHAHAHA, howled the mirror from the floor,

just before I picked it up and chucked it out the window.

Stan was still sulking when we reached Nepean and pulled into the
driveway, which I think Edwina vacuums twice weekly.

"Aw, Camilla, the girls would have gotten a big kick out of that at
dinner," he said.

"Like hell," I told him.

If "the girls" had sent Stan to get me into some kind of a mellow mood
after a distressing day spent mulling over Mitzi's death and Robin's
continuing state of withdrawal, "the girls" were going to be let
down.

They were hanging around the entrance, three vultures with dish cloths,
when we arrived.  I could tell they'd been bustling around the kitchen,
discussing my mental state, when they'd heard the car.  Now they were
trying to look like they'd all accidentally ended up near the front
door just as we got there.

They scanned my face and turned to Stan.  He shrugged, before perking
up a bit.

"Wait a minute," he said, flinging open the door to the basement and
thundering down the stairs.  "I think I have something else that might
do just as well."

"Are you all right?"  Edwina asked.

"Well, I'll never look in another mirror again."

"He's just trying to cheer you up, dear."

"Let's chat in the living room," said Donalda, steering me, as if I
hadn't been there a thousand times.

Edwina's entire house is picture-perfect polished mahogany, pastel
brocade, flowers in silver or crystal vases.  In the living room, my
father glanced up from the newspaper, peering over the top of his
little half-moon reading glasses.  He matched the decor.  Eighty-year
old gentleman, distinguished, white-haired and slim, seated in wingback
with matching ottoman.

"Hello, um, Camilla," he said.

"Can I get you a little drink?"  Alexa asked me.  Her colour was high
and she had a sparkle I hadn't seen about her for months.

Donalda looked at my father after Alexa left the room.  "Do you think
she has a fever, Daddy?"

"No idea, dear," said my father, with a flicker of worry.

"Maybe she's in love," I said.

"Oh, Camilla."

Dinner was wonderful.  Edwina knows her way around a kitchen and I have
to confess it's very pleasant to sit on well padded dining room chairs,
surrounded by the warm glow of mahogany, eating good food off Minton
china.  She presided over the distribution of the roast lamb stuffed
with spinach and chevre with the air of an artist at a show of her
work.

And, in my family, we always find things taste even better when we're
discussing people who are not present.

"She did?"  said Donalda, as we heaped the lemon rice onto our plates
"Well, I'm not surprised.  Did you see what she had on?"

"No wonder he practically dived down the front of her blouse," said
Edwina, passing the squash souffle.

"Exactly," said Alexa, and reached for the broccoli, "and I know we're
all human, but I don't think church is the place for it."

My father just concentrated on the food.  He doesn't approve of gossip.
I concentrated on my food too, since I didn't know any of the people
whose blouses were under discussion.

When the neighbours and other parish members had been dealt with, they
turned their attention to the murder.  I was waiting for it.  Mitzi
Brochu's murder had captured the

imagination of the magazine-reading public in a big way.

"A crucifixion," said Alexa, shivering.  "It's too gruesome."

"Well," I said, "it wasn't really a..."

"Somebody absolutely had it in for her," said Donalda.

"No kidding," I said.

"Not surprising when you think about the sorts of things she wrote
about people," Edwina pronounced.  "She literally ruined careers and
brought terrible embarrassment to people, right here even in our
community.  People who were just minding their own business and had
nothing to do with her.  She just selected them and burned them."  I
wasn't sure how the words were getting out with Edwina's lips pursed
like that.  "I know," sighed Alexa, twisting her napkin.  "Poor Deb
Goodhouse."

"She is a little bit broad in the beam, but even so..."  Donalda didn't
get to finish her sentence.

"Her beam is not the issue.  The woman is a well-respected politician
and a wonderful contributor to the community.  She's given a lot of
herself to environmental projects and to helping the third world and
what does she get in Canada's best-selling women's magazine?  Not a
word about her achievements, just her backside.  After I read that
article, I cancelled my subscription."

Well, I bet that showed them, Edwina, I thought.

"Poor, poor Deb."  Alexa was still milking the poor Deb theme.

I'd never given a moment's thought to the Hon.  Ms.  Goodhouse before I
read the article in Femme Fatale.  Somehow she seemed to be important
to my sisters.  "She some kind of a friend?"  I asked.

The three of them turned and looked at me.

"Oh, Camilla," said Alexa.

"Of course, she's a friend," said Donalda.  "Don't you remember?  We
all went to St.  Jim's together.  She used to be at the house all the
time."

"So what was I then?  Seven years old?"

"All the same.  You must remember Deb."

"Right," I said, referring to woolly memories of a beefy brunette
scattered among the long blondes, all of them giggling and smoking
cigarettes and listening to Pat Boone in the upstairs bedrooms.

"You must remember how excited we all were when she won her first
federal election."  Edwina gestured around the table to indicate that I
was not only unaware, but also alone, in my lack of excitement.

The other girls nodded, as did my father and Stan.  Joe smiled to
himself, managing a hole-in-one on his internal golf course.

"I guess I missed it."

"It was around the time of..."  Edwina started to say Paul's death but
was silenced by the tensing of muscles around the table, signalling the
topic was about to change.  Every one in my family is always worried
that any talk of Paul will plunge me into some internal chaos, from
which I will never recover.  I'm not so sure they're wrong.  We don't
get nearly as agitated over Alexa's much more recent widowhood.  The
topic veered to the highlights of Deb Goodhouse's career.

"So was she upset by these articles in Femme Fatalei" I asked.

A rustle of relief around the table confirmed the tricky topic of Paul
had not caused me to plummet into instant depression.  I guess I was as
relieved as anyone else.

"Oh, yes," said Alexa.  "She was very hurt.  They were terribly
personal and insulting."

"And even worse," Edwina broke in, "she thought they trivialized
everything she'd been working on.  You know, these women politicians,
it's a pretty tough life for them, and then, to have the only article
ever written about you in a national magazine focus on your backside,
well--" Edwina became speechless at this point.

"Quite an effect," I agreed.

"Not only that, but her blood pressure went practically through the
roof," said Alexa.

"Indeed?"  I said.  "She must have hated Mitzi."

"God, yes," said Alexa, avoiding my father's flicker at her minor
profanity, "Deb felt like killing her."

Everyone made a point of letting me know this was just a figure of
speech, only an emotion and not a reality, and Deb Goodhouse could
never have crucified Mitzi Brochu, in case I had drawn that conclusion
from Alexa's remarks.  Even Joe came back to earth during the
brouhaha.

"Don't worry about it, girls, I wasn't about to call the police."

"Well, of course not," they said in unison, and changed the subject yet
again.

"So, how's Robin doing?"  Donalda asked.

"She's still in bed."

"Still in bed!"  said Edwina.

"Dr.  Beaver's been giving her sedatives.  He says she's too
emotionally fragile to be up yet or to be on her own."

"What does he know about emotional shock, you tell me that?"  said
Donalda, "If she were my daughter, I'd send her to the vet before I'd
let old Bucky Beaver look after her."

"Tell me about it," said Alexa.  "I'm surprised he didn't recommend
mustard poultices to draw out the poisons in her system.  Or maybe he
did.  Camilla?"

"Sorry to disappoint, but I think it's just good old fashioned
tranquilizers."

"Well, none of my business, of course, but Robin hasn't really led such
a sheltered life.  I mean, she is a working lawyer and she did do a lot
of legal aid work before she went into real estate law and, sure, it's
traumatic finding a dead body, but don't you think she's
over-reacting?"  asked Edwina.

"I'd like to see how any of you would hold up if you stumbled across a
crucified, bleeding corpse, still warm."

"Pass the lamb, dear," said Stan.

"On the other hand," said Edwina, "you stumbled across the very same
bleeding corpse, still warm, too, I believe.  And yet, here you are
bouncing off to work and indulging in a full and active social life."

Fighting off the memory of dead Mitzi while I slumped around the office
and getting dragged off to family dinners with shades of the Spanish
Inquisition was more like it.  Still, Edwina had a point.  Robin was
overdoing it.

"Unless," Edwina continued, "Robin killed this woman.  Then she'd have
a reason to feel so upset."

"Edwina," said my father.

And I'd thought he was dozing at the other end of the table.

"I know, Daddy, but she was there, all covered in blood and she won't
tell anybody why she was in that room and now she's verging on a
catatonic state.  Something's very strange about all that."

"Oh, Edwina, you can't think Robin would kill anybody.  We've known her
since she and Camilla were kids.  It's not possible," said Donalda.

Donalda was right.  It was far, far more likely I would kill somebody.
And even that was out of the question most of the time.

Edwina was not one to give up when she was onto a good angle.

"Maybe Mitzi Brochu had something on her and was going to do an article
on it."

"Oh, right, Edwina," I said, "and what would Mitzi have on Robin?
Putting too much milk in the cats' dishes?  All of Canada would rush to
the newsstands to buy that issue."

"You may be her best friend, but you don't know everything about
her."

"Yes, I do know everything about her.  And I know she didn't, and she
couldn't kill anybody."

I felt unshakable certainty about this.  I'd thought for hours about
Robin and what she could have done.  I'd examined every memory I had of
her since the day in kindergarten, when we'd first shared the red
crayon and become friends for life.  Robin was always the one who
helped the smaller kids with their overshoes and zippers.  Robin always
helped the old ladies cross the street.  Robin would give anyone her
last dime.  Robin didn't kill Mitzi.

But Robin, Robin, Robin, I thought, why are you lying?

"Maybe," said Alexa, "she was in love and..."

This startling suggestion was followed by a strangled gasp from
Donalda.  We all turned to gawk at a set of teeth complete with full
gums, sitting in the middle of the table next to the silver vase with
the six baby roses.  The teeth grinned in a mad parody of every denture
advertisement ever made.

For a minute there was total, and uncharacteristic, silence at the
table.  Until Edwina reached forward to wipe that smile off her Irish
linen tablecloth.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA," roared the teeth.  "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHA..."
Startled, Edwina dropped them into her Minton vegetable platter.

So that was what Stan had been prowling around in the basement for.  A
suitable replacement for the laughing mirror.

"HAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHA," howled the teeth from on top of the broccoli.

With the exception of me and Joe, who didn't return to earth this time,
everyone collapsed with laughter.  Donalda's shoulders shook and her
head bobbed.  Alexa wheezed out heeheehees until twin streams of tears
ran down her cheeks.  Edwina had a full-bodied boom, not unlike the
teeth in the broccoli.  Even my father had to smile.  Stan was a happy
man.

"Get that damn thing out of here before I toss it," I said.

Stan stretched toward the broccoli where our new friend was starting to
wind down to a hah aha

"She'll do it!"  he squeaked.  "She threw the mirror out of the car."

"Oh, Camilla" said Edwina.  "He's only trying to cheer you up."

"He'll have to try a lot harder," I said.

Donalda reached over and patted my hand.  "We all know how worried you
are.  But Robin will be okay.  Her mother told me Brooke's on her way
back from Toronto.  That should make a big difference for Robin to have
her sister here."

Sure, I thought.  It will mean there's that much less attention for her
when she needs it the most.  Brooke will siphon off every extra bit of
tender loving care the Findlays were lavishing on Robin.  They won't
even know it's happening.  If I knew Brooke, it would be just little
things, but soon her mother would be busy altering clothing and making
special little meals for Brooke's friends, and making her bed and
picking up after her.  And what was this "on her way back" business?
Toronto was a fifty minute flight or a four-and-a

half-hour drive.  Why wasn't Brooke at home already?

Somehow I couldn't see Brooke soothing Robin after her nightmare.  On
the other hand, Robin, like her parents, would do anything for Brooke.
Maybe even get out of bed to help out with the added workload Brooke
always presented.  Brooke might be good for Robin, but for all the
wrong reasons.

As we started to clear the table, I got instructions to relax in the
living room with the boys.  Does all this special treatment make me the
same kind of person as Brooke?  I wondered as I lounged on the sofa.  A
user, a burner-up of the good will of others?

Alexa brought me a fresh cup of coffee.  She leaned over and whispered,
"He hasn't called yet."

My thoughts of Conn McCracken were not fond.  I'd already had a couple
of chats with him and all the information had been flowing one way.  I
had a feeling I would keep on hearing from him until he found out why
Robin had gone to see Mitzi Brochu and why I'd gone with her.  Whenever
I'd ask him something, he'd indicate in that big, comfy way of his,
that he couldn't answer me.

"Count your blessings if he didn't call, Alexa," I said, thinking that
the fewer complications any of us had in our lives, the better.

"Oh, Camilla."  She bit her lip as she flounced back to the kitchen.

I couldn't help noticing she was wearing red lipstick for the first
time since her husband had died.

My father eyed me warily from the armchair at the end of the living
room.  Finally, he spoke.

"Tell me," he said, "how's Alvin getting along?"

Back in my apartment, I was so well-stuffed with lamb and rice and
broccoli that I was ready to settle down for the rest of the evening. I
shifted from novel to novel, from task to task.  The phone at the
Findlays' was busy.  And there were too many cats, everywhere you
looked.  I was getting used to them and even recognized the damn
things.  The black one, the white one with black markings, the ginger
Tom, the tabby and the grey Persian.  And the plump little
three-coloured number, which Robin said was a calico cat.  I didn't
know their names and didn't plan to find out.

It was just before nine and I decided to try a few chores to bore me to
sleep.  Reading the week's papers, locating the week's laundry, washing
up the week's dishes.  Not that I cherish these chores, just that I
find it better in the long run if I attend to them.  And they are
soporific.

But the visit from my sisters earlier in the week had thrown the
schedule off.  The laundry was done, and there were only the breakfast
dishes in the sink.  Most of the papers had disappeared.  Figuring I
could limp on for another week without indulging in drudgery, I shook
the Persian off the remaining papers and retired to the balcony with a
lamp, an extension cord and a clear conscience.

My apartment building is perched on the edge of the parkland which
borders the Ottawa River Parkway.  The

balcony looks down on the Ottawa River from sixteen stories.  To the
North lie the Gatineau hills, green and rippling even in mid-May.  I
can see the bike and pedestrian pathways like ribbons along the river.
And to the East, the green-roofed Parliament and Supreme Court
buildings.  A turn of the head shows downtown Ottawa, highrise clusters
with more blotches of green, some with green rooftops and others
consisting of mundane blocks of concrete and glass, creating wind
tunnels.  I could make out the mellow pink of the Harmony Hotel, the
top stories glowing between two office towers.

The Harmony Hotel, where Mitzi Brochu had checked into a spacious peach
suite, expecting luxury and finding death.

The Harmony Hotel, where Robin had kept an appointment and discarded
her mental health.

The Harmony Hotel, I thought, is the key to understanding everything.

I chucked the papers back into the corner of the living room and lifted
a cat from my favourite pair of running shoes.

It was time to start sticking my nose in.  And I knew the place to
start.

Forty minutes later, I walked into the lobby of the Harmony Hotel.

Another girl with big hair was working the Reception Desk.  This one's
tag said Naomi and she didn't trill, she chirped.

I flashed my driver's license in front of her, and said, "We found a
few gaps in the Mitzi Brochu investigation.  Can you confirm a few
facts, ma'am?"

It wasn't my fault if she mistook me for the police.  Her eyes
widened.

"What kind of facts?  I wasn't on duty that day.  But I'm sure one of
the others ... or even Mr.  Sandes could..."

"Don't worry about it.  You'll be fine.  I just need you to check the
files to see if anyone was sharing Suite 815 with the victim on this
trip.  Or on any of her previous trips."

"One minute, please," she breathed and vanished through a door behind
the counter.

I was drumming my fingers on the marble surface, when a voice behind me
said, "Good evening, Ms.  MacPhee, will you join me in my office?"

The day had not been good to Richard Sandes, perhaps because he was
still at work at night.  His hair was a little greyer than I remembered
it and there seemed to be extra space in his suit.  I remembered him
being very sick in the powder room after we'd found Mitzi's body.  Very
sick and for a very long time.

"Smoke?"  he said, passing me the package.

"No, thanks."

But his smile was still in working order.  His eyes were rich and dark,
like Belgian chocolates.

"Naomi seems to be under the impression you are a police detective, Ms.
MacPhee.  I wonder why?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "What can I say?  Young people, they're very
impressionable."

The crow's feet around his eyes crinkled up, but his mouth was busy
with the cigarette.  I couldn't tell whether or not he actually
smiled.

"What can I do for you?"  he asked.

"I'd like to know a few things about Mitzi Brochu.  How often she came
here.  And if there was anyone who usually stayed with her."

"Why?"

"I'm trying to find out why my friend went to see her and asked me to
come along."

"Didn't she tell you?"

"Well, I didn't actually talk to her before the murder, it was all
accomplished with messages.  And after, she hasn't been well enough to
badger about it."

t> l

I'm sorry:

"She's tranked to the ears because she was so traumatized by finding
the body.  Well, you remember the state she was in when we got
there?"

"How could I forget?  I was pretty traumatized myself.  You mean the
poor girl's still out of it?"

"Right.  Can't or won't eat.  Can't get out of bed.  Starts to shake if
there's the slightest reference to Mitzi Brochu.  Dead or alive."

"That's too bad."

"So, you can see why I would like to get a handle on why Mitzi wanted
to see her."

"Weren't the police any help?"

He raised an eyebrow when I snorted.

"Okay," he said, "I think I understand how traumatic it must have been
to find the body.  The whole tragedy is still haunting me."

"You're going to help me?"

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled.  "I remember the state your
friend was in."

"Thank you."  I slumped back in the chair.

"Do you want a cup of coffee or something?"

"Something," I said, not knowing what.  My stomach was clenched.

"All right, shall we chat in the bar?  It's pretty quiet on Sunday
night."

"Good."

"I'll just check a few details and be back in a couple of minutes."

While I was waiting, I looked around.  The office reflected the aqua
theme of the Harmony foyer and hallways.  Very restful with the oak
furniture and the silk flowers.  But all business, except for two
photos on the bookcase.  A plump blonde girl, about ten years old,
grinned from one.  An older version of the same girl, svelte and
elegant, even in sports clothes, stood with Sandes and a woman in front
of a boat.  Richard Sandes looked different in the photo.  Heavier,
happier, casual in beige boating gear.

I was still standing by the photo when he came back.

"Your family?"

He nodded.

"Your daughter?"

if\7 Yes.

"She's beautiful."

He smiled and I realized I was disappointed.  I'd been hoping for his
sister and his niece or something.  It had been a long time since I'd
felt the pull towards a man, a long time since Paul.

The bar was peach rather than aqua.  We settled into peach patterned
tub chairs.  The waiter materialized immediately.  There are advantages
to sitting with the manager.  It occurred to me the tension in the
tummy was nothing more than nerves, but even so I chose a double order
of suicide wings and a light beer to wash them down.

Richard Sandes had a Perrier and a cigarette.

"So," I said when the order had been taken, "what can you tell me?"

I guess someday I'll have to work on smoothing out my conversational
skills.  But he didn't seem to mind.

"Miss Brochu stayed here whenever she stayed in town.  She liked the
Harmony and the brass always insisted on making a

big deal out of her.  There was talk about using her in an ad campaign
for the Harmony Hotel chain.  She got preferential treatment, so I
guess that's why she chose us over the Hilton or the Westin or the
Chateau."

"Hmm," I said, "she didn't strike me as too harmonious."

"True," said Richard Sandes, "but she was very well known and popular,
well, maybe not popular, but she got good media coverage and people
liked to read about her and liked her broadcasts, so it must have
seemed like a good idea to the decision-makers."

"Did she get free rooms?"

"No, but she got the suite for the price of a standard room, provided
we weren't booked solid for a convention or something."

"How long has that been going on?"

He stopped for a second and looked at me.

Maybe I was getting goopy from those suicide wings.  I dabbed at my
mouth and fingers with a napkin.  I'd lost the habit of worrying about
how I looked to a man.

"I don't know," he said, "I've only been here for six months.  I'd have
to check the files."

"Oh," I said, distracted from my Mitzi probe, "where were you
before?"

"Toronto."

"Quite a change to Ottawa.  How does your family like it here?"

Richard sipped his Perrier for a second before answering.

"I'm here on my own."

I didn't know quite what to say.  There are many reasons for being in a
new city on your own.  Most of them you shouldn't pry into.

"Do you like it here?"

He shrugged.  "I don't get out much.  I've been putting in pretty long
hours.  But I like that and I like the Harmony."

"It's a beautiful hotel.  I can see why you like it."

"Yes.  I hope I can stay on."

"Would they move you without..."

He smiled at me.  A crooked smile with a lot of sadness in it.

"I'm the manager at a showcase hotel where a star client was murdered.
In a very showy way.  The Official Philosophy of Harmony Hotels is to
provide a place where clients don't have to worry.  There's a lot of
heat right now.  Somebody's got to carry the can, and I'm the ideal
candidate."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't always fair, Ms.  MacPhee."

"Right.  Tell me about it."

He waved the waiter over to refill our drinks.  I was surprised to see
mine was empty.  There's something about suicide wings.

"So," he said, "what did you want to know about Mitzi Brochu?"

"Everything.  How often she came here.  Who stayed with her.  Who came
to see her.  What she was like."

"Oh, is that all?"

I noticed he was laughing.

"Well, whatever you can tell me," I said, laughing too.

"Let's see, she came down about once every two months.  I have no idea
who came to see her.  Hotels are not in the business of keeping tabs on
clients."

"What was she doing here?"

"In the hotel?"  His eyes twinkled.

"In Ottawa."

"The scuttlebutt is she was writing a book on federal politicians.  On
their personal style or something."

"A book on Members of Parliament?"  "I heard on MPs, Senators, the
Prime Minister, the back room boys, everyone and everything."  "Have
you ever read her stuff?"  I asked.

a\r JJ

Yes.

"Then you know what she was like.  A lot of people would want to avoid
being in her book."

"Perhaps not enough to kill her."

"Humph," I said, getting back to the suicide wings.

"Even though you might like it to be a conspiracy of
parliamentarians."

I thought he had a point, so I tried another approach.

"Did you know her well?"

"Not really.  She only stayed here three times since I've been here."

"Did you like her?"

"Not in the least."

I raised my eyebrows and sipped my beer.

"She wasn't very likeable."

I had to agree.

"And she upset a lot of people before she died," he added.

I knew what he meant.  She'd been able to upset me a lot even after she
died.  Case in point, here I was on a Sunday night in a bar with a man
I'd just met.  Something I'd never done before in my life.

"I know.  Robin was one of them."

"And you say she's still in shock."

"That's right.  And the police want to talk to her as soon as she's
well enough."

"Too bad," he said.  With sympathy.

"Right."

Our conversation slid into personal matters, likes and

dislikes, what chance the Jays might have this season, what it was
like to live alone in Ottawa.

Much later I looked at my watch and shook it.  The time couldn't be
right.  I had to get home to bed like a good little girl or I wouldn't
be able to catch up on the Benning case tomorrow.

"Gotta go," I said, whipping out some cash and looking around for the
waiter.

"It's on the house," Richard said.

"Thanks."  I was on my feet, still marvelling at the fact I'd had two
beer on a work night.

"Something I said?"  he asked, rising.

"No, just pressures of work.  Time for me to hit the hay.  Do you mind
if I call you if I have other questions?"

"No problem."

As we walked back to the foyer, where the big-haired receptionist was
chirping at new arrivals, I decided to grab a cab.  It was very late by
my standards, and the walk by the river was just a little too isolated
at night.  I'd had enough big, strapping clients who were victims of
vicious predators to be under any illusions.

"Thanks, again."  The front doors opened, and I walked towards the cab
stand.

Richard took me by surprise as he caught up to me.  He took the
Blueline driver by surprise too.

"Can I give you a lift?"

The last surprise was when I realized how much I wanted that lift.

I found myself smiling as I waited for the parking valet to arrive with
Richard's car, and I was still smiling as we pulled on to Wellington
Street and turned left.

"Usually I walk," I told him.

"It must be nice.  Especially with all the tulips."

"What tulips?"

"The million or so tulips that are about to bloom," he said, flashing a
look at me.

"I guess I haven't really noticed them.  You sort of take them for
granted when you've lived here most of your life."

As we slipped along the Parkway, the river glittered in the May night.
In five short minutes, we drew up in front of my building, and I felt a
jab of regret.

"Good night," I said, regretting the regret.

"We seem to have gotten off topic.  Aren't you going to ask me about
her boyfriend?"

"Whose boyfriend?"  The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Mitzi's boyfriend, of course.  "What about the boyfriend?"

"I think he lives here in Ottawa, but he was always in her room.  Every
time she was in town."

"But not this time."

"Oh yeah, this time, too."

"Well, where was he when.

"According to the hotel staff, they had a knock-down drag out dust-up,
the night before.  Bad enough for the other guests on the floor to
phone and complain about the noise."

"Do the police know?"

"They do."

"This is good news.  They might leave Robin alone."

The little question still nagged me inside.  If the boyfriend was the
bad guy, why would Robin be lying?

"What's his name?  Mitzi's boyfriend."

"Wendtz.  RudyWendtz."

We said good-bye for the second time and I smiled at the memory of
Richard Sandes, all the way from the car to the

elevator and from the elevator to the sixteenth floor and all along
the hallway to my apartment.  I kept smiling up to the point where I
spotted my neighbour, Mrs.  Parnell, moving her walker back to her
apartment after her outing to the garbage chute.  It's hard to keep
smiling once you've spotted Mrs.  Parnell.

I nodded to her and made a futile attempt to pass without engaging in
conversation about anything I might have done to provoke her.  She
might be in her seventies, but she is a woman who embodies the word
"formidable".  I've heard other neighbours speculate about her links to
power in former governments, even insinuations about intelligence work
in World War Two.  Whatever the scuttlebutt about her past, at this
point in her life Mrs.  Parnell was content to occupy her time being a
pain in the butt.

"Excuse me, Ms.  MacPhee," she said, staring down at me over her
remarkably long nose, reminding me of every nun who ever caught me
making a paper airplane in Religion class.  Her ability to terrorize
was not diminished a whit by the fact that she leaned on the walker.
Somehow she managed to hang on to a cigarette in a long holder
everywhere she went.

Mrs.  Parnell is the sixteenth floor's keeper of the public morality.
She has two passions, music, opera in particular, and making sure no
one, but no one, gets away with anything, but anything.

"Oh, hello, Mrs.  Parnell," I said, once I was sure there was no
escape.  "Lovely evening."

She was five-eleven if she was an inch and I could feel myself
shrinking as she continued to stare down at me.  Why I , a thirty
something lawyer, nasty as the next guy, should be intimidated by a
tall, awkward old lady in a mud-coloured sweater with holes in the
elbows was beyond me.

"Ms, MacPhee, is it possible cat noises have been heard coming from
your apartment?"

"Cat noises," I said, shocked.  "Certainly not, Mrs.  Parnell.  What
would ever give you that idea?"

"I have ears, Ms.  MacPhee."

Yes, and the less said about them the better, I thought.  What the
hell, the best defense is a good offense, somebody once said.  It
seemed to me to fit the occasion.  I gave it a try.

"I also have ears, Mrs.  Parnell, and may I suggest you have confused
the howling of vowels from one of your gruesome operas with feline
sounds in the vicinity.  And who can blame you?"

"Well!"  she said, moving herself and her walker back into her
apartment with remarkable speed and slamming the door.

I whipped open my own door, slid through and closed it.  A great chorus
of meows greeted my arrival.

"I

Yss, this is Alvin Ferguson.  Yes, I will accept the charges."  Alvin
held his hand over the receiver and shot me a meaningful look.  "It's
my mother, it's quite personal.  Would you mind waiting outside for a
couple of minutes?"

It was Monday morning at ten, and I was still standing in the doorway
of Justice for Victims, clutching my muffin and coffee.  I opened my
mouth just as Alvin reached over and closed the door.

I sat on the stair sipping my coffee, nibbling my muffin and listing
all of the things I would like to do to Alvin.  I'd finished the
coffee, the muffin and the list, and was getting up to go back in to
insert the telephone somewhere painful, when I heard the "excuse me."
It was What'shis-name.

"Oh, hello, urn..."  I said.

"Ted.  Ted Beamish.  You remember, I ran into you the other day outside
the Parole Board Office."

"Right."

"We talked about having a coffee together sometime when we ran into
each other."

Well, he had talked about it.

"I saw on the news that you and Robin Findlay were there right at the
scene of the Mitzi Brochu murder.  That must have been right after we
bumped into each other.  I'm sure you must have been very disturbed by
it."

"You bet."

"So I didn't like to call you right after the ... um, incident, but I
thought I might try today.  It's a new week and..."  A band of sweat
formed on his upper lip.

I might as well have coffee with the guy, I thought, since there was no
point at all in strangling Alvin with a witness present.

"Sure, why not?"

"How about the Mayflower?"

As we settled into our booth, I wondered what we would find to talk
about.  It doesn't bother me to sit there and not say anything, but it
seems to make other people a bit edgy.

I ordered coffee and sat there.

Ted Beamish ordered carrot cake with his coffee and started talking.

"I had a lot of leave accumulated so I thought I'd take today off and
get a few errands done," he said.

"I'm an errand?"

The flush raced up his face.

"Of course not.  It's just I had some free time and I was on Elgin
Street and I thought I'd drop in and see if you weren't too busy to
have coffee.  To tell you the truth, you didn't look too busy."

"You mean because I was sitting on the stairs?  They're my favourite
place to sit and contemplate when I have a tough problem."

This seemed more reasonable than the truth, that I had been turfed out
by the office help who needed to discuss an urgent and private problem
with its mother.

"Do you have a tough problem now?"

I thought of Robin and Benning and Alvin.

"Yes," I said, "several."

"That's interesting.  The stairs, I mean."

"Works for me," I said, although I never intended to sit on them
again.

"Tell me about Justice for Victims," he said.  "I heard you set it up
yourself."

ccrj 1 ?

Right.

He wasn't one to give up, and he was nudging about my favourite
subject.  It was possible I was going to be lured into conversation
after all.

"What do you do?"

"Well," I said, feeling my motor turn on, "victims are the forgotten
players in our legal processes.  I'm running an advocacy agency for
them.  Justice for Victims represents the interests of victims in
dealing with various parts of the government and the judicial system.
We lobby for or against proposed legislation which we think will affect
victims.  For instance, changes to the Young Offenders Act.  We offer
support for the victim in dealing with the system.  Often a victim is
victimized all over again by the time a trial or a procedure is over.
Or they're terrified when a criminal is about to get paroled back into
their community.  They don't know what to do, they don't know what
their rights are."

"Sounds great to me."  He gestured to the waitress for a refill.  "How
do you get funded?"

He'd hit the sore spot.

"We're a membership organization.  Anyone with an interest in justice
and victims can join for a small fee.  I'll get you an application
form," I grinned.  "You'll get a newsletter out of it, and sense of
doing something good.  And I get a constituency to mount letter writing
campaigns to the feds when necessary.  I ask for donations, too."

"And you can make a living this way?"

"More or less.  We get grants from various levels of government and
personal and corporate donations.  I supplement with a bit of legal
work on the side, and I get asked to participate in task forces looking
at the victim perspective."

I didn't tell him my expenses were minimal to run Justice for Victims.
The office was sub-let from the association next door.  Alvin came
subsidized, although not quite subsidized enough.  I also didn't
mention I had to top up my own living expenses, not that they were
high, out of Paul's estate.  Still it was worth it as far as I was
concerned.

"I can see why you would be so committed to victims' rights, after what
happened to Paul.  And that guy getting away with it."

I didn't let myself think about this too often.  The wounds were still
there.  Paul, brilliant and funny, would have been thirty-four in three
weeks if a drunken lout hadn't polished off a two-four of beer, then
lurched onto the road with his RX-7 and mangled Paul's little Toyota.
It had taken three hours to cut his body from the wreckage.  Longer
than his killer served.

"One year suspended sentence.  Gotta give the guy a chance.  After all,
he never killed anyone before."  My hands were choking my coffee mug as
I talked.  Choking the drunk driver, choking the judge.

"Tough on you."

I wanted to change the subject.  I wasn't in the habit of discussing
just how tough it was.

"Right," I said, "so what else are you going to do on your day off?"

"I'm treating this like a Saturday, so I'm doing Saturday stuff," he
said.  "Drop over to the market and get a few things, go to the library
and stock up, see how the tulips are coming up..."

Those damn tulips again.

"maybe go to a movie tonight."

He'd been looking into his empty coffee cup, but now he flicked a
glance at me.

"I don't suppose you'd feel like a movie tonight."

"I'm not ready to see other people yet.  Sorry."

This time the flush surged up past his hairline and down through his
shirt collar.  I could have sworn his hands got pink.

"Oh, of course not," he said, "I realize that.  Just talking about a
couple of people watching a movie."

"Don't mind me, I'm being a jerk," I said.  "I've got a lot on my mind
and it's making me surly."

I noticed he didn't leap to deny this.

"This thing with Mitzi Brochu has thrown me.  You remember Robin, I
guess."

"Of course," he said.  "I remember seeing the two of you together a lot
at law school.

"Well, she's just devastated by the whole thing and doesn't seem to be
getting over it, so that's a strain.  The police have been complete
creeps about it."

"Hmm."

"So the point is, once life gets back to normal and I'm not such a
jerk, sure, let's get together and go to a movie.  Maybe Robin could
come too."

That might be just what she needed, I thought to myself.  And this
little guy might be the perfect match for her.  Pleasant enough.
Appreciates tulips.  Probably likes cats too.  Maybe a movie with a
single man would be enough to get Robin to climb out of bed and comb
her hair.

"I'll get your number," I said, "and let you know when would be a good
time."

He wasn't the type to insist on paying the bill.  He got a point from
me for that.

"I'll be off to the library," he said as we stepped out of the
Mayflower and into the very bright sun.

"I've got some stuff to check out.  Let's walk over to together," I
said.  Death Row reprieve for Alvin.

Sure.

He was the kind of person you could be comfortable with, without
talking.  I liked that.

As we reached the corner of Elgin and Laurier West, across the street
in Confederation park, 15,000 tulips exploded into view.  He stopped to
look.  Robin would have too.  This could be a perfect match.

We jostled by the camera-to ting tourists enjoying the Festival of
Spring.  By my calculations, there was a tourist for every tulip.

"So," I said, while we raced the light across Elgin, "did I ever tell
how I feel about the parole system?"

"Let's not ruin a perfect morning."

We said good-bye inside the library.  I galloped up the stairs to
reference and he headed for fiction.  He was planning to do the W's.
Wodehouse.  Westlake.  Wright.  Wolfe.

I was planning to do the Was too.  Wendtz.

There was only one Rudy Wendtz in the city directory.  He had an
address on the Queen Elizabeth Driveway and his employment was listed
as prmtr.  After a while, I figured out this must mean promoter.  But
what did promoter mean?

I let my fingers do the walking and sure enough, in the yellow pages
under Promotional Services, I found "Events by Wendtz".

What kind of events, I wondered, give you the kind of income you need
to live at that address on the Queen Elizabeth Driveway?

Back in the office, there was no sign of Alvin.  With luck, he'd
caught the first flight back to Sydney to resolve the family crisis.

Wherever he was, I had free access to the phone.  I checked in with the
Findlays.  Robin was in bed.

"Perhaps when Brooke gets here..."  Mrs.  Findlay let her sad, flat
voice trail off.  "It'll be good to see her."

"Well, yes," I said, "especially after her long walk."

Mrs.  Findlay always pretends she doesn't hear my Brooke comments.

"And you too, will you be here tonight?"

"Count on it," I said.

"Oh, that's good.  Robin has been finding the visits from the police
very upsetting.  Wait a minute, here she is.  She says she wants to
talk to you.  Are you sure you should be out of bed, dear?  Dr.  Beaver
says..."

"What police?  What visits?"  I shouted into the receiver.  But no
response.

"Camilla?"  Robin sounded like an exhausted mouse.  "I think they're
going to arrest me."

She looked like hell when I shot through her front door twenty minutes
later.  In sharp contrast to the perky, bright, blue flowers marching
across every free inch of the Findlays' kitchen, Robin had definite
grey undertones.  She was wearing an old United Way campaign tee-shirt
with tea stains down the front, grey jogging pants with a hole in the
knee and pink pig slippers.  Deep half-circles were gouged under her
eyes.  Her blonde curls hung in greasy strands.  She clutched a china
cup of camomile tea, and her knuckles were white.

Why?  I asked myself.  I'd seen the same body, minutes afterward.  Why
was she so psyched out?  Not that it wasn't distressing.  Not that you
wouldn't have nightmares.  I still jerked awake in the night with
Mitzi's dead eyes winking at me.  But I wasn't reduced to a psychiatric
case.  Logic told me that stable, sensible, unimaginative, dependable
old Robin should have been in the same state I was.  After all, it
wasn't someone she loved or even someone she knew as far as I could
tell.  I knew it could be explained, and I knew Robin was keeping
something from the people who loved her.  I wanted to grab Robin and
shake the truth out of her.

So instead I said, "You look like roadkill."

It was intended to make her laugh.  But all it got was a little nod of
agreement.

"I know," she said.

"More coffee, Camilla?"

"No thanks, Mr.  Findlay," I said, watching him wipe his hairy hands on
his blue and white checked apron.  I tried to remember if I'd ever seen
Mr.  Findlay without an apron.

"A little lemon coffee cake?"

He slid the lemon coffee cake towards us on small blue rimmed plates.
Forks and blue napkins arrived on the table seconds later.

Mr.  Findlay's coffee cake is not the sort of thing I'm ever going to
turn down.  I was through mine in a flash.  Mr.  Findlay had replaced
the first piece while both of us watched Robin fiddle with her little
plate, never even touching the fork.  Her nails were bitten to the
quick.

I took a deep breath.

"Tell me what the police asked you."

Mr.  Findlay scuttled from the room.

She looked at me with unfocused eyes.

"A lot of things."

"Like what?"

"What was I doing there, did I know her, was I angry with her, did I
kill her."

I nodded.  I understood why the police would ask that sort of thing. Of
course, they didn't know Robin like I did.  You couldn't blame them for
seeing guilt in Robin's refusal to say why she went to see Mitzi Brochu
that afternoon.

"It was awful," said Robin.  Whether she meant finding Mitzi or being
grilled by the police was unclear.

"Who questioned you?"

"I don't remember his name.  But he came here to my parents' house and
he badgered and badgered.  He thinks I killed her.  I know it."  She
bit her lip.

"Was it the retriever or the rodent?"

A tiny flicker of Robin's old smile twitched.

"It was the ratty-looking one.  He kept trying to trick me."

Mombourquette.  I shivered.  I hated the thought of his rodential mind.
And even more the idea of him invading the Findlays' blue-flowered
territory, trying to trap Robin for a murder she could never have
committed.

"They'll be under pressure from the media to get an arrest.  I was
there with the body.  Covered with blood."

She caught me by surprise.  The old Robin spoke for just a minute
before disappearing back into the sedative-induced mental mire.

"You'd better get a good defense lawyer.  You don't even need to talk
to them without a lawyer present.  You know that."

She half-smiled.

"You're a good lawyer."

"I mean a defense lawyer.  One of the big ones."

1 want you.

Robin had always been stubborn, even from the first day when we met in
kindergarten and she wanted the red crayon.  Some people might have
interpreted her collapse as wimpiness, but I knew it was just another
way of being obstinate.

"I don't get people off," I said, "I try to keep them in jail.  This is
not the right attitude for your case."

t(T J >

I don't care.

"Well, if you don't care about yourself and your chances, do you care
about your parents?  And your sister?  They'll want you to have the
best."

I had felt the parental presence of the Findlays throughout the
conversation.  I hoped they would rush in to offer reinforcement, but
it was just Robin and me, locked in a struggle of wills.

"You or nobody," she said, with that little smile.

"Shit."  But I knew I was hooked.  She had gotten the red crayon, too,
way back in kindergarten.  I'd backed right off because I was so happy
to have a new friend with blonde curly hair and eyes like cornflowers.
Only then did she share it with me.

I knew why she wanted me.  In practical terms, I was just as good as
the next guy.  My five years in criminal law before starting up Justice
for Victims gave me the tools I'd need to mount a competent and
spirited defense.  But more than that, I was the only lawyer around who
loved Robin and would do damned near anything to make sure she was all
right.

Having won her point, Robin closed her cornflower eyes.  Her smile
faded.  So did her colour.  I didn't think she could get any paler, but
I was wrong.  "I have to go back to bed now."

As I helped her up the stairs to her bedroom, I tried again.

"You'll have to tell me why you were there, if you expect me to
help."

"Not now," she said, as she slipped between the pink sheets with the
white ruffles, looking like a sallow stranger in this familiar room.
"Not yet."

Mr.  Findlay was waiting for me, with what looked like tears in his
eyes, when I got down stairs.

"She's asleep already," I told him.

"Thank you for taking her case.  We hoped you would."

I didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't the best thing at all.
That you get what you pay for.  In this case, the fee would be nothing,
and the defense lawyer would be blinded by affection, and someone who
usually played for the other side.

Mrs.  Findlay was staring at the television as someone's previously
unknown illegitimate child inserted herself as a new character on
Another World.  She didn't hear me say goodbye.

"It will all work out," Mr.  Findlay called out to me, as I climbed
into my car.

"That's right.  Wendtz," I said to Conn McCracken when I reached him by
phone that afternoon.  "Rudy Wendtz."

"What about him?"

"Do you realize he was Mitzi Brochu's boyfriend?"

"Your sister has an unlisted telephone number.  Do you realize that?"

"Yes, I do."

"She's a bit hard to locate."

"I suppose she is."

"I was trying to get in touch with her soon."

"So, this Rudy Wendtz, you talked to him?"  I asked.

"I can't seem to remember.  I got a lot on my mind."

"I think I have that number somewhere."

"Oh yeah, right," he said.  "Wendtz.  It's all coming back to me
now."

"My sources tell me he and La Belle Mitzi had a major battle the night
before she died."

McCracken coughed.

"Right," I said, spitting out Alexa's number.

"The guy's a vampire," said McCracken, "just like the victim.  Even
looked a bit like her."

"What about the fight?"

"What about it?"

"Check the statistics, Detective.  Eighty percent of women who are
murdered are murdered by their significant others."

"Coincidentally, a substantial portion of killers turn out to be the
person who reported the murder."

"That would be me, in this case.  Bring on the cuffs."

"Course, we don't know, maybe you ducked in, did the deed, ducked out
again, disappeared and dashed back in time to discover the deceased
with Robin."  A long, wheezy chuckle followed this.

"You have the mind of a poet, too bad you're developing asthma.  Should
see a. doctor."

He kept on chuckling.

"Back to the subject of Wendtz," I said.  "I hope Mombourquette put him
through the wringer and then hung him out to dry."

"I interviewed him myself.  I hate to be the one to break it to you,
but Wendtz had a business meeting with three associates between the
time Mitzi was last seen alive and the time you called in."

"Oh, sure," I said.  "Like some so-called promoter's associates would
never tell a fib to the big scary policeman.  And what do you mean
sicking Mombourquette on defenceless women while you get the
vampires?"

"Sorry you don't like it, but your little friend is still our prime
suspect."

"Fair enough, but you're the one who's going to look like a putz in the
local media when the killer turns out to be someone else."

"Would you mind repeating that number?"  he said, just as I hung up.

I was alone in the office and that was good, since I could swear in
private.

I nibbled at my nails and tried to work on what they call a
three-pronged strategy.  One, try to keep Robin from getting arrested.
Two, work out a foolproof defense in case she did get arrested and,
even worse, had to stand trial.  Three, try to find out what her real
involvement with Mitzi Brochu had been.

My mood was not enhanced by the five person-to-person collect phone
calls for Alvin.

I picked up the sixth and snarled, "I told you he's not here."

"Camilla?"  Alexa's voice came through after a pause.

up

Sorry.

"I just wanted to tell you I'm going to the lake for a few days to open
up the cottage.  I wanted to check you'd be all right."  "Why wouldn't
I be all right?"  "Well, you know, finding that body..."  "That was
last week."

"Even so, it must have had an effect on you."  "Have a good time."  "I
don't suppose.  "You don't suppose what?"

"Never mind, I'll call you when I get back.  If you need anything,
Edwina and Donalda are there.  And Daddy."

"Goodbye."

Great, I smiled to myself, Edwina and Donalda and Daddy.  I could put
them to work.  Shadowing Rudy Wendtz maybe.

This was such an amusing thought, I was still smiling when Alviris
shadow darkened the door.

Anyone else but Alvin and I would have felt sorry for him, his face was
so grey, his eyes so clouded, his pony tail so wilted.

"Oh, it's you," he said.  "Some people called for you this morning,"

"Who?"  I said.  "I didn't see any messages."

"They said they'd call back."

Any single-cell scrap of sympathy I might have felt evaporated.

Alvin reached over and picked up his backpack from the floor.  "Gotta
go," he said.  "Family emergency."

"What a shame.  Well, take your time.  We all have to have our
priorities.  And if you can't get back from Cape Breton, I'll
understand."

My facial muscles ached from suppressed joy.

"What are you talking about?  It should all be settled by tonight.  By
the way, I did a little research on your friend Mitzi Brochu.  That
pile there's got every article she ever wrote and that pile next to it
is newspaper articles about her and reviews of her TV specials.
Everything's in date order with the most recent items on top.  See you
tomorrow."

When Alvin's good, he's very, very good.  He's particularly good in
absentia.  I spent the rest of the afternoon combing through the
articles by and about Mitzi Brochu.  It proved to be a potent dose of a
poisonous pen.  Mitzi had been a lot of things.  Nice was not one of
them.

Alvin had been very thorough.  There was even a picture of Wendtz.
Rock promoter Rudy Wendtz, according to the caption.  He was shown
sampling sushi with Mitzi, she glittering and malevolent in black
velvet and metal, he with a two-day growth of beard and slicked back
dark-blond hair ending at his shoulders.  He looked like a man who
worked out.  And weren't those tattoos an adorable touch?

Articles on Mitzi were plentiful and while one or two bleated about the
effect her call to "diet or die" had on the already precarious eating
habits of teenage girls, most gushed about Mitzi's wicked wit and
unflagging sense of style.

When I had finished wading through the world of the late La Brochu, I
slapped the magazines on the table and considered taking a Gravol.

She had her favourite targets: actors, politicians, TV personalities
and a Toronto model she compared to a grouper.

Deb Goodhouse had been the butt of insults for years.  I thought
Mitzi's jabs had been a one-time random effort to skewer women MPs in
general.  But Mitzi articles dating way back had rearview shots of Deb
and curare-tipped remarks about her sense of style.  Running a close
second was Jo Quinlan, who averaged two major slams a year by Mitzi.  I
wasn't sure who suffered the most slings and arrows: Deb or Jo.

I flipped through the magazines and checked the little credits area in
the front.  The photographer was the same for all the Deb and Jo
pictures and many of the others.  He smiled out from a photograph that
made him look very, very good.  I fished the scissors from the desk and
snipped out the picture of the photographer.

Sammy Dash was his name, a man who obviously loved his work.



A Ivin was settled in at the desk, humming, so I foundZLmyself huddled
in the back of the office, surrounded by work I should have been doing.
It was just after nine in the morning, but already I did not feel like
working.  All I could think about was rat-faced Mombourquette waiting
for his chance to scurry through the Findlays' front door and drag
Robin off to the station, still in her pink pig slippers.

No, the best thing, I told myself, was not to sit in the office
listening to Alvin sing his favourite Fred Eaglesmith song for the
eighty-second time.  The best thing would be to get out and stir up a
little dust to distract Ottawa's finest from my very, very vulnerable
client.  I had a few strong options based on reading about Mitzi's
favourite victims.  A phone call was all it took, and I was on my
way.

"You're spooking the horses," Alvin sang, "and you're scaring me."

"Good," I said, just before I slammed the door.

Deb Goodhouse was one of those rare women who look good in red.  Very
good.  Her hair was still dark brown, almost black, cut in a dutch-boy
style.  Her dark eyes and ivory skin showed to advantage with her red
blazer and matching slash of

lipstick.  She looked like Snow White, grown middle-aged and
professional.  She smiled and shook my hand till my bones ached.  But I
could tell she was not at all glad to see me.

"Well," she said, "imagine.  Alex and Donnie's little sister.  What can
I do for you?"

I wondered if she could have been one of the handful of Ottawans who
had missed the sight of Robin and me being hustled away from Mitzis
murder site by the cops.  Somehow I doubted it.

Still, she'd been willing to see me, which was the only way I could
have gotten past the long-faced security guards and into the labyrinth
of offices in the West Block of the Parliament Buildings.

Deb Goodhouse's assistant, tall, beautiful and black, had ushered me in
through the antechamber to the MP.  s office.

"Thanks for seeing me.  This is great," I said, gawking like the rest
of the tourists on the Hill.  I had got past the area designated for
the public.

The soft leather padding on the door made me wonder, but Deb
Goodhouse's office was less opulent than I expected, even taking the
leather sofa, the brass floor lamp, and the very good rug under the
mahogany coffee table into consideration.  A television set stood
within easy view from the desk or the sofa.  Citations from dozens of
civic organizations hung around with portraits of former Prime
Ministers.  A small Canadian flag sat on the desk.

"I always wondered what it was like inside a Member of Parliament's
office."

Deb sat behind her massive desk, her fingers pressed together in a
tent.  She wore red nail polish and a chunky square-cut silver bracelet
with matching earrings.  Her body language said "shut up and get out of
here", but her red lips

stayed curved in a tight little smile.

Mitzi had done a real number on her.  I thought back to phrases such as
"Polyester Goes to Parliament", "Pound for Pound the Voters Choice" and
"The Hulk on the Hill".  It seemed absurd to think of Deb Goodhouse in
those terms.  She was a large woman, but polished and attractive,
looking younger than her forty something years.  Her overall image was
one of competence and calm.  Of course, she was a little tense, but
that was because I was there.

"Mitzi Brochu."  I met her eyes as I said it.

"What about her?"

"I'm sure you know she's been killed, and in a most gruesome manner.  A
client of mine is being investigated for the murder and, as part of the
background work for the defense, I'm looking into what kind of woman
the victim was."

A little snort escaped from Deb Goodhouse's red lips.

I stopped.

"Go on," she said.

"Well, there were some Ottawa people she liked to skewer in her columns
and on her broadcasts.  You were one of them.  That makes me think you
couldn't be a fan.  I wanted to get a sense of how the non-fan would
describe her."

I sat back in my chair.  Alex and Donnie's little sister from hell.

"Well," she said, "how would you like to pick up your mail some day and
see your flowered butt in full-colour spread across the pages of one of
your magazine subscriptions?  Of course I wasn't a fan.  She didn't
want me to be a fan.  She wanted me to be one of her victims."  She
paused and watched my face.  "I don't make a good victim, Ms.
MacPhee."

"Doesn't surprise me.  But what did you think of her?  What emotions
did she arouse in you?"

She laughed.

"You don't get elected, you know, by giving in to your emotions on
every little thing.  You've got to save your energy for what counts."

"So she didn't bother you?"

"Of course, she bothered me.  Wouldn't she bother you?"  "She did
bother me.  And I wasn't even one of her victims."  "Neither was I, Ms.
MacPhee.  She wanted me to be, but I

j yj wasn't.

T> 1"

I'm sorry.

"My mother always told me three things, "Doing well is the best
revenge, look at yourself and see the truth and make sure you find the
opportunity in every situation.""

I raised an eyebrow at her.

"When Mitzi first started to skewer me, as you call it, I was pretty
steamed.  I talked to my lawyer and I slammed every cupboard door in
the house."

I liked this approach.  It was the first feeling of warmth I'd felt for
her.

"Then I tried my mother's advice and took a good look at myself.  In
the mirror.  I saw a woman who was large and dumpy and wearing plenty
of flowered polyester, but no make-up.  At the same time, I saw a woman
who'd spent a career fighting to help other people--street kids,
refugees, the working poor--but the only time she splashes across the
pages of a national magazine is when some shark-woman in Toronto
decides she's not fashionable."

For someone who saved her emotion for what counted, Deb Goodhouse's
neck was very red.  Her lips were now clamped in a steely line.

"Not fair, really," I encouraged.

"Of course, it wasn't fair.  But that's not the point."

"What is the point?"

"The point," she said, pointing a red fingernail at me, "is I decided
to take a few lessons.  It doesn't pay to be a laughingstock in this
business.  I didn't sue the witch, that would just draw attention to
her.  But I changed my appearance, dropped the polyester, got
professional advice, modified my hair a bit.  Just gradually, over a
year or so.  And I didn't say boo about Mitzi and her campaign of
mockery.  I got a lot of sympathy calls and visits from other people
who thought I might be upset and a few smirks from so-called friends.
But I've weathered it."

"What about the photographer?"

"What about him?"

"Did you have any reaction to him?"

She shrugged.  "Why should I?  He was just doing his job.  Mitzi was
the driving force behind the articles."

"Tell me, why did Mitzi pick you?"

"Who knows?  Because I was there, I guess.  I asked myself that often
enough.  I think she just liked to single out women who were doing
something real and important and hold them up to ridicule."

"Did you ever meet her?"

She shook her head.  "Never wanted to.  I might have had trouble
holding my tongue, and I wouldn't have wanted to read my comments in
the media."

"So," I said, "you must have hated her, though."

"I didn't hate her.  I have better uses for my energy."

I thought her snarl took away from the sincerity of the statement. Deep
down, Deb Goodhouse had harboured a red hot hatred for Mitzi Brochu. 
Too hot to hide behind a cool exterior.  Too hot to cool down even
after Mitzi's death.

"I'm sure you have."

"Anything else you need to know, Ms.  MacPhee?"  She

pointed at her in-basket.  "As you can see, I have plenty to do."

"You've given me lots to think about," I said.

I stood up and shook her hand before she could take the initiative.  It
was sweaty, not at all like a politician's should be.  Stress can do
that to you.

I said good-bye to the beautiful assistant, leaning over her desk to
shake her hand.

"Sorry," I said, "I didn't catch your name."

"Manon.  Manon Bruyere," she said, with some reluctance.  She seemed to
think I was up to something.

I was.

Deb Goodhouse bellowed for her and I left, smiling.

I was still smiling as I strolled out of the Centre Block, through the
tourists, and down the Hill to Wellington Street.  Eighteen thousand
blood-red tulips nodded at me, pleased with my results.

I thought about the woman I had just visited.  The shoulder pads on Deb
Goodhouse's very good red jacket had been designed to draw the eye away
from the size of her arms, but in my mind, there was no doubt about it:
Deb Goodhouse would have been strong enough to hoist skinny little
Mitzi by those ropes.  Things were looking up.  Another day like this
and I hoped to be able to present a package of possibilities to the
police.

"What kind of knots were used to tie those ropes?"  I asked McCracken.
I thought coming straight out with it would be the best approach.  I
thought wrong.

"That number doesn't answer," he said.

"It doesn't?"

"That's right."

"Well, I'm sure it's her number.  I ought to know.  I've been returning
her calls for enough years."

"Well, she doesn't appear to be there."

"She could just be out shopping."

"I don't think so.  I tried all last night.  And this morning from nine
o'clock on."

"Hmmm, well, I'm kind of busy now trying to find out what kind of knots
were used on Mitzi.  Once I find out, I could look into why Alexa isn't
answering her phone.  In the meantime, I guess you could say I'm tied
up."

"Reef knots.  Some people call them square knots."

"What kind of people use square knots?"

"Sailors and boy scouts among others," he chuckled.

"Thanks.  Oh, and Conn, I just remembered.  Alexa's spending a couple
of days opening up her cottage.  Too bad she doesn't have an answering
machine."

"Oh, thanks a lot."

I could feel the chill on the line.

"Think nothing of it," I said.

For my next phone call, I had to pinch my nose to change the sound of
my voice.  First, I found Manon Bruyere's telephone number in the
government telephone book.

"This is Mabel Hubley calling from die Headquarters of the Girl Guides
of Canada.  We're double-checking our list of famous former guides. Can
you tell me if Ms.  Goodhouse is one?"

"Well, of course, she is.  You must know that.  She's been on your
Board of Directors."

Oops.

Manon's voice changed.  "Wait a minute.  Who did you say you were?"

But it was too late.  I had what I needed.

I was alone in the office, planning my next coup, when Ted Beamish
knocked.  It was time to close up for the day and I'd sent Alvin off to
the public library to get some books on knots.  I'd made him promise to
borrow them officially.

"Hi," Ted said.

"Hi," I answered, wondering why he was there.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure, why not?"

He settled into the chair, placing his briefcase on the floor and
loosening his tie with the little palm trees.

"Just on my way home from the office and I thought I might check to see
if you wanted to try that movie tonight.  And bring your friend."

"Robin's not in shape for a movie."

"Oh."  Disappointment flashed across his face.  I swear all the little
palm trees on his tie drooped a bit.

"She's a bit slow getting over finding Mitzi's body.  And the police
are hassling her."

He looked like a little red-headed kid whose popsicle had melted too
fast.

"I'll tell you what, I'll talk to her about the movie.  Maybe that'll
cheer her up a bit and speed the recovery."  I beamed at him, hoping
he'd leave me alone.  "Sure," he said.

"I'm sure she'll want to go the minute she gets the old pep back."

t(T\ 1 )J

Right.  "No, I mean it."  I had no idea of how she'd react to the

three of us going out to a movie.  But I had an overwhelming urge to
protect him.

"Okay.  Do you think I could drop in with you and maybe help to cheer
her up?"

I could just imagine what would happen if Robin discovered I'd brought
one of Ottawa's rare available bachelors to see her with her hair in
strings and her feet in pigs.

"I'm afraid she's sedated.  Not allowed any visitors except family.
They make me sit in the living room, and they relay my messages to her
whenever she regains consciousness."

I could tell he didn't believe me.

"But I could go to the movie with you later.  We could even grab a
hamburger or something."

I couldn't believe this was happening.  Hadn't he been the one who
jumped the gun about asking me to a movie?  And here I was pleading
with him to make it happen.  And all because I didn't want the little
jerk to look sad.

"I guess so," he said.

"Good.  Good.  Good.  Good.  Well, I'll give you a call as soon as I
get home."  I stood up and slipped into my jacket, hoping he'd get the
hint.  "You'd better give me your phone number."

Brooke arrived from Toronto just after I settled in at the Findlays'.

"Surprise," she said as she swept into the room, trailing garment
bags.

I was surprised all right.  Surprised it had taken her six days to
manage the five hour drive from her Toronto penthouse.

We all looked up from the chocolate chip cheesecake muffins Mr.  F.
had just served.

With the exception of me, everyone switched into "Brooke's here" mode,
rustling about, fussing.  Fetching her a chair, then a cushion for the
chair, then a glass of wine and cup of coffee.  Fretting because the
coffee couldn't be cappuccino.  Trying to tempt her with the muffins.

Brooke leaned back, stretched out her mile-long legs and lit a
cigarette.

"So many things are happening.  I've been so frantic.  I can't wait to
tell you all the news."

They leaned forward in anticipation.  Mrs.  Findlay with the same
expression she uses to watch the soaps.  Mr.  Findlay with a tray of
mixed baked goods he'd assembled for Brooke.  Robin still in the pink
pig slippers.  In fact, Robin hadn't taken her eyes off her sister
since Brooke blew through the door.

"Big new assignment," said Brooke, smiling and taking a sip from the
wine.

She was wearing long, long, tight, tight jeans and a washed out blue
tee-shirt.  No make-up, no jewellery.  Of course, she was getting a
little long in the tooth for a model, close to twenty-five.  But she
was still breathtaking.  Her parents and sister were, in fact, almost
holding their collective respiration waiting for the news of the big
assignment.  I picked another muffin from the plate and asked myself
how Elmvale Acres could have produced an amazing specimen like
Brooke.

"Okay, just a little bit, Daddy," the amazing specimen said, accepting
the plate of goodies.

She picked up a brownie, took a tiny bite, put it back on the plate and
licked her fingers.  Everyone smiled in approval.  Except me.

Perhaps you're just jealous, I suggested to myself, because

you're not five-eleven, a hundred and eighteen pounds, and ash blonde
with azure eyes and full pouty lips.  Perhaps.

"It's official.  I'm going to be the face they use for the new "Walk in
the Woods' campaign.  I'm the "Walk in the Woods' woman!  It's all
signed.  Nothing can stop it now."

Everyone gasped.  Well, not everyone.  But even I did a few mental
calculations.  "Walk in the Woods" makeup, toiletries and bath products
were the biggest phenomenon in the Canadian beauty business.  All
natural products, no animal testing, great colours, politically correct
and reasonably priced.  "Walk in the Woods" was rolling over all the
old standbys and even the new players in the cosmetics industry.

Even I had to admit it was some kind of big deal.

Mrs.  Findlay turned to me.  "Isn't that wonderful?  Our beautiful
daughter.  She's just like Nina on my show, isn't she?  We're so
proud."

I thought it would be inappropriate to gag, but it was tough
resisting.

There was lots of other news from Toronto.  Who Brooke had seen,
lunched with, where she'd eaten dinner, what parties, what contacts.

What tripe, I thought, but everyone was spellbound, even Robin, who
should have known better.

Brooke had lots of new clothes too, in the garment bags.  Things
needing a little nip here or a tuck there.  Mrs.  Findlay scuttled for
her sewing basket.  Mr.  Findlay trotted out to the car to pick up the
rest of Brooke's luggage.  Robin sat there, transfixed by her sister. 
And chewing her nails.

They didn't pay too much attention to me as I left.

After the Findlays, Ted Beamish seemed normal.  Once I had called him,
he insisted on picking me up to go to the movie.  I'd slipped into my
favourite old jeans and yanked on a pullover.  The warm May day had
been replaced by a nippy night with a frost warning, but you could
still smell the fresh green leaves in the air.

He ordered bagels and lox at Nate's, while I went for the traditional
smoked meat sandwich.  The Bytowne was right across the street and Hear
My Song was playing.

"So," he said, once we were settled in and our food had arrived, "how's
Robin doing?"

I crunched my pickle and thought about how Robin was doing.  Better
perhaps with her sister there, taking her mind off the murder.  But not
good.  I thought back to her waxy skin and glazed eyes.  Eyes following
her sister's every move, eyes filled with questions.  Not once had
Brooke referred to Robin's experience.  Except for an airy little cheek
kiss, she hadn't acknowledged her at all.  Brooke liked to be concerned
with Brooke.  For this she was rewarded, in life and by her family.

To Ted I said, "Not great.  She's a long way from being better."

To myself I said, what are you holding back?

"That's too bad.  Well, keep me posted.  We'll get out together soon
enough, I guess."

Later as we sat in the theatre, I considered this.  I'd thought he
wanted to go out with me.  But maybe he'd been angling for Robin all
along and I was just too arrogant to see it.  But if he did want to go
out with Robin all along, why wouldn't he just call her up and ask her
out?  She would have been tickled.  Not bitchy like me.

It did not compute, and in the dark of the theatre I turned

away from the screen to look at Ted Beamish, enigma.

He blinked and offered me some more popcorn.  What the hell, I told
myself, you think too much.

The next morning, the sun was splashing deep-pink stripes across the
sky as I rose.  I got up early and ready for action.

I had a lot to do if I wanted to keep my buddy out of the hoosegow.  Of
course, six cats had to be fed before I did anything.

The temperature was about 13 degrees Celsius as I sat out on the
balcony in my fuzzy-green winter housecoat, sipping from a large mug of
extra-strong Colombian and making lists.  Stuff to pick up at the
grocery store.  Things to do at the office.  People to talk to.
Suspects to badger.

The pink sun accentuated the bit of the Harmony Hotel visible from the
balcony.  I added Richard Sandes to my list of people to talk to.

The temperature was inching up as I stalked down the path by the river.
It was the first time in days I'd had the mental space to enjoy the
blue and silver ripples on the water, to listen to the birds, to grin
at the nosy groundhog.  The grass along the sweeping lawns separating
the Parkway and the shore was deep-green and dewy, and the deciduous
trees sported clouds of tiny, fresh leaves.  It was going to be a great
day.

I clomped into the Harmony about 40 minutes after I had left home.

Two young women, wearing the house uniform of deep turquoise jackets
and navy mini-skirts, were at the reception desk.  One was Stephanie,
the trainee I remembered from my

first visit.  The other one was Naomi.  She'd been on duty the night I
had visited Richard in his office, and later at the bar.

They both had very big hair and fresh faces.  One wore little flats and
the other one had on spiky pumps.  I looked down at my Nikes and
wondered if it was time to change my look.  At least when visiting the
Harmony.

Mr.  Sandes was in a meeting and would not be available for another
hour, they explained.  My disappointment must have showed because they
offered to take a message, in stereo.  I wanted to move a little faster
in my investigations, not that I was dying to see him.

I left my work number, telling myself it was just business.

As I turned to walk away, I remembered something and decided to try my
luck.

I dug the magazine picture of Sammy Dash out of my purse and asked them
if they had ever seen the photographer around the Harmony when Mitzi
was staying there.

A little spark of tension flickered among the three of us.  They
exchanged glances.

"No," said Stephanie.

"I don't think we can discuss anything like that with you before we
talk to Mr.  Sandes," said Naomi.

"There must be some things you do without checking with Mr.  Sandes," I
pointed out.

"Right," said Naomi, "but this isn't one of them."

I decided I liked her.

I'd been hoping they would have identified Sammy Dash as one of Mitzi's
frequent visitors and maybe offered me a little poop on him.  Their
reluctance just made me more interested in Sammy, the long shot.

"Alvin," I said, "you're looking lovely today."

He flashed an inky look at me from behind the cat's eye sunglasses he
was, for some reason, wearing in the office.  His hair was glossy and
caught in a smooth ponytail and there was a scrubbed look about him and
his black clothing which I was sure he would try to eradicate, if only
he realized it.  I sniffed the air.  Sure enough, fabric softener.

I had made up my mind if I couldn't beat Alvin, I would join him.
Although I felt like beating him.

"Some guy named Sandes called you."

I'd have been damned before I would have let Alvin know about the
little fris son I felt at this news.

"A date?"  asked Alvin.

"No, not a date.  And not your business."  Stuff like that just rolls
off Alvin.

This was where the joining not beating came in.

"You hang around with an artsy crowd.  Did you ever hear of a
photographer named Sammy Dash?"

He scrunched up his face in an effort of recalling.  Very uncool, I
thought.

"Nah," he said, "don't think so."

"Oh," I said, simulating grave disappointment with some success.

"I suppose I could find out.  I've got a lot of connections in that
line."

"Would you?"

"Sure, I'd do it right now, but I have all this typing to do."  He
pointed to the one letter and three envelopes I'd left for him in the
box I'd labelled TO DO ALVIN AND MAKE IT

SNAPPY.

I figured I could do the letter and envelopes myself before Alvin hit
the end of Elgin Street on his way to the cafes in the

Byward market.  Where everyone wore black.  Where you'd go to find out
about a photographer named Sammy Dash.

"Sayonara," I said, trying to resist pushing him out the door.

As his feet thudded down the stairs, it began to dawn on me that Alvin
might turn out to be useful.  An Archie Goodwin of sorts.

Once I was sure he was gone, I picked up the message from Richard
Sandes.  Archie Goodwin had neglected to write down the number.  I
pulled out the telephone book and found the Harmony.  As I lifted the
receiver, I could feel my heart pick up the pace a bit.

For God's sake, I told myself, it's not time yet.  Paul's only been
dead three years.  You're not ready.  You're not interested in other
men.  And even if you were, would you pick a man who must be past
fifty, with a grown family, wherever they are?  Too ridiculous.

I dialled the number.

"Richard?"  I breathed, when the switchboard connected us.



Jo Quinlan was naked, drying her hair in the ladies changing room of
the health club of the Chateau Cartier Sheraton.  She turned off the
hair dryer when I spoke to her.

"Nice place," I said, after introducing myself.  "Isn't it a bit out of
the way for you?"

"I like it.  It's pretty much on my way home from work.  I don't have a
lot of spare time, so if you can tell me what..."

"I know what you mean."  It wasn't like I had all the time in the
world.  "Finish up.  I'll wait."

She flicked the dryer back on, waving it around and fluffing her hair
with her fingers, squinting with dissatisfaction.  I thought her hair
looked great.  Deep auburn, little soft kinky waves, cut a bit
asymmetrical.  I figured her haircut cost more than my month's
groceries.

I waited.

When she finished, she flicked off the dryer and tucked it into a blue
and violet gym bag.  She stared at herself with narrowed eyes in the
mirror.  I didn't think she liked what she saw.  It was hard to figure
why.

I saw a woman, close to six feet tall, with broad shoulders and tan
skin dusted with light freckles.  She must have been a star basketball
or volleyball player back in high school, and she was still in shape.

I felt easier asking her questions once she'd put her

underwear on.  Ladies changing rooms rattle me.  It's a legacy from
the nuns.

"Mitzi Brochu," I said, as she pulled on a cream-coloured silk
man-style shirt.

I didn't miss the quick look she shot me.

"What about her?"

"She mentioned you in several articles."

She'd turned away from me and slid herself into a pair of faded black
jeans.  But even from behind I could see those strong shoulders
tense.

She turned back to me.  "I noticed."

"I'm not surprised.  They were extraordinarily vitriolic.  And
deliberately cruel."

"Tell me about it," she said, snaking a tan woven leather belt into the
belt loops of the jeans.

"Any idea why she picked you as a subject?"

"None.  I came home one night and there was my subscription to Femme
Fatale and there was I, paraded for all the world to see.  Photographed
in front of my dad's barn down in Buckingham.  The caption read "Which
one is the barn?"  How would you like that?"

"I wouldn't.  No one would."

"Right."  She tugged on a tweed blazer with tan, black, cream and
hunter green in it and pulled the shoulders straight.  "Mind telling me
why you're asking me these things?"

"Not at all.  I'm a lawyer and my client is suspected by the police of
putting Mitzi out of her misery.  I'm trying to find out more about
Mitzi and her relationships."

"Can't say I blame you.  Did your client get the Femme Fatale treatment
too?"

"No.  I don't think she ever had anything to do with Mitzi."

"Hmm," she said, and I could tell she was thinking back.

"Okay, she's the little blonde lady who left the Harmony.  You were
with her, if I remember correctly.  Robin Findlay."

"Right."  I remembered that Jo Quinlan was a reporter first and had a
good grasp of the background.

"Did it give you any satisfaction to know that the woman who'd made you
miserable had one of her victims turn on her?"

Of course, this was quite out of line, but I asked it anyway.  Jo
picked up her black leather purse and her gym bag before she
answered.

"Mitzi Brochu didn't make me miserable.  Sure, she tried and I'm
certain that she would have tried again.  But it didn't work.  I wasn't
miserable and I never would have been.  Irritated, yes.  Pissed off,
yes.  But not miserable."

She met my eyes with her steady green ones.  And I believed her.

"And since you asked me straight out instead of beating around the
bush, yes, her death did give me a certain satisfaction.  She was
playing with fire.  And maybe someone snapped.  Possibly someone who
was afraid to be the next victim.  Whoever it was did the world a
favour.  But it wasn't me.  So I guess that doesn't help your client
much.  Good luck elsewhere."

I was thinking about her comments as she strode out of the changing
room, leaving me surrounded by bodies I had no wish to see.  I caught
up to her as she was climbing into her Toyota Supra in the parking
lot.

"Why did she single you out from among the media?"

"God damned if I know," she said, settling herself in and fastening her
seat belt.  "I never figured that out.  She did, and she sicked her
photographer on me, and that's all I know."

"What about the photographer?"

"What about him?"

"What's he like?"

If Jo had managed to keep a cool head during the chat about Mitzi, she
had a bit more trouble talking about Sammy Dash.  Her hands clenched
around the wheel and the muscles on her neck stood out in ropes.

"He's a shitty little weasel who stalks his victims with great
enjoyment.  You can see it in his beady eyes when he catches you. Maybe
he's just mad at the world because he can't get it up."

"Can't he?"

"How the hell would I know?"  She pressed the power button for the
window and I yanked my hand out just in time.

I looked after her for a long time after she peeled out of the parking
lot on two wheels.  Maybe she hadn't killed Mitzi Brochu, although she
was strong enough and she had motivation enough.  But Sammy Dash would
have the fight of his life if he ever ran into her in a dark, lonely
place.

And she'd given me a very interesting comment to chew on.

When I arrived at the Findlays' around six, everyone had already eaten.
The fragrance of roast chicken hung over the kitchen and the living
room, where Mrs.  R, surrounded by sewing gear, was concentrating on
the television screen.  A man and a woman (Clarissa and Jake) lay naked
and alone (except for the camera crew) and not only that, they were
about to say something of great importance.

"Hello, Mrs.  Findlay," I said.

"Shh.  Not now, dear," she said without taking her eyes off the
screen.

Mr.  F. grabbed my arm and hustled me into the kitchen,

closing the door so we couldn't break the spell with any idle
chatter.

"Lemon meringue pie?"  he whispered.

I almost explained that I was going out and shouldn't eat dessert
first, when I recognized the small-minded beliefs that lay behind such
a statement.

Love some.

"Good girl.  New recipe."

"How's Robin?"

"So-so.  Here, we'll take this upstairs and you can try to cheer her
up."

Together, we crept past Mrs.  F. and up the stairs with a plate of pie
and a pot of tea.

Robin was propped up in her bed talking to Brooke when we opened the
door.  Brooke broke off in mid-sentence.  Both of them stared at us as
if we were some new species of spider.  Pushing her father aside,
Brooke left the room without a word, but with a backward look at Robin
that said lots.  Mr.  Findlay crept out after her.  The scent of
Brooke's expensive fragrance hung around after she left, irritating
me.

"You're dressed up," Robin said, leaning back on her pillow and closing
her eyes.

"No, I'm not," I said, pouring the tea.

it-\r ))

You are so.

"Not.  And anyway, how would you know?  Your eyes are closed."

"Look at your shoes."

"People wear high heels all the time."

"People, yes.  You, no."

"It's no big deal."  Robin sat up, and for the first time since the
murder, looked a bit like her perceptive self.

"Don't recall seeing you in a skirt after work hours.  Ever.  With
your cashmere sweater yet."

"I felt like a change."

She leaned forward and squinted at me.

"I do believe you're wearing makeup."

Maybe I'd overdone it.  My black pumps with the challis skirt and the
good sweater.  The lipstick was a bit much, I thought.  I wasn't that
used to applying it.

"Tell me you're in love."

"I am not in love," I snapped.  "I am just making incredible personal
sacrifices for you."

"You must be.  Lipstick.  My God."  She fell back against her blue and
white flowered pillowcase, laughing.  Just like the old days.

After two minutes, I told her to shut up.

"I'd hate to think of what you'd do if you saw someone in an evening
dress, for God's sake.  You'd have to be put down."

"An evening dress," she howled.  "Camilla in an evening dress."

Robin's old self was reappearing, and what did it matter if my ego had
to be sacrificed to make it happen?

"I'm doing it for you," I said, with a small martyred smile.

All I got in response were snuffling, choking sounds.

"I'm busting my butt investigating other suspects in Mitzi's murder in
order to get the police off your back, and what do I get for it?
Mockery and derision."

The mockery and derision stopped as the words came out.  The blood
drained from Robin's face, and she sank into the coverlet.

"Oh, don't do that," she whispered.

"Why not, for God's sake?"

"You might ... get hurt."

"Don't be silly.  What could happen to me?"

"Look what happened to Mitzi."

"That happened because Mitzi was Mitzi.  Nothing like that is going to
happen to me on the streets of Ottawa."

"Please, don't do it.  Leave it to the police."

"The police, may I remind you, are sniffing around you.  They think all
this collapsing in bed looking like a stale pudding is exactly the type
of thing a remorseful crucifixionist would do.  What the hell is wrong
with you?  What do you know about the murder?  Who did you see?  Stop
lying to me, Robin."

"I told you.  I didn't see anything.  Nothing."

When Mr.  Findlay tiptoed through the bedroom door with Robin's latest
dose of medication, he found her lying with her eyes closed.

I, on the other hand, was sitting there steaming.  Robin was making
herself sick about this.  And refusing the very type of activity that
could help her.  Bullshit, I said to myself, I just can't stand this
kind of bullshit.  What really bugged me was that underneath the signs
of weakness I could sense a steely stubbornness.  Maybe she hadn't seen
anything, but she was damn well deflecting attention from someone.  Who
and why were the questions.

"It's been very hard on us," Mr.  Findlay whispered in the hallway,
"having her like that.  Thank heaven Brooke's here, or I think her
mother's heart would break.  Thanks for coming.  It usually cheers
Robin."

Right.

As I passed by the living room on my way out, Mrs.  Findlay was on the
phone to her friend.

"Honest to God, Marge," she said, lighting a cigarette.  "Clarissa told
him about the baby.  I couldn't believe it."

She gave me a little wave without breaking stride in her conversation
as I left.

They told me later that Robin just lay upstairs, not speaking, until
the next day, when the police came back.

Driving back downtown, I thought about Robin and whatever she was
hiding.  I've known her for twenty-seven years.  She was holding back
something, and knowing Robin, it couldn't be for her own benefit.
Therefore, it was for someone else.  Since Mitzi's murder had been
brutal and vicious, even taking into consideration Mitzi's nasty side,
under normal circumstances Robin would not have tried to protect
someone who would do such a thing.  Not unless it was someone very
special.  Someone close.

I thought back to an episode when we were in seventh grade.  Someone
had broken Mrs.  Findlay's prize possession, a Royal Doulton figurine.
Tensions had run high in the Findlay household, and Robin had taken the
rap for it.  Even though I'd been sitting next to her on her blue
chenille bedspread when we heard the crash.  Even though I'd told her
parents that.  Even though she'd been grounded for a month, and God
only knows what emotional havoc was heaped on her by her loony mother.
Even though.

Robin had kept a pale-faced silence throughout, never once protesting
her innocence.  Never once pointing her finger at the real culprit, a
seven-year-old vision of blonde hair and blue eyes and sweet smiles.

And Brooke, of course, had never confessed.

By rights Robin should have been jealous of the much younger little
brat who got all the attention, but she never was.

Always supported, always defended.  Since I was the little brat in my
own family, there wasn't a lot I could say about it to Robin.  Brooke
was another story.

"You've had your First Communion, Brooke," I'd made a point of saying
at the time.  "So I guess you realize that you'll burn in hell for
this.  This is a double mortal sin and your soul doesn't have even one
little tiny patch of white left on it."

Deep down I'd suspected that Brooke wasn't worried one bit about God
and his helpers.  She knew she could wrap them around her little
finger.

"Leave her alone," Robin had told me, her eyes still red rimmed from
her mother's last verbal blast.  "She's just a little kid."

"Old enough to fry."

Brooke had started to cry at that point.  She had an amazing trick of
crying while still looking beautiful.  No blotches, no red eyes.  Just
little rivulets of tears and a trembling pink lower lip.

"Better go home now," Robin had told me, as she reached down to comfort
her poor, trembling little sister.  "See you tomorrow at school."

"Sizzle, sizzle," I mouthed at Brooke as I left, making sure that Robin
didn't see me.

The memory of that encounter was crisp and vivid, even though it was
nearly twenty years old.  And two things I knew: Brooke hadn't changed
a bit.  And neither had Robin.

Even the soothing tones of the Harmony couldn't quite dispel my
miserable mood.  The ambience in The Tranquillity Room should have been
enough, given the string quartet and all.  The poached Atlantic salmon
helped a lot, and so did the chocolate

pate and raspberry could is  Still, I was on edge.  As we sipped our
cappuccino, Richard Sandes leaned across the white linen tablecloth and
gave my hand a squeeze.  Warm and protective.  Like a father.

"Maybe she's right," he said.

I gazed into his deep-brown eyes and said, "Don't be silly."

Ruining the mood.

He gave me one of his sad smiles, but I thought I saw a flicker of
concern cross his face as he beckoned for the waiter.

The waiter practically vaulted over the serving table to get to us.  He
managed to maintain his dignity, although I couldn't help noticing his
toupee was a bit askew.

"Armagnac?"  Richard asked.

"Better not.  I've got my car."

Naturally.  I'm the only person I know who would take her own car on
what was turning out to be a very romantic evening of investigation.

"Don't worry about that.  I'll get you home.  Your car will be fine in
our parking lot overnight.  Armagnac for two, Gilles," he told the
waiter.

"Yes, Mr.  Sandes."

Richard and I exchanged grins as the waiter hurried off to get our
drinks.  He paused before one of the tall mirrors to straighten his
hair.  It couldn't be easy, I thought, serving dinner to the General
Manager.

I returned to the subject du soir.

"You don't know her, Richard.  She's always been levelheaded and calm.
She's had plenty of time to recover her emotional balance since finding
the body."

I couldn't figure out what there was about this man, but here I was
blabbering on about Robin and my fears.  Maybe

there's something about seeing a corpse together that helps to break
down conversational barriers in later encounters.

He shook his head.  "I don't know about that.  It was so gruesome.  I'm
still waking up in the middle of the night, dreaming about it.  And I'm
a tough old goat, not a young woman who stumbled onto a murder scene
alone."

The Armagnac arrived before I could say something cranky.  In the
interests of keeping the very pleasant evening very pleasant, I decided
not to talk about Robin anymore.

Instead we talked about me growing up in Ottawa, my family, my weird
job, even a bit about Alvin.  The Alvin parts caused Richard to laugh,
lightening his face, warming it.

I didn't ask him much about his personal life, and he didn't volunteer
much.  But the questions were bouncing around in my head, questions I
wouldn't hesitate to ask a man who didn't interest me.  Things like:
are you planning to stay here permanently, does your wife have some
kind of job commitment in Toronto that prevents her from joining you,
are you separated, divorced, growing apart?  Things like: do you feel
lonely, how did you vote in the last election, what do you like for
breakfast?  I stopped myself at that last thought.  Careful, careful.
Don't be an idiot.

"So," I said out loud, all business, "thanks for your information about
Rudy Wendtz."

Richard had been nursing his Armagnac with a semi-smile on his face.
His head snapped up at this.

"I've been thinking.  I shouldn't have told you about him at all.  This
is a very dangerous situation, and he's a pretty sleazy guy.  The
police know about him.  I think you should let them handle it."

"Too late," I said, "I've already tracked him down.  And are you sure
the police know about him?"

I didn't mention that I hadn't been able to talk to Wendtz yet.  Some
things are better left unsaid.

"Oh yes," said Richard, "I made a point of letting them know.  Just on
the off chance he didn't turn up in their investigation.  Although it's
unlikely they would have missed out on someone so close to ... the
deceased."

I nodded.  We both knew that.

"Who knows what they'll turn up about him."

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated, "Well, I've got reason to believe he's involved in some
pretty bad stuff."

"Like what?"

Richard shrugged, "Dealing drugs, I'm pretty sure."

"What makes you think so?"  I asked, having drawn the same conclusion
myself on the very slim grounds that this guy had a lot of money and
not much job to show for it.

"Information from the staff.  They talked about everything Mitzi did
and anyone who spent time with her.  They tell me that Wendtz is
involved in big league stuff.  No facts, mind you, just gossip.  But I
believe it."

"Hmmm."  Alvin could be put to work on this one too.

He smiled at me, "I hope we're not going to be talking about this all
night."

"No," I said, meeting his eyes.  "Just one more thing."

A sigh and then, "What is it?"

"The photographer, Sammy Dash, what do you know about him?"

Richard thought for a minute.  "Not a lot.  He was in and out.  Acting
like a big shot.  Aggressive little creep.  Making a play for
good-looking women all the time, especially the tall, slim ones, and
always looking for a shot that would sell.  You know, paparazzi
type."

"Wow," I said, with mock amazement, "here in Ottawa.  Imagine."

"Exactly.  Here in Ottawa, they don't like that sort of thing."

He glanced away, and I spotted a well-known politician dining with a
less well-known, but most influential, pillar of the consulting
community.

"That must have given you a bit of grief."

"It did.  I had to speak to Ms.  Brochu and tell her to keep him on a
leash, or our special arrangement might have to end.  I couldn't risk a
complaint whispered in the ear of the CEO or the Chairman of the Board
by some outraged politico," he twinkled.  "And I enjoyed telling her,
too."

The Ottawa river glittered as we drove along the Parkway.  The usual
blackness was lifted by the vigorous full moon beaming down on us.
Aretha was belting out "Chain of Fools" on the car stereo, and I was
thinking about Richard's wife.

As we pulled into my quiet crescent and rolled to a stop in front of my
building, I found it difficult to breathe.

Ask him, my internal voices screamed, ask him about his goddam wife.
But all I managed was a goofy grin.  It reminded me of all those nights
after the Saturday dance at St.  Jim's, grinning at a new boy who'd
walked me home.

Richard was much more mature.

"Please promise me that you won't go barging after Sammy Dash or try
seeing Rudy Wendtz."

"I'm a big girl, Richard.  I won't step into the basement with either
one of them.  I promise that."

"Funny," he said, "I'm not sure that you realize how dangerous big
players in the drug game can be, although in your line of work you
should.  And keep in mind that something very bad happened to Mitzi."

"Mmm."

"Mmm nothing," he said in the tone he must have used with his daughter
over the years.  "You call me, or the police, or someone very large and
mean if you decide to have any dealings with either one of them."

"Thanks, Mom."

He gave me a look that defied interpretation, but I was used to living
on the edge.

"Good night, Camilla."

He brushed a light kiss over my forehead.  It could have been the kind
of kiss you exchange in those first tentative moments when you think
you may be falling in love with someone, and you are quivering with
suppressed emotion.  Or it could have been the kind of kiss you bestow
on your favourite aunt as she recovers from a bit of bladder repair in
the hospital.

As I jabbed my key into the lock of the interior door to the foyer, I
wanted to scream "Just where the hell is your wife, anyway?"



Oammy Dash lit his Gitane with care and respect, sucked in O the
results, and looked right through me.

I was perched at the next table in a black-walled cafe, watching Sammy
watch the ladies.  I'd followed Alvin's list of likely sites for
spotting Sammy, and sure enough, by the end of my round in the Byward
Market area restaurants, bingo.  I decided to let Alvin put his feet up
on the desk for ten minutes on Monday morning.

Two women in jeans, sweaters and Birkenstocks sipped their second
refill of coffee and wrinkled their sensible noses as the first whiff
of the Gitane passed their way.  I watched with amusement as they
pointed out to the waitress the incongruity of Sammy exhaling right
underneath the sign that said Non-Smoking Section.

The waitress was a curvy teenager in a black knit top and mini-skirt,
which went well with her fish belly skin, scarlet lips and fuck-me
shoes.  Her black hair was pulled up and off to one side in a Pebbles
Gone Wrong look.  The chewing gum was a nice touch, too.

She goggled at the two women.  Then shot a glance at Sammy.  He leaned
back in his seat, exhaling a jet stream of Gitane exhaust in the
direction of the complainants.

The waitress rolled her eyes and chewed her gum.

"Well," she said, "there's nothing I can do about it.  Would

you mind moving over by the window?  No one's smoking over there."

"What do you mean, there's nothing you can do about it?  Tell that
asshole to butt out.  Tell him to move over by the window," said one of
the women.

"Well, I can't.  He owns this place."

"To hell with this," said the woman.  "We're out of here. 
Permanently." She scraped back her chair, scooped up the tip that had
been resting on the table and shoved the bills into her jeans pocket.

The waitress watched them stomp through the front door.

She shrugged.

Sammy smirked.

The cafe lost some business, Pebbles lost her tip, the two women lost
their warm after-lunch glow.  Everyone lost except Sammy Dash.

I could tell he'd enjoyed himself.

Sammy Dash made for good watching.  He was lean and sinewy, not too
tall, a great build for a sleaze photographer.  He was wearing a black
tee-shirt and chinos, tight around the crotch.  Brown hair, cut short,
and blue eyes, sharp and foxy.  A black leather jacket, European style,
hung over the back of his chair.  His legs sprawled in the aisle, feet
bare inside his sandals.

The cafe was crowded and noisy, but no one messed around with Sammy.

I had a gut feeling he was a key factor in Mitzi's misfortune, and I
wanted to get a better sense of what made him tick before I talked to
him.

I watched him all the way through an open-faced smoked salmon on brown
sandwich and then through my cappuccino.

Eye contact was his specialty.  He singled out women who were already
escorted.  Tall women.  More than one had to put

a hand on her partner's arm to head off a confrontation with Sammy.
Sammy grinned whenever that happened.

When he sauntered out the cafe doors, I was right behind him.  Still
behind him when he climbed into a dark green Porsche and slid into the
traffic.  Naturally, he had a vanity plate.  How much money do
photographers make, I asked myself as I eased my way into the traffic
behind him.  The middle-aged man in the grey Honda Accord behind me
seemed to feel he'd been cut off.  I waved back at him and blew a
little kiss.

Robin's trip to the police station capped the day.

"They did what?"  I asked Mrs.  Findlay.  The phone shook in my hand.

"They took her in for questioning.  To the police station."

"When?"

"Hmmm.  Just as Another World was coming on."

"When is that?"

"Two o'clock," Mrs.  Findlay huffed.  "And there's no reason to snap at
me, Camilla MacPhee."

Snap, I thought, I'd like to do more than snap, you vapour brained old
bat.  But I injected a note of respect into my voice and asked, "Who
took her in?  The big guy, McCracken?"

"No, the small one with the pointed nose."

"Who went with her?"

"With her?  Nobody."

"NOBODY?"

"I'm not going to mention your tone again."

"She went alone with the officer?"

"That's right.  Her father was out when they came."

"And Brooke?"

"Brooke had an important appointment this afternoon.  She couldn't
break it."

"Right.  And you couldn't leave because Another World was on.

I hung up, resisting the urge to go over there, kick in the door and
insert her, head-first, into the television set.

The police station is new and concrete and designed to create the
impression of efficiency.  Not even the murals can soften its sterile,
forbidding atmosphere.

McCracken met me at the Criminal Investigation desk.

"Where is she?"  I said.  "I've got the right to see her."

He had the good sense to turn red.

"She's at the General."

"At the General Hospital?"

McCracken's voice was gruff.  "She collapsed during questioning.  Hit
her head on the desk, I guess.  Anyway, they took her by ambulance, and
when I went by earlier, they said she was going to be all right.

"Let me get this straight.  You took a sick woman from her bed, allowed
her to be brought in by a sadistic little weasel, and then let her
injure herself?"

He grunted.

"I'm her lawyer.  Nobody called me.  You think you can get away with
running things like it's a police state?"

"She tried to call you.  You weren't in your office.  Nobody knew where
you were."

Alvin.  I'd kill him.  But I didn't lose time plotting Alvin's death.
McCracken was my target.

"When this case gets cleared up, you guys are gonna get roasted for
badgering innocent citizens."

"Look, I understand how you feel.  Mombourquette got a bit too ...
zealous.  She's okay.  Her father's with her now."

"Her father!"  I exploded, even though I felt a wave of relief.  "This
woman is not only innocent, but she might have seen the real killer. Do
you think the sixty-five year old muffin meister will be able to
protect her if the killer decides to eliminate a witness?"

"This isn't New York," McCracken fought back.  "We think your friend is
the real killer."

As I turned and stormed out, McCracken called to me, "When can I get in
touch with your sister?"

When you can go ice skating in hell, McCracken, I thought.

Turning, I said, "My sister's a busy woman and a very attractive one.
She seems to have developed a strong interest in a man who's just
entered her life."

"Who?"  McCracken blurted.

I shrugged.  "The woman's got to have some privacy.  But I can tell
you, she's all keyed up waiting for his phone calls."

McCracken slumped a bit at that.  What can I say, he deserved it.

Robin had been sent home by the time I reached the hospital.  When I
finally got to the Findlays', she looked as bad as I'd expected.  Her
father didn't look much better, his face grey as he sat next to her,
holding her pale hand.

"Oh good," I said, "I see the family finally rallied around."  "They
couldn't go with her," he said.

His eyes watered, and I knew he realized what that said about his
family.  And he knew I did, too.

I gave him a little hug.

"Sorry," I said, "I know you're one of the guys in the white hats."

But Mr.  F. wasn't thinking about himself.

"Look at her.  What's wrong with her?  What's happening to Robin?  I
can't understand it."

"I don't know.  But I'm sure going to find out, no matter what."

I meant it.  I had a lot to find out and I still wasn't sure where to
go next.  But I didn't care who got dirt on them, if it meant getting
Robin out of this mess.

Back in the office, I was still steaming.  And there was no sign of
Alvin to take it out on.  I'd had a twelve-ounce Colombian to calm me
down, and for some reason it wasn't working.  I was too jangled to even
consider tackling any of my cases, so I settled for making notes on
Mitzi's murder in a little book.

I started a few lists.  Like who had a reason to kill Mitzi.

I thumbed through the issues of Femme Fatale which were still stacked
on the desk, looking for other local people who'd been skewered.  Deb
Goodhouse and Jo Quinlan were the only two who showed up.  I put them
on the list.

I left a note to Alvin instructing him to get to work finding out who
else in the Ottawa area had been roughed up by Mitzi, either in print
or on the air.

Of course, Mitzi's killer could have come from anywhere, and I knew it.
Still, I told myself I'd deal with possible non

Ottawa candidates later on.  If I had to.

I added a bit to Alvin's note, instructing him to get a list of
everyone Mitzi had ever targeted in any medium and their address.  And
to do this quickly.  I underlined "quickly" twice, adding "P.S. Alvin,
if at anytime in the future I receive a call from, about or in any way
pertaining to Robin and you do not give a clear message and stand on
your head to locate me, I will truss you up with the telephone
extension wire and ship you back to Sydney in an urn."

I felt a certain satisfaction when I turned my attention to my own
list.

I added Rudy Wendtz's name, in light of their big argument the night
before Mitzi's death.  And I put Sammy Dash's name, too, just because I
hated the little jerk.

Then I remembered Richard's comment about Mitzi's next project.  A book
on Members of Parliament, senators, backroom boys.  That could make for
a pretty long list.  I translated it to political connections and added
it to the other names.

On my To Do list, I made a note to find out who had complained about
Mitzi's fight with Rudy and what the other guests had heard.

Would Richard help me get their names, I wondered.

Five minutes later, I knew the answer.

"You must be kidding.  How long do you think I'd hold onto my job if I
gave out that kind of information and you badgered my clients?"
Amusement wafted over the phone lines.  "I hope you're a good sport
about it, because I'd really like to see you again."

"Me?"  I said, "Richard, Goodsport is my middle name.  Why don't I drop
in for a drink in your very nice bar when I finish up here at the
office?"

"Great, I'll wait for you."

I had a smile on my face as I hung up and departed the office for the
ATM down the street.  I hoped that Richard would forgive me my
trespasses.

"I can't give you that information," Stephanie gasped, her big hair
quivering with outrage.

"That's too bad," I said.  "I would be grateful."  I pushed the symbol
of my potential gratitude towards her on the polished top of the
reception desk at the Harmony.

She took a quick look at the warm red-orange tones of the fifty and
quivered a little bit more.

"No," she said, "Mr.  Sandes would be very upset.  I could even lose my
job."  Her eyes strayed to the bill.

I added a second one to the first.  She licked her lips.

"All right.  It would take a little while, but I could mail you the
information."

"Sure," I said, tearing the fifties in two and handing her one half of
each.  "And when I get the information, I'll send you the balance on my
account."

She wrote out her home address on a piece of Harmony stationary, and I
handed her one of my cards.  We'd just completed our little
transaction, when Stephanie gulped.

I turned and saw Richard heading towards us.

"Here he is, dear," I said, "no need to call him for me at all.  But
thanks for your help."

Stephanie nodded, whitely, and tried to smile.

I didn't have to try.  My smile bloomed by itself as Richard got
closer.

As I unlocked the door to my office the next day, the phone was
ringing.

Alvin had left a note.  Gone out, it said.

I answered the phone myself.

"Where have you been?"

"Alexa, it's not like you to be peevish."

"Just answer the question, dear.  Don't be evasive."

I decided to answer the question before Alexa and I tossed any more
adjectives at each other.  "I've been all over the place.  There was a
murder, in case you forgot, and Robin was brought in for questioning.
I've been busy."

"Robin was brought in for questioning!"

"Don't you listen to the news?"

"I just got back from the cottage.  Where is she?  Don't tell me she's
in "

I reached for my cup of coffee to steady myself and interrupted her.
"They haven't arrested her.  They'd have to show probable cause.  And
since she didn't do it, that's unlikely."

"God, I hope she's got a good lawyer."

MA f "

Me.

"Camilla!"

"I know, I think it's crazy too.  But she insists."  "Do you have to
deal with the police and everything?"  "That's a really silly question
from a sophisticated woman."  She sighed.  "I know."  We both knew why
she'd asked it.  "He hasn't called me, you know," she said.  "You've
been at the cottage."  "Well, he could have left a message."  "Didn't
he?"

"There were a lot of clicks."  "I don't know what to tell you."

"Why do you think he wouldn't leave a message?"

"Jeez, I don't know.  Maybe he was afraid his wife would overhear
him."

After Alexa hung up on me, I spotted the envelope from Stephanie.  The
girl certainly was quick on her feet.  I smiled at the contents.  Sure
enough.  Three names, three addresses.  Check-in times, check-out
times. Room numbers at the Harmony.  Home and work phone numbers. 
Stephanie was a girl who'd go far.  I tucked the two half-fifties into
a envelope and scribbled her home address on it.  Alvin could get a
little exercise delivering it.  And I made a note to say nice things
about her to Richard.

Now I had a little ammo in my war against Wendtz.

I picked up the phone.

Of the two people I reached, neither had clear memories of Mitzi and
Rudy's dust-up.  Both were a bit confused about why I was calling.

Connie Dietz was my biggest hope.  She'd had the room next to
Mitzi's.

"Sorry, Ms.  Dietz will not be back in the office until May 25."  The
voice was prim and officious.  I couldn't resist shaking it up a bit.

"This is regarding a police investigation."  True enough.  "Ms.  Dietz
was staying in the hotel where Mitzi Brochu was murdered.  We're
double-checking to see whether she heard anything of importance the
night before the murder."

"My heavens, I didn't know anything about that.  Ms.  Dietz is
travelling in the United States.  You mean she was near that murder?"
All signs of primness had disappeared from the voice.

"Can I reach her?  Do you have her itinerary?"

"Sorry.  She's on holiday."

"I imagine you gave that information to my colleagues when they called
earlier anyway."

"Well, no.  I take all the phone calls here, and this is the first I've
heard of it.  Perhaps they just left a message.  Here, let me check
Connies voice-mails for you."

I sat on the line listening to rustling sounds until she came back.

"There's a few here from Ottawa.  A Sgt.  Mombourquette.  Would that be
it?"  r * L

Right on.

"Well, I'll certainly get Connie to contact you the minute she shows
up.  And, Officer, good luck with the case."

"Thanks, but don't tell her to call me.  I'm on the road quite a bit.
I'll contact her.  Thank you."

There was a breathless good-bye from Ms.  Prim as she rushed to get off
the phone and spread the news.

Not much information, but it told me Mombourquette had quit after
leaving one piddling message.  But then, his money had always been on
Robin.

I picked up the phone.  At least the defense had Connie Dietz in its
back pocket.

"Merv," I said, when the call connected me to my favourite tame
Mountie, "you've gotta help me.  Robin's in real hot water."

"Who is this?"  Merv asked, "Not Camilla, is it?"

"Of course it's Camilla."

"High time you called me back."

"What do you mean, it's high time I called you back?"

"What the hell do you think I mean?"

"Sorry, Merv.  Are you saying you left messages for me?"

"Yes, I'm saying I left messages for you."

It wasn't necessary for him to mimic my expression with such
enthusiasm.

"Oh," I said, deciding to overlook the mimicking, "well, I didn't get
any messages."  I made a little note on the desk pad --Kick Alvin's
Butt.

"Yeah, well, who's the guy who answers your phone?  He needs some kind
of lessons in something."

"Yes, Merv, he does."

"Right."  Still sulking.

"Anyway, Merv, I'm calling you because Robin's in big trouble and..."

"Well, I know Robin's in big trouble.  Anyone in the country who's read
the headlines or listened to the news knows.  Being found in the room
with Mitzi Brochu's body is big, big news.  Why the hell did you think
that I was calling and leaving all those messages?"

"Okay, so you know.  Of course, I guess I just have been too busy
tearing around to pay attention to the media.  The police are focusing
on her, and I've been scrounging for alternatives."

"Jesus.  Those guys are such pecker heads  You met this
Mombourquette?"

"Yup.  He's got it in for Robin."  So far so good.  Merv was getting
steamed.  He'd always had a soft spot in his heart for Robin, ever
since we were teenagers and he was the young Mountie living across the
street.

"I don't know how anyone could even think for one minute she could hurt
anybody.  Does he look like a wharf rat or what?"

"Probably has a tail under his cheap suit," I said.

"Jeez, somebody's got to do something.  Have you been over to that
loony bin lately?"

"You mean the Findlay place?"

"I went over.  Her mother's stuck in front of the television having
orgasms over the soaps and her father's baking all the time,

except when they're both fussing over that useless bitch of a sister.
And here's Robin practically in a coma.  Have you seen her?"

"I have, Merv.  And I am doing something.  And this is how you can
help."

"Shoot."

"One of the guys I want to know about is Sammy Dash.  Can you check out
the computer for his license plate and get me the guy's address?  And
listen, you can tell if someone's got a record from that file, right? I
need that too, and if he's got a history, I want to know for what."

"You know I'm not supposed to give you stuff like that.  I can't even
get into the files without giving a reason.  I'm a year from
retirement, and you want me to be breaking security."

"Right.  I'm sure you'll think of a good official reason to check him
out."

"You just make sure you keep an eye on Robin.  She needs

you.

"Sure will.  Oh and Merv, that's S-A-M-M-Y DASH."

Alexa was sitting in my living room when I got home that night, much
too tall, blonde and elegant for the surroundings.  She tapped her
long, patent leather toes on the leg of my table.  After five minutes,
I finally had to ask her what was wrong.

"Why are you doing that?"

She fixed me with a long, dirty look.  "He doesn't have a wife."

"Who?"

"I think you know."

"Oh, well, how was I to know he didn't have a wife?"

"Well, now you know."

"So he called, did he?"

"No, he didn't, but I asked around.  I have sources."

"And no wife."

"That's right."

"You don't think he's gay, do you?"

Her voice went up just a smidgen.  "No, I don't think he's gay."

"Just wondering, a man of that age.  Not married..."

"He's divorced."  She snapped it, sounding like a rifle report.

"Divorced!  Does Dad know?"

"What does Dad have to do with it?"

"Well, I mean, here's you, nice Catholic lady, widowed, entitled to see
other nice Catholic widowed people and here's him, D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D.
You'll be the talk of your Parish."

Alexa sat up very straight.

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

I drove over to Elmvale Acres Saturday morning.  Robin looked even
worse.  She must have lost twenty pounds since finding Mitzi.

"She was just pretending to eat a bit before, and now she's not even
pretending.  We're so worried."  Mr.  Findlay stood by the door with a
pan of lemon loaf held in his oven mitts.

Mrs.  F. nodded her head from the sofa, which was something, I guess,
acknowledging that the situation was serious.  Even though her mind was
on a taped episode of The Young and the Restless.

Mr.  F. was glum.  Rejection of his food struck at his self image, I'm
sure.

I still wasn't prepared for the sight of her, shrunken and grey.  It
was hard to believe that anyone whose colour was that bad had blood in
their veins.  The skin on her face was loose.

"Robin," I whispered when we were alone, "you better start eating or
old Dr.  Beaver's going to stick a tube through your nose, down your
throat and force feed you.  Nibbling on your Dad's fresh lemon loaf is
a more pleasant alternative.  Trust

me.

She tried to smile.  "I do trust you.  I just can't eat.  I just can't.
And I don't want to."

The rest of our conversation went nowhere.  Just like every time I'd
spoken to her since the murder.  One thing I knew.  I

couldn't count on Robin for help with the investigation.

"What did Dr.  Beaver say?"  I asked Mr.  Findlay on the way out.

"He's going to put her back in the hospital if she doesn't start to
eat.  Maybe get her some psychiatric help.  She doesn't want it."

"Shhh," said Mrs.  Findlay from the sofa.

Must have been an important part.

I spent the rest of Saturday in the office trying to catch up.  I
worked halfway through one mountain of paper, but two more had sprung
up.  Tomorrow, I said, and went back to thinking about Robin.

Since the murder, everyone's reactions to Robin had been emotional.
Poor Traumatized Robin.  Or, in the case of the police, Guilty as Sin
Robin.  It was time for me to take a more reasoned approach to my
friend and her very big problem.

I worked through a little flowchart of possibilities.  For instance,
Robin either killed Mitzi or she didn't.  I couldn't bring myself to
believe she had, so I pursued the no side.  Robin either saw the killer
or she didn't.  If she had seen the killer, she either knew the
killer's identity or she didn't.  If she saw someone she didn't know,
she would have no apparent reason for not describing him or her.  If
she knew the killer, she was refusing to talk for some reason that made
sense to her.  Fear?  Protectiveness?  If it were fear, who could scare
Robin so much that she would not describe a murder to the police?

Robin and I knew many of the same people.  Of course, she's met quite a
few more people through St.  Jim's Parish and the Humane Society and
dishing out food at the Food Bank

and even her office.  But somehow, I didn't think these organizations
would be the sources for Mitzi's murderer.  Just to be on the safe
side, I made a note to nose around in all four.  But my heart wasn't in
it, these were not people to inspire fear.  And Robin, for all her
fragile blonde looks and current attacks of the vapours, was no
chicken.

Fine, then.  The last variant was that Robin saw the killer and chose
to protect him or her for some reason.  I chewed on my pencil and tried
to figure out what reason Robin could have to protect a killer.

When I slunk out of the office, full of questions, I bumped into Ted
Beamish.  "Think nothing of it," he said, dusting off his knees.

"Sorry, Ted, I wasn't expecting anyone.  It's Saturday."

"Sure, I know."

"What can I do for you?"

"Well, I was heading for the Mayflower and I...1 saw your light on and
I thought I'd see if you had time for a beer, catch up a bit."  A good
enough story, except that my office was past the Mayflower, and you
can't see the window from the street.

"Why not," I said, before realizing that I was ticked off at Mr.  Ted
Beamish, but good.

"How's Robin?"  he asked as we sat down and ordered.

"If you're so concerned, why didn't you ask me about her when she was
taken in for questioning?"  I snapped.

"Taken in?"  Ted turned white.  "If she's being questioned, why are we
sitting here?"

"You're telling me you didn't know about this?"

"I've been away at a hearing," he said.  "God, poor Robin.  Why would
they suspect her?"

"Because she was the last person to see Mitzi before she was



found dead, because only her fingerprints and Mitzi's were found in the
room, because..."

"Sounds pretty fluffy to me."

I nodded.  "And because I think Robin is protecting someone."

"Who?"  he inhaled.

"Well, I'm not sure, but she either knows or suspects someone of
killing Mitzi, and she's making herself sick over it."

"Who?"

"I don't know who, or I would have my elbow in his throat right now.
But maybe someone from work, or church or her volunteer stuff.  I think
I'll nose around a little bit."

"I'll help you."  Ted's face lit up at the prospect.

"No, that sail right..."

It fell again as I started to turn him down.  Wait a minute, I said to
myself.

"that'd be great, Ted.  Why don't you schmooze the girls in her office
and the Humane Society.  We can both do a bit of the Food Bank."

He was nodding.  "I can do that."

"Sure," I said, "I'll just confine myself to stalking the criminal
elements.  I feel more comfortable having my own niche than spreading
myself all over the map."

"I'd like to see her, too," he said.

"Sure," I lied, knowing Robin wouldn't want to see any new man in her
current state, "I'll set that up for you."

"What do you mean set it up?"

I could tell by the look in his eyes that I had gone too far.

"I'll just drop in myself sometime tomorrow and give her some
encouragement."  He said it in a way that didn't allow for argument.

By eight o'clock on Sunday morning, I was at Robin's, surprising her
father in the middle of making cinnamon rolls.

"These'll be ready in half an hour," he said, as I skipped up the
stairs.

"I can't," Robin whined, as I manoeuvred her into the bathroom.

"You'd better," I told her, as she sat on the little blue chair, and I
rummaged through the dozens of shampoo bottles, "Otherwise an
attractive male colleague is going to drop in to see you and find you
looking like a bleached sardine."

"What do you mean, a bleached sardine?"  she asked, leaning her head
against the wall and closing her eyes.

"Pale and greasy."

I looked up from under the sink to see she was laughing, just a little
silent shake, but it gave me hope.

While Robin was in the shower with a lemon fragrance shampoo, I kept up
a running conversation, talking about Ted Beamish, talking about Alvin,
talking about anything but the murder.  I was on the alert, ready to
grab her if she collapsed.

Mr.  Findlay whipped into her bedroom and changed the sheets when we
were out of the room.  He left a pot of steaming coffee, two blue and
white china mugs and fragrant, warm cinnamon buns with icing glaze on
top.

Back in bed with her yellow hair blow-dried and smelling lemon-fresh,
she leaned against the blue roses on the pillowcase.

"Ted Beamish," she said, "I can't quite place him."

"I don't know how you could forget him.  He's..."  I searched for the
right word... "dashing.  And persistent."  True enough, and more
appealing than pudgy, redheaded, receding-hair lined and
forgettable-faced.

"Persistent?"

"You have no idea.  But listen, you'd better get on a little warpaint.
I don't know if he's persistent enough for a bleached sardine."

Robin managed a little pink lipstick, a smudge of blue eyeliner and a
few sweeps of mascara before she fell back on the pillow.

I had no mercy.  "Cheek stuff," I hissed, "what do you call it?"

"Blusher," she whispered.

"Where is it?"

"In my purse."

I rummaged through gum, keys, at least seven pens, chequebook, a banana
that had to be removed at once, two notebooks, sunglasses, dozens of
little notes about things to do, perfume, an address book, wallet, a
tennis ball, two packets of tissues, lottery tickets, a Mars bar and
her blusher.

I dropped the banana into the wastepaper basket and the room took on
the scent.

Dabbing on the bit of blush gave Robin an illusion of health, if you
didn't look too closely.  If you didn't notice the loose skin and
glazed eyes.

"There," I said, waving a hand mirror in front of her face, "you look
great.  And we can see your breath on the mirror, so we know you're
alive.  This is good.  When he comes through that door, he's going to
fall right off his horse."

I don't know why she thought that was so funny.  I found myself
laughing, too.  We howled until tears ran down our cheeks.  Even though
two minutes earlier I'd been acting with all the humour of a women's
prison warden.  At least Robin, the real Robin, was still kicking
underneath her shrunken exterior.

The door to her bedroom burst open and our laughing choked off.

"For Crissakes," Brooke shrieked, sticking her head in, "don't you know
people are trying to sleep?"

"My apologies, Brooke.  We shouldn't let the psychological recovery of
your sister interfere with something as crucial as your rest."

I would have continued on, but she was gone before I got revved up. She
slammed the door, too, but only after she called me a bitch.

"Oh dear, poor Brooke," said Robin, all signs of laughter
disappearing.

"Poor Brooke, nothing," I said, filling the mugs with coffee and
handing one to Robin.  "You have the right to laugh."

"I heard her come in at three last night.  She must be exhausted."

"Maybe it's time poor Brooke thought about you a bit.  Maybe you're the
one who needs special attention and care.  Maybe there are more
important things in this world than Brooke and her stupid career as a
vacuous face on the cover of a vapid magazine."

From the look on Robin's face, I'd gone too far again.

It took two cups of coffee, a bit of cinnamon loaf and a lot of
soothing talk before she smiled again.  We patched up the makeup and
she gave my hand a little squeeze.

"I know it's hard for you to be so nice and patient, Cam.  Thanks."

"Well, anyway, at least you look okay in case what's-his name shows
up."

Before heading back to the office, I straightened up the room.  In the
process I knocked over Robin's purse.  I did my best to replace
everything in some kind of order, but after a while I gave

up and piled in the chewing gum packages, notes, stamps, eye shadows,
pens and other stuff.  At least the banana was gone.

The writing on the last note caught my eye.  Rudy Wendtz, it said.
Nothing else.

I looked over at Robin.

"He might not come," she said.

T I 'll

He 11 come.

"Maybe not."

"Even supposing he doesn't come, which he will, you still got yourself
fixed up and you look very nice and fresh and I'm sure you feel a lot
more comfortable."

I didn't mention finding Rudy Wendtz's name in her purse.  I would ask
Robin about Rudy Wendtz when the time was right.  She smiled a little
bit when I left.

All the way home, I thought about that note.  What was it doing there?
How did Robin know about Rudy?  Had she known him before she got
summoned to Mitzi's suite?

The next day, there was no Alvin in the office.  While getting rid of
him had been my major preoccupation not too long ago, now I was
bothered by his continuing, unexplained absence.

A plain brown envelope with my name typed on it lay on the floor next
to the door.  I picked it up and tossed it onto the desk.

Alvin hadn't been in to pick it up.  Another strike against him. Still,
his absence meant I could get to the phone without pushing him out of
the way.

I called Ted Beamish.

"Now?"  he said.  "It's not even ten o'clock.  I can't just disappear
on the taxpayers' nickel."

"Make up the time," I said, trying to sound like I must be obeyed,
"we're talking someone's mental health here."

"I was planning on dropping in to see Robin on my lunch or after work.
I was going to call first."

"Don't wait.  Don't call.  Go now."

After a pause, he said, "All right.  I guess I can do that."

"But first," I said, "tell me what you found out schmoozing the girls
at Robins office and the Food Bank and the Humane Society."

"Well, not that much.  No one at the Humane Society knew anything. They
were just worried about who was looking after her cats."

And well they should be, I thought.

"At the office, I schmoozed the girls as you suggested.  They seemed to
feel Robin had been under some kind of strain for about a week or so.
No one knew what, she just seemed very worried and distracted."

"For a week?"

"Thereabouts.  No one's sure.  And they can't link it to anything.  But
they'd been talking about it themselves even before the murder."

"Hmm.  You got a contact there now you could just call for a bit of
information?"

ar1

jure.

"See if you can find out if she received any calls from her sister."

"The model?"

"The one and only."

"She's kind of self-focused, isn't she?  I hear it's all me, myself
and

I."

if\r

You got it.  "Let me think, what else," he added.  "Right, the Food

Bank.  I tracked down two of the other volunteers who were on with
Robin last week.  One of them remembers her being very distressed, very
distracted.  It turns out this was the night before the murder.
Something happened to her that day.  This person didn't know.  But she
might have told someone else.  A close friend."

I shook my head.  I was her closest friend, and she hadn't confided in
me.  Probably because she couldn't reach me.  If only I'd been at the
office when she called.  If only I'd intercepted her at the Harmony
before she went into Mitzi's suite.  If only..."

Ted's voice interrupted me.

"Well?  What do you think?"

"Good stuff.  Well, you should head off now.  Robin needs

you.

I noted a trace of resentment in his goodbye.

Job number two was to find that little twerp, Alvin, and drag him back
to indentured labour where he belonged.  Or set him loose and find
someone who could do the job.  Yes.  I could fire him for deserting his
post.

I ripped Alvin's file from the drawer and found his address.  While I
was searching for a pen and a piece of paper on the desk, I spotted the
plain brown envelope again

Probably his notice, and he was too chicken to give it in person, I
thought as I ripped it open.  Inside was a single sheet of white bond.
Sammy Dash, it said, DOB 29/03/58, no outstanding warrants.  Previously
convicted of possession of cannabis.  Did not serve time.  Several
charges of assault on former girlfriend, later dropped.  Suspected of
involvement in cocaine traffic.  Never charged.

Sammy's address was included too.  Well, well.  Thanks, Merv.

When I found the pencil and paper, I copied Sammy's address along with
Alvin's.  I also cast a guilty glance at the pile of work.  It seemed
to me it had taken on an eerie, green glow and was beginning to pulsate
a bit.

I'll get to you, I said.  The phone was ringing as I skipped out of the
office.

Alvin was surprised to see me.  Perhaps because I was leaning against
his doorbell and had been doing so for five minutes.  There was some
interesting graffiti on the walls, and the corridor had a faint scent
of illegal substances.

"Camilla," he said, "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you.  What the hell do you think?"

"Gee.  That is a surprise.  Come on in."

A surprise.

"I thought maybe you were dead.  But, of course, that may have just
been wishful thinking."

"I wasn't expecting you.  The place is a bit of a mess."

The place was less of a mess than I would have expected.

"I'll get you some tea," he said and disappeared from the room before I
could tell him he was fired.

I headed for the sofa with the leopard-skin covering, passing the
ancient refrigerator, painted silver, which was the focal point of the
living area.  There was no other furniture in the room, unless you
counted the CD player and the chrome coat rack holding Alvin's best
studded black leather jacket.  Or the toilet with the exuberant ivy
growing out of it.  No sign of the mess Alvin had alluded to, although
it was hard to tell if the walls were clean or not, since they were
painted black.  The same applied to the floor, which was a giant
abstract painting

of household appliances and cleaning products, with a high gloss
finish.  On a wall it would have been a mural.  Was it a flo oral  I
wondered.

I had to sit down, since standing on the flo oral gave me the feeling
of hurtling through space.

The Hammerheads blasted from the sound system at about 100 decibels, so
I decided to fire Alvin in the kitchen and avoid the tea thing
altogether.  On the way, I discovered the mess.

The large table in the dining "ell" was covered with magazines,
newspapers, print-outs and cassettes.  More were stacked on the ground.
Sheets from flip charts had been ripped off and taped to the walls.
Each contained long lists of names under different headings, like Femme
Fatale, the local satirical magazine Peeping Tom and its relatives in
other cities, and Mitzi's broadcasts.  There were also lists by type.
Alvin had cross-referenced many of the names from one list to
another.

So that's what he'd been doing.  It was going to be tough to fire the
miserable little creature now.

"How are things at the office?"  Alvin emerged with a silver tray
carrying an old pink and gold china tea pot, creamer and sugar bowl and
two cups and saucers, with tiny silver spoons.  He passed me in the ell
and plunked himself down cross legged on the floor, leaving me to
decide whether I would join him or perch on the sofa like a fool.

I picked the sofa.  The floor made me dizzy.

"Well," he said, looking up, "you got here just in time.  I'm at the
last list.  Some interesting stuff is showing up there.  We'll have our
tea and then see if you can find the most important patterns."

"Sure," I said, adding, "beautiful tea set."

"Thanks, it was my grandmother's Anniversary Rose.  Mom

gave it to me when I left.  She figured it'd just get broken by the
other kids at home.  I think it adds a nicely jarring note of
discontinuity with the floor, don't you?"

"Indeed," I said, as Alvin poured my tea.

"So, where did you get this very interesting floor design?"

He looked at me with surprise.  "I painted it, of course.  What did you
think that I did with my spare time?"

I hesitated to mention I'd thought he spent his spare time frying his
tiny brain with chemicals.  Instead I said, "Beautifully done, Alvin.
Tremendous precision, especially with the electric can openers."

Was it my imagination, or did the faintest trace of a blush cross
Alvin's chalky cheeks?

When the tea was finished, we moved to the dining room to inspect the
project.

Sure enough, there were patterns all right.  Alvin's list entitled Key
Targets identified them by type.

Women Politicians, Royalty, Television Personalities, Singers, Actors
and Models, and Anyone Fat were the headings Alvin had picked.

"Everyone she ever targeted in print or broadcast fits into one or more
of these categories," he explained.

"I guess people like to see the powerful and popular get skewered.  It
gives them a sense of superiority if the winners have warts."

"Right," said Alvin.  "Look at the tabloids the next time you're in the
supermarket.  They'll give you tremendous insights into human
nature."

I considered the spectre of Alvin in the grocery store.

There were few surprises when we reviewed the lists.  Each name had a
check mark for every time Alvin had found a reference to that person in
print or on air, he explained.

"It wasn't easy getting video copies of her broadcasts," he said.
"You'll have to reimburse me for some expenses encountered by a certain
individual in getting them."

I opened my mouth to speak.

"In cash," he added.

I let that pass and noted that Deb Goodhouse had thirteen checkmarks,
compared to one or two for most of the others.  Alvin had circled her
name in red marker.

On the media list Jo Quinlan was also circled in red, no doubt because
of the nineteen checkmarks.

"Almost every show and every "Zits' article had a little dig about Jo
Q.," Alvin said.

Nothing much of interest in the Singers and Actors list.  A
country-style singer had three checks by her name, as did an east coast
pop fiddler.  A great lady of Canadian theatre merited two.  The
initials B.F. were the last on the list with a question mark and a
cross reference to the lists labelled Models, General Gossip and Coming
Soon.

Brooke Findlay's name appeared on all three.

I walked back into the black living room and poured myself another cup
of Earl Grey.

 I spent the evening examining the many complex lists compiled by
Alvin, trying to find a few other leads.  By midnight, I gave up.  Jo
Quinlan and Deb Goodhouse were still on my own, and they'd been joined
by Brooke Findlay.

Brooke, according to Alvin's mysterious sources, had been lined up in
Mitzi's sights, scheduled for a special treatment in the coming
months.

"Why?"  I'd asked.

He'd shrugged.  "Unclear about that.  Lot of shifty looks and sly
remarks."

"Like what?"

"Like "Ask Rudy, if you have the guts.""

"What's that supposed to mean?  Is this guy supposed to scare me:

,?>:

"I don't know.  He scares everyone else."

"Give me a break.  Do I have to drag every little bit of information
out of you?"

"Okay, okay.  He's supposed to be like some kind of major supplier, you
know."

"You sure?"

Rays from the only light in the room glinted off Alvin's black cat's
eye glasses.  Coupled with the pointer in his hand, he looked like a
deranged fairy godmother.

"Don't be dense.  That's the word on the street.  Big time.

And too hot to handle.  Nobody tangles with Rudy Wendtz."  "Hmmm."

All night I dreamed about killing Brooke Findlay in a variety of
satisfying ways.  In my dreams, justice prevailed and I found myself
serving a ten-year sentence of Family Dinners.  I jerked awake at eight
o'clock when the phone rang.

"Dinner tonight," Edwina said.  "My place.  Don't try to weasel out of
it."

My God, it was starting.

"I won't resist, Edwina.  Will it be a long one?"

Silence drifted back to me over the phone.

"What time," I asked, assuming she was still on the line, "and are you
sending a guard for me?"

"Very funny.  Stan will pick you up at six thirty."

"All right."

"And, Camilla."

Yes?

"Do not, and I mean this, do not provoke Alexa."  "Moi?"  I asked.  But
she'd already hung up.

It was after nine when I stepped out of the shower and dried my hair. I
decided not to wait until I got to the office to make my first call.

"Oh sure," said Merv.  "I'll just drop everything and find out about
this guy for you.  I was just sitting here waiting for your call
anyway."

"Very funny, Merv.  But I'll understand if you abandon

Robin to her fate.  Pressures of work.  Nothing to be done about
it."

Merv made some sort of animal noise before he hung up.  It sounded
promising to me.

I was wearing my pumps and my best court suit.  I took my camera, just
in case I needed it, and my Nikes, just in case I had a chance to walk
somewhere.

One last call before leaving.

"She's asleep," Mr.  Findlay whispered.

"How's she doing?"

"A bit better.  She had a visit from a very nice young man yesterday.
Seemed to cheer her up.  Maybe you could call a bit later in the
mornings.  Brooke needs to rest until eleven."

I let the Brooke remark slide.  At least Ted had done his Boy Scout bit
and visited Robin.

As I stepped into the hallway, it occurred to me a photo of the cats
might cheer Robin.  I opened the door, said the magic words "Meow Mix",
and snapped the six of them as they whipped into sight.

"So long, guys," I said, closing the door and almost tripping over Mrs.
Parnell's walker.

She opened her pursed-up mouth to say something.

"Smile for the birdie," I squawked, as I clicked the shutter.

Darned if she didn't blush.

I left for work with a good plan for the day.  Beaver through the
Benning file then move on to see Rudy Wendtz, as soon as he might be
awake.  I decided on eleven as the trend.

When I pulled into Rudy Wendtz's driveway, I had to admit to myself
that not one word of the Benning brief had made it past my eyes and
into my brain, where it could have done some good.  Tomorrow, I
promised myself.

It was the perfect spring morning, bright yellow sun, bright

blue sky, bright tulips in many colours.  The temperature was a bright
twenty degrees and climbing.  The teal wool suit, although bright, was
beginning to feel hot and scratchy, and it crossed my mind that I
should get some new warm-weather clothes.  But first things first.

Rudy Wendtz was polishing off breakfast in his conservatory which
overlooked the canal.  Very pleasant.  His cotton terry robe had set
him back a couple of hundred bucks.  His bare feet were resting on a
leather ottoman as he lounged in a leather chair, enjoying his
breakfast cigarette.

Wendtz was large.  Under the terrycloth robe lay long, powerful
muscles.  The presence of exercise machines and weights in the room may
have contributed to the impression.  There were no plants in this
conservatory, but then you can't have everything.

He didn't get up when I was shown in by the large, lumpy individual who
answered the door.  Just studied me from behind semi-closed lids, while
he blew out smoke.  From the look on his face, I would rate about a 2
on a good day.

I didn't care.  Rudy didn't rate too high with me, either.

I could see why Mitzi had kept him, though.  He had a certain
something, in that he was well over six feet and he radiated power.  He
looked as though he hadn't shaved for several days, and he had a
serious case of bed head  His eyes were the eyes of a snake, and
perhaps that's why he looked dangerous.

"Yeah?"  he said.

"Good morning," I trilled.  "How are you today?"

"I'm doing okay," he said.

I didn't doubt it.  The three-story brick house, with its location on
the Queen Elizabeth Driveway and its view of the sparkling canal, its
long, green lawn, its conservatory and its

God knows what else, must have set him back a few bucks.  The black
Mercedes in the driveway was a good indicator, too.

"Terrific," I chirped.  "I wonder if you can help me?"

"Maybe."

"Great.  You see my friend, Robin Findlay, was unfortunate enough to
find the body of Mitzi Brochu, who I understand was a friend of yours.
The police are being quite difficult about this, and I thought that I
would chat with people involved and try to find out something that
could help a bit."  I beamed at him.

The large, lumpy individual poured out a mug of coffee for Wendtz. They
both looked at me.

"Oh lovely," I said.  "I take mine with just a bit of cream."

Glances heavy with meaning were exchanged before Large and-Lumpy
lumbered off.  He returned with a black mug for me, filled it and added
some cream.  He looked like he was measuring my neck for a garotte.

"Mmm," I said, taking a sip.  "I hear you were great friends."

"Who do you hear that from?"

"Oh, here and there, everyone seems to know."

"Do they?"

"Mmmm.  Yes, they do.  Wonderful coffee."

"My special blend," said Large-and-Lumpy, with a shy pride.

"Just great," I said.

"And a bit of French roast."

"Good enough to market," I said, thinking I had made a friend.

"I don't think I can do much for you, Miss Um...?

"Oh, I'm sure you can, Mr.  Wendtz."

He turned the full force of his snake eyes on me.  I sipped a

bit more coffee and smiled.

"You see, I think that whatever Mitzi was working on might be the key
to her murder.  I know she was a very good friend of yours, but she
seemed to alienate a good many people with her work."

Wendtz lit another cigarette, and Large-and-Lumpy looked at me with
understanding.  I felt certain that Mitzi had alienated him, all
right.

"I don't know what she was working on."

"You don't?"  I said, gazing with disappointment into my empty mug.

"No."

"That's too bad."

Large-and-Lumpy moved around my chair and refilled my mug.  I beamed at
him like a soul mate.

"We didn't mix business and pleasure," Wendtz said, shooting a bit of
smoke in my direction.

"A shame."

He shrugged.  This was a man born to shrug.

"There are some local people who were singled out by Mitzi for
persistent treatment.  I wondered if you might know whether they were
targets for coming articles.  It's possible that one of them might have
snapped.  You see, I'm sure my friend couldn't have done it.  She's too
gentle and soft.  She spends her time in the soup kitchens and feeding
stray cats and rescuing other people."

"Sorry, I can't help you," Wendtz said.  His sneer might have been
intended as a smile, but he lacked the practice.

"What about Deb Goodhouse?"

"What about her?"

"Mitzi slammed her often enough.  Was she in the works?"

"I don't know."

"Jo Quinlan then.  She was a favourite target."

Was that a flicker that passed between Wendtz and my new friend?

Wendtz looked at his watch, which was large and Swiss and cost more
than my car.  He looked back at me.  I smiled.

A pregnant cloud of silence hung in the air.

I think Wendtz was getting ready to splatter me all over the wall when
I stood up.

"Sorry, gentlemen," I said, "you are excellent company and I am tempted
to spend the morning here with you in idle chatter, but I have
important work to do, and I cannot allow you to entice me away from
it."

Large-and-Lumpy nodded.  Wendtz looked at both of us in disbelief.

At the door I turned.  "Oh, and Brooke Findlay, was there any
connection between her and Mitzi?"

Bingo.  Large-and-Lumpy gawked at me, more in sorrow than anger.  Just
as well, because enough rage flashed across Wendtz's face for both of
them.  Most people get hot when they're angry.  Wendtz radiated
coldness.  I felt my body temperature drop, even in the thrill of
finding a connection between Rudy Wendtz and Brooke Findlay.

Now we're cooking, I thought, as I reached for the door to let myself
out.

Large-and-Lumpy beat me to it.

"You shouldn't of said that," he whispered as I left.

I wasn't one block away from the house when a car pulled up beside me.
A portable flashing light was perched on its roof.  McCracken was
inside.

I pulled over, surprised at how my heart was thumping.
Large-and-Lumpy, for all our instant rapport, had made me very, very
edgy.  To say nothing of his keeper.

McCracken's laid-back good humour was eclipsed by a somber stiffness.
It didn't look right on him.  Big men like that should be good-natured
and outgoing.

"What the hell are you doing at Wendtz's place?"  he asked, leaning
over my window.

"What you should be doing, McCracken.  Investigating."

"You'd better leave that to us."

"Glad to, if you'd do your job and arrest a certain well known member
of the underworld who we both know probably offed the victim with a
smile on his face.  Instead of badgering gentle cat lovers to their
grave."

"He didn't do it."

"Of course, he did it.  And we both know it.  And I'm going to prove it
while you sit on your duff."

McCracken's eyes bulged.  "Interfere with this case any more..."

"What any more?"

"and I'll arrest you, for all kinds of interesting things."

"I'd enjoy that, McCracken.  We'd both make a splash in the media."

McCracken stood up.  "Hang around Wendtz and you'll make the papers all
right.  Some sad little missing persons announcement.  Use your brains
on this one, for God's sake."

He started back to his car.  I knew he hated to ask me about Alexa, and
I wondered how long he could hold out.

Not long.  He turned and walked back.

"You know, you may have stirred something up here.  Who knows what
you're going to have to deal with as a result.  These guys are pretty
dangerous.  Here's my home number in case

you ever have to get in touch with me.  It's unlisted.  Any time H you
need help or advice."  It must have hurt him to say that, his jaw was
so tense.  "And if you want to pass it on to your sister, that's okay
too."

I parked in the open air lot on O'Connor and walked a couple of blocks
to the joke shop.  Not as fancy as wherever Stan gets his stuff, but it
took my mind off the Benning brief for a little longer, and gave me a
chance to chuckle my way out of the chill created by Rudy Wendtz.

The office phone was ringing when I returned with my purchases. Someone
persistent enough to keep trying while I fiddled with the key and let
myself in.

"Where the hell do you go in that little office that it takes you
seventeen rings to answer the phone?  Just tell me that."

"Temper, temper, Merv.  You don't want to have a stroke."

"Right.  If my doctor knew about you, he'd put you on a list with cheap
whisky and cigarettes and french fries.  Health hazard."

"My secret ambition, Merv."

"I'll bet it is, too.  Listen, I didn't call you just to chew the fat.
There's a point."

"Get to it then, Merv."

I could hear him exhale.

"This guy Wendtz.  He is major bad news.  Remain as far away as you can
from him.  Do not meddle.  He is connected.  He is into some very bad
stuff.  Capish?"

"Point taken.  Of course, you're a bit too late."

"Christ, Camilla.  You got a death wish or something?  Half the police
forces in this country, including our own, have an

eye on this guy, and there's you sticking your little pointed nose
in."

"Don't exaggerate, Merv.  My nose is not pointed.  And if so many
police forces, including our own, have so much interest, how come they
don't nail him for Mitzi's murder, which he committed?  Tell me
that."

"They'd sell their souls to nail him for Mitzi's murder, they just
happen to know he didn't do it."

"Yeah, right, and how do they know that?  Were they with him at the
time?"

"Jeez, that's just it.  They were.  The guy was under surveillance the
whole night.  He's been the subject of a major drug investigation.  He
wasn't out of their sight for two minutes.  Some alibi, eh?  Half the
members in this town can swear he didn't do it."

It was my turn to be quiet, and when I spoke again it was through
clenched teeth.

"I don't care what your mounties saw or think they saw, Merv, this
guy's involved in this killing.  Maybe he didn't do it himself, but I
bet he made it happen.  The local boys never even followed up properly
on that blow-up he had with Mitzi the night before she was killed.  I
saw his face today when I mentioned Brooke Findlay.  There's a
connection.  And according to my sources, Mitzi was about to do a real
number on Brooke.  That's why Robin's reacting the way she is."

"What did Robin ever do to end up in a family like that?"

"Unlucky, I guess."

"Can't you talk some sense into her?"

"I'll try, now that I have a bit of ammunition."

But I had two calls to make first.

Lunch at the Harmony was an experience to soothe your soul.  The music
soothed.  Chopin's Nocturnes.  The wine soothed.  California
chardonnay. The food soothed.  Shrimp and scallops, with basmati rice
and four perfect bitsy witsy vegetables.  Richard Sandes didn't soothe,
although he might have wanted to.  Just the opposite.  I could feel my
heart going boom-bitty-boom underneath my teal suit.

"You look different today.  What's up?"  he asked.

I smiled at him and kept my dirty thoughts to myself.

"Just excitement, I guess."

"Excitement?"

I looked into Richard's brown eyes.  This was a man you could bare your
soul to.  I explained about Wendtz and Large and-Lumpy and about
McCracken and what Merv had said, leaving out the bitchy things that I,
myself, had said.  But he didn't react the way I wanted.

"For God's sake.  Why do you want to take these chances?"

I looked at him in surprise.  "Because I want to end Robin's
involvement once and for all by finding out what really happened."

He sighed.  "And if it turns out that her sister, as miserable as you
say she is, is involved, do you think your friend will thank you?"

I shot him a black look, because, of course, he had identified my
greatest fear.

He laughed.

"What are you laughing at?"  I snapped.  "You're not supposed to laugh
when someone looks at you like that."

I expected him to stop at that, but he didn't.  After a minute of
shaking, he picked up the soft apricot napkin and wiped his eyes with
it.

"Hehehehehe!"  he said.

"Oh shut up, you remind me of a set of teeth I once knew."

"I'm sorry," he said, giving his eyes one last wipe, "I know I
shouldn't have laughed like that.  If anyone knows this horrible case
is serious, it should be me.  I'm still dealing with the brass over it.
God knows if I'll even keep my job from one day to the other.  So I'd
like the whole thing cleared up just as much as you would."

"Oh, good," I said, "so why are you laughing then, if it's so goddam
serious, as far as you're concerned?"

"It's just the thought of you, in your little teal suit, with the bit
of cat hair on the sleeve," he reached over and plucked it off as he
was speaking, "it's just the thought of you backing these guys into a
corner.  I mean, I've seen Wendtz, the guy's huge, and these other
guys, Large and Lumpy and McCracken..."  He started to laugh again.

"Large-and-Lumpy," I said, with a great deal of dignity, "is only one
person."

But I had lost him again.

I sat there with my lips pursed until he was finished.

"Sorry, sorry," he wheezed a bit later.  "I can't help it.  Maybe it's
the tiny little pumps.  I just see you standing there waving your fist
and barking at these guys, and they're huddling..."

"Size six," I said, "not tiny little pumps.  And none of these guys
were huddling.  Richard, I thought you were on my side."

"I am.  Oh, I am.  And once I get past the funny side, I have to make
the point that you should leave it to the police.  They know what
they're doing."

"They do not know what they're doing, or they wouldn't be so interested
in Robin as a suspect.  They would not be denying that Wendtz was
involved, and they would not be sitting on their butts."

"Whoa," he said.  "I agree they're off base about Robin.  You

only have to see her once to know that.  She reminded me a bit of my
wife, totally incapable of hurting any living thing.  I bet she opens
the door to escort spiders from the premises."

I had seen Robin do that.  But what was this wife thing?

I stared across the table at Richard, his Belgian chocolate eyes, still
a bit damp, his lean brown hands that I usually couldn't stop watching,
his bony good looks and gentle manner.  I felt a sharp pain behind my
rib cage.  It was time to face the music.

"Your wife?"

"Mmm," he said.

"I have to know about your wife.  I have to know, are you still
married?  As we speak."

Richard stared into the crumpled peach napkin in his hand as if the
answer were printed there.  It took a while for the words to come.

Yes, he said, we are.

I felt my head swimming.  The small, smothered rational part of my
being tried to tell me it didn't matter.  I wasn't over Paul yet.  I'd
only known Richard a short time, he was too old, the circumstances
under which I'd met him had been too gruesome, I'd known all along he
had a family.  But none of it helped.

I clutched the tablecloth and held on.  I kept telling myself it didn't
matter.

"I'm sorry, God, I keep saying I'm sorry today.  I should have told you
our story right from the start.  But I thought you were just passing
through.  And I still find it painful to talk about.  Still, that's no
excuse for not being straight with you."

I waited, my fingers white.

"I am still married.  My wife is in a psychiatric institution suffering
from profound depression.  Her state is catatonic.  No

one knows if she will come out of it.  But if she does, we will be
together again, so I guess I should be up front about that.  I love her
and I miss her."

I nodded, hoping my mouth didn't twist too much.

"The doctors don't hold out too much hope.  But I hope anyway.  Her
facility is a good one, and it's a little bit closer to Ottawa than to
Toronto, which was why I asked for this transfer.  It's also why I'm
usually out of town on my days off."

"I'm sorry to hear about your wife.  Has she been sick long?"

"A year and a half.  She never got over our daughter's death.  She just
couldn't admit it happened."

You could feel the pain emanating from him.  The lines in his face that
I'd found so sexy, I now realized were mementos of anguish.  I hated to
ask him anything else.  And yet, I knew that this moment of candour
wouldn't come again with Richard.

"Your daughter..."

"She was so beautiful, just like her mother, but she had some medical
problems that affected her heart, and one day it just gave out.
Twenty-four years old and everything ahead of her.  Beautiful.  Masters
degree from University of Toronto.  Engaged.  A wedding planned.  And
one day, it just stopped."

I'm sorry.

"Look, I should have told you this right away, but I had no idea that
there would be anything between us."

"Don't worry about it," I heard myself say, "it's not like we made some
kind of commitment or anything.  A couple of meals together doesn't
make a relationship."

"I hope we can still have lunch from time to time."

"Of course," I said, reaching out to pat his hand, a most
un-Camilla-like gesture.  "I knew you had a family, Richard, right from
the start, from the photo in your office."  I didn't

bother to mention that I had hoped they'd been sliced from his life by
divorce.  A part of the past.  "We can have lunch anytime you want.
Nothings changed."

But something had changed.

"Good," he said.

"Look, before I get back to work, which is piling up, I just want to
know if I can talk to the maid who was in the hallway the day of
Mitzi's death."

He started to say something negative, I could tell.

"Maybe she heard something or saw something.  Oh sure, I

know the police probably questioned her, but I'd like to try II
again."

Richard's grin returned.

"Well, good luck.  I hope you do better than the police.  That
particular employee is a very recent refugee from El Salvador.  She
speaks very little English, just enough to follow her instructions for
work, and even there I think the housekeeper has to use a little show
and tell."

"I'm one hell of a mime."

"I bet you are.  Well, I'll get you her name and work schedule, and you
can give it a shot."

We said good-bye in the aqua foyer, and I stepped outside and waved.
Richard stood and watched me go.  It wasn't until I was out of his
sight that I let myself slump a bit.

Sure, Richard would continue to be a friend.  Kind of a Merv with
manners.  But the easy comfort with the sexy underpinnings had been
destroyed.  And let's face it, I told myself, friendship was not what
drew me to Richard in the first place.  Anyway, if I wanted
companionship, I had the damn cats.

It had been quite a full day, what with meeting Wendtz under his rock
and Richard's revelation about his wife.  My head was full of whirling
information, and I wanted to flake out right after work.

But first I had to endure dinner with the family.  And the cats were
restless.  Not only swarming me as soon as I got through the door, but
causing me trouble even before that.

As I fumbled with my key, I heard my neighbour, Mrs.  Parnell, coming
out of her apartment.

Hurry, I urged myself, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurreeee, but I wasn't fast
enough.

"Ms.  MacPhee," she said, leaning forward on her walker in a menacing
way, "meowing sounds continue to be heard coming from your apartment."
She took a triumphant drag from her cigarette in its majestic holder.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I shouted, hoping to drown
out the cat noises.  "We've had this discussion before."

"I think you do know what I'm talking about."

"Meowing sounds?  That's very peculiar, since I dislike animals."

"Sounds like cats to me."

"Cats?"

"Yes," she snapped.  "Cats, not a difficult concept to grasp

for one with seven years university education, Ms.  MacPhee."

"Well, Mrs.  Parnell, I've been leaving the TV on to discourage
burglars.  Perhaps that is what you heard.  Unless, of course, it is,
as I suggested before, certain musical numbers you choose to play which
have distinctive ... um, feline tones to them."

Mrs.  Parnell didn't rise to the bait this time.  Perhaps because a
long, low cat yowl drifted from behind the door, accompanied by some
scratching.

"Are you in the habit of keeping your television by the doorway, Ms.
MacPhee?  No, don't bother to make up some pathetic premise to explain
that sound.  But allow me to remind you that this is a building with a
policy that pets will not be allowed to disturb tenants.  You have
agreed to that in your lease, which, correct me if I'm wrong, is a
legal document."  She banged her walker as she spat out the last two
words.  "And somehow I doubt that the sound of cats yowling and
scratching will be an effective deterrent to burglars."  With her
distinctive, pointed chin held high, she teetered back into her
apartment, showing a lot more dignity than I did.

I managed to open the door and slip in before any cats flew into the
corridor, confirming my guilt.  Then they were all over me, rubbing and
yarling and jumping on the furniture to get a little closer.  I went
straight to the kitchen, opened the last few tins of Meow Mix and
scooped it into their dishes.  They dived, whooshed and, in the case of
the little three-coloured one, waddled to the dishes.

That gave me a breather to soak in a very deep, very hot
apricot-scented bubble bath.  After their dinner, they more or less
ignored me, which was fine with all of us.  Except the calico, who
decided to join me in the bathroom.  She swayed in, took a long look at
the tub and somehow managed to fly

through the air and land just on the edge, where she promenaded back
and forth, her belly swaying.  She took the opportunity from time to
time to swipe at the bubbles and give me long, meaningful looks.

"Don't look at me like that," I told her.

I ditched the teal suit in favour of a casual aqua cotton knit top and
skirt Donalda had given me for my birthday.  Of course, I had to lift
the calico cat off and give the top a shake before I could put it on.

"You're eating too much, you weigh a ton.  Get any bigger and you'll
need your own apartment.  Not that it's such a bad idea."

She just settled down on my bedspread and purred at me.

I finished off my look, if you can call it that, by yanking a comb
through my hair and slashing on a bit of pinkish lipstick.  Just enough
to keep the family off my back about my appearance.

I picked up the bag from the joke shop and I was ready to go.  The
little three-coloured cat rubbed against my ankles, purring.  The
others were dozing on the newspaper, snoozing on my teal jacket and
lounging on my pillow.

"Stan," I said, with a shark-like smile, "wonderful to see you."  He
shot a little glance of surprise at my unfamiliar good mood.

"Good evening, Camilla."

As I slid into the passenger's seat of the LeSabre, clutching the bag
from the joke shop, I neglected to check for strange bulges on the
seat.  Too late.  Rude noises from the Whoopee Cushion filled the car.
Tears of joy filled Stan's eyes.

"Your diet, Camilla," he said, chortling, "you've got to do something
about your diet."

I just sat there, thinking, I'll give you something to chortle about,
Stan.

"Your sisters," Stan said, when he managed to get a grip on himself,
"your sisters are very, very concerned about you.  You're never in your
office.  You're never at home.  You're cranky and distracted.  They're
going to want to talk to you about it.  Please try to be mature and
understanding," said Stan, as we drove south to Nepean.

Mature and understanding?  Fine words from Mr.  Whoopee Cushion, I
thought.

"Sure," I said, "just watch me."

The highlight of the evening was Edwina's reaction when she saw the
fake cigarette burn on her newly upholstered sofa.  The package
directions instructed: Place the cigarette burn on the table or other
places and watch the fun.  Great joke at a party.  The package
directions did not lie.  Stan's the only smoker, and he picked up a few
bruises before Edwina caught on to the joke.  Let's just say, there was
a chill in the air for the rest of the evening.  Even the rubber
chocolates I seeded in the candy dish weren't quite such a hit
afterwards.

Stan drove me home and waited while I opened the main door to the
foyer.  I was still smiling to myself over the way dinner had gone.

Stan seemed a bit aloof, even if he did his duty and made sure I got
into the building safely.

"Don't worry about it, Stan.  Your bruises will fade.  And nothing much
can happen to me here."

A look of what seemed like regret flicked over his face.

I was humming as I walked down the corridor to my apartment.  Until I
saw the cats in the hallway.

The door was open.  Just an inch or two.  But enough.  I scooped up the
black one and the ginger torn and tossed them through the door.  How
the hell did they get the door open?  I hoped it hadn't been opened by
the Super, following a complaint from you know who.

I tossed the two cats through the door and went back for the white one
with the black paws and the grey Persian, who showed remarkable energy
in escaping from me.  Once I had captured them, I looked around.  No
more cats in the hallway.  The three-coloured one and the tabby must be
still inside, I decided.  Unless.  Unless they had oozed into someone
else's apartment or gotten on an elevator.

The calico was snoozing on the sofa.  It was only when I got to the
bedroom that I spotted the tabby lying on the pillow, her neck at a
strange angle.

No, it can't be, I told myself, edging closer, heart thudding.  But it
was.

The tabby was dead.  Still warm but dead, her neck snapped.  A note was
attached to her collar.

"Butt out," it said.

My hands shook as I picked up the phone to call the police.  McCracken
was off duty.  I dug around in my suit skirt pocket for the number he'd
given me.

McCracken's phone rang ten times before he picked it up.  It gave me
time to watch my hands shake and to feel the pulse in my ears.  Someone
had violated my apartment.  Entered my space and contaminated it.
Killed a defenceless, trusting animal to make a vicious point.  Now I
had something else not to butt out about.

I was about to slam down the receiver when McCracken answered,
breathless and hopeful.

"Sorry to let you down, Sergeant," I said, "but I think I'll take you
up on your offer of help."

Fifteen minutes later he was sitting on the sofa, looking tense as a
high wire.

"Sorry," he said, "they just make me nervous."

"You'd better be careful.  You keep stiffening your neck like that, and
you'll be at the chiropractor's tomorrow."

"Can't you do something with them?"

I looked at the five remaining cats.  They didn't appear to be
grief-stricken.  The black one was leaning against McCracken's calf, I
guess because the Persian had already captured his feet and seemed to
be dozing on them.  The ginger Tom was facing McCracken on the sofa,
purring at him aggressively.  As I watched, the white cat with the
black paws made a leap for his lap.  Meanwhile, on the back of the
sofa, the little three-coloured one paraded back and forth, making sure
the tip of her tail brushed the back of McCracken's neck every time she
turned around.

The rich sound of purring resonated in the room.

"I'm sorry," I said, "nothing I can do.  They're out of control."

"I think I'm about to go out of control myself," said McCracken.

"Maybe if you had a drink?"

"Yeah," he muttered, "that might help."

McCracken had earned his drink.  He'd already checked under my bed and
in my closets and shower, where a murderer might hide.  I didn't have
the heart to tell him I'd already checked for murderers.  But I
appreciated the attempt.

"So," I said, after handing him a double dose of scotch.

I had one myself.

McCracken was sipping his scotch with a small smile on his face,
showing no sign of wanting to pursue the required conversation.

"So," I said.  Firmly, this time.

McCracken looked up from the scotch and gave me his full attention.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said.  "My guess is that you
stirred up a certain amount of trouble when you started nosing around
in the whole mess."

"Thanks for the advice."

"That's not advice.  The advice is, stop looking for trouble and let
the police handle the investigation."

"Well, I can't do that, can I?  Since the whole reason I'm
investigating is to clear my friend's name and the police seem
determined to arrest her."

He cleared his throat.

"We are pursuing other inquiries now.  There's a lot of forensic
evidence from the crime scene that should soon be available.  That'll
speed things up.  Get some action."

Neither one of us believed him.  I would have felt a bit sorry for him
if he hadn't let Robin get dragged in to the station.

"We have some action," I said, pointing to the small corpse covered
with my plaid wool winter scarf.  "We have a dead cat.  Now I know dead
cats don't make The National the way Mitzi did, but whoever did this
thought he was delivering a powerful message."

"Or she," he said.  "These are modern times."

Or she?

I thought about this for a minute while McCracken polished off his
scotch.

"Anyway," he said, breaking into my thoughts, "we've

disturbed a crime scene here.  You'd better spend the night somewhere
else, and I'll get a team in here tomorrow."

"I'm sure they'll be thrilled to investigate the murder of a

cat.

"That's why I'm not calling them out tonight.  Still, it's pretty
obviously related to the Brochu murder, so we've got no choice."

"I'll stay here."

"I think the scene's been disturbed enough by both of us.  It's better
if you don't.  Besides, you should get that door fixed.  Do you want to
sleep in an apartment where the front door's been kicked in?"

Normally I would spend the night with Robin in an emergency, but I
couldn't face telling her about the cat.  Edwina and Donalda would
drive me crazy lecturing.  That left Merv, who was as bad as Edwina and
Donalda.  And Alexa.

What the hell, I couldn't keep them apart forever.

Half an hour later we pulled into the driveway at Alexa's place.
McCracken was still tense.  Maybe it was because we were headed for
Alexa's.  Maybe it was because there were five cats prowling and
howling in his car.

"Well, we're here," I said unnecessarily, since we were stopped in
Alexa's driveway.  "You'd better stay with them while I check that
she's ready for them."

"Don't be long," he whispered.

"Who is it?"  Alexa asked from behind her door.

"It's your sister who called you and said she was coming right over.
Remember?"

"Yes, I remember," she hissed, as she opened the door.

"And I'll thank you to remember if you're asking to spend the night at
my house with your five cats, that you can at least be civil to me."

"They're not my cats.  And I'm sorry, you're right.  I'm just tense and
bitchy because a murder was committed in my home."

Alexa gasped.  "A murder!"

"Yes.  The tabby.  The reason I'm here."

"Oh, the cat.  Really, you scared me.  I thought you were talking
something serious.  A person.  Not a cat."  She pulled her silk
housecoat a bit tighter.

"Well, it was serious to me.  I found the cat murdered on my own
pillow."

"I'm sorry.  But I didn't even know this cat."

I heard my voice go up an octave.  "That's not the point.  The point is
somebody killed the cat to give me a message.  And the message was to
stop investigating Mitzi Brochu's murder."

"Well, I hope you're going to.  Leave that to the police," she said,
peering down the driveway.  "Who's that in the car?"

"McCracken.  Where do you plan to put the cats?  Somewhere special or
is it okay for them to make themselves at home on the furniture?"

"Conn McCracken?  Here?"  I hate to say it, but her hands flew to her
face.  "I don't have any make-up on, and I'm in my bedclothes!"

"Well, it is bedtime.  So where should he put the cats?"

"He can't come up here.  Not while I look like this.  God, I haven't
seen him for twenty-five years.  I want to be prepared."

"Okay.  But where will the cats go?"

"I don't care where the cats go.  You just make sure that he doesn't
come up here when I'm like this.  Understand?"

Years of being a mom had given Alexa the training she

needed to talk tough when necessary.

"Right," I said.

Back at the car, I told McCracken, "Hand me those cats, two at a time
please, and I'll put them in the house."

With some difficulty, he managed to pass the ginger Tom and the black
one through the window.  "Doesn't she want to..."  he said.

"I'll be back in a tick," I told him.

I tossed the felines into the laundry room and jogged back for the next
two.  "Wait a minute," McCracken whispered as I picked up the grey
persian and the white-and-black.

"Hold your horses," I said to him, "till I get them all put away." 
"For heaven's sake," Alexa said, as I rushed by her on my way to the
laundry room.  "Why is he still sitting out there?  I look a mess." 
She stared at herself in the gilt-edged hall mirror.

I don't know what she saw looking back at herself, because her sigh
indicated some sort of desperation.  I saw a woman, tall, blonde,
elegant, wearing a three hundred dollar silk housecoat and still
finding something to sigh about.

"One more trip."

"Don't let him in here!"

When I took the last cat from McCracken, I asked him to pass me my
overnight bag.  And my camera case.

"I can take it in for you."

"Not tonight, Conn.  You don't want her to see you looking like
that."

"See me looking like what?"

"Covered in cat hair.  And if you'll pardon my saying so, smelling like
a distillery.  Another time would be better."

It seemed to me Conn McCracken had a distinct slump as

he backed out of Alexa's driveway.  I'm not sure if she got a real
good look as she peered from behind the curtain.

Alexa still likes playing Mom.  That meant at seven o'clock the next
morning, I came face to face with two eggs, perfectly poached, bacon,
crisp and fragrant and whole wheat toast, with a choice of marmalade or
jam in little crystal bowls.

Alexa was bustling around in an off-white silk blouse with a pair of
taupe twill pants.

"Anything else I can get for you?"

I wasn't sure how I would get through what was already there.

Alexa arrived at the table with a steaming pot of fresh coffee.  Up
close I could see she had on her pearl earrings, a nice light make-up,
a smile and distinct traces of cat hair around the ankles.

"So," she said, sliding into a chair and smiling at me, "do you think
he'll come back and pick you up?"

I shook my head.  "I don't imagine he ever wants to see me again."

The smile dipped, but Alexa is a trooper.  "I hope you'll spend a
couple of days here, at least until the police are through with your
apartment.  I don't know how you can even consider going back there."

"It may not be much, but it's home," I said.  "But I would appreciate
you taking care of the cats until the new locks are on."

I thought I heard a meowing sound from behind the laundry room door.

"Oh sure," said Alexa.  But I could tell her day was already

ruined, whether from the absence of McCracken or the presence of the
cats was hard to tell.  "So," she added, "I guess you won't be talking
to him."

"Why don't you call him yourself?"  I said, breaking down.  "I have his
number.  I think he'd be very pleased if you did."

"I can't throw myself at him!"

I gave up at that point.  Twenty minutes later, I was on my way out
with the camera case slung over my shoulder.

"Are you taking up photography again?"  Alexa asked.

"Just temporarily."

"That's good.  It used to drive us all crazy you snapping pictures
every two minutes and catching people with their mouth full.  I guess
that was before..."  She stopped.

"Before Paul died" is what she stopped herself from saying.  Back when
I was playful and frisky and had a life.  I'd put away my Nikon and
lenses after he died.  But now was a good time to dust them off
again.

Alexa dropped me off at my building to pick up the car.  I didn't even
go upstairs to change.  No time to spare.  I spun my wheels out of the
garage and made tracks toward my quarry.  Starting with the early
birds.

I clicked the zoom lens and waited for Deb Goodhouse to emerge from her
fashionable brick townhouse along the canal, in the part of town real
estate people call the Golden Triangle.  She took the time to check the
front garden, for signs of new life I suppose, and never glanced my
way.  She looked good for that time of the day.  A little red cropped
blazer and a long navy skirt.  I could see her red lipstick from the
car.  On the other hand, I was blending into the scenery.  She didn't
see me snap a very good series of shots of her.

From there, I drove out along the Parkway and crossed over the
Champlain Bridge to the Chateau Carrier Sheraton

on the Quebec side.  I hung around the parking lot waiting for Jo
Quinlan to show up for her workout.  It took half an hour before the
silver Toyota Supra pulled in and parked three cars away from me.  Jo
didn't pay any attention to the drab little blue Mazda and its occupant
and she didn't hear the shutter clicking.

So much for the early risers.  My next stop was the Queen Elizabeth
Driveway.  I parked where I couldn't be seen from the windows of Rudy
Wendtz's big place, but close enough to spot the great man coming or
going.  I made a point of checking around for signs of the local
constabulary.  But wherever McCracken was this morning, he wasn't
there.

I got to hear a bit of This Morning on the radio while I waited.  In
the middle of the third interview, Wendtz emerged from the door, looked
around and gave me an opportunity to zoom in on his nasty face with the
three day growth of beard and the black ice eyes.

I put the camera down and opened the city map over it to plan my route
for the next stop.

The knock on the window made me hit my head on the roof.  Something
that would leave a dent.  Large-and-Lumpy leaned in when I opened the
window.  "Shouldn't be here," he said.

I knew what he meant.

"Mr.  Wendtz won't like it."

"I thought we were friends.  Don't feel you have to tell him."

He smiled, displaying the few teeth he had.  "Take a hint," he said as
he lumbered back toward the huge house.

I crossed my fingers and prayed he couldn't see what I was doing as I
slipped the camera out from under the map and got a couple of nice
clean shots of my buddy.

Everything was going my way.  The last of the targets, Sammy Dash,
showed up at his favourite market cafe just as I finished a tricky bit
of parallel parking in front of it.  I was sweating when he stalked
past the Mazda.

Click.  Click.  I enjoyed doing this.  Stalking the stalker.  He looked
around to see if anyone was watching, then scratched his burn.  I
captured the moment for posterity.  And a few other moments, too. Sammy
lighting up.  Sammy giving passing women the once over.  I felt quite
at ease.  It's amazing how invisible you are in a middle-aged blue
Mazda, when the world wants to look at Porsches.

I was glad I was so invisible when I saw who Sammy's date was.  Brooke
Findlay, in an outfit that showed a lot of leg, moved up next to him,
smiling and allowing her bottom to be stroked in a way that indicated
they'd met before.

I was smiling too, as I lifted the camera.

Thank God," said Alvin when I trooped into the office, after lunching
on a very dangerous pair of burritos.  "I thought you might be dead or
something when you didn't show up for such a long time."

He was working on a guilt-inducing look.  You've hurt me and I don't
expect to ever get over it, his body language said.  I'd seen Mrs.
Findlay pull the same routine on Robin more than once.  No doubt Alvin
had picked up the technique from his own mother.  It was one of many
things I'd missed out on.

"Who the hell are you to talk?  You vanished for days without any word
at all."  The burritos put a little extra venom into my words.

"That's different," he said, with his long, pointed nose in the air.
"You gave me assignments, which, might I add, I completed in record
time.  I can't be in two places at once.  And anyway, don't you want to
know what I found out?"

I did.

His almond-shaped black eyes glittered as he filled me in.

"So you can imagine," he said, "what kind of career Brooke Findlay
would have had, if Mitzi had gone ahead and printed her piece on the
"Walk in the Woods' woman as a serious cokehead."

A serious cocaine user.  That explained something about Brooke's
behaviour.  And her choice of friends.

'"The Walk in the Woods' people would yank little Brookie's contract
in a nanosecond.  Adios fame and fortune."  Alvin's pixie smile
twinkled.

"And Mitzi knew it."

"You bet.  And enjoyed knowing it, from what I hear.  She was so pissed
off about Brooke and Rudy Wendtz, she would have done anything."

"So Brooke had a real motive," I said.

"So did Wendtz."

And Robin, I thought, as I tried to concentrate later, how much had she
known about all this?  At least it was beginning to make sense.  If
Robin had any suspicion that Brooke was involved, there was nothing she
wouldn't do to draw attention away from it.  Complete collapse, for
instance.  "I saw nothing," she'd told me.  And told the police.  It
was probably true enough as far as it went.  But what did Robin think
had happened in Mitzi's room?

Alvin seemed to take a certain pleasure in reminding me of outstanding
chores.

"A lot of people are hot on your trail," he said, waving stacks of
little yellow messages in my face.

He was right.  It was imperative that I call my contacts at the
Department of Justice, at two separate provincial offices and at the
City.  Funding depended on it.

"Some of those people are getting impatient."

"What have you been telling them?"

"I've been telling them the truth, that I have no idea where you are or
if or when you're coming back.  And I've been offering to take
messages."

"Offering to take messages?  Well, well.  That is a distinct service
improvement.  But may I suggest that you varnish the truth somewhat
when dealing with real and potential funders

and supporters of Justice for Victims.  Tell them something
compelling, that I'm in conference, that I'm at meetings, that I'm out
of town on business.  Use your imagination."

"Fine," he sniffed.

"And, while I return my stack of phone calls, can you slip over to the
Rideau Centre and get a film developed?  And get some cat treats from
the pet shop."  I fished out a fifty dollar bill from my secret money
stash, in the Miscellaneous file.  I reminded myself to hit the ATM for
a bit more cash, and to find a new spot for the secret stash, since
Alvin seemed to file just about everything under Miscellaneous.

"The Rideau Centre?  Now?  Can't it wait until I'm on my way home?"

"No, it cannot.  But here, let me get a shot of you to make it worth
your while."

I snapped it, hoping he hadn't had time to replace the look of
petulance with one of supreme nonchalance before the camera caught
it.

None of the real or potential funders were at their desks when I called
back.  I left messages.  At least the ball was in their court.

I tried to return Merv's call, but he hissed into the phone that he
couldn't talk just at that moment.

Ted Beamish just wanted to catch up on the news about Robin.

"Not much change," I told him, "except someone killed one of her
cats."

He listened without interruption as I explained about the tabby's
demise.

"Don't tell her," he said.  "Wait till it's all over and I'll help
you."

"Thanks," I said, thinking he was not too bad.

"How did you manage to sleep there last night, after that?"

"I didn't.  I spent the night at my sister's."  I felt, somehow, that
this was a declaration of extreme cowardice.

"Good," he said.  "That was sensible.  Let me know if you want me to go
over there with you when you go back.  I could hang around until you
feel comfortable again."

Seemed like a good idea to me.

Richard Sandes had left three messages.  But I saved his call to the
very end.  After the locksmith.  After the Mary Kay lady.  When I got
up the nerve to return it, I checked myself in the little mirror Alvin
had installed on the desk.  It didn't cheer me up.

What do you care, I told myself, it's not like he can see you or
anything.  Even so, I combed my hair and slapped on a little lipstick.
There was nothing to be done about the sweater and skirt, now on their
second day.

But it didn't matter, because he wasn't in his office.

I slumped in Alvin's chair and gave myself a lecture.  Richard Sandes
had a wife.  And he was waiting for her to get better, to come back.
Anything else was just a filler.

You don't want to get into a relationship with that kind of possible
outcome, I said to myself.  You're just getting over the worst thing
that could ever happen to anyone.  Don't ask for trouble.

Of course, a civilized little drink every now and then couldn't hurt.
As long as I kept it to that.

I was arguing with myself about the dangers of a civilized little
drink, when Alvin flung himself into the room.

"Boy," he said, "someone should tell these people about the notion of
service.  They keep you waiting, they have hidden charges, they're
surly and snotty."

"Why don't you open up a training school?"

"Maybe I'll do that," he said.  "Just maybe."

While he pondered the vast career potential in Alvin's School of
Customer Service, I dug through the photos, smiling to myself.  I
dropped the cat treats into my purse.  Then I held out my hand for the
change.

Alvin was just grumbling and digging for it, when the phone rang.

Richard.

"I feel like I still owe you an apology," he said.

"You don't.  However, if you feel like grovelling, why not do it over a
civilized little drink?"

We settled on seven, in the bar at the Harmony.  With hints of dinner
to follow.

I hung up and looked over at Alvin, who was immersed in some very
important work at the back of the office.

"Alvin," I said, "don't let the smile on my face lead you to believe
that I've forgotten the change."

"So, Mrs.  Parnell, let's see if I understand.  The police came.  And
you didn't let them in."

It was after work and we were seated in Mrs.  Parnell's living room.
But where were the doilies, the knickknacks, the dozens of family
photos?  Where were the cushions and the afghans?  Mrs.  Parnell's
living room did not conform to known standards for little old ladies
living alone in apartments.  For one thing, the furniture consisted of
a caramel leather sofa, a matching easy chair and ottoman and a massive
glass coffee table.  A small glass table by the side held Mrs.
Parnell's coffee cup and a hardcover book by Doris Lessing.

A serious sound system dominated the room.  Records,

compact-discs and cassettes filled the shelves.  A modern metal
sculpture was the only decoration.  Unless you counted the three sets
of hand-weights in jelly-bean colours.  Three, four and five pounds, as
far as I could tell.  A pair of leg weights in matching lilac lay next
to them.

The dining area was set up with a computer and printer, one chair, and
a double bookcase, jammed with volumes.  That left just enough room for
the cage containing the peach faced love birds.

I would have preferred the room to be more traditional.  I was nervous
enough sitting here with Mrs.  Parnell.  If I'd been wearing a tie, I'd
have loosened it.

Mrs.  Parnell considered my question about the police as she popped
another cigarette into the holder.

"Well, I'm not sure they were the police.  They seemed to be saying
that they were, but anyone could say that, couldn't they?"

"That's right."

"One of them looked too much like a rodent for my liking, so I decided
against opening the door."

Mombourquette.

"A good move, Mrs.  Parnell."  I sipped my Harvey's Bristol Cream and
beamed at her.  "So one of them looked like a rodent.  By any chance
did the other one look more like a middle-aged Labrador Retriever with
a bit of a weight problem?"

"Just the ratty one was there.  With a skinny young fellow, reminded me
of a Blue Heron.  I didn't see the Lab," she said before taking a
healthy swig.

"Mrs.  Parnell..."

"But I think I saw you last night leaving with someone who looked a bit
like a Saint Bernard, carrying cats which looked exactly like cats. And
I do have to tell you, young lady, that

you will have to do something about those noisy beasts."

Behind her, a bird peeped in agreement.

"What about birds?"

"If you mean Lester and Pierre," she said, nodding towards the cage
with purse-lipped satisfaction, "birds, Ms.  MacPhee, don't disturb
anyone."

"I don't know, Mrs.  Parnell, that persistent chirping gives me
migraines."

"Very funny, but don't try to change the subject.  I knew those cats
were there.  And now look what's happened.  The police are asking about
it.  I didn't like to turn you in, but I won't be able to hold out
forever."

I looked at her with astonishment.  "But, Mrs.  Parnell, the police
don't care about cats in the apartment.  That's a civil matter."

"Not too civil if you ask me," she said, with a glance at the love
birds.

"I mean, not criminal.  You see..."

"Depends on your point of view," she sniffed.

"Mrs.  Parnell, one of those cats was murdered last night.  To my
knowledge, the occasional loud meow doesn't merit the death penalty in
this country."  I leaned forward with fire in my eyes.  Perhaps it was
the Bristol Cream taking effect.

"Murdered!"

"That's right, its neck was broken," I snapped my fingers.

"Dear me," she said.  "It's the disintegration of society."

"I don't really see it as the disinteg..."

"How shocking for you.  Goodness, you need that drink topped up."  She
was spry enough to hop up and get the Harvey's bottle.  She filled her
own glass to the brim right after mine.  "So what are you going to do
with the other three, now that this one's dead?"

"The other five."

"Five!  I only spotted three, I must be losing it."  She polished off
half the glass.  "Oh well.  May as well be hanged for a sheep as a
lamb."

"Mrs.  Parnell, this is a serious business.  I need your help.  From
time to time you may accidentally see something from the peephole in
your door."  That was the kindest way I could think of to mention that
Mrs.  Parnell's eyes were rarely far from that peephole.  "When you're
checking up on suspicious noises."  I didn't want to alienate her by
adding that she was the nosiest woman I'd ever encountered.

She nodded at me and leaned forward.  This Bristol Cream is the secret
to promoting neighbourliness, I thought.  I dug out the package of
photos from my purse.

"Did you see any of these people going into my apartment last night?"

She kept nodding as I showed her each one of them.  We went through
them twice.

My heart banged a bit when she pointed to my new friend,
Large-and-Lumpy.

"Are you sure?"  I asked, hoping she wasn't.

"Pretty distinctive, don't you think?  Looks like a bear.  I thought at
the time he must have been a boxer or something.  He didn't seem to be
your type, but..."  she shrugged her shoulders, "who can tell these
days."

I was clutching my sherry glass so hard the crystal pattern dug into my
palms.  Large-and-Lumpy, not my oldest buddy, but I'd felt a rapport
with him, and now, to find out he'd been in my apartment the night the
tabby was killed.  On Wendtz's orders, I was sure.  It told me
something I wanted to know: Wendtz was implicated, despite his alibi,
and he didn't want me digging around in Mitzi's activities.  It told me
something

I didn't want to know, as well.  Large-and-Lumpy would do anything he
was directed to by Wendtz.  Frightening me.  Killing a cat.  I
swallowed the rest of the Bristol Cream and thought the next logical
thought: Would he also have killed Mitzi on Wendtz's orders?  Did
Large-and-Lumpy have an alibi for the time of Mitzi's death?

Mrs.  Parnell poured another healthy dose into my glass and added a
discreet amount to her own.

"Well," she said.  "Well, well, well.  Isn't this exciting?"

Exciting wasn't the word I was searching for.

"That explains, I suppose, that man who was working on your door today.
And that the Super was up too.  Good thing you and the Saint Bernard
took the cats away last night."

Two and three-quarters glasses of sherry were enough to make my head
spin, and I still had to drop in to see Richard for a civilized little
drink.  Mrs.  Parnell was good enough to call the Super to bring up my
new keys.  She must have a way with him.  I've never gotten action that
fast.

While we waited, I took a couple of shots of her peach faced love birds
for her.  And got a nice one of her standing next to the cage.

"The police said something about cats, Mrs.  Parnell," said the Super
as Mrs.  P. opened the door and whisked the keys from his sweaty little
hand.

"I think they said bats," she told him.  "The burglars were out of
there like bats out of hell."

I waved to him from the sofa.

As I staggered across the hallway to my empty apartment, I turned and
asked her, "Promise me, Mrs.  Parnell, that you'll let me know if
anyone comes to my apartment in the next few days.  Here's my office
number.  Thanks for the drinks.  And for keeping my secret."

"My pleasure," she said, with what might have been the beginnings of a
smile.

A bath, a nap, a change of clothes and the intervening three hours
weren't enough to get me back to normal before I hit the Harmony.  It
had been a busy and distracting day even before the sherry.

It was the first warm evening of the season, and a frisky breeze
ruffled my hair.  Climbing out of the cab, I smoothed my deep green
jersey dress and gave it a little tug.  I wasn't used to having things
end above my knees, and I wasn't sure what I had been thinking of when
I bought it.

I was steady enough on the high heels though, plus I had clean hair,
face and teeth and, best of all, I was fifteen minutes early.  I also
had my camera and plenty of film.

I recognized Naomi by her big hair and chirpy voice.  She was working
with Brad, who had lots of teeth set on per ma smile.

"Hmmm," chirped Naomi, "no, I've never seen him."  She pointed to
Large-and-Lumpy in the photo and gave a little shiver, "how could you
forget someone like that?"  She took a look at Rudy Wendtz's brooding
expression.  "Oh yes, he was here often when Miss Brochu was in town,
wasn't he, Brad?"

"Sure was," said Brad.  "Remember the night of the big fight?  When we
had to call in security?"

"Who could forget it?"  Naomi rolled her eyes.

"And this one, too.  I've seen him before."  She pointed to Sammy Dash.
"I think he used to accompany Miss Brochu, too.  Kinda cute, isn't
he?"

"These two women look familiar," said Brad.  I put it down

to an attempt to change the subject.  "I've seen them both before, but
I'm not sure where."

"One of them does the news and the other's a politician, I think,"
Naomi added.  "But the one who does the news, she was here the day of
the murder, I remember her with a camera crew and everything.  But I
think she might have been in earlier too."

"Can you remember when?"

"Sorry," said Naomi.

"But she's been here all right," said Brad, not to be outdone.  "Who
could forget a face like that?"  He pointed to Brooke.

"Big deal, she didn't look that great the day she was here."  Naomi was
prepared to sulk a bit.

"Upset, maybe.  But still beautiful."

"When was that?  Do either of you remember?"

Naomi shrugged.

"Well, this is the first day I've been back from my holidays," said
Brad, "so it must have been just before I left.  That would be the
twelfth of May."

May twelfth, the day before Mitzi's murder.

"Who cares?"  said Naomi.

"Great," I said, ignoring her and focusing on him, "any idea what she
was doing here?"

They both shook their heads.

"She came in looking like a million dollars and headed straight for the
elevator.  She knew where she was going, all right," said Brad.

"And she came out again, a bit later, looking real upset.  I think
she'd been crying.  Her mascara was running."  Naomi offered the
comment with some satisfaction.

Okay, Brooke.  Gotcha now.

I tucked myself behind a pillar, snapped on the zoom, bagging a good
shot of Brad and Naomi still arguing about Brooke.  For good luck, I
caught the bell captain and two bell boys.

Then I sashayed into the bar to meet Richard, right on time.  "Smile
for the birdie," I said, getting a nice image of him telling the waiter
to give me special treatment.

I arrived at Alexa's place that evening with a grin on my face and what
was left of my Catholic conscience locked in the basement of my mind.

Alexa opened the door the second Richard's car drove into the driveway,
eliminating any mushy stuff.  Just as well.  After all, it had just
been a civilized drink followed by dinner.

As I walked through the door, I sniffed L'air du Temps.  I turned to
wave good-bye to Richard.

Alexa was wearing very subtle yet effective makeup, creating a dewy,
youthful appearance.  An appearance bolstered by her soft, cream
cowl-necked angora sweater and black pants with little patent flats.  A
very nice effect, but wasted on me at eleven in the evening.

"Is that him?"  she whispered, watching the car pull out of the
driveway.

"It's a different him."

"Oh.  So who is he?"

"A friend."

"How nice," she said, sinking into a chair in the living room.

I could tell she wanted to talk, but I had to make a stop in the
laundry room.  I was feeling guilty about the cats.  Maybe I

could buy my way back into their favour with the cat treats.

"It's very hard to keep them in the laundry room," Alexa pointed out as
she came up behind me.  "They seem to want to get out and sit on the
furniture."

"I think I can understand that."

"Yes, well," she said, "they're staying in."

Ten eyes glowed with reproach when I opened the door.  It would take a
hell of a lot of cat treats to get back in their good graces.

I closed the door and faced Alexa, who was slumping against the wall.

"I'm sorry.  I still think you should just give him a call.  Save
yourself all this stressful self-torment.  I've got to go to bed now.
Big day tomorrow."

When I snapped her picture from the top of the stairs, she was sitting
in the living room with the lights off.  Mooning over McCracken.

Go figure.

C'mon, Alvin, you can do it."  He looked across the desk at me, arms
crossed, mouth a tight little knot, ponytail in full droop.

"Oh sure," he said, "get me to do all the real scruffy stuff that you
don't have the taste for.  Other Duties As Required.  Give it to Alvin.
The underclass."

"That's not true.  I very much want to go to the Harmony and prowl
around the delivery entrances and the back hallways.  But I can't.  The
manager there knows me, and he told me he'd call the police in a flash
if he caught me snooping."

Alvin had no way of knowing what Richard had said over dinner the
previous night.  But I remembered it well.

Be careful had been the underlying theme.

"I just want the name of the 8th Floor maid, Richard."

"Okay, here it is.  But..."

"Thanks," I said, leaning over and looking at the card with the name
Maria Rodriguez written on it.  I had to touch his hand to pick up the
card.

He was still talking.

"this is a dangerous situation.  Someone knows where you live, knows
you have been investigating and wants you to stop.  Dead cat,
remember?"

"I remember.  How would I forget?"  It was hard to concentrate with his
hand touching mine like that.  Hard to

keep my mind on our civilized little drink and dinner.  And his
civilized little warning.

"When does she come on duty?"

"She stopped working here, right after the murder.  A lot of these
refugees went through some pretty gruesome times in their own country.
They want to feel safe in Canada."

"Where does she live?"

"The address is there, for all the good it will do you.  This woman
only had a couple of words of English.  But, listen, why not give it to
the police and suggest that they interview her?  They'll find a
translator from the community.  One of these rocks you turn over in
your investigation is going to have something pretty ugly under it."

"You're right," I'd said, smiling into those chocolate eyes and picking
up the card with my free hand.  "Why buy trouble?"

So Alvin, not I, would be nosing through the back halls of the Harmony
with an armful of photos, trying to pin down just who might have been
sneaking in the back way to see Mitzi Brochu before her death.  For his
own protection, I sent him over to the Rideau Centre to get the roll of
film with Richard's picture developed.

"Alvin," I said, by way of convincing him of the wisdom of the Harmony
mission, "the way I see it, we're partners, each with our own role to
play in solving this gruesome crime.  You've brought me a lot of useful
information."

"Yeah well, I..."

But I'd had enough of Alvin's stalling at this point.  "Time to hit the
road.  A rolling stone gathers no moss and all that.  We need those
photos ASAP.  Now get going, partner."

"But Camilla..."

"Look, my day started with my sister sulking at me over the

corn flakes.  Then things got a bit more exciting when I transported
five, count 'em five, cats in boxes back to my apartment in the world's
most anti-cat building.  Now, here I am, it's nearly noon.  I have to
be on the alert for the beautiful suspect and now, instead of being a
cooperative partner, you're getting your back up."

"Fine," he snapped, "wait for it then, partner."

He was out the door before I could clarify just what it was I would be
waiting for.

I put in another call to Merv, who also has a tendency to sulk for
unexplained reasons.  "Try the city police.  I can't dig up a lot of
information without people starting to notice."

"It's a situation I understand well, Merv, but I don't want you to dig
up information on a lot of people, just one.  Just one person, and I
have his picture.  And I would rather avoid talking to the city police
since they don't seem to take me seriously."

There was silence on the line.  I shook the phone.  "After all, it's
for Robin, in case you're forgetting, Merv."

"Yeah, all right.  One picture.  Drop it by.  At the desk.  Don't come
in.  You'll just give people ideas."

"Thank you, Merv."  I stopped short of slathering him with all that
partner bullshit.

My last call was to set up a meeting with my old friend, Elaine
Ekstein.  Elaine was hard at work setting up a support network for
refugee women.  She was glad to talk to me.

"Sure," she said, "I'll find her for you.  She's probably scared to
death.  Especially if she's a new arrival and she doesn't speak much
English.  I'll translate for you."

I just had time to hop into the car and hightail it back to Elmvale
Acres.  My little visit with Robin confirmed what I'd hoped.  Brooke
was still home, but preparing to go out.  Her

mother was parked in front of the television watching Days of Our
Lives and steaming Brooke's going-out outfit.  She didn't even glance
over when I snapped a picture of her.

"Be careful," Brooke called down, "it's new and it's linen.  I don't
want anything to happen to it, Ma."

"My God," said Ma, "can you believe Marlena would let him do that?"

Mr.  Findlay followed me up the stairs with fresh sandwiches, chicken
on brown bread, cut in little triangles and some lemon custard for
dessert.  Hot tea, too.  That man knew how to put a tray together.

"Say cheese," I said, capturing the moment on film.

He grinned.  "Just like old times, you and that camera."

From the sounds of preparations and shouted instructions, Brooke was
quite a way from take-off.  I could enjoy my lunch and try to get Robin
to enjoy hers as well.

"Don't even think about taking my picture," Robin said.

I knew she meant it.

"How are the pussies?"  she asked as we settled in with our little
sandwiches and tea.

"Great!  They miss you!  But they seem to be enjoying life."

Robin put down her tea cup and stared at me.

My God, I thought, could she tell what had happened to the tabby just
by looking at me?  Did the words DEAD CAT appear on my forehead?

"They communicate with you?"

"No, but they ... purr.  And then every now and then they get a faraway
look in their little green eyes, and I know they're thinking about you
and about how they want you to get well and go home and be with them
again."  I folded my hands in my lap.

Until I noticed that tears were streaming down Robin's

cheeks.  She also appeared to have stopped breathing.

"My God, I'm sorry, I'm only trying to..."

"Hahahahahah."  At least she was alive.

"Stop laughing, or I'll eat all the sandwiches.  Then you'll be
sorry."

"You can tell all that from their eyes?  You should go on Oprah."

The door shot open and Brooke bellowed through: "Keep it down, will
you, I'm trying to catch something on the radio."

Robin's laugh was cut off mid-whoop.

"Don't mind her.  She can't help it.  She's under a lot of career
pressure lately."

Nothing like she's going to be, I thought as I ate my sandwiches.

When I left the Findlay house, still ahead of Brooke, I pulled away
from the curb, rounded the corner and pulled in again.  I had a few
minutes to sit there and admire the trees leafing out in the warm
weather.

I was fiddling with the car radio when Brooke drove by in her
fire-engine-red BMW.  I wasn't too worried about following her, not
even when she checked her rear view mirror.  She was far too
self-absorbed to notice anyone else.

I drove along with a smile on my face, wondering where she'd be meeting
Sammy Dash this time.  And what they'd get up to.

It wasn't always easy trailing Brooke, since she showed a
disinclination to signal lane changes or even turns.  We wound along
Aha Vista and down Pleasant Park to Riverside Drive, and then followed
Riverside to Bank.  Except for having to keep an eye on Brooke, it was
a pleasant drive, water, lots of green space.  Brooke turned right on
Bank, drove to the Glebe and parked on Fourth Avenue.

I watched, slouched down in my car, as she headed for the ATM.  I had
to admit, she would make a first-rate representative for "Walk in the
Woods".  Her blonde hair just cleared her shoulders and fluttered in
the breeze.  The vanilla-coloured linen suit with its elegant wrinkles
showed off Brooke's slim shape.  The cut of the skirt above the knees
confirmed my long-held suspicion that Brooke was eighty percent legs.

She smiled into the sunshine.  Her public smile.  A middle aged man
stopped walking and stared.

Too bad she's such a bitch, I thought.  Some of my reaction may have
been related to my short legs.  Who knows.

I almost lost her as we edged onto Bank Street again.  Brooke headed
for the Queen Elizabeth Driveway, which winds along the canal on the
opposite side to Colonel By.

It's amazing, I thought, this beautiful woman in her red Beamer is
cruising along this beautiful road, and her activities are somehow tied
to a murder.

I'd been keeping well behind her, and yet I still had to stand on my
brakes to avoid her as she whipped, without a signal or a brake light,
into Rudy Wendtz's driveway.

I pulled over to the side of the road and crouched down again.

Seconds later, Wendtz pulled in after her and parked his black
Mercedes.

I don't suppose they see that many passionate clinches on Queen
Elizabeth Driveway.  But this one would have made up for any lack.  Two
tall people, pressed together, for all the world to see.  Of course,
the world wasn't looking.  Only me.

They deserve each other, I told myself, glancing away towards the front
door of the house.  That's when I noticed Large-and-Lumpy watching
back.

Elaine kept talking as she ran the red light.  I just pressed myself
to the back of the seat and tried to remember my Act of Contrition. The
Jeep, which accelerated at the green light, missed us by an inch.

"You have no idea," she said, "how often these people faced death.  And
how that must feel."

"I think I do."

"It's very difficult for them to find themselves in such a different
culture.  They're frightened a lot."

"I don't want to frighten her, Elaine.  I'm not very frightening, in
case you haven't noticed."

Elaine took her eyes off the road.

"You believe that, don't you?"

"Well, yes, Elaine, I do."

She was still watching me, shaking her head.

"On the other hand, you, Elaine, are terrifying and should not be
allowed on the road."

"Don't be silly," she said.  "I'm serious.  You can be quite
intimidating for such a small person.  You come on strong and, if
you'll pardon me mentioning it, you can be quite ruthless."

"I'll pardon you mentioning it, if you'll make an effort to avoid
getting us decapitated by that truck ahead."

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 storm troopers 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 as long as I'd lived in the apartment with the eggshell walls, I'd
thought about Paul when I couldn't sleep.  I saved that time for him.
Picking up each memory from my mental safety deposit box, touching it,
admiring it, feeling it.  Remembering the time we first met on campus
with the leaves crunching under our feet, remembering sipping cheap
wine and munching stale crackers in our first lumpy bed, laughing about
crumbs, remembering ... but memories of Paul, always so fresh and
alive, playing like a new videotape in my head, no longer filled every
space in my mind and no longer left their trail of pain.  Why was
that?

I stared at the walls.  Maybe it was time to get a few pictures.

My thoughts drifted to Richard.  Although they were not the kind of
thoughts you share with other people, the images were real enough for
me, and as disturbing as our last conversation in his car.  Richard and
me.  Richard and his wife.  There was no way to make it work out
right.

Moonlight filled the room, lightening the walls and the bedclothes and
me, lying there.  The fat little calico cat snuggled into my side.

Maybe it was time to buy some curtains.

In the morning, I snapped awake, remembering the Benning brief still
had to be dealt with.  Traces of the moon still hung behind the sky,
just to haunt me.  Five cats were haunting me, too.

It was a world filled with flashing tails and accusing, pointed ears.
Cats leapt from floor to counter and from counter to floor as I opened
the Meow Mix.  The calico rubbed herself against my legs.

"Watch it, you guys, I'm not sure I'm cut out for family life."

No one paid attention.

When I pushed my way through the office door an hour later, a man's
shape became visible.  I came close to dropping my coffee and muffin
and then exhaled in relief.  Who else did I know with a brushcut?

Merv.  His leggy presence took up most of the available room.  He was
sitting in one visitor's chair with his feet up on the other one,
sipping coffee from a jumbo styrofoam cup.  An immense bouquet of
flowers lay on my desk.  Daisies, mums and ferns mixed in with lilies
and sta tice

Merv was not a happy man.

"I don't know how you can get anything done in here.  It's like a
closet."

I refrained from saying that it was even more so when Merv squeezed his
six-foot-three frame into it.

But he wasn't done yet.  He looked at me with the same critical gaze
you might direct at a head of broccoli that's been in the fridge too
long.

"Look at you," he said.  "You look wrecked.  Yuck, what's that on your
suit?"  He reached over and brushed off a patch of cat hair.

"What can I do for you, Merv?"  I said, unwilling to get caught up in
personal grooming issues.

Amazement, or something like it, washed across his face and settled in
around the eyebrow area.

"What can you do for me?  I love it.  Little Miss Busybody sends me on
half a dozen errands and then says..."

"Can it, Merv.  Three things, that's all I asked you.  And may I remind
you that you did them for Robin's benefit, not mine."

The hard line of Merv's jaw always softens when you mention Robin.

"It's still what I can do for you.  What I've done for you."  He fished
a paper out of his pocket.  "It's the scoop on your new friend."

Large-and-Lumpy.

"Denzil Hickey.  Let's see," said Merv, "long history of criminal
lifestyle.  Couple convictions.  Armed robbery.  Assault with a deadly
weapon.  They were a long time ago.  Served a couple terms in maximum
security.  And that's not counting the charges they couldn't make
stick.  Stuff like intimidating witnesses, trafficking.  Well-known to
police here and in Toronto.  They know he's still active.  He's a goon
for Rudy Wendtz.  I imagine he picked up a few nasty tricks in Kingston
Pen.  I would not join his bridge club if I were you, Camilla."

"I love it when you use the subjunctive, Merv."

The back of Merv's chair reverberated as the door to the office hit
it.

"Sorry I'm late," said Alvin, squeezing in past Merv.  He edged around
me and hung his best black leather jacket up on the oak coat rack,
flicked his pony tail back over his shoulder, realigned his right row
of earrings and sat himself down at the desk.  He regarded the flowers
and Merv with interest.

Merv looked back at him with astonishment.  I looked at

both of them and thought I would rather be elsewhere.  But Merv was
pretty well blocking the exit.

"Merv, Alvin.  Alvin, Merv."  I hoped that would be all there was to
it, but the looks on both of their faces indicated they would be making
evaluative remarks about each other when the time was right.

Merv sipped his coffee.

I remembered my own cup and opened it.  It was still hot enough to
drink, and I felt I needed it.

Merv must have decided that the best way to deal with Alvin was to
ignore him.

"So my point is, stay the hell away from this guy.  We have reason to
think he may be involved in the disappearances of several people.
People who were of great interest to the Crown.  In the sense that they
were potential witnesses and in the sense that nobody knows anything
about their whereabouts as we speak.  In the sense that they are no
longer among the living.  Do I make myself clear?"

"As clear as you ever do, Merv."

It didn't seem to bother him.

"Took the day off," he said, unfolding out of the chair and making the
room look even smaller.  "Planning to visit Robin for a while."

Well, at least that explained the flowers.

"And don't forget what I said about that guy.  He is vicious.  Stop
your meddling.  Leave the investigation to the police."

"May I remind you, Merv, that when the investigation was left to the
police, they focused on Robin."

"You won't be much good to her if you're dead," was Merv's parting
shot.

I whipped my camera out of its case and captured a shot of Merv with
his bouquet, for future blackmail.

"Delightful meeting you," said Alvin.  The morning sun glinted off his
cat's eye glasses.

But the glass in the door was already rattling from Merv's exit.

I had managed to catch Merv's bad mood and add it to my own, and
therefore was glad Alvin was in the office.  At least I could pick on
him.  I looked around at the piles of paper.

"For God's sake, don't you ever get any work done?"

Alvin looked up from his magazine in surprise.  A hurt look settled on
his bony face.

"What are you talking about?  What about all the sleuthing I've been
doing for you?  Do you think you're going to find out who murdered
Mitzi without my help?"

"Yes, I do.  It's just a matter of time until I figure out what
happened there.  I know that Brooke Findlay's big ambition was to be
the "Walk in the Woods' woman.  I know she has a fondness for nose
candy.  I know that she was Rudy Wendtz's part-time girlfriend, and I
know Mitzi was jealous and planning to fix Brooke but good.  And I know
Mitzi and Wendtz had a huge fight the night before she died.  I know
that Wendtz employs someone who probably will kill on command.  Yes.  I
think I can solve it while you're catching up on the filing.  The other
suspects look pretty unsuspicious next to Wendtz and Company."

"Fine," he sniffed, "then you won't be interested in knowing that Jo
Quinlan and Sammy Dash were high school sweethearts, and even lived
together for a while, back when Sammy was plain old Sammy Dashchuk."

We looked at each other.

"I think I'll keep any other information I might happen to have to
myself," he added.  Half an hour later he was still at his desk, doing
nothing as far as I could tell, his scrawny shoulders tense.

I found it hard to concentrate on the Benning brief with Alvin in the
room, oozing resentment.  I also suspected he was making paper
airplanes instead of filing, but confirming that would have meant
walking over and checking on him, admitting defeat in our contest of
wills.

I said, "Okay, I give up, what other information?"

A paper airplane drifted by.

"Well, I don't know, but I think you ought to treat me more as a
partner and less as an indentured servant if you want information."

"Don't push me.  What information?"

He couldn't resist telling.

"Well," he said, crossing his legs, "the scuttlebutt is that Sammy very
much wanted to be Mr.  Mitzi."  He watched me through those cat's eye
glasses, waiting for a reaction.

"Mr.  Mitzi?"

"Right.  He wanted to replace Rudy Wendtz as Numero Uno.  He wanted a
spot in the Brochu bed.  He wanted..."

"I get your drift."

"So you see what that means."

I didn't.

Alvin leaned forward.  "Some people say that he was setting up the
whole thing.  Stringing Brooke along, flirting with her.  Finding out
her secrets.  Making sure Mitzi found out about Brooke and Rudy's
relationship.  Letting Mitzi know about Brooke's problem with her nose.
People think that after Mitzi wrote her planned spread about Brooke and
her problem, that would have been it for the Mitzi and Rudy show.
Brooke's career would have been ruined.  And Sammy would be on the spot
to ooze in and comfort poor little Mitzi.  And Sammy's career would
prosper as a result."

"But it doesn't change anything."

"What do you mean, it doesn't change anything?"  "Well, we already
figured that Rudy Wendtz engineered Mitzi's death, even if he was
elsewhere."

So.

"So, it may give us a bit more on motivation or background, but it
doesn't solve the murder."

"Who said it did?"  He jammed himself into his leather jacket.

He was out the door before I could say anything else.

I was kicking around my apartment trying to figure out where the rest
of the day had gone and why I hadn't gotten anywhere with the Benning
brief and what the stuff Alvin had found out meant, when the doorbell
rang.

"You see what happens?"  I said to the cats.  "You guys lounge around
all day on the furniture, and now someone's here and there's not one
clean spot for them to sit on."

They ignored me.  They're only interested in conversations about cat
food.

"Who is it?"  I squawked into the intercom system.

Alexa squawked back at me.  By the time she reached my door, I had
managed to sweep the black cat off the only armchair and brush most of
the hair off the seat.

"God, that woman's nosy," she said, pointing at Mrs.  Parnell's
apartment and at Mrs.  Parnell, who was lurking in her door, propped up
by her walker, the ruby tip of her cigarette glowing.

"It's for my own good," I said, giving a little wave to Mrs.  P. and
scooping up a couple of cats before they could shoot into the
hallway.

"What is that smell?"

/,

We both sniffed the air.  |

"You've got to change the kitty litter.  Every day.  With this J1

number of cats, maybe twice a day.  Have you been doing ,

that?"  <

"Sure," I lied, adding kitty litter to the growing number of things I
was behind schedule on.

"Well," said Alexa, sinking her black-covered bottom onto the part of
the sofa where the grey Persian sleeps, "guess what?"

"What?"

"I called him!"

Just in time, I stopped myself from asking who.  "Isn't that great?"
she added.  "I never thought I'd have the nerve."

I decided to be adult about it.

"So, what did he say?"

"He didn't say anything.  He wasn't there.  But that's not the point.
The point is I got up the nerve to call him."

"Did you leave a message?"

"Of course I didn't leave a message.  You must be kidding."

"You baffle me."

"Look, it took enough to get up the courage to call him.  I wanted it
to look casual."

"Okay," I said, wondering what she wanted with me.

She smiled at me.  "Let's have a little drink.  I brought Pina Colada
mix.  I know you have rum."

A pyjama party, it turned out.  A chance for the girls, in this case
Alexa and I were the only two available, to lounge around for hours
sharing their deepest secrets.

I wasn't in the mood to share my deepest secrets with anyone, but I
didn't have a problem listening to Alexa's.

Alexa, it was revealed after three Pina Coladas, had always been in
love with Conn McCracken, especially after what happened on the night
of their Senior Prom.  Conn, it turned out, had never been far from her
mind all those years.  From time to time, she had been Filled with
Regret.

"You hid it well over those twenty-five years of a marriage that
everyone thought was happy."

"I don't mean my marriage wasn't happy and that I didn't love Mike.
It's just I never lost all my feelings for Conn," she said, before
filling me in on Conn's many, many good points.

"But you haven't even seen him, for ... how long?"

"Gosh, about thirty years.  Since I went away to nursing school."

I wasn't sure how to break it to her.

"He's changed.  He's not the football hero anymore.  He's a middle aged
man with a paunch."

"Sounds cute," she said, draining her drink.

I tried to feed her a few more Pina Coladas in the hope I'd get some
specifics about what happened on the night of their Senior Prom, but no
luck.  At midnight, after a particularly vacuous remark about his noble
spirit, she rolled over and began to snore.

I hadn't said a word about Richard.  Somehow, it wasn't so romantic,
having a crush on a man almost old enough to be my father, with a wife
who could reappear at any minute.  It was stupid and inconvenient and
most unlike me.

I was grateful to Alexa who had kept me from thinking about Richard,
Mitzi's murder and how much I had to fear from Denzil the Deadly.

McCracken looked at me calmly.  "Alexa's worried about you poking
around in this crime, and she thought I should try to talk some sense
into you," he said.

It was only eleven o'clock.  I'd left Alexa in my apartment, hung over
and surrounded by hungry cats, to try to catch up on a little work at
the office.  She must have called McCracken on my own phone.

So that was why he wanted to meet me for coffee and doughnuts.  On a
Saturday, too.  I could feel the steam puffing out of my ears as
McCracken kept talking.

He was in a good mood.  Maybe it was Alexa's call.  Maybe it was the
two jelly doughnuts.

"Apparently your whole family is very concerned about your mental
health, since you're obsessing over Mitzi Brochu's murder."

"She said that?"

"She did."

"Well, for one thing, I'm not in the least obsessed about..."

"I bet Alexa still looks the same, blonde and beautiful.  Does she?"

"She's all right, I guess, if she remembers to keep her teeth in," I
said.

I don't think he heard me.  He was eating his second jelly doughnut
with a faraway and long ago look in his eye.

I puttered around in the office all afternoon, snarling rude remarks
at Alexa, who was not present.

At five p.m."  I arranged my half-done office work in neat piles and
set out on my next challenge.  Sammy Dash.

I figured by five, Sammy would be home from his afternoon activities
and not out yet for the evening of wowing the ladies.  I decided it
would be better if he didn't know I was coming.

Merv's information had Sammy at a very snooty highrise just off Sussex
Drive.  Like my own building, Sammy's had security designed to let the
good people in and keep the bad people out.  I decided that for the
purposes of this visit, I was one of the good people.

A small rental moving van was parked outside of the building in the
circular drive.  I looked around to see if there were any movers I
could pretend to accompany.  But no luck.

I didn't want to buzz Sammy's apartment, since a surprise visit seemed
more likely to elicit useful information.  I stood by the door
balancing my briefcase in one arm and pretending to dig for my keys
with the other.  A couple in tennis gear smiled as they let me pass in
with them.

"Bad enough to have to work Saturday," I said, "and now I can't find my
blankety-blank keys."  "Isn't it frustrating," she said, "the way those
blankety blank keys always sink to the bottom of your purse and
hide?"

"It never fails," I said, as we stepped into the elevator.  "Sometimes
I think if we had a system of personal access codes, it would be
better. But I know I'd probably forget mine."

"I know what you mean," she said.  Her male companion

smiled.  No doubt he was enjoying the natural superiority of one who
always knew where his keys were.

They pressed the button for the twelfth floor.  Sammy was on the
twentieth.  I pressed twenty-two and decided to walk down two flights.
I was enjoying the sense of skulduggery.

I hoped it would be worth it in practical terms, and that the visit to
Sammy would yield at least one or two small pieces to fill in the
puzzle.  It didn't occur to me to be afraid of Sammy.

On the twentieth floor, the coast was clear.  No one was in the
corridor, but there was a movers' dolly in the hallway, near Sammy's
door.

I knocked on the door of 2012, Sammy's apartment.  The knock was brisk,
businesslike.

The door swung open.  No one stood there to welcome me or tell me to go
to hell.  I knocked again on the open door.  After a minute, I called
out.

"Hello, hello.  Mr.  Dash, important message for you.  Hello."

There are times in your life when you behave intelligently and there
are times in your life when your actions are about as stupid as they
can be.  I knew that.  And yet I stepped into Sammy Dash's parlour,
wondering who was the spider and who was the fly.

"Hello.  Mr.  Dash.  I have something urgent to tell you," I called
out, stepping along the foyer towards the living room.  I passed a
large corrugated cardboard box, with an illustration of a sofa on it.
That explained the dolly, I thought.

My sensible internal voice was screaming, get out, get out, the man's
probably in the shower, he'll probably call the police when he sees you
in his apartment, get... A smell like rotten broccoli grew stronger as
I approached the living area, expecting to be set upon by an enraged
Sammy

Dash, wearing only a towel.

Instead, I saw a pile of refuse.  Dead vegetables, cans, meat wrappers,
yogurt containers piled on a ruby red oriental carpet.  Sticky stuff
oozed out from under the debris.  The pile was high, much higher than
you would expect to find in one persons apartment.  It looked like a
year's worth of garbage.

I slumped into a leather armchair, held my nose and pondered the scene.
Destructive, vicious.  Someone must have broken into Sammy's apartment.
 Someone with a major grudge and an imaginative notion of revenge.

I'm not certain why it took so long to realize that having entered
Sammy Dash's apartment without his invitation at the same time that the
vandalism took place might look damned suspicious to some people.

Thanking God that no one had seen me enter the apartment, I stood up to
sneak out.  Still holding my nose.  Someone else could report this, I'd
be long gone when it happened.  My sensible voice, which had been busy
saying I told you so, starting screaming.  This time I listened.

After a minute, I crossed the room to call the police and report the
damage.  It was only then I spotted the shoes sticking out of the pile
of garbage.  A banana peel dangled off one of the heels.  A scoop of
something, mashed potatoes with old gravy perhaps, was stuck to the
other.

Couldn't be, I told myself, although my heart rate accelerated into the
unsafe zone and goosebumps crawled up my arms.  Not possible, I kept
saying, until I saw the hand, lying in a sticky puddle, clutching a
piece of paper.

I leaned closer, my hand covering my nose and mouth.  The hand belonged
to Sammy Dash.  I could see the rest of him half-hidden by rotting
food.  His eyes stared past me, over my shoulder.

I staggered towards the phone, gagging.  I never reached it.  I didn't
have time to swing around when I heard the step behind me.  I was dimly
aware of a pair of tan shoes before I marvelled at the explosion of
light in my head and heard my sensible voice say, I told you so,
stupid, as I hit the floor.

The story as I told it to McCracken had a few editorial changes.
Notably, that Sammy had agreed to see me and was expecting my visit.

"How did you get in?  If the guy was dead, he could hardly have buzzed
you in."

McCracken was not an easy man to fool and I decided to keep the
fabrications to a minimum.  But I felt it was important to prevent any
notion of unauthorized entry from edging into the conversation.

"A couple of tenants let me in with them.  I must have looked
respectable."

"The things people do," he said.

I was sitting on the sofa in Sammy's apartment, holding my head and
trying to figure out what happened.

McCracken was sitting on the chair, watching me.

"Now you're telling me that Dash's body was lying here, right on this
carpet."

"That's right."

"There's no body now," McCracken said.

Reasonable enough.  There wasn't.  Except for a lingering, light odour
of garbage masked by something else, floral bouquet carpet shampoo and
room freshener I thought, there was no sign of anything unusual in
Sammy Dash's apartment.

"True," I said, "but trust me on it."

Mombourquette was lounging against the wall on the far side of the
room, smirking rattily.

McCracken looked troubled.  "Pretty weird story," he said.  "But the
lab boys will check out the rug.  If there was blood on it, they're
going to find it."

"Not if.  Was."

McCracken looked at me with a strange expression.  Concern?

"Whatever you say, but you've got to keep in mind that you've been hit
on the head.  That kind of injury can be.

"Wait for the lab results," I snapped.

But I knew he was right.  There were things that were fuzzy.  Something
I should have remembered but couldn't.  Something that could help. 
What the hell was it?

"We'd better let someone in your family know what's happened to you,
whatever it was."

"No," I said, "they get hysterical.  They'll just make me worse.  I'll
be all right.  I'll take a cab to the hospital and get checked out.
Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, right," he said.

McCracken drove me to the Civic Hospital Emergency, to have my head
examined.  I leaned sideways with fatigue.  Leaning back was out of the
question.  My stomach lurched and I closed my eyes.

"I'll make sure your car gets home," McCracken said, as he pulled into
the Emergency area and parked.  "You want to give me your keys?"

I wrestled my car keys off the key ring.  All I wanted to do was sleep.
But something else was bothering me.

"Blast," I said, "the cats.  Somebody's got to feed the goddam cats."

"Okay," McCracken said, "if they keep you in, I guess I

could let your sister know.  I'm sure she'll do it."

McCracken took the upper hand with the nurse in charge in emergency.

"Police," he said, flashing his badge at her.  "Head injury."

When my medical information had been given, I was whisked into an
examining room.  McCracken, to my surprise, came with me.

"Just in case," he said.  "I'm not taking any chances.  Your sister
might hold me responsible."

My sister.  I remembered I was mad at her.  It seemed very long ago and
unimportant.

I didn't much feel like talking, and after about two minutes McCracken
went off for a cigarette.  Who could blame him?

I lay there on my belly, head resting on crossed arms, thinking about
what had happened.  Who had killed Sammy Dash and why?  Why hadn't they
killed me?  Why had they moved Sammy's body?  Had any of it really
happened?

My eyes popped open as the door squeaked.  The resident who entered had
not gotten to the lesson where they teach you to smile at the
patients.

"I'm Dr.  Granger.  What seems to be the problem?"

"Someone whacked me on the head with something.  I don't know what."

"When was this?"

I had to think.  Nearly eighteen hours earlier.

"Is that a long time to be unconscious after a blow?"  I asked.

"It happens," he said, touching my head.  "Does this hurt?"

I gasped and gripped the sides of the examining table.

"I think we need an X-Ray here."

McCracken knocked on the door and entered.  He and the doctor exchanged
looks, both used to being in charge.  I'm

used to being in charge too, but I lacked the energy at that moment.

It was all I could do to hang on to my self-control until I got through
the X-Ray.  This didn't get any easier when Alexa came scuttling around
the corner of the Radiology waiting room, her face glowing with
anxiety.

She stopped in mid-step the second she spotted McCracken.  Her hand
shot up to fix her perfect hair.  A reflex, I guess.  Once she glanced
at me, the anxiety was back.

"Oh, Camilla," she said.

"I'm fine.  You should see the other guy."  It was a well-worn joke in
our family.  This time, it happened to be true.

A smile fluttered around Alexa's mouth.  "Are you sure?"  she said,
hugging me.

"Yes."

"Well, we'll see what the radiologist has to say."

I took a look at her.  She wasn't wearing lipstick, or even any makeup.
Her hair was caught back in a pony tail, a style which was probably
invented for her.  If she still had her hangover, it didn't show.  She
must have been in the garden when McCracken called, because she was
wearing faded jeans and one of her late husband's shirts.

McCracken was staring.  For some reason, his collar seemed to be
tight.

Alexa gave me a little pat on the arm, before she turned to him.

"Hello, Conn," she said.

I hated sitting there waiting for X-Rays while the two of them
pretended to engage in normal conversation.  But every now and then
Alexa would turn her attention to me.

"Maybe they'll have to keep you in, as a precaution.  You could have a
concussion, dear.  Do you feel sleepy?  Nauseated?

Let me see your pupils."

McCracken gazed at her with admiration.

"I can't stay in," I said.  "I have to get home and look after the
goddam cats."

It was only after McCracken was gone and Alexa had squeezed every drop
of information possible out of the radiologist and we were in Alexa's
car driving home that I remembered to give her hell.

"You used me as bait to call up McCracken.  You didn't have the guts to
just call him.  The man dragged me off to a cafe and gave me a lecture
about sticking my nose in this investigation."

Alexa kept her eyes on the road.  "Looks like that was good advice.
Which you didn't take, and now look at you."

She had a point.

"Anyway," she added, "I'm glad I called him.  So there."

My apartment is a five minute drive from the Civic, and we pulled into
the driveway before I could badger her any more.  Good thing.  I didn't
want to hear any romantic drivel about McCracken.

Alexa fussed all the way through the foyer and up to the sixteenth
floor in the elevator.

"I'm all right," I said as we walked down the hallway toward my
apartment.  But I almost toppled over as I went to insert my keys in my
apartment door and found it unlocked.

Images of dead cats flashed through my mind, and I felt a wave of
nausea.

Alexa grabbed my arm.  "I knew you weren't ready to come home from the
hospital."

"The door," I whispered, "the door is unlocked.  Did you leave it
unlocked?"

"Don't be ridiculous.  Let's get out of here," she said.

"No way.  You take off and call the police.  I'm going to stay here and
catch the cat-killer."

"You can't stay here."  Her voice took on the familiar desperate
edge.

"Never mind, go call the police."

We heard a clumping noise just as the door swung open.

Mrs.  Parnell stood there, leaning against her walker.  Cats flanked
her ankles.  They rubbed up against her as she inhaled on her cigarette
and blew a great deal of smoke in our direction.

"Well, it's about time you turned up.  I thought these damn cats were
going to starve, they howled so much.  First you create a noise
nuisance bringing them here, and then you neglect them.  Not a great
track record."

Alexa rallied, once she recovered from the shock of seeing someone in
my doorway

"Camilla has been in the hospital having a head wound attended to.  She
was injured in an attack last night."

I liked Alexa's approach.  It had the nose-in-the-air-and
you'd-better-remember-just-who-you're-talking-to technique that had
always worked so well for the MacPhee sisters.

Alexa propelled me past Mrs.  Parnell and into the living room, where I
slumped on the sofa.

"And as for you, Miss," Alexa snapped, "what were you going to do to
the cat-killer when he came out of your apartment?  Hit him with your
purse?"

She had a point.  Having dumped me on the sofa, she bustled off to the
kitchen.

Mrs.  Parnell thumped back into the room, followed by her new friends.
"Head injury?  My dear Ms.  MacPhee, I am

so sorry to have accused you unfairly.  But is it serious?  Should you
not be still at the hospital?  And who attacked you?  And why?"  She
slid herself into the armchair and squinted at me in concern.

"Not too serious, Mrs.  Parnell.  I got hit on the back of the head.
The x-rays indicate I'm all right.  But if I'm not, Alexa is watching
me like a vulture.  I have no idea who did it.  As for why, I think I
discovered a body before the murderer was willing to have it found."

"Tea, Camilla?"  Alexa called from the kitchen.

"Tea would be lovely," Mrs.  Parnell said.

"Yes, please," I said.

Alexa poked her head out the kitchen door and gave Mrs.  Parnell a
dirty look, wasted as Mrs.  Parnell was facing me.

"I have a question of my own, Mrs.  Parnell.  How did you get into my
apartment?"

Mrs.  Parnell snorted.  "Well, Ms.  MacPhee, the wailing of your cats
became so pronounced during the late evening and early morning that it
disturbed my sleep.  I had no choice but to conclude that you had
failed to provide them with the necessities of life and that it was up
to me to get some sustenance into their whiny little mouths before one
of the nosier neighbours called the police."

One of the nosier neighbours?

Alexa fumbled the tea tray at that one.

"But Mrs.  Parnell," I said, unwilling to let go, "how did you get into
the apartment?"

"Ah," said Mrs.  Parnell, accepting a china cup from Alexa.

"You should use these more often," Alexa said, turning and adding in a
whisper, "instead of that moss-encrusted mug you keep in the sink."

"I'm very curious about it," I said to Mrs.  Parnell, who

showed no signs of answering my question.  "How did you get into the
apartment?"

"Well," she said, and took a sip of her tea.

I waited.

"I felt I had no choice."

I nodded.

"I asked the super for a key."

"You what?"

"I asked the super for a key.  I explained that you had asked me to
water your plant and I had misplaced the key that you'd left me and I
was in a panic."

"What plant?"  said Alexa.  "Camilla doesn't have any plants."

I motioned to her to keep quiet.  "And he gave it to you?"

"Yes.  Oh, he offered to do it himself.  But I assured him that the
plant had to be watered at 9 o'clock sharp because I knew he was tied
up then."

"And he believed you?"

"Naturally.  He's not exactly a rocket scientist."

"You weren't bothered by the fact that this was against the law?"

"Not in the least," said Mrs.  Parnell.  "As much as I dislike the idea
of animals in our building, I didn't want the beasts to starve."

Four of the cats were clustered near her feet, basking in the warmth of
their newfound friendship.  Only the fat little calico waddled over to
me.  I had to lift her on to the sofa.

"Camilla thinks she found a body lying in a large amount of garbage.
We're not certain that this idea did not come about as a result of her
head injury," Alexa said in a conversational tone.

Mrs.  Parnell nodded in agreement.  "Very unsettling, head

injuries.  I've had a few myself."

"There was a body," I snarled, "and I'm sure the lab boys are going to
agree once they finish going through that apartment."

"Fascinating," said Mrs.  Parnell, "and were you alone at the time?  No
other witnesses."

"That's right."

"Hmm.  And how did you get into the apartment where the body was?"

"The door was open."

I shot her a glance.  Sure enough, I saw a little glimmer of amusement.
Point to Mrs.  Parnell.

 I had trouble sleeping after the incident in Sammy's apartment.  I
dreamed about tan shoes and garbage.  I wanted comfort.  I wanted
someone to pat my hand.  I wanted a shoulder to wipe my nose on.  I
think I even wanted to be cuddled.  But I found myself alone.

Since we were kids, Robin's been the one who comforted me when I needed
it.  Now, of course, it was out of the question to go to her with my
problems.

Richard, I thought, was suited to comforting, and I could see myself
sniffing on the padded shoulder of his navy suit.  Richard could have
done a hell of a good job, but he was in Toronto doing something
tedious at corporate headquarters.

That left my family.

Sunday dinner at Edwina's was their way of easing me back into normal
life after my brush with violence.  Even Stan refrained from practical
jokes in the course of the evening, although he did have a suspicious
bulge in his jacket pocket.  The conversation was cautious.  Everyone
stared at me when they thought I wouldn't notice.  My father looked
more puzzled than usual.  I was certain they were all convinced the
entire Sammy in the garbage scene was a product of the blow to my
head.

So no one mentioned it.

We spoke about the poached Atlantic salmon, which was

very nice, the pars lied potatoes, which Edwina always did so well and
the fiddle heads which a friend of Stan's had picked and sent by
Priority Post from the Restigouche.  Praise was heaped on the dinner
rolls and hollandaise sauce.

The Chardonnay was excellent.  We discussed it for a while.

We might have been meeting for the first time at a dinner party.

"The weather's been lovely," said Alexa.

"Very nice," said my father.

"Great for the Tulip Festival.  Tourists all over the place," said
Stan.

"The tulips are spectacular.  They really are," said Donalda.

"Is everyone ready for lemon mousse cheesecake and coffee?"  Edwina
prefers action to talk.

No one said much of anything while she and Alexa and Donalda bustled
around in the kitchen.

I fiddled with my napkin.  Stan patted his pocket.  My father looked at
me with his brow wrinkled.

For the first time in my life, I would have preferred to help out in
the kitchen.  But I'm never allowed to.  Something about my track
record with china.

By the time we were all settled in with lemon mousse cheesecake and
steaming coffee, I'd had it with pussyfooting.  "So," I said, digging
into my cheesecake, "looks like I was right."

Everyone looked at everyone else, before everyone spoke at once. "Right
about what?"

I pointed to my mouth to indicate I couldn't talk.

They watched me munch on my cheesecake.

Edwina drummed her fingers on the table until Alexa reached over and
gave her a little nudge.

I took my time.  When I finished, I dabbed at my mouth with a linen
napkin.

"Well," I said, pausing for effect.  Everyone leaned forward.

"Sergeant McCracken of Ottawa Police Services phoned me this
afternoon."

I looked around the table, beaming.  "Do you all remember Conn
McCracken?"

"Get on with it."  Edwina has a hard time maintaining a gentle,
nurturing pose.

Alexa blushed.

"Well," I repeated, "he called me today to give me the results of one
of the tests taken at Sammy Dash's apartment."

I took another mouthful of cheesecake, savouring it.

"For God's sake, Camilla, what were the damned results!"  Edwina
exploded.

My father shook his head at her.  It was enough to get Edwina to stop,
but I noticed her fingers started drumming again.

"How did he sound?"  asked Alexa.

That was sufficiently peculiar to direct attention away from me.  Of
course, that wasn't my intention.

"In this particular test, they use a chemical, which will cause blood
stains which have been cleaned up to show under certain light."  I
smiled.

"And?"  asked Donalda.

"Well," I said, smiling around at everyone, "the results were very
interesting."

"Get to the point," Edwina barked.

"The test showed, and I must say I feel vindicated by the results," I
paused for a breath, during which there were definite signs of
rebellion at the table, "the test showed what must have happened."

"Camilla," said my father, in the voice he'd perfected as a

school principal, "stop teasing your sisters."

"Well, the test showed large quantities of blood at the spot where I
told them the body had been lying.  It must have soaked through the
carpet."

Everyone gasped at once.  Most gratifying.

"My God, you were lucky..."

"You must have interrupted the killer."

"You could have been murdered."

"It must be a maniac."

I leaned back and enjoyed the reaction for a minute.

When they started to settle down, I added, "There was something else
Sgt.  McCracken said."

I took the expectant silence as an indication of interest.  "They found
blood stains all over the place.  On the walls and even on the
ceiling."

Stan said, "Somebody must have really hated this guy."

"Or else, it was someone completely ruthless, without compassion," said
Donalda.

Exactly.  And with the kind of psychotic sense of drama needed to lug
in a pile of garbage in a packing box just to add substance to the
sentiment.  I wondered if Sammy Dash had had one encounter too many
with Denzil Hickey, acting on behalf of Rudy Wendtz.

"You were in real danger."  My father could always cut through to the
real issue.  "I regret that we didn't believe your version of the
events, the first time.  It is not like the MacPhees not to take each
other seriously."

I spent the rest of the evening smirking at my sisters and making faces
at Stan when no one was looking.

"I don't know where your photos are," Alvin said.

It was Wednesday before I was pronounced ready to go back to work.
Alvin was still peevish when I walked in.  I put it down to jealousy,
since I'd gotten closer to a murder than he had.

"You just don't remember where you put them," he added.

"That's right, I don't.  But I know they were either in my apartment or
in my briefcase or here in the office."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, and they're not in my briefcase."

"Umhum."

"And they're not in my apartment.  I've been through every inch of
it."

Alvin shrugged.

"Soooo, they must be here.  Let's get moving and find them."  By this I
meant, you get moving and find them.

It was a distressing thought, searching through the piles of paper in
the office.  Paper was piled everywhere.  The twin disasters of Alvin's
arrival and my preoccupation with Mitzi's murder looked like the
undoing of Justice for Victims.

"I already looked through everything.  They're not here," he whined.

I stared at him, long and hard.

"Maybe someone, the murderer I guess, stole them from your briefcase in
Sammy's apartment.  When you were out cold."

Maybe, indeed.  I couldn't even remember if the photos had been in my
briefcase.  My head was still fuzzy enough to blur the events just
before my visit.

"Maybe someone broke into your apartment and stole them."  This was
said with enthusiasm on Alvin's part.

"Nobody broke into my apartment."

"Yes, they did.  Remember the dead cat?"

"Of course I remember the dead cat.  How could I forget the dead cat?
However, I still had the photos after that."

"Oh."

Of course, I knew Alvin was right.  Someone had stolen the photos. From
me.  From my apartment, my briefcase or my office.  No question about
it.  Someone who had been in one of the photos.  Someone who didn't
want me going around asking questions.  But I hated to give Alvin the
satisfaction.

I also hated to go around snapping the suspects again.  And one of them
was dead.

Alvin's face lit up a bit.  "Of course, I have the negatives."

"Good, where are they?  We can get copies made and you can head off to
the Harmony to do your back hall investigations."

"They're here somewhere."

"What do you mean 'they're here somewhere?"

"I filed them."

"Well, get them out of the file."

"Give me a minute.  I need to think of what I filed them under."

I glared at him while he stared at the ceiling as if the file title
might be written there.  I thought about how much I wanted to file
Alvin under Employees, Former.

The blast of the phone startled both of us.  I grabbed it before Alvin
could.

McCracken.

I gestured to Alvin to get his head back into the files.

"So," said McCracken, "looks like you were right."

When Alvin pulled the negatives out of the Miscellaneous file, I was
caught up in what McCracken was saying.  I pointed in the direction of
the Rideau Centre and hoped that Alvin would understand that meant take
them in to get printed again.

McCracken was saying Sammy Dash had turned up in a dumpster, outside a
renovated building.  He had been punctured, many times, by something
very sharp.  And he'd been there a while.

Underneath him, a poem was clutched in what was left of his hand.
McCracken read it to me, over the phone:

Here lies Sammy Dash Who sold trouble for cash Now he's where he
belongs With the rest of the trash

I heard about it again on the evening news as I passed through the
Findlay living room on my way up to see Robin.

"Oh, look," said Mrs.  Findlay, "they've identified that man they found
last night.  Isn't that terrible?  We're not even safe in our beds
anymore.  Even Camilla here found another body.  What is the world
coming to?"  she asked Brooke.

But Brooke, who'd been slumped on the sofa, surrounded by Holt Renfrew
bags, choked on her cigarette.  She took the stairs two at a time and
slammed the bathroom door.

I could hear her retching as I passed the door on my way to Robin's
room.

"What's wrong with Brooke?"  Robin asked.

"Reality struck too close to home this time, I guess."

Robin is used to my more oblique remarks and she let that one slide.

"My mother says you found a body.  Is that true?"

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."

"\ f "

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 Fume 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?"

if\r

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 Richard arrived at 7:00, the apartment looked pristine.  The
reports and files, which had been stacked on the floors and on all
available surfaces, were now stacked in the closets.  Almost all the
cat hair had been vacuumed up, and the felines were still a little
miffed.

The furniture, what there was of it, was now in an intimate little
grouping, and the lights were as low as they could go.  I'd set the
dining room table in the window by the balcony, where you could see the
river.

I was wearing the kind of smile you might expect from a person who'd
gotten everything done, right on schedule, and then soaked in a tub
fragrant with Watermelon Foam Bath while sipping a glass of chilled
Pouilly Fume.

I was also wearing my red jersey dress.

I buzzed Richard through and waited by the door, my breathing a bit
uneven.  I was doing an excellent job of keeping my conscience quiet.

As I let Richard in, he stopped and stared.  "You don't look like you
need too much comfort," he said, handing me a bouquet of short-stemmed,
peach roses.

Iry me, I said.

Behind him in the hallway, from Mrs.  Parnell's open door, the red end
of a cigarette glowed.  I shut the door and forgot about her.

"You look great," Richard said.  "Getting hit on the head is obviously
good for you."

"I do like seeing those stars."

He hugged me.  The old-fashioned kind of hug you don't plan, it just
happens.  Full of affection.  Just like Paul used to do.

"You're funny," he said.

"And you haven't even had dinner yet."

I liked that hug.  It reminded me there weren't enough hugs in my life.
I didn't pull back until he did.  We looked at each other for a long
time, smiling.

"Mousse?"  I asked.

We sat on the sofa, munching the mousse and crackers, talking, our
thighs close enough to feel the heat from each other.  Cats watched us
from freshly vacuumed chairs, from the newspaper basket and from under
the dining table.  When the sunset turned the sky over the Ottawa River
into a wall of flame, I remembered about dinner.

I got the salmon from the microwave to the table, turning down
Richard's offer to help.

When I raced by Richard to put the first casserole on the table, I
noticed he was trying to entice one of the cats to join him.

"Don't bother," I said, when I swung back into the room with the rice
and vcg.  "Cats will only come to you when you don't want them to."

When I trotted out the salad, I added, "You're trying too hard."

"I think you're right."

Three cats had left the room.  The fourth, the black and

white one, had turned its back on Richard and was watching the wall
with great interest.  The fat little calico was following me.

"This is it," I said as I made my last trip into the room with rolls
and the wine.

"Kitty, kitty, kitty," said Richard.

The black and white cat jumped from the chair and stalked into the
bedroom, tail twitching.

"They're all in there now," Richard said.

"Not true, the calico's still in the kitchen.  And don't feel bad about
it.  It's the nature of the cat to be in charge."

<(T

1 suppose.

"Trust me.  When it becomes inconvenient to have cats around, they'll
be all over you."

"If you say so.  I've always had dogs, myself."

"And who can blame you?"  I said, fluffing the tulips and lighting the
candles.

In the course of our dinner, the last traces of raging sunset
disappeared.  Not that we were paying attention.

By the time we were through our chocolate cake, the sky was dark and
starry.  We took our coffee and Armagnac on to the balcony and sipped
it in the dark.

"You can see the dippers," said Richard.

I wasn't paying a lot of attention to the dippers, because our knees
were touching.  Richard watched the stars, and I watched Richard.  I
didn't think about his wife.  I didn't even know her name.

The night was mild, with a sensuous little breeze.  A taste of summer
to come.

We talked.  About the Harmony, about Justice for Victims, about his
hobbies, about why I didn't have any, about the Tulip Festival, about
the weather.  About my friends.  About my family.  About what it's like
to relocate in middle age.

I don't know when we stopped talking.  The silence that replaced the
talking was intense, almost noisy.  It was full of watching and
tentative touching.

I need this, I thought, as we moved back into the living room, wrapped
around each other.  I need to feel together.  I was tracing the outline
of Richard's ear as we sank onto the sofa.  Two cats exploded off the
cushions.  We didn't care.  I felt a bit catlike myself, stretching and
purring.

"We might be more comfortable elsewhere," Richard whispered in my ear
after a long time.

"The cats are, um, elsewhere."

"We could ask them to stay and that should get rid of them."

I was enjoying the sensation of laughing when a blast from the phone
knifed through our mood.

"Don't answer it," he said, very close to me.

"It'll just take a second.  It could be Robin."

He nodded, leaning back.

"Yes," I breathed.

Squeaking sounds surged through the receiver.  Richard leaned forward
again when I gasped.  His face creased with concern.

"Arrested?  Where?  For what?"  But, of course, I knew.  "Okay, calm
down.  I'll be there.  I said I will be there."

"What is it?  Has Robin been arrested?"

"Not Robin.  Alvin."

"Alvin?"

I nodded.  It was going to get worse.

"What was it, drugs or something?"

I took a long, assessing look at Richard before I told him.

"He was prowling around the back corridors of the Harmony, and someone
called the police."

Richard nodded, approving.  "We don't take any chances with theft or
attacks on guests."

"He was just asking a few questions.  But I guess someone had seen him
there before, and he looked suspicious."

"Well, I don't know what the hell made him decide to do that, but I'll
bet he's in hot water now."

"Right.  And I have to get him out."

"Why?  He's not your responsibility."

I took a deep breath before I started in on my explanation.

I hadn't thought that Alvin could get any paler, but he managed it.  I
hadn't thought he could get any snippier, but he managed that too.

We were crossing the Portage Bridge to Hull at the time.  Close enough
to the Peace Tower to see the time was 11:30 p.m.

"Okay," I said, turning around to face Alvin in the back seat.  "May I
remind you that I was prepared to post bail for you?  If necessary. But
the charges have been dropped, haven't they?  You can thank Richard for
that."  I pointed to Richard, who was driving.

Richard seemed a little on the stiff side to me.

Alvin sniffed.  "I guess you should have been prepared to post bail for
me, since you were the one who sent me on a criminal expedition in the
first place."

"Hardly criminal.  Just asking a few questions in the hotel."

"Then why did you ask me to be discreet?"

I could feel Richard's eyes on me.

"So as not to scare off any potential witnesses.  And I thank you for
what was no doubt a very thorough and effective job."

"I notice you didn't have to sit in the slammer waiting for someone to
bail you out, even though you were the brains behind the whole
operation."

I sighed.  "There was no operation.  And I'm beginning to think, no
brains.  I just need some kind of information that would ensure the
police don't come hounding Robin again over Mitzi's murder."

"Sure, let them hound poor old Alvin."

"How did I know you were going to draw so much attention to yourself
that you'd get arrested?"

I turned to Richard before Alvin could respond.  "It's not far from
here," I said.  "Turn left, and then first left again, and then first
right."

As we stopped in front of Alvin's place, he and I were still swapping
recriminations.

"I'll walk in with him," I said to Richard.  "He's a little shaky."

Alvin shot me a look that could have melted metal.

"It's no trouble.  Just want to make sure you're all right."

I hopped out of the car, grabbed his arm and propelled him to his
door.

"Let go of me," Alvin said, jerking away, "you're going to leave
bruises."

"I'm just trying to help you."

"Yeah, right," he said.

"Okay, fine.  I'll leave you alone now.  But tell me," I stole a look
back to the car where Richard was waiting, "what did you find out when
you were in the Harmony?"

"You astound me," said Alvin.

/"> V)

Come on.

"No.  I've just spent the worst night of my life and all you can think
about is your stupid investigation."

"Not all, not all.  Haven't I been concerned about your welfare
tonight?  Didn't I race to the police station with the one person who
could get the charges quashed?"

Big deal.

"So, what did you find out?  Had any of them been there?"  Alvin leaned
against the door to the apartment building.

He pulled out the key to the front door.  I could tell he was trying to
decide whether to tell me or not.  Finally, he broke.

if\7

Yes.

"Which one for God's sake?  Don't tantalize me."  Alvin's eyes
glittered.  He inserted the key into the lock and turned it.  The door
swung open.  Alvin stepped through.  "They all were," he said, just as
the door closed in my face.



As I shlepped along the corridor to my apartment, I had time to reflect
on the evening.

I could still feel the nip from Conn McCracken's look when he had told
me what he thought of Alvin's investigation and my part in it.

Richard and I had decided the visit to the police station had been
enough to take the magic out of our evening.  I felt that Richard had
taken Alvin's prowl through his hotel too seriously.  And worse, he had
his doubts about my motivations for our date.

"How could you even suggest such a thing?"  I stared at him,
astounded.

"What am I supposed to think?"

"Not that!"

We were pulling up in front of my building, when he dropped this
bomb.

"Well, it seems kind of funny, we have this very nice dinner and
romantic evening on the same night your hired help goes snooping around
my hotel.  And, of course, I'm not there to catch him, because I'm all
snuggled up with you on the sofa.  What else could I think?"

I felt rage rising and bubbling.  I could hear my anger buzzing around
my ears.  The first time I'd let myself relax with someone since Paul,
a man I felt I could trust, maybe even

love, a man who made my knees crumble.  And he reduces it to a scheme
to get my own way.  I bit my tongue, grabbed my purse and jumped out of
the car as fast as I could.  "Go to hell," I said and slammed the
door.

"What did you mean, they all were?"  I snapped at Alvin the next day.

His back was turned to me, bony and repellent.  His ponytail drooped.
He yawned.

"I'm on my break," he said.

"What do you mean, you're on your break?  You just got here and it's
three o'clock in the afternoon."

"First, it was time off for overtime.  You remember last night?  Which
I spent in the slammer after doing research for you.  Now it's my
break.  I always take my break at three o'clock."  He didn't turn
around.

Sr T" T J Trine I said, I'll wait.

I picked up the Benning brief and stared at it.  I'd been staring at it
all morning and most of the afternoon.  It hadn't | gotten me anywhere
so far.

When the phone rang, I snatched it on the first ring.

"Hi," said Alexa.

"Hi."

"I just thought I'd let you know how things are going."

"How are things going?"

"Oh, they're wonderful."

They are not, I thought.  In fact, they couldn't be worse.

"That's great," I said.

"Conn and I went out last night.  To dinner.  We were having such a
nice time, until he got a call about a case

he's been working on."

"Oh."

"Quite an exciting life he has really."

"Indeed."

I already knew about Alexa's date.  I'd seen Conn McCracken the night
before.  He hadn't been too happy at the time.

"Well," he'd said, "I was enjoying a very nice dinner with a very nice
lady.  We were comfortable and relaxed when the call came in that a
suspicious character was prowling around the same hotel where we're
investigating a nasty murder.  I had no choice but to come downtown and
see for myself."

"I know what you mean," I'd said.

"And what do I find?  You again."

He had me.

"Where you shouldn't be."

"r l "

Right.

"Because two people have already been killed, and you have already been
hit on the head, and you might have been killed.  Because this is a
serious business."

1 agree.

"And because your sister wants me to make sure nothing happens to
you."

"She does?"

"That's right.  And I want your sister to be happy.  So, for the last
time, I will ask you to leave this to us."

"Sorry," I said.

He ignored that.  "And don't think sending your weirdo sidekick is
going to be just as good.  We know him now, too."

We both looked over at Alvin.  Alvin looked back at us, misery
obviously flooding his being.

Alexa held me personally responsible for the unplanned

end of her evening, and she wanted to make sure I knew it.  It was
three fifteen when I got off the phone, and Alvin's break was over by
my calculations.  I could resume questioning him.

"So, just what did you mean, they all were?"

"They all were.  What's ambiguous about that?"  Behind the cat's eye
glasses, his eyes were slits.

"Explain, please."

"Every single one of the people in your photos had been seen by someone
or another behind the scenes at the Harmony."

"Even Deb Goodhouse?"

"Even her."

"Even Jo Quinlan?"

"AT" "

Yup.

"Even Brooke?"

"I said all of them, didn't I?  All of them.  Even the dead guy, Sammy
Dash."  "Wendtz, too?"  "Right."

"What about him?"  I held up Denzil's picture.  "Him, too."  "Really?" 
I said, smiling for the first time in eighteen hours.

ctnnl > n

1 hat s great.

"I * V

It is?

It was.  My life was in ruins.  I was not welcome back to my best
friend's bedside.  My relationship with Richard was in the toilet.  My
business was dying of neglect.  My sister had Conn McCracken on my
back.  I had five cats in my apartment and Alvin in my office.  I was
thrilled to have some people to take it out on.

"I can't think of a single reason for a Member of Parliament to skulk
around the back halls of a hotel, can you?"

Alvin shrugged, but I knew he was intrigued.

"Did you happen to note just which hotel employee saw which of our
suspects when?"

"Yes, I did."  He extracted a semi-shredded notebook from one of his
many pockets.

I smiled some more.

"I got their names, who they saw, where and when, as far as they can
remember."

"Did you give this information to the police?"

He shook his head.  "They thought I was some kind of burglar.  They
didn't believe I was investigating anything, so I didn't tell them
anything."

"Well, that'll show them, I guess."

Alvin shot me a look.  "So, now we have witnesses."

"I can't go back there.  They'll call the cops in two seconds.  And I
don't think you'd better go there either."

"We don't have to go there.  You have the names of your witnesses."

"Right," he said.  "I knew that."

"Okay," I said, "let's get on with it.  So, what were they doing
there?"

"Fighting mostly."

I was going to enjoy this.  "Let's hear it."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Let's start with Deb Goodhouse.  I'm very curious about her."

"Well," said Alvin, "it was very strange.  One of the bus boys was
delivering room service to Mitzi Brochu's suite.  Just as he gets to
the door this woman bursts out, practically knocks him over, bites his
head off..."

"And?"

"The woman was Deb Goodhouse.  He said he'd recognize her anywhere. He
described her.  Even her size, which you don't get a sense of from this
picture, although I guess you did your best."

"All that from just a glimpse as she came out of the door?"  "Well, no.
He saw her again.  On the staircase.  He, my source, was taking the
staircase because he wanted to have a cigarette, and employees aren't
supposed to smoke around the Harmony.  But he was in a bad mood because
La Brochu didn't give him one red cent for a tip.  They all say she was
too cheap to tip anybody for anything.  So he felt like a smoke, and he
thought the stairs would be safe.  But Deb Goodhouse was there. Hanging
on to the stair rail.  And shaking.  Of course, my source doesn't want
to be identified, because if they find out he was smoking on the
stairs, maybe he could lose his job."  "Shaking from what?"  I asked. 
"Was she frightened?"  "No, she looked very angry.  If looks could
kill, he said he'd have keeled over on the spot."

"Well, well."  I felt like one of Robin's cats after a bowl of
half-and-half.  I may have even licked my lips.  "Isn't that
interesting."

It almost killed Alvin to ask, but he did anyway.  "Why?"  "Because the
Hon.  Deb Goodhouse told me that she'd never met Mitzi Brochu.  Now
what do you think the chances are that she got into and out of Mitzi's
room without meeting her?"  "Not so hot.  Mitzi was there, according to
my source."  "Good, very good.  What else do you have?"  "Well, there's
more.  Your friend Robins sister.  She was in and out.  Couple people
saw her on different occasions."  He looked at me coyly.

/--t J

Go on.  Usually I have to drag every little fact out of him, but in

this case his desire to tell the story overcame his desire to string
me along for a while.

"I guess Brookes problem is even worse than we thought.  One of the
cleaners saw her doing a line of coke in the washroom outside the big
ballroom on the mezzanine.  Cut it and snorted it right on the fancy
counter where the ladies fix their make-up.  This source was cleaning
the cubicles and Brooke didn't even bother to hide.  Like cleaning
people don't count, and you could do anything in front of them."

"Sounds like Brooke."

Alvin was getting coy again.  "That's not all," he said, looking at his
watch.

"What else?"

"Well, she stayed in the ladies room for a while, and then when my
source was coming back with replacement tissues and paper towels, she
saw Brooke come out of the washroom, and he was waiting for her."

"Who?"

"Rudy Wendtz."

CT) * J)

Bingo.

"And that's not all.  He belted her right in the chops."

"What?"

"Slammed her back against the wall.  My source pretended to be
polishing the water fountain so she wouldn't miss anything.  You know
what he said?"

I shook my head.

"He told her he didn't want her anywhere near Mitzi, and she'd better
get the message.  Then he belted her again.  My source said there was
blood running down the side of Brooke's mouth, and she was crying."

Whoa.

"And then Brooke said, don't mark my face, it's my career.

And he said, what do you think Mitzi will do to your career if she
finds out about us.  Don't be a stupid bitch, Brooke.  You're going to
ruin everything."

"My, my."

"And then there was the other one.  The TV lady, Jo Quinlan."

"What about her?"

"Everybody seems to have seen her.  More than once too.  Trying to get
some dirt on Mitzi.  She talked to the chambermaids and the kitchen
staff.  I heard she even tried to get her hands on the garbage that got
taken from Mitzi's room.  She tipped people so they didn't mind telling
her stuff.  Mitzi didn't tip anybody, and she treated everybody like
dirt, so no one minded shafting her."

"How did they shaft her?"

"Well, they didn't because I guess they didn't have enough dirt on her.
She was cheap, cheap, cheap.  And they figured she did a bit of coke on
the side herself too.  But there wasn't anything really, um, newsworthy
about what she did when she was at the Harmony.  Except for the
politicians."

"What politicians?"

"Lots of them.  The people I talked to didn't know too much about it,
but Jo Quinlan got pretty excited about some of the people who went
there."

"How did she know who went there if they couldn't tell her?"

Alvin looked down at his Docs.  There must have been something
fascinating about them, but I couldn't see it myself.

He sighed.

"What is it?"

"Well, it's just that these people didn't want to tell me all this.
Their jobs could be at stake, you know.  So I had to give

them a little something to help out."

"How much of a little something?"

"Jeez, there were a lot of people.  About eighty or ninety dollars." He
looked at me through his eyelashes.

trine

"More like a hundred, really."

"I'll give you your alleged hundred dollars.  But in return I want to
be able to talk to any one of your sources, whenever I need to.  That
means names, Alvin.  Names."

"Jeez, I forgot a couple guys.  It cost me more like one twenty-five by
the time I was through."

"You're close to being through again."

"Like, I really hate it when you don't even trust me."

I'm afraid I snorted.

"What does that mean?"  "Where did you get all this money you so
generously gave to your sources?"

He drew himself upright.  "I work here.  You pay me.  I got other
things going on the side.  I get by.  You can't go around trying to get
information in this town without a bit in your pocket to help people
relax."

"Hmmm.  Okay.  I'll write you a cheque.  You start by giving me the
list of who saw whom do what at the Harmony."

We were both in the middle of writing when a black shadow loomed
against the door and Merv barged into the office, without knocking.

"Whoa," he said, "you sure know how to get yourself in deep doodoo."

"Why, Merv, how poetic."

He shrugged, "If you got it, flaunt it."

"Why am I in doodoo?"

"Well," he said, lowering himself into a visitor's chair and

giving Alvin a nasty look, "a couple of reasons."

I nodded to encourage him.

Merv was still narrowing his eyes at Alvin.

"Alvin," I said, "you've been working pretty hard.  Why don't you take
a little break, get some air?"

Alvin picked up his half-written list, slithered past Merv and vanished
out the door.

"Gives me the creeps," Merv said.

"Merv, Merv, you've got to learn to broaden your horizons.  It's a
whole new world out there."

"Yeah, well."

"Back to the topic, Merv.  Why doodoo?"

"Ho.  I've been over to Robin's.  You are most unwelcome there.  Do not
darken the door and all that."

"According to whom?"

"Jeez, you know I hate that whom shit.  According to everybody, that's
whom.  Mrs.  Findlay and Brooke are pissed off.  Maybe even Mr.
Findlay, who knows.  You'd never get past the front door."  Merv took
out a cigarette and lit up.  He kept watching me for a reaction.

I didn't even tell him to put it out.

"There's no way to get to her."

"We'll see about that, Merv."

"And anyway, that's not all.  I heard that you screwed up your sister's
date with McCracken, and that everybody's pissed off about that, even
your family."

"Who told you that?"

"Bit of police gossip."

I thought for a minute.  "That didn't take too long to get around."

"Hey, you just got to have coffee with the right people."  Merv heaved
his shoulders.  "Anyways, I can't hang around

here chewing the fat with you all day.  Some of us have to work."  He
lumbered through the door, leaving me with an additional set of
problems.

The first one rang on the phone while Merv was still thudding down the
stairs.  Alexa.

"How could you?"  she said.

"How could I what?"  I said, knowing perfectly well.

"You know perfectly well.  You're the one who ruined my date."

There was nothing to do but take my lumps.

"I'm sorry.  I had no idea that Alvin's investigations would ruin, I
mean, interfere with your date with Conn McCracken."

"You never wanted it to work out.  Admit it.  All those nasty remarks
about him having a wife.  All those little digs.  I have a right to be
happy.  Sometimes you are a selfish brat and I wouldn't put it past you
to set up Alfred or whatever his name is to commit that burglary just
to get Conn to go down to the station and leave me there to get home on
my own."

"I'm sorry, I..."

"We didn't even get to say goodbye."

"I know what you mean, my own date didn't work out either."

But she'd already hung up.

It was only when peace descended on the little office that I
remembered.  Alvin hadn't told me about Large-and-Lumpy.  Who had seen
Denzil Hickey behind the scenes at the Harmony and when?

Of course, Alvin was gone for the day.

I spent the early part of the evening puttering around the apartment.
I had a lot to do, mostly involving making sense out of what I knew.

It is easier to concentrate in an apartment that does not house five
cats.  Not only did the kitty litter need to be emptied and the cat
dishes filled, but the cats wanted company.

I ran into Mrs.  Parnell while I was putting out the garbage.

"Home alone tonight, Ms.  MacPhee?"

I didn't want to get into my social life, disastrous as it was, with a
neighbour whose nose just wouldn't quit.

"All work and no play, Mrs.  Parnell," I said, opening the door of my
apartment and scooping up two escaping cats.  I closed the door behind
me without looking at her again.  One more second and she would have
been asking me about Richard.  I wasn't ready for that.

"Now, buzz off," I said to the cats.  "You've been fed, you've had
something nice to drink, you've got clean kitty litter."

But they were all over me.  Jumping up on the table where I was laying
out my notes about the Mitzi Brochu case.  Sitting on the nice, fresh
pad of lined paper.  Batting my pens and pencils onto the floor.  And
just getting between me and anything I wanted to do.  The fat little
calico had trouble jumping up and cried until I sat her on my lap.

"Behave, or I'll never solve this case and get you back to Robins
where you belong."

That brought me back to earth.  I had to convince Robin to tell me what
she knew about Brooke's involvement.  But how was I going to get past
the dragons?

I think it was watching the ginger cat, washing his paws perched on my
writing paper , that gave me the idea.

I put the calico down and fished out the phone book.  She followed me
to the sofa.

"No wonder you're so fat," I said, lifting her again.

I was just a little edgy as the phone rang in my quarry's home.

"Camilla MacPhee here.  I wonder if you can do something to help
Robin?"

Ted Beamish muffled the surprise in his voice.

"Anything," he said.

No questions asked.  I like that in a man.

"Good.  Here's what I need."

I was smiling when I hung up.  Let Ted deal with the dragons.  It would
develop his character.

I had other fish to fry.  Such as, how to confront my suspects with
their presence in the Harmony without getting myself hit on the head.

The doorbell rang before I had made any progress.

Mrs.  Parnell.  I guessed that closing the door in her face wasn't
quite subtle enough.

She clomped past me into the living room, where five cats greeted her
like a long-lost relative, although there was nothing catlike about
her.  If you had to liken her to an animal, it would be an elderly
elkhound.

"I know I'm butting in," she said, taking the chair and looking around
with interest.  "But I couldn't help but notice

you seem to have more than your fair share of troubles.  Break ins,
assaults, and last night I believe you had to race out of here with
that nice man and go to the police station."

Was she at that goddam door every minute of every day and night? Didn't
she ever sleep?  I had to admire such unrelenting, unabashed
nosiness.

Even as I was admiring it, she pulled herself to her feet and moved
toward the balcony door using her walker.  She had excellent upper body
strength, as far as I could tell.  Just one leg seemed to drag a bit.

"Nice view you have on this side of the building," she said.  But I
could see her eyes stray to the notebook and the other materials on the
dining room table.

She looked over just in time to catch me catch her.  But there were no
hard feelings.  When I'm her age using a walker to get around, I hope
I'll have the energy to annoy people too.

"So," she said, "is there anything I can do to help?"

"Like what?"

"Like watch your apartment.  Like notify the police if you don't come
home.  Like help you rig up booby traps."

"Booby traps?"  I couldn't suppress the laugh.

"Fine," she shrugged, "you're the one with the dead cat, not me."

She had a point.  But I still couldn't imagine her having the strength
to construct booby traps.  On the other hand, there were those weights
back in her apartment.

"Mrs.  Parnell," I asked in a dizzying departure from the
conversational track, "those weights in your apartment, what do you use
them for?"

"Why Ms.  MacPhee, I bake cakes with them, of course.  I expect more
intelligent questions from you.  What do you think I use them for?
Weight training, of course.  Trying to get

back a bit of the old get up and go.  After this damn stroke.  Trendy
kind of treatment for us old crocks now."

Stroke.  And I hadn't even known it.

"Sorry, Mrs.  Parnell," I said, putting my hand on her shoulder,
"didn't mean to get you all steamed up.  Let's forget the booby traps
and weights and all that.  What I need now is someone plugged into the
gossip at the House of Commons."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

I gave her a second look.  "Let's have a drink, shall we?  I have some
very good Armagnac that's just going to waste."

I waited until we were well into our drink, before I mentioned it
again.

"So do you have any contacts there?"  Maybe there was a bit of truth in
the neighbourly speculations about Mrs.  ParneU's powerful past.

"The Senate.  Close enough.  Well, used to.  Most of them are dead now.
Or in Florida.  Same thing if you ask me."

"That's too bad," I said, sipping my drink with regret.  "Lovely
weather we've been having."

"Of course, I might have a few connections left.  I'm not dead yet."

"Or in Florida," I said under my breath.

"Is it about that Goodhouse woman?"  she asked

So much for any idea I might have had that she didn't get a good look
at the notes on my dining room table.

"Right.  I'd like to know what the late Mitzi Brochu might have had on
her.  Something publishable, anything from embarrassing gossip to
something nastier.

"Oh, I think we can find that out," Mrs.  Parnell smiled, putting her
empty glass back on the table between us, next to the bottle, where I
could not ignore it.

Robin and Ted were just visible at the end of the outdoor cafe as I
strolled up to the Canal Ritz the next day.  Summer weather at last and
Robin's pallor was highlighted by her flowered sundress.  Her hair was
in a French braid and she'd put on a bit of make-up.  I stood and
watched for a minute, searching for more signs that she was getting
better.  She sat facing the water, shaded a bit by the large umbrella.
Her eyes were hidden by sunglasses, but she was smiling as she listened
to Ted tell what I expected would be some tedious work tale.  The smile
became a laugh.  They were drinking Coors Light, and neither one of
them noticed me.

"Gosh," I said, "what a nice surprise."  I reached over to hug her.
"Imagine seeing you here."

The smile slid down Robin's face, and her Coors light teetered on the
table.  I could see her face crumple, all the nice effect of the pink
lipstick and other stuff lost.

"Don't let yourself fall apart here."  I slipped into the chair that
would shield her the most from the view of other diners.  "This is a
place you want to come back to after all your problems are over.  Just
keep telling yourself, Camilla's my best friend and she wants to help.
Maybe I should trust her."

She turned to Ted, the poor sap.

"You were in on this, too?"  The note of betrayal in Robin's voice was
unmistakable, and Ted didn't mistake it for one minute.

He turned the tables on me.  "She didn't tell me you wouldn't want to
see her.  I'm sorry."

I had to restrain myself from reaching over and belting him.  "Excuse
me," I said, "but let's use a bit of logic here."

"I don't want to use a bit of logic.  I want to go home."

"You heard her, she doesn't want logic.  She wants to go home," said
Ted.

"So, twenty-seven years have passed since that first day in Grade One
when we shared the red crayon.  I may not be the nicest person in the
world, but in that entire twenty-seven years have I ever been anything
but a friend to you?"

"It's okay, it's time to go.  I'll take you home now.  I didn't know
she was going to ambush you like this."

"Time to shut up, Ted.  Robin and I have something to discuss.  What
about it, Robin?  Have I ever been anything but a good friend to
you?"

She shook her head, fighting for control now.  I knew she'd never made
a scene in a restaurant in her life, and she wasn't about to start.

"It's okay, Ted, I'll talk to Camilla and then you can take me home.
Would you mind waiting over there?  Some of this is quite private."

Once Ted was settled two tables over with another Coors, we eyed each
other with caution.

"Look," I said.  "I know this is painful..."

She shuddered.

"and I don't want to hurt you.  Believe me.  But you're hurting
yourself.  Let me help find out what really happened.  The police or
the newspapers are going to dig it up soon enough.  I think I can help
to minimize the damage to you ... and to your family."

I knew the time was right, and Robin needed to share her fears.  I
waited.  Finally she said, "You know, I wanted that red crayon all to
myself.  You just made me so nervous."

Good, I thought, I hope it still works.

I signalled to the waitress for two more Coors Light.  "Tell me," I
said, "what happened."

I waited while Robin paused to try and control herself.

"Well, you know I tried to reach you that day," she said

with a shudder.  "She, Mitzi, had called Brooke and told her she would
never get her big break, because Mitzi was going to splatter terrible
things about Brooke all over the papers.  Mitzi was furious because
Brooke was seeing this Wendtz person."  She shuddered and looked at me.
"Brooke would have lost the "Walk in the Woods' account.  They would
have dropped her."

I nodded.  We didn't have to talk about the terrible things Mitzi was
going to write.

"Brooke called me from Toronto the night before.  She told me all about
what Mitzi was planning to do.  Write an expose on recreational drug
use by certain top models, with Brooke being one of them.  Brooke was
hysterical.  Completely out of control."  She paused to blow her nose
in the paper napkin.  "First she wanted me to get an injunction to stop
the story."

"Not good," I said, "even if you did, a street fighter like Mitzi would
get her story out of the injunction.  So would a lot of other people
who might not pay attention to Mitzi's write up in the first place."

"Exactly what I said to her."

I should have known.

"Then she wanted me to go and see Mitzi and tell her that we would sue
her for libel the minute she published anything detrimental to Brooke.
I spoke to Mitzi on the phone first, and she more or less told me that
she didn't give a shit, the pleasure of seeing Brooke get hers would be
worth any legal repercussions.  I couldn't believe it."

I could believe it.

"But she agreed to see me that afternoon."

"Right," I said, "she was looking forward to twisting the knife."

"I imagine," said Robin.

I looked at her with surprise.  Now that she was telling the story, she
was calm.  I could see the old Robin swimming to

the surface again.  Calm, articulate, practical.

"I called you to come along because I thought you would be tough enough
to support me if I got upset.  I wanted to talk to you first and fill
you in, but I figured you could just wing it if you had to."

"I was right behind you."

"I know that now.  But Mitzi told me that I'd better be on time,
because she had just fifteen minutes for me.  I was flustered.  I guess
I should have waited for you."

I shrugged.  "She'd still be dead."

"You're right."

But perhaps Robin was thinking that if she had waited for me, we would
have either found Mitzi together or left when there was no answer,
leaving the nastier bits of dealing with a suspicious police force to
someone else.  But Robin still would have had her problem.

"And when you found the body?"

She shuddered and pulled back.  I grabbed her hand.

"Robin, we have to get through this.  I am not the enemy."

After a long time, she nodded.

"It was horrible."

I knew.  I'd seen Mitzi myself.

"And I thought, I thought..."

I kept a steady pressure on her hand.

"I thought..."  Robin was having trouble with her breathing.

The hand I held was shaking.

"You thought," I said, not letting go of her, "Brooke might have
flipped out and killed Mitzi before you could get there to fix
things."

She exhaled.  Shuddered.

"And you preferred to have the police badger you and make

you miserable, rather than have them find out about the connection
between Brooke and Mitzi."

She nodded.

It was out on the table now, between us.  I'd suspected and even known
this was the problem.  At least now we could discuss it, develop a
strategy.

"You were making yourself sick over it."

"I was sick.  I was terrified, my mind just imploded thinking Brooke
must have been there.  That she might have..."

"You saw her, didn't you?  Leaving just before you went in?"

I thought back to Maria Rodriguez, pointing to Brooke's photo with such
certainty.  "Don't lie to me any more."

Robin gave up.  "I saw her slipping out the stairway exit just as I was
heading up to the room.  She must have seen Mitzi and panicked.  I had
to protect her.  She's my sister."

"Does she know you saw her?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't think she should feel obligated to protect you?"

"Please, Camilla.  That's why I couldn't tell you.  I know the way you
feel about Brooke.  I knew you wouldn't help her.  Poor Brooke,
she..."

"Okay, enough about Brooke," I said.

The little witch, I thought.  She'd hightailed it back to her expensive
condo in Toronto and sat there for the better part of a week while her
sister held off the police.  On the verge of a complete breakdown. Even
when she finally sashayed home, she didn't seem concerned with Robin's
well-being.  If ever anybody deserved to lose an account with a major
cosmetics company and be pilloried in the press, it was Brooke Findlay.
 The "Walk in the Woods" witch.

"It would have killed my parents to have Brooke involved in this.
They're so proud of her.  They just adore her."

I knew Robin expected me to understand.  But I didn't.  I thought
about my own peculiar family and realized that what happened to Robin
would never have happened to me.  None of us would be expected to
sacrifice so much for the others.  We would all stand together no
matter what.  Bitching and complaining, but together.  I decided to
call Alexa, soon.  I didn't like to think there might be a bit of
Brooke in any of my behaviour.

Robin was watching me.  "I had no choice."

"You have choices.  You are a useful, productive, compassionate member
of our society.  Consider when you make your choices the effect your
breakdown had on your workplace, your volunteer activities, remember
the Food Bank, the Humane Society, your clients.  You could have chosen
to protect yourself.  We'll get to bottom of this, believe me.  And
we'll try to keep Brooke's name out of the papers, but if it comes down
to the crunch, it will be you, not her, I'll be protecting.  That's my
choice, like it or not."

It was a minute before she nodded.

"And what's more, one of these days your parents are going to have to
wake up and smell the coffee."

"I'd still like to spare them."

"Well, I'm going to need to stay in touch with you on all sorts of
developments, so you'll have to let your family know that I'm a welcome
visitor at the Findlay's again, or they'll get an earful of reality
from me."

"Okay."

I reached over and gave her a hug, glad to have the old Robin back. She
smiled.

"How are my kitties getting along?  I miss them."

I was able to dodge the tricky question of how the kitties were getting
along, because Ted inserted himself back into the

group at just the right moment.

It seemed to me, as I watched them depart, that Robin was steadier,
happier, better off after our meeting.  I sipped a cappuccino as I
watched Ted collect his car and come back to pick up Robin.  But I was
the only one who noticed the other silent observer.  A man with a great
deal of misery drawn across his face.

Merv.  Watching Robin like a lovesick Great Dane.  All this goddam
romance.  It was enough to make you throw up.

Gee, hi," I said.  "Imagine meeting you here.  I was just on my way
over to take a look at the tulips.  Aren't they great?"

I might have been a maggot on the stem of one of those tulips the way
Deb Goodhouse looked at me.  It wasn't just that she was splendidly
casual in a full patterned cotton skirt and matching blouse that I
thought might be from Suttles and Seawinds while I had on my ancient
blue jeans and an oversized tee-shirt that said "I'm With Stupid".
Maybe she just wasn't used to people sneaking up on her right in her
own neighbourhood.

"Mind if I walk along with you?"  I asked, walking along with her.

"I'm in quite a hurry."

Deb Goodhouse had been meandering along until I sidled up behind her. A
typical Saturday stroll for someone lucky enough to live in a
fashionable townhouse smack in the middle of the Golden Triangle.

"I'll try to keep up," I said, picking up my pace to match hers.  "I'm
not sure if you remember me...."

"Of course I remember you."

"Oh good, that makes it easier.  I have a couple of questions for
you."

Her mouth compressed.

"Well, just to clear things up.  You see, you told me you had

never met Mitzi Brochu.  The funny thing is there are people who claim
they saw you visit her in the Harmony Hotel.  People who could not help
but notice you were upset."

I looked at her with what I hoped was a guileless expression.  She was
two shades paler after I dropped my little bombshell.  Of course, it
didn't do to underestimate Deb Goodhouse.  I gave her one more little
push.

"I'm not sure what the police will make of this information," I
added.

"I don't intend to stand around listening to you slandering me," she
snapped.  "I have nothing to say to you on this or on any other
subject.  Now if you don't get out of my way, I will call the police."
She stepped onto the street to pass me, stepped back onto the sidewalk
again and kept going toward Elgin.

"That was an incorrect use of the term 'slander'", I called after her,
but she didn't seem to hear me.  "Bingo," I added to myself. Everything
about Deb Goodhouse's body language and expression told me I had gotten
what I had come for.

Jo Quinlan was the next name on the list I fished out of my jeans
pocket.  Alvin had provided me with an address along with a very
interesting tidbit of information.  Luckily for me, Alvin had also put
in a little map, because Jo Quinlan lived on the Quebec side, over in
Chelsea.

I retrieved my car and double checked the map.  I was still chuckling
over Deb Goodhouse as I crossed the Portage Bridge five minutes later
and spun along towards Highway 5.

Jo Quinlan, according to the notes left in Alvin's backhanded scrawl,
lived in the country and kept horses.  Alvin's directions were better
than his office skills, and not long after, I found myself pulling into
a tree-lined driveway with a mailbox marked Quinlan/Belliveau.

A man in a pickup truck was pulling away as I nosed my

car into the driveway as far as it would go and stopped.

I stuck my head out the window and bellowed.  "Jo Quinlan around?"

"She's out back," he hollered.  "You might need to yell a bit to get
her attention."

The German Shepherd beside him in the cab sat there assessing me.

"Thanks."

"No problem."  His pickup was already rolling down the drive.

"Hello?"  I yelled a few times as I walked towards the back of the
house.  "Hello?"

The house was one of those modern cedar designs with floor to ceiling
windows and skylights.  In back the property took a spectacular slope,
a view well worth looking at.

Another German Shepherd came loping across the lawn.

"Hello?"  I continued to holler as I approached the nearest of the two
barns.

The Shepherd was in front of me and seemed to be considering if I would
be tastier with or without mustard.

"Hello!"  I roared as loud as I could.

The Shepherd barked back at me, moving forward at the same time.

Jo Quinlan took that minute to walk out of the barn.

"What is it, Maggie?"  Behind her, horsy sounds emerged through the
barn door.

"Hello," I breathed.

She looked at me for a long minute, running me through her own internal
computer.

"Health Club," she said.  "You were asking questions about Mitzi
Brochu."

"Exactly.  I wonder if you could spare a couple of minutes.

There are some things I need to understand.  I'm trying to help my
friend, the one who found the body."

"Sure, why not?"  she said.  "You want to come inside?  Have a coffee
or something?"

Saturdays seemed to agree with Jo Quinlan.

I followed her across a large deck, though a large door into a large
country kitchen.  With a wood stove and a lot of pine furniture.

Maggie stayed outside, whining through the screen.

"This is a wonderful place," I said, settling myself in at the large
kitchen table.

"Yep."  I could see this was an understatement on her part.  Her colour
was high, her eyes were bright.

"Sorry to bother you on a Saturday.  A nice man told me you were in
back."

"That'd be Clan.  My husband."  She laughed a bit.  "I still find it
sounds a bit strange.  We've only been married for six months.  You
want to make that cappuccino?"

Aha.  No wonder Jo Quinlan seemed to shine.  She was living happily
ever after with a new husband, a spectacular place in the country and a
cappuccino machine.

"Sammy Dash," I said, after the cappuccino was in my hand.

"What about him?"  she said, the smile slipping.

I took a little sip, to help rid myself of the sudden chill.  "I
understand you were very good friends for quite a long time."

-\/ )

Yes.

The quintessential interviewer knew how to clam up when it came to her
own personal life.  She looked at me for quite a long time, her hazel
eyes cool.

I felt a surge of relief when she started to talk.

"We grew up in the same area, we met in high school and I guess we were
inseparable from that point until ... we broke up."

"You must have felt terrible about his death."

She hesitated.  "Well, you have to be repelled by the way he died. But,
if you'd known Sammy, known how manipulative and cruel he was..."

"You mean you were expecting something like that?"

"No, of course not, not exactly like that.  But something, for sure."

"Mind telling me why?"

She exhaled, and I noticed she was pale.  The effort of talking about
Sammy Dash had undone all the good of her Saturday in the country with
the horses and the dogs.

"He was always asking for trouble, all his life.  When I was a
teenager, I thought he was great.  A real rebel.  Smart but
undisciplined.  He brought me a lot of trouble too.  My parents hated
him, and when I stuck with him it weakened my relationship with them.
All my relationships."

"Why did you stick with him?"

Her smile held a bit of self-mockery, I thought.  "Because he was
powerful and sexy and I was caught in his net.  He liked to have women
caught in his net.  And once you were caught, he didn't like to let you
go."

I considered what I knew of Sammy Dash.  The lazy arrogance, the macho
stances, the way that women's heads turned when he was around.  The
public way he'd touched Brooke Findlay outside the restaurant in the
market.  It fit.

"By the time I got through Journalism at Carleton and landed my first
job, I began to realize not every relationship was like ours, with one
top dog and the other one the snivelling slave."

It was hard to imagine Jo Quinlan as a snivelling slave.  I said so.

"I know.  I seem in charge, I guess, but it was a long, hard fight to
get away from him and become a bit tougher."  She

looked at me.  "Okay, a lot tougher.  At work anyway."

"How did you do it?"

"Well, for one thing I felt I had to.  He was not only treating me like
dirt, screwing around, slapping me, drinking too much, hassling me at
work, but he was getting more and more implicated in the whole drug
scene.  Getting involved with the big guys."

"Like Rudy Wendtz."

"Like Rudy Wendtz."

"So you left him."

She nodded.  "And he hassled me until the day he died."

"How?"

"Calls at work, calls at home, threats, embarrassments.  Sammy didn't
like women walking out on him.  He didn't handle rejection well."

I thought about the story that Sammy had been after Mitzi.  Could he
have killed her because she mocked him?  And then who killed him?
Wendtz for revenge?  What a tangle.

"The photos and stories about you in Femme Fatale!"

"I'm pretty sure the stories were orchestrated by Sammy.  I never had
any dealings with Mitzi Brochu at all.  I was stunned when she first
started to make fun of me in the press.  Until I figured out the Sammy
connection."

I thought back to the photos, nasty, sneering invasions of Jo Quinlan's
privacy.  "You must have been pretty uptight, not knowing when he was
going to stick his head out of a bush and snap."

She shrugged.  "By that time I had my job as an anchor, I had
self-esteem and I even had Clan.  Sammy had sunk to nuisance value."

"What about your career?  Didn't all this sneering commentary hurt
that?"

"On the contrary.  It seemed to help.  I started to get calls and mail
in support.  That's how I met Clan.  He picked up a copy of Femme
Fatale by mistake in a dentist's office.  It was the first one where
Mitzi and Sammy took a real shot at me.  Clan was outraged.  He called
me at the station to tell me he thought I was," she flushed, "beautiful
the way I am.  I think I fell in love over the phone."

"Clan must have hated both of them then."

Just what I needed, a new suspect to up the confusion level.  But the
more I thought about it, the more it worked.

"Don't even think that," Jo said, her eyes hard.  She reached into a
basket on the table and tossed a business card at me.  "He was at work
that afternoon.  Easy enough for you to confirm."

Maybe, I thought, deciding to dig further.  Tan shoes, I reminded
myself, were all I knew about whoever attacked me and killed Sammy.  To
my satisfaction, Maggie started a ruckus outside.

"Mind if I use your bathroom?"  I asked Jo as she moved to the door to
check it out.

"Go right ahead.  The one downstairs isn't working right, try the one
at the top of the stairs."

I scuttled up the stairs, pausing to peek into the downstairs closet.
No luck.  Upstairs, I ducked into the master bedroom, not paying
attention to the country style decorating, sticking my head into the
walk-in closet and checking out the men's shoes.  I couldn't see any
tan ones.  I peeped under the bed.  Nothing.

I ducked into the hall bathroom just as the front door slammed.  Clan
was back, standing at the foot of the stairs, when I emerged one loud
flush later.  I could only pray he hadn't seen me explode out of the
bedroom.

I smiled at him when I walked into the kitchen.  Jo was

giving me facial signals I interpreted to mean don't talk about Sammy,
don't talk about the murders.

"Well," she said, "I don't know what got into that dog today."

Maggie whimpered from the deck.

I accepted the offer of another cappuccino, because it gave me a chance
to check out Clan.

He was not as tall as he looked in the pick-up truck.  I think it was
the heavy shoulders and large upper body that led me to expect a
near-giant.  Standing, the top of his head reached Jo's ears.  From the
look on her face, that was just fine with her.

I smiled at him in a way I hoped wouldn't let him know I had just added
him to my list of possible murderers.  Close cropped grey hair,
silver-rimmed glasses.  Wearing jeans, and, I checked, running shoes.

"Camilla," said Jo, "is looking into Mitzi Brochu's murder and she was
wondering whether I could ... give her some insights into what Mitzi
was like."

He flicked a glance at me.  It was a lot chillier than the way he
looked at Jo.  The room, which resonated with Jo and Dan's feelings for
each other, was an uncomfortable place for me.

"Terrible woman," I said, having no qualms about speaking ill of the
dead.  "Everything I hear about her confirms it."

"You getting anywhere, um, looking into her murder?"  he asked.

"No," I said, "nowhere at all.  I seem to be wasting my time. 
Everybody disliked this woman.  I'm probably going to have to give
up."

"What's Mitzi Brochu's murder to you?"  His eyes behind the
metal-rimmed glasses were as grey and cold as the Atlantic.

"A very good friend of mine found the body.  The police are giving her
a hard time."

He watched me as he inhaled the cappuccino.

"I told you about that, honey," she said.

I couldn't wait to get out of that room.

Jo walked me to my car.

"I don't imagine you'll find out who killed them.  But I kind of hope
you do.  It would make a hell of a story."

"Right."

I climbed into my car and bumped down the long drive.  As I turned on
to the main road, I could see Jo Quinlan still standing there.  I
waved.

Ten minutes later, I pulled up outside Alvin's apartment in the centre
of downtown Hull.  I was skipping through the front door when two
children selling candy bars stepped out.  It only cost me two dollars.
Banging on Alvin's door gave me a certain satisfaction.  I was almost
sorry when he answered, standing there in his jockey shorts squinting,
without his cat's eye glasses.

"You look like death," I said, slipping past him.  I didn't say a word
about his belly-button ring.

"God, it's not even noon.  And it's Saturday," he said, leaning against
the wall.

"Get dressed, I need you to come with me."

Another ten minutes passed as I sat in the black living room, staring
at the blenders and electric frying pans painted on the floor and
covered with about eight coats of high-gloss plastic.  From the rest of
the apartment came sounds of flushing and brushing.

Five minutes later, the Alvin I knew emerged, tucking his tee-shirt
into his jeans, the fake leopard skin vest in place.  His pony tail was
slicked back, and he picked up his best leather jacket from the coat
rack, although it was the hottest day so far in the year.

As we walked out the front door, a girl with long red and

blue hair emerged from the bedroom.  She was wearing a carelessly
wrapped sheet and smoking something illegal.

"Alvin?"

"Go back to sleep," he said, closing the door behind us.

We were back in Ottawa and zooming along the Queen Elizabeth Driveway,
before he spoke.

"I'm thinking about going back to Cape Breton."

"That's a great idea," I said.  "I'll help you make your arrangements
as soon as we finish this little chore."

The little chore was my impending visit to Rudy Wendtz and his tame
gorilla, Denzil Hickey.

"You stay here, in the car.  And if I'm not out of the house in twenty
minutes, you call the police.  Do you have that?  Twenty minutes."

"I forgot to put my watch on."

"Use the clock on the dash."

"I don't think the time's right.  You didn't adjust it after Daylight
Saving Time, did you?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, through my teeth.  "Just twenty minutes
after whatever it says.  Got that?"

"No need to be snotty," Alvin said under his breath.

I left him there and marched up to the tall and wide front door of Rudy
Wendtz's big house.

"Hi," I said, shaking Denzil Hickey by the hand as soon as he opened
the door.  "Good to see you again.  I can tell by the car in the
driveway the man himself must be home.  This'll just take a minute."

Denzil looked at me with eyes that reminded me of ball bearings.  I
tried not to think about him murdering the tabby.  I intended to deal
with him on that matter later.  He shrugged and I followed him down the
hall to the conservatory.  His shoes, I noticed, were black.

Rudy was working out with a set of hydraulic weights.  He kept going
without a pause as we entered the room.  This was good, because I
wasn't sure what I was going to say to him.

It must be nice, I thought, to have enough money to have a house that
overlooks the canal, and to have all the time in the world to develop
your deltoids while watching the water ripple in the warm spring
breeze.  Wearing fashionable workout clothes and some kind of black
running shoes.

I waited.  Denzil lurked in a corner.  After a while, I cleared my
throat.  Patience is one thing, but I didn't have all day.  And Alvin
was set to call the police if I didn't show up in twenty minutes.

"I just popped around to mention that you and Brooke Findlay were
observed and overheard arguing over her intention to speak to a certain
recently deceased media type and people are beginning to gossip.  And
also, since your friend here," I gestured to Denzil, but he seemed to
have stepped out, "was seen lumbering around the Harmony Hotel, the
police may wish to reconsider your involvement.  I thought I'd mention
this to you, since we hit it off so well the last time."

He didn't seem to have heard me at all.  Just kept on pumping that
iron.

I waited for a while, checking out the plants, touching the equipment,
before I glanced at my watch.

"Oh God," I said, "will you look at the time.  Gotta run.  Keep in mind
what I said though."

"The police," said Denzil as I passed him in the hallway, "are not
interested in little things like that.  Or little things like you and
your friends.  They're not going to bother Rudy.  So you can save your
concern."

"Great," I said, "I can sleep tonight."

I skipped through the front door, down the stairs and past

the black Mercedes, hoping that Denzil hadn't been able to see my
heart thumping through my tee-shirt.

Alvin was slumped over on the seat, snoozing.  "Some lookout you are,"
I snarled, giving him a shake as I climbed into the driver's seat.  I
gasped as he toppled over onto me, his eyes closed, blood matting the
back of his head behind the ear.

I sat there in the car, struggling to get my breath before I thought to
lock the doors and drive poor damaged Alvin to the hospital.

The police were less than helpful.

"Rudy Wendtz.  In front of his house.  This happened in broad daylight
in front of his house.  Are the citizens of Ottawa not safe in their
own cars?"  Perhaps I'd raised my voice a bit with this.  Other people
in the emergency area turned to stare.

Mombourquette leaned against the door, smirking his ratty smirk,
staying removed from our crisis.  At least they took our statement.

Then I took Alvin home.  I was left with the impression that since
Alvin had not been attacked inside Rudy's place and since Alvin never
knew what hit him, there was unlikely to be a riot squad attack on Rudy
Wendtz's home to capture him and protect the decent people of Ottawa
from scum.

By the time I pulled up in front of Robin's place late in the
afternoon, my stomach was growling.  But at least Alvin was all right,
resting at home, no doubt smouldering at his memories of me.  So I was
cranky when Mr.  Findlay's face appeared.

"Oh hi, Camilla," he said, holding the door open.

Surprise.  I was half expecting to be a pariah among the Findlays.

"Robin's upstairs changing.  Excuse me, I have something to take care
of in the kitchen."

I walked through the living room.  The TV was off.  I'd never seen that
in all the years I'd been coming to the Findlays.

"Mother's at a funeral.  I thought I'd better stay here in case Robin
needed me."  Mr.  Findlay's voice drifted out of the kitchen.  Although
I was sure I hadn't asked the question.

Robin's room was empty.  Shower sounds were coming from the bathroom.
Good.  I tiptoed down the hall to Brooke's door and knocked.  She
looked surprised to see me, and stunned when I plunked myself down on
her bed and started talking.

"I find it interesting, Brooke, to know you had a major problem with
Mitzi Brochu trying to ruin your career.  And you were seen in the
Harmony minutes before her body was discovered, although your family
believes you to have been in Toronto, too busy to come to your sister's
side.  I also find it interesting you had a public battle with Rudy
Wendtz, noted drug dealer and thug, about your intention to confront
Mitzi, and I'm fascinated your consumption of cocaine is so well known.
Not good news for the "Walk in the Woods' image, I'd say.  And while
I'm talking, let me add, if you treat Robin with anything less than the
care and respect she deserves, and if you cause her to take any
responsibility for crimes, or if you attempt to have me kept away from
this house, I will go to the newspapers.  I'll ruin you, and I'll smile
while I do it.  The choice is yours."

I left her, white-faced and shaking on her bed, and walked back to
Robin's room.  Robin, wrapped in blue towels, including a blue turban
on her head, was glad to see me.

"You look better," I said.

"I feel better.  And you?  Are you staying out of trouble?"

"Absolutely."

"Good.  I think I can go home again, pretty soon.  I talked to the
people in the office.  I might drop in on Monday."

/~" Great.

She reached over and grabbed my hand.  "Thanks.  Thanks for talking
tough.  I guess I'd made myself a bit crazy.  Lost perspective."

"Hey, what are friends for?"

"Hmmm.  I can't wait to see my kitties."

I took a deep breath.  How long before I could tell her about the
little tabby?  Would it plunge her back into grief?

Mr.  Findlay popped into the room behind us.  "Hungry, girls?

"Yes," I said, not waiting for Robin's reply.

"Got a couple of Monte Cristo Specials in the kitchen.  How's that
sound?"

"Perfect."

Robin laughed.  "Sounds good to me, too, Dad.  We'll eat downstairs."

"Good."  Mr.  Findlay turned as Brooke brushed by in the hallway.

"What's the matter, honey?  You don't look too good."

"Nothing," she said, "just a headache."  The bathroom door closed
behind her.

Mr.  Findlay bustled downstairs to put the finishing touches on the
Monte Cristo Specials.  Robin started to change from towels to
clothes.

"Tell me, Camilla, why you looked so guilty when I asked about the
cats."

"No reason.  Nothing to feel guilty about."

"Out with it," she said.

I hesitated, not wanting her to know about the cat in her fragile
state.

She sat on the bed, turning white.  "Oh God!  You've let them all
escape."

"No!"

"Tell me what it is before I flip."

"One is... I mean, one of them, um, died."

She sat down on the bed.  "Died?  Which one?"

"The little tabby."

"Dahlia."

I bit my tongue before I could say "whatever".

"How did she die?"

I looked straight into Robin's blue, blue eyes and said, "Natural
causes."

She blinked.  "Well, of course.  But what natural causes?"

"I don't know.  We're talking about a cat.  I didn't have an autopsy
done."

A tear trickled down her cheek.

"I'm sorry.  I know you loved your cat.  But maybe she had some
congenital disease that strikes without warning.  I don't think there's
anything either of us could have done."

"You're right," she said.  "She was just a little stray, but I loved
her."

I patted Robins bare arm.

"So sorry," I said.

"I'll be okay.  I don't want Dad to see me crying.  Let me pull myself
together.  But it's like losing a friend, you know."

I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

Later, as we hovered over the French-toasted cheese the Findlays all
call Monte Cristo Specials, Robin had pulled herself together.  But I
could tell we'd be dealing with her grief for Dahlia for a while.

"What's the matter, Robin," Mr.  Findlay joked as he served up
chocolate layer cake, "cat got your tongue?"

It was Saturday night, but what the hell.  I'd stirred up a little
action with the various suspects and spending a night alone gloating
with the cats seemed like just the thing.

As I rolled down into the parking garage, a man jumped from the shadows
and loomed towards me.  I stopped gloating and started backing up.  He
ran faster.

"Camilla," he shouted, "I need to talk to you."

Richard.

A wave of weakness swept over me, and some of it remained in my
knees.

"Richard," was all I could say.  But I did roll down the window.

"I want to talk to you," he said, bending over.  "What's the matter?
Did I scare you?"

"You bet," I said.

"Sorry, I didn't realize.  I've been waiting, because you don't answer
your phone here or at your office, and I wanted to talk to you."

"Talk."

"Here?"

"Here."

"Okay.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry about the way I acted the other] night.
But I felt used and betrayed.  I thought you'd gotten mcj over to your
apartment so that your, um, your, urn..."

"Employee," I said.

"Right.  Your employee could scavenge around the Harmony without me
catching him."

"Hmm."

"I can't stand that guy.  He's caused me problems every time I've tried
to reach you at the office."

ten I

Right.

"So the point is, I acted like a jerk and I'm sorry, and I was willing
to sit in my car in front of your apartment for as long as it took to
tell you."  He squeezed my hand, which was only slightly less shaky
than my knees.  "Can I see you again?"

"Okay," I exhaled.  "But not tonight.  I've got a commitment."

I didn't mention that the commitment was to myself.  As much as I was
attracted to Richard, particularly now that he was properly apologetic,
I didn't want to spend an evening with him when I was distracted by
having to develop a strategy to stay alive.

"Sure," he said.

"Maybe tomorrow."

He nodded.

"But listen, I have an idea.  Walk me up from the basement, I'm a bit
skittish, for reasons I'll explain later."

Richard hopped into the passenger seat and we drove down into the
garage.  A place I never give any thought to.  Tonight, it seem filled
with shadows and bad possibilities.  Every square concrete column
seemed large enough to conceal Denzil Hickey.

As Richard and I strolled toward the elevator, he was whistling.  A
creak in the corner caused me to jump.

"Relax," he said.  "Maybe you should cancel your commitment and just
rest tonight.  You're very jumpy."

"You're right.  Maybe I'll do that."  I said as the elevator took us
to the first floor.

He turned, smiling.

I melted under his hug.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too," he said, kissing my forehead.

"Tomorrow," I mouthed.

Still smiling, he waved back.  Tomorrow.

On the sixteenth floor everything looked suspect.  The strands of hemp
in the wallpaper seemed to reach out and tug at my hair.

Pull yourself together, I told myself.  You created this situation by
stirring the pot, now you'd better cope with it without falling apart.
I scuttled along the hallway with my keys held between my fingers like
a weapon.

Relief, relief, relief when I reached my door.  Until it swung open.

I found myself rooted to the floor, unable to move.

Mrs.  Parnell humped out, using her walker.

"You stay there, cats," she said.  "I told you I'd be back later to
check."  She pulled the door closed behind her and I heard a meow of
outrage.

We both gasped in unison.

"There you are," she said.  "We've been worried sick."

We?

She inclined her head toward my door, from which sounds of protest
could still be heard.

"I've been busy."

"Pretty skittish, aren't you?"

I nodded.  "It's been a rough day."

"Come on over and tell me about it."

I hesitated.  "The cats..."

"The furry spongers have been fed."

"Ah."  I followed her into her apartment, still worried about Alvin's
head injury.  What had I stirred up?  I wanted to spend the evening
thinking about a strategy to flush out a killer without creating a new
batch of victims.  I wanted to make sure Alvin didn't end up dead
because of me.

Instead, I found myself perched on Mrs.  Parnell's leather sofa holding
a full glass of Harvey's Bristol Cream.  I was still jittery, and it
seemed to me that she was too.  Behind us, the peach-faced lovebirds
twittered.

"Here's to your health," said Mrs.  Parnell, downing her sherry in a
gulp.

I tried to sip and noticed my hands trembling.

"Well, Ms.  MacPhee," she said, following a discreet burp, "now that
you're sitting down, I have two things to mention to you."

"Mrs.  Parnell," I asked, feeling a sense of deja vu, "how did you get
into my apartment again?"

"Ah, make that three things."

"Go ahead.  Let's hear them."

"First things first."  She topped up her glass.

I shook my head when she offered me a refill.

"Well, would you like the good news first or the bad news first?"

"The bad news."  I always want the bad news first.

"Okeydokey.  Then, remember when you had five cats?"

"Six cats.  Not that they're mine.  Five remaining."

I felt pretty stupid discussing cats when my life and Alvin's might be
in danger.

"Not any more," said Mrs.  Parnell.  "That's the bad news.  The little
three-coloured one seems to have disappeared."

I don't even like cats, but my stomach clenched.  The

little calico was an extremely naive animal, capable of taking a
liking to the worst kind of people, myself included.  Could she
have...?

"I spent hours checking your apartment, the hallway, everywhere.  I
knocked on every door on the sixteenth floor.  No one has seen the damn
thing."

"But how could it have gotten out?"

Was that a little flicker of guilt on Mrs.  Parnell's grey face?  She
stuck another cigarette into the long holder and lit up.

My voice rose a bit.

"Did you come over to my apartment to snoop, and let the little cat
escape?"

Her head drooped.  "It is possible, I suppose, while I was tending to
the others, sheer slipped out the door."

"They didn't need tending.  I left them plenty of food and clean litter
too.  What are you suggesting, I don't take care of them?"

"No, no.  I didn't see you all day, and I thought that perhaps
something had happened to you.  I went over to see if you needed help.
The cats were just an afterthought."

In a strange way, it felt comforting to have someone in the same
building looking after my well-being, checking to see if I needed help.
On the other hand, I value my privacy and I didn't want Mrs.  Parnell
exploding through the door every time she imagined things were a little
too quiet in my apartment.

"You still have a key?"

She grinned.

"The Super didn't ask for it back?"

After a pause, she admitted: "I had a copy made."

I held out my glass for a refill.

"I'll make a little notice for the elevators and the laundry

rooms.  I don't think that cat could get out of the building, do you?"
she said.

"No.  Not unless somebody took her."

We looked at each other.  Somebody had already killed one cat... Maybe
the same someone had plans to use this cat to intimidate me or Robin in
some way.  We have your cat and if you don't... I shook my head.  Too
farfetched.

"You never know," Mrs.  Parnell said, as if she'd read my thoughts.

The lovebirds kept on twittering.  Very edgy, those birds.

"The good news, though," she continued, "is I think I know what the
Hon.  Deb Goodhouse didn't want to make the papers."

I waited for her to tell me but it appeared I had to come right out and
ask.

"What?"

"Well, seems she's been in and out of these places, fat farms, you
know, where they try to program you to lose weight.  Treat it as a
psychological problem.  Lotta bull if you ask me, but nobody ever does.
Anyway, turns out she's had a couple of visits, paid for by the
government, and she's a bit sensitive on the subject.  The legitimate
press doesn't cover that sort of thing.  But the late Ms.  Brochu would
have made hay out of it.  And apparently she'd intended to."

Bingo.  I could just imagine it.  Deb Goodhouse was still a large
woman.  Mitzi could have had fun with that.  Before and After pictures,
the same size.  She would have included the costs for extra zing.

"Potentially quite humiliating," I said.

"You bet.  Although I'm not convinced it's enough to send a sensible
and successful woman, as Goodhouse appears to be, right over the edge.
At least, we know she had a new reason to be upset with Mitzi."  Mrs.
Parnell rewarded herself with a

healthy belt of Harvey's.  "God, this is fun!"

I turned down another refill.  It was time to head home and think a
bit.

"I'm sorry about your cat," Mrs.  Parnell said at the door.  "I'll find
her for you."

Back in the living room, the birds kept twittering.

"I don't know what's gotten into them," she said, turning back and
leaving a trail of smoke.

As I crossed the hall, I wondered how I could tell Robin that she now
had two ex-cats.

As the lights went on in my apartment, they went on over my head too.
Did this have to be my problem?  I called Ted Beamish, since he always
wanted to help, and assigned him a chore intended to get me out of the
situation.

The cats alternated between surrounding me and disappearing for the
rest of the evening.  When I took my bath, all four joined me in the
bathroom.  When I felt like a cuddle, they vanished.  When I snacked on
a tuna fish sandwich, they all tried to sit in my lap.  So what else
was new?

I sat at the table by the window and worked once more through the
tangle of motives and clues.  I knew one thing-Alvin and I had
aggravated the murderer all right.  Pushed him or her to action.  But
just which one of them was it?  And what would he or she do next?  Was
I sure about Large-and-Lumpy?  Could Jo Quinlan or her new husband or
even Deb Goodhouse have followed Alvin and me?

I never would have noticed.  A chill ran through my body.  I'd never
thought about who was stalking me.  I'd been too busy playing
detective.

The buzzer jolted me out of my chair.  Edwina.  I buzzed her in.

Two minutes later she stormed through the door, followed by Stan, who
was lugging a cast-iron planter exuding vivid

geraniums.  I knew Edwina was there to give me hell.  The geraniums
were just a consolation.

Mrs.  Parnell s shadow rippled behind her half-opened door.

"We must talk," Edwina said, gesturing to Stan.

Stan grunted on toward the balcony with the geraniums.  That cast-iron
container must have weighed thirty pounds.

"Great idea," I said.  "Would you like a drink?"

"No," said Edwina.

"Yes," said Stan, returning from his chore, red-faced and puffing.

I went with Stan.  Lowest common denominator.

Stan and I decided on rum and Coke.

"Tea for you, Edwina?"

"I might as well have one too."

When we had settled down, I noticed that Stan had a small, brown bag in
his lap.

I smiled at Edwina.  The smile I always used when I got caught with my
fingers in the icing bowl.  It didn't work as well as it used to.

"Well, the family has noted that we have not heard much from you
lately," Edwina said.

"You saw me at dinner the other night.  Anyway, I've been quite
busy."

"I imagine, since you haven't called back and I've left messages."

"I figured you just wanted to give me hell over Alexa's date."

"I do want to give you hell over Alexa's date, and please do not think
you can escape merely by not calling me.  And may I add, it has been
observed by more than one of us, you always have time to call when you
need something."

"Well, yes," I said, "that's what families are for."

Edwina opened her mouth and shut it again.  I thought I could detect a
fizzling sound coming from her.

She tried again.  "We were informed today that your employee, Albert,
was attacked while you were harassing certain individuals around
town."

"Alvin," I said.

"Not important," said Edwin.  "Is it true?"

I glanced at Stan, but he seemed hypnotized by the cats.

"Who told you?"

"It doesn't matter who told me.  Is it true?"

I knew why they'd selected Edwina to set me straight.  She's the only
one with the correct configuration of personality traits to have made a
career as a Mother Superior.

"I suppose McCracken told Alexa.  What a worm."

"The point is, whatever you call him was attacked, and it could have
been you, and we are very concerned.  That's the point."

"Here, kitty kitty," said Stan.

"Alexa is distraught.  That nice policeman had to stay with her to calm
her down."

"I've never heard it called that before."

CCT)

Be serious.

"I've been a lot of things, Edwina, but I think this is the only time
I've ever been convenient for anyone."

Edwina's upper lip twitched.

"Pssss, pssss, pssss," said Stan, clutching his brown paper bag.

"All right," said Edwina, "I'll grant you that Alexa enjoyed being
comforted by Sgt.  McCracken.  But even so, she was worried and so am I
and so is Donalda and so is..."  she looked over at Stan.

Stan was bending forward, grinning at the cats, some of whom were
beginning to move toward him.

"and so is the rest of the family.  Except for Daddy.  No

one has told him.  If you would like it to stay that way, stop this
Nancy Drew nonsense."

My father.  What a nasty threat.  Everyone knew my father is the one
person I can't stand up to.

Edwina leaned forward and lowered her voice.  "We are terribly worried
about you.  Two people have been viciously, violently murdered.  You
have been hit on the head.  Alphonse has been hit on the head.  You
live by yourself in this isolated, vulnerable apartment..."

"I'm not alone.  I've got Mrs.  Parnell.  And the cats."

I looked over to where the four cats were now very close to Stan.  "And
that reminds me..."

"It reminds me, too, that your apartment was broken into and one of the
cats was killed."

"That's just it.  Do you have any idea of how to..."

The sound of a large dog, snarling and growling, cut through the air.
Edwina and I jumped.  The cats leaped and spun, their fur on full
alert, claws out.  They vanished as the growls turned to serious, loud
barking.  I held my chest, heart banging, head thumping.

"For God's sake, Stan, this is hardly the time for your stupid
jokes."

It's not like Edwina to give Stan hell, and he had the grace to
blush.

I picked up the tiny toy dog with the powerful bark from the floor and
removed the batteries.  I dropped the batteries into my pocket and
tossed the stupid mutt through the door of my bedroom with full
force.

"It's okay, you can come back now," I called to the cats.  "As I was
saying, Edwina, do you remember what Deb Goodhouse was like as a
girl?"

"Why on earth do you want to know that?  Don't you have

more important things to think about?"

"Indulge me."

Edwina narrowed her eyes.  She seemed to feel I was up to something.

"It's hard to remember.  She was kind of self-conscious.  Worried about
how people looked at her.  She always had to shine at something, like
Debating Society or Drama Club or some damn thing.  She wasn't pretty
and she wasn't popular, and she didn't have any decent clothes.  I
don't remember her ever having a boyfriend."

This didn't sound too bad.  I'd been pretty much the same, except for
the self-conscious and worried part.

"How come she hung out at our place?  All of you were always
popular."

Edwina shrugged.  "I don't know.  I think Alexa felt sorry for her. And
she always wanted to be around us.  It used to irritate me from time to
time, but Alexa and Donalda always stuck up for her.  Why don't you ask
them?"

"Yes, well..."

"And please don't think that this inquiry will distract me from the
main purpose of this visit.  You are to stop all your ridiculous and
dangerous attempts at detecting."  She got to her feet with great
dignity, marred only slightly by the clumps of cat hair stuck to her
rear end.

I smiled.

"Come along, Stan," she said, "and forget about that silly toy."

"But, Edwina..."  he said

We both knew he was out of luck.

Even after they left, no cats appeared, suffering no doubt from a
crisis of confidence in the management of their current hotel.  It was
fine with me, I had things to do.  I was whistling as I picked up the
phone.

Sunday morning I woke up early, my breathing laboured because of a
great weight on my chest.  The cats had chosen to forgive and forget.
The black and white one apparently found me quite comfortable.  All
four of them were miffed when I had the nerve to get out of bed.

I bumped around the kitchen, yawning and fumbling.  Cat food into the
dishes, coffee into the coffee maker.  Fragments of the night's dreams
clogged my head and zoomed forward now and then, causing me to gasp.
Robin and Alvin and Deb Goodhouse had filled those dreams, had been
dead in them.

I was glad when the coffee was ready.  I took a couple of sips and went
to phone Alvin at home.

"Wha'?"  he asked after a considerable amount of banging with the
receiver.  "Whoosis?"

"It's Camilla, merely checking on your well-being.  I'm glad to see you
survived the night.  Well, good-bye now."

"I'm claiming overtime for this."  He managed to slam down the phone
before I did.

Still, he was alive and back to his old self.  My second call got a
positive response.  I had another cup of coffee to celebrate.  I had my
feet up on the coffee table and was reading the Sunday paper when the
doorbell rang.  Another success.

Ted Beamish looked as furtive as a pudgy man with thinning red hair can
look.  The large doughnut box he was

clutching seemed to have a life of its own, shifting and swaying in
his grasp.  From her open doorway, Mrs.  Parnell peered at him with
undisguised interest.

They both stared at me.  Perhaps because I was still in Paul's old blue
pyjamas, with the legs kind of rippling on the floor past my toes. What
the hell, it wasn't like either one of them made much of a fashion
statement.

"I got it," Ted hissed.

"Got what?"

He whipped around to stare back at Mrs.  Parnell, who had asked the
question.

I swear he made a peeping sound.

"The answer to our troubles, Mrs.  P.," I said.  "Come on over.  It'll
save you having to lean against my door with a glass in your hand and
maybe losing your balance and hurting yourself."

"No need to be snotty," she said as she hobbled into the apartment.

"Well," I said, "let's have a look in that box.  Have we solved the
problem?"

Ted flipped open the top, and a small round calico cat hissed at him.

"Perfecto," I said.

"You found it!"  said Mrs.  Parnell.

"Not it, but one that looks just like it.  What do you think?  Robin
will never catch on," I said

"Boy, that's a relief," said Ted.  "I wasn't sure I could find one with
a face like a pansy.  I wasn't even sure exactly what a pansy looked
like."

"You did well, young man," said Mrs.  Parnell, whipping out a cigarette
to mark the occasion.  "It looks like the same cat to me.  A little
slimmer perhaps."

"Robin will probably attribute that to my cooking.  I owe you, Ted.
Was it hard to find?"

"My contacts at the Humane Society paid off.  You're absolutely sure
Robin won't catch on?  She was pretty ticked off about the restaurant.
I wouldn't want to have another strike against me."

"Let's show a little backbone here."

I thought I'd calmed him down, but he still jumped at the sound of the
doorbell.

"You get a lot of company, for a Sunday morning."

Robin's voice chirped through the intercom and silenced us.  By the
time she arrived at the apartment, we were all sitting stiffly around
the living room, trying to look like we had nothing to do with any
conspiracy.

"Hello-o," she called pushing open the front door.  "Here kitties."

"Robin," I said, "this is great.  How did you get here?  Do you feel
well enough to drive?"

"Brooke dropped me off.  She had somewhere urgent to go."

Kitties appeared from everywhere, showing great interest in Robin.  She
scratched behind their ears and snuggled up to them.  The grey one, the
black and white one, the Persian, the ginger.  She looked at the little
calico with surprise.

"Aren't you cute," she said.  "Who are you?  Don't tell me that Camilla
finally broke down and got a pet."

My throat felt very, very dry as I said, "That's your little calico
cat, Robin."

She stared at me, astounded.

"That s not my cat.  "Of course, it is," I told her firmly.

Robin's voice went up a notch.  "This is not my cat.  I know my cats,
and this is not one of them.  Where is my

calico cat, Camilla?"

I blundered on.  "Perhaps, Robin, the effects of your recent..."

"Enough bullshit.  Has something happened to Myrtle?"

She looked around just in time to see Ted and Mrs.  P. exchanging looks
that any jury in the world would accept as a sure sign of guilt.

"Not really," I said.

"Then where is she?"

"She is not here right now.  However, I'm certain she'll be back
shortly.  In the meantime, this lovely creature will permit you to
return home with five cats."

"You tried to trick me, didn't you?

"Certainly not."

"And you," she said, turning to Ted, "were you in on this duplicity
too?"

Ted uttered a strangled sound.

"What he means to say," I said, "is that he knows nothing about this.
He merely came here in response to my request that he help me improve
security in my apartment.  He's what they call an innocent bystander
caught in the crossfire."

Robin nodded.  At least she accepted that.

"And Mrs.  Parnell is an innocent bystander too.  Just dropped in for a
bit of tea."

"I should have known you could concoct something so ridiculous all by
yourself."

"I'm not really innocent," said Mrs.  Parnell, drawing off the enemy
fire, "I seem to have let your little cat escape.  It was not Camilla
at all.  She wanted to spare you any additional pain.  I agree the idea
was naive, perhaps even asinine, but it was well-meant."

"Robin," Ted blurted, "I'm not really innocent either.  I

found this cat and brought it here."

What is the matter with these people, I asked myself.

"It's okay, Ted, I understand you wanted to help."

She turned to me.  I raised my chin.

"But you should have known better.  You should consider the
consequences of the things you do."

I was damned glad to be alone when they left, Robin to go back to her
apartment, accompanied by Ted, Mrs.  Parnell to spy on the rest of the
neighbours, the cats to their castle.

I was slumped on the sofa, telling myself I liked the place better
without cats anyway, when I had an idea.

"Camilla!," Richard said, when he answered, "Are you feeling rested or
still jumpy?"

"A bit of both.  Irritated too.  How about if I tell you everything
tonight?  I really feel like spending some time with someone who won't
lecture me and who will see the humour in my existence."

"That someone sounds a lot like me."

"Great.  Do you feel like coming here?"

"What time?"

"Seven?"

It gave me something to smile about, and I considered not answering the
phone when it rang two minutes later.

The woman on the phone sounded panicky, breathless and far away.  A
familiar voice, familiar because so many women who have been victims
are frightened of being victims again.

"You've got to help me.  They're going to let him out."

"Who is this?"

"Please help me.  I'm afraid."

"I can't help you if I don't know who you are."  "My boyfriend.  He's
out on parole.  He's coming after me."  "There are things you can do.
How can I get in touch with you?"

"You can't.  He'll find out.  I need to see you now."

T-"

Fine.

"Can I meet you in your office?"  She sounded like she was
hyperventilating.

Why not?  Despite the pull of the Mitzi Brochu case, helping real or
potential victims was my business.  It wouldn't be the first time I'd
spent Sunday with a terrified woman.

ten J

Sure.

"When?

"In an hour."  Long enough to change and walk.

"Please, I can't take the chance of anyone else knowing."

Who the hell else do you think is hanging around on a Sunday morning
with nothing better to do than listen to our conversation, I thought.

"All right," I said.

I took time to shower and change into my jeans and a tee shirt.  I
pulled on a light plaid blazer on top in case I needed to look the
tiniest bit businesslike.

As I left the apartment and pulled the door closed behind me, I was
humming.  Even a trip to the office couldn't take that away from me.

"Good-bye, Mrs.  Parnell," I said to her half-open door.

The walk to Elgin Street was wonderful, and I needed it.  The
combination of head injuries and high drama had played hell with my
regular exercise program.

The smell of new leaves, grass and general spring aromas tickled my
nose, leaving me with the wish that I could enjoy the sun, the grass
and the water instead of barrelling on toward the office.  With luck, I
told myself, I could amble back, stopping to check out the tulips,
which were tantalizing the tourists.

I took Wellington Street all the way, enjoying the strollers and
amblers and the splashes of tulip colour up on Parliament Hill.

All down Elgin Street, people were heading to and from restaurants and
parks.  My turn will come, I thought, as I entered the little foyer
that led to the empty stairs that in turn led to Justice For Victims.
Too bad the woman I was meeting had been so terrified.  She would
probably reject my suggestion that we move to the Mayflower's open air
cafe for our discussion.

I turned the key in the lock and gave a little push.  Stuck.  Must be
the start of the damn summer humidity, I thought, banging against it.
The door opened suddenly and I shot across the room and hit the desk.

"So glad you could come," Rudy Wendtz said from the other side of the
desk.

The blinds were drawn so that no one from the condos in the next
building could see in, and the lights were on.  I didn't like that.

I also didn't like the look of Wendtz's smile.  It hardly reached the
ends of his lips, let alone his eyes.  His eyes held something else.
Anticipation?  Whatever it was, I didn't like it either.

On the growing list of things I didn't like was the sight of Denzil
Hickey lounging near the door.

They didn't even bother to close the door.  No one was in

the building to see the gun Denzil pointed, very deliberately, at my
head.  I don't know much about guns, but this one looked like the type
that could make a very large hole.

"Very fashionable, I'm sure," I said.  As long as my bladder didn't
betray me, I wasn't going to give him any satisfaction.

I think I managed to look cool, but my heart sounded like someone
knocking at the door.

"Give my regards to Brooke, I appreciated her acting ability on the
phone," I said.

Wendtz smirked.

"You may wish to recommend some additional coaching on the finer
points.  If I was able to see through her, think what the critics would
make of such a performance."

"Cute," said Wendtz.

"Very," I chirped, feeling I had little to lose.  "Cute enough for me
to catch on.  And get backup."

He lifted an eyebrow and stared before his smile broadened, showing
teeth.

"Let's see how much good your back-up does you against Denzil."

I took another look at Denzil and deduced that the long, cylindrical
object he was attaching to the muzzle of the gun was a silencer.

"Keep talking, Mr.  Wendtz, your threat to have Mr.  Hickey aerate my
head is being duly recorded by the police who know you are implicated
in the murders of Mitzi Brochu and Sammy Dash."

Denzil caressed the weapon.

"Nothing personal," he said.

"I hope you got that, McCracken," I bellowed.  "That should be enough
to hold them."

Wendtz kept on smiling.  "Nice bit of bullshit.  I suppose if

you want to die with dignity, that's the way to do it."

He nodded to Denzil.  Denzil raised the gun.

There was nothing I could do against the two of them.  I kept my eyes
open, expecting to melt into blackness, expecting to die.

Not expecting Wendtz to laugh long and loud.

I watched with my mouth open.

"I hope," said Wendtz, unbending out of my chair, "you get the point of
this exercise.  You are a little lady, and you are playing with the big
boys.  You are stirring up trouble, and you are upsetting a lot of
people.  Take a lesson and mind your own business."

I slumped against the desk, oozing with relief and resentment.  My
stomach felt like there was a dogfight going on in it.

He gave a lazy, arrogant stretch, secure in his power, knowing he had
gotten through to me.  Completely.

I glanced over to Denzil, who was showing his bad teeth.  I did a
double-take when I saw the third person.  From behind the open door, a
movement.

I whipped around to speak to Wendtz just as his head exploded like a
pumpkin landing on the road.  I dove for cover.  From what?  From whom?
I didn't know.  And from the frozen look on Denzil Hickey's face, he
didn't either.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when the office lights went
out; after all, the switch was in the hallway outside, along with
someone wearing tan shoes.  I grabbed the side of the desk and crawled
around it, trying to stay away from Wendtz's body.  The room was deep
grey rather than black.  A deeper something moved on the other side of
the desk.  I could distinguish the shadow that was Denzil before the
flash that finished him.  With his last scream echoing in my skull, I
lay

cowering behind the desk for an eternity.  But it was really less than
a hour.  Time enough to think, though.  Who had killed Wendtz and
Denzil?  Had I really seen the same tan shoes again?  And was the
killer coming for me too?

"Excuse me while I call somebody," I said to McCracken.  "I'd like to
use another telephone though."

Bits of Wendtz were splattered over my own phone, and I couldn't see
myself picking up the receiver.

It was only after the police arrived with their sirens and heavy shoes
that I began to shake.  I could see my hands vibrating, and I stuck
them in my jeans pocket.  I tried to keep the wobble out of my voice,
but didn't quite manage.

"I'll come with you," said McCracken.

I didn't know if that was procedure or some violation of it.  But it
suited me.  Someone had killed Wendtz and Hickey, someone who knew
about my involvement in the Mitzi Brochu case.

"How did you know?"

McCracken held my arm as we walked down the stairs together.  He did it
well, so that I felt supported and not diminished.

"We received a call from an anonymous source."

"Ah."  m. He nodded gravely.

"Perhaps whoever shot them?"

"Could be."

Across the street at the Mayflower, McCracken anted up for coffee and
chocolate banana cake for two while I made my call.

When I finally reached Richard and told him what had happened, it was
all I could do to keep him from coming over.

"No," I said, "I'd like you to be as far away from this as possible.
I'll see you tomorrow instead.  I'll enjoy the time with you more if we
don't have the same images in our heads."

"I guess so," he said.  "Will you be up to it then?"

"Yep.  Come after dinner for drinks.  I can't count on getting things
organized."

"Tell you what, why don't I bring dinner?  I've got excellent
connections in the kitchen here.  Think you could rustle up two plates
and a bit of cutlery?"

"Sure.  See you about seven."

I gulped down the coffee when it came, but pushed away the cake.  The
taste of dust from the office floor and the smell of blood had done bad
things to my appetite.  And even though Wendtz and Hickey had been
bottom crawlers, I had still seen them die.

I went over and over the sequence of events with McCracken.  So much
better here than in the office.  In the course of our discussion, we
each had two more coffees and McCracken ate my cake.

I talked while he ate.

"Who do you think killed them?  And why do you think they didn't kill
me?  And why did they call the police?  Or if they didn't, who did?
Could this be some kind of turf war between rival drug distributors?
How were Mitzi Brochu and Sammy Dash connected?  Who were Wendtz's
rivals?  And how did that link up with my office?  Are you going to
talk to Brooke Findlay?  Her miserable life might be in danger too."

McCracken blotted his mouth with a napkin.  "Do you really want me to
answer, or are you just going to keep spewing questions?"

"And that poem," I said, referring to the scrap of paper McCracken had
picked up by the door when he arrived, "that's the same motif as Sammy
and Mitzi.  What do you think about that?"

"I think that the deaths are most likely linked to the industry.  After
all, they all knew each other."

"Unusual to have poetry written to commemorate murders in the drug
trade."

He shrugged.  "You see a lot of real strange stuff in this business.
C'mon, I'll drive you home now.  Maybe get Alexa to come over and keep
you company.  Have a drink together or something."

"She'll be more upset about hearing this story than I was living
through it.  You have a drink with her.  It'll do everybody more
good."

"Maybe.  But you better take care anyway.  One good thing.  Since you
have no idea about any of this stuff, at least you'll stop playing
detective.  Wouldn't want you to run into those tan shoes again and get
hurt."

"Don't worry about me," I said.  "I've learned my lesson."  For the
first time since I'd met him, I felt good knowing Conn McCracken.

My phone rang at 8:30 in the evening.  || "Camilla," Robin breathed.
"Dad just called.  The police

*' took Brooke in for questioning as soon as she got in tonight.

My mother's hysterical."  "Gosh," I said.

"She's going to need a lawyer."  "I suppose she will."

"Couldn't you... ?"

"Robin, your sister took part in a plot to lure me into my office,
where I was terrorized by two thugs, who are incidentally now dead.
This will have the effect of depriving Brooke of her much-needed
cocaine, but aside from that they will not be mourned.  So let me make
myself clear.  Your sister is in much greater need of protection from
me than from anyone else."

"She took part in a...?"

"She phoned pretending to be someone in great danger knowing I would
present myself in my office, alone in a deserted building on a Sunday,
to be met by two very dangerous men."

"Oh."

""Oh' is right.  And do you know why she did that?  She did it because
she let her relationship with Wendtz and her need for drugs override
her resistance to anything.  She was willing to have me threatened and
maybe even assaulted.  She's nothing but trouble, and more to you than
to me."

"Even so, she's my sister."

I had to let it drop there.  My own sisters had been calling all
afternoon, trying to entice me to spend the night with them.

Edwina had ended up by slamming the phone down in my ear at my final
refusal.  But I'd felt safer sipping Harvey's Bristol Cream with Mrs.
Parnell, which was what I'd been doing all evening.

I hung up after Robin's call and returned to my guest, who was amusing
herself by coming up with new and unlikely suspects.

"Humph," said Mrs.  Parnell, showing no sign of ever returning her
peach-faced lovebirds.  "Are you sure you

trust that boy in your office?"

"I trust him to be Alvin, who, with all his faults, is not a killer."

"Tell me what the poem said again."

I managed to cover my sherry glass with my hand before she refilled it.
I waited until she'd filled her own before I repeated it from memory.

Ruining lives and still un jailed

It's time you bastards both got nailed

Perfidy should be unveiled

To let you live would mean I'd failed

The police could make all the statements they wanted to about Denzil
and Rudy being killed by underworld elements, but I knew it was the
same person who had crucified Mitzi and perforated Sammy.  The same
person who had deliberately left me alive.

"Well, it's not Shakespeare."

"You're right, Mrs.  P."  but who is it?"

The phone rang again ten minutes after Mrs.  Parnell had finally
teetered home.

"You okay?"  asked Richard.

"Yes," I said.

"Good.  See you tomorrow night."

I found myself smiling into the phone, even after he had (hung up. But
the smile disappeared soon enough as I lay stiffly in my bed, replaying
the day's events.  The night was just as bad, drifting through dreams,
flashes of gunfire, running feet, tan shoes.  I woke up at three,
sweating, remembering where I'd seen those shoes.

Monday was suitably grey.  A decent follow-up to murder in the office.
I decided to give Justice for Victims a miss, since it would have been
impossible to concentrate on clean-up and insurance matters.  Anyway,
the police were probably still hanging around.

I read both the papers.  The headlines were sufficiently gratifying to
clip.  "No Justice for These Victims" one paper chirped, while the
other one screamed "Bloody Shootout in Refuge for Crime Victims Leaves
Police Baffled."  The shot of the crime scene added a jolting dose of
reality.

I stood on the balcony and savoured the warm air.  The hot-pink
geraniums were flourishing in their cast-iron container.  Summer was on
its way.  Too bad it was blighted by what I had figured out.  Whatever
thoughts I'd had on human motivations before were nothing compared to
what I had now.

I took some satisfaction from waking Alvin.

"Whoa," said Alvin, once he figured out what was going on, "right in
our own office?  That is amazing.  So, what about work?  Will the cops
still be there?"

"Probably in and out.  It's best for us to stay away.  I haven't really
been thinking about work."

"Yeah, well, thanks, I could use a holiday.  But I might want to get a
look at the place."

"Not a holiday.  Just a day or so away from the office.  But, wait a
minute, since you'll still be on the payroll, such as it is, I want you
to find out something for me."

"What?"

I told him what I needed to know and by when.  I tossed in how to find
it, just for good luck.

"Call the neighbours, tell them you're a reporter doing a feature on
the topic.  Change your voice, sound like a woman.

Dig around," I said.

I could hear him squawking on the other line.

"I thought you had connections," I said.

This was a matter of pride to him.  I assumed the silence to imply
consent.

"And, Alvin."

"Yeah?"

"Be discreet."

Elaine Ekstein was next on my wake-up call list.

"Of course I was up," she claimed.

"I need to see Maria Rodriguez again."

"Why?"

"Another question."

"For Christ's sake.  Haven't these people been through enough as
refugees without you grilling them all the time?"

"I'm not grilling them all the time.  I just want to ask one little
question."

"I'll call you back."

I used the time to get dressed, not as easy as it might seem with the
shortage of clean clothes.  Finally, I found a navy linen skirt that
looked all right with my aqua cotton sweater.  Normally, I would team
it up with the plaid blazer I'd worn on Sunday with my jeans, but I was
never going to wear that again.  A dry cleaner might get out the blood
stains, but nothing could remove the memory of the savage scene in my
office.

If- Alexa called while I was pushing my cereal around in the bowl.  I
didn't feel like putting any of it in my mouth.  Yesterday and all its
tastes were still too close.

"Camilla," she said, "are you all right?"

"Of course."

"That was a terrible thing yesterday."

"Indeed."

"But it looks like it's over."

"I'm glad you think so."

"Conn says that these people, well, I hate to speak ill of the dead,
but..."

"Oh, go ahead."

"Well, Conn says they were all involved with the drug trade in some
way.  Even Mitzi Brochu was tied to those people.  They played with
some very dangerous criminals, and they were dangerous themselves. 
This is the way it is, they get killed in disputes over territory or
settling accounts.  It's not like they were innocent bystanders."

"Like Robin."

"Like Robin."

"And me."

"And you."

"I hope Conn's right."

But I knew he was wrong.  These deaths had been more than a settling of
accounts.  It had been someone with a major axe to grind.  Someone torn
up by memories.  Someone who hated all four victims.  More than
business, this had been pleasure.

At nine o'clock, I made my first business phone call.  And got the
answer I'd expected and feared.

Yau missed that pedestrian," I said to Elaine.  "Do you want to try
again?"

"Very funny," she said, swerving into the bus lane and jamming her foot
down on the accelerator.

I closed my eyes until we pulled up in front of Maria's apartment
building.

Maria was not happy to see us.  I didn't blame her.  This time her
husband sat with us, the set of his shoulders sending a powerful
message.

"I don't want her to be upset.  She's been through too much already."
He gave Elaine a look, like she should know.

Elaine hunched in her chair and translated the look into a glare.  For
me.

"Make it snappy," she said.

I had only one picture with me this time and only one question.

"Ask her how long this person was on the eighth floor the day of the
murder, Elaine."

I guess my excitement was evident when I got the answer I wanted.  Long
enough.

Maria must have translated my smile into a potential visit from the
police.  Her husband covered her hand with his.

"It's time for you to go," he said.

"Thank you for your help," I said as we stood to leave.

"She doesn't want to talk to the police," Maria's husband said.  The
door closed behind us.

"Oh, it's you," I said.

My unexpected visitor stood at my doorway, holding a box.

"I'm really busy right now.  Can we do this some other time?"

I gestured around the apartment, which I was cleaning up to pass the
time while I waited for McCracken to call or show up.  I still had to
hide the dirty laundry in the closet and put the unwashed dishes under
the sink.

"No, it'd better be now," she said, pushing her walker forward.

The box was precariously perched on the handles.  Mrs.  Parnell kicked
the door closed behind her and it snicked shut.  I could never figure
out how she had such great balance in some directions and none in
others.

"You'd better sit down," she said, blowing smoke in my face.

"Five minutes," I said, "is all I have.  Do you want me to carry that
box?"

"No, you sit."

I perched on the edge of the sofa, irritated.  Mrs.  Parnell inched her
way to the armchair and settled in.  But not before she had placed the
box on the floor.  I was relieved to note that she didn't have the
bottle of sherry in the pocket of her walker.

"Well," I said, when I couldn't stand it anymore.

"Stick your nose in that box, why don't you."

I could think of a dozen reasons why I didn't want to.

"Go ahead," she said, her narrow, mud-coloured eyes watching me.

I inched toward the box.

Mrs.  Parnell chuckled.  The chuckle gave me goosebumps.  "What are you
expecting in there, a severed head or something?  Go ahead, open it."

I couldn't stand being taunted.  I flipped the lid up and gazed into
the contented face of the little calico cat.

"Surprise," said Mrs.  Parnell.

"Are those...?"

"Indeed," she said, heaving out of her chair and looking down at the
calico cat in the box at her feet.  "I'm lucky I didn't have another
stroke when I found that animal in my linen cupboard.  No wonder Lester
and Pierre have been in such a twittery state."

The calico cat rolled over to give her four kittens a better chance at
dinner.  She licked her paw with barely concealed self-satisfaction.
Top that, she purred.

"Good thing one of the kittens is a calico.  You'll be able to return
this amorous little creature to your friend Robin with interest."

I looked at the kittens.  Two the colour of marmalade, one inky black
one and another tiny calico.  They looked just like rats.

After Mrs.  P. left, I pondered what to do with four kittens and a cat
while I chucked the rest of the junk in the apartment out of sight.

I put Ma Calico in the bedroom while I vacuumed.  She was still there
purring when I finished.  The cardboard box added a decorative touch to
my bedroom.  The only other decorative touch was the little dog with
the big bark.  That would get a rise out of Alvin, I thought.
Chortling, I tucked the batteries into it and took it to the living
room to put it next to my briefcase.  I didn't try to improve the look
of the

bedroom in any other way.  Why bother?

When the phone rang, it was Alvin.  I listened to his report.

"What are you yelling at me for?"  he asked.  "Wasn't that what you
wanted me to find out?"

It was.

I called McCracken again and left another message: "Just tell him I
figured it out.  And tell him it's urgent, life and death."

"Excuse me, it's time to get myself fixed up a bit now," I said to the
cat.

In the shower, I thought a lot.  The key was to remain calm and
dispassionate.  I could manage that.

I towel-dried my hair and hunted around for something to wear.  The red
dress didn't seem right.  But it was clean and even hanging up.  I
decided to sit down with a glass of wine to calm my nerves while
waiting.

The doorbell jangled.  I looked at the clock.  Five to six.  Richard
wasn't due for more than an hour.  No one had buzzed to get in.

It must be McCracken, I thought, and about time too.  I whipped open
the door and felt myself being shoved back into the apartment, the door
slammed behind me.  For once, there was no sign of Mrs.  Parnell.

"What a surprise," I said.  "But I thought you were bringing dinner."

Richard stared at me and began to smile, slowly.

"Well, anyway, I'm glad you're here, we can relax for a little while."
I chattered.  My voice was as close to normal as I could make it.  "How
about a little bit of wine?"

"It's not a social call," he said, invading my space, walking toward
me.

I found myself backing up.  And hating it.

"Of course, it's a social call, Richard.  And if you want, we

can go out to dinner.  I'm feeling much better now.  And the police
believe they're about to locate the guys who killed Wendtz and Hickey.
Underworld connections.  So that takes a load off my mind."

"Does it?"

I looked at him, really looked at him.  And, for the first time, saw
behind the long lean body and the deep brown eyes, saw the fire that
had been eating at Richard for years.  And I knew that he knew that I
knew that no underworld connections had been the killers.  When I
turned away, I tried not to stare down at his tan shoes.  The shoes I'd
first seen in the family photo in his office.

"Sure it does," I said.

"It was a mistake to phone around to find out what my daughter died of.
I know it was you.  You've been like a steamroller all through this. No
respect for anybody."

Oh, Alvin.  How ham-handed have you been, I thought.

"One of my old friends gave me a call," he said.

Now that I found myself alone in the apartment with the man who'd
killed four people, I had to ask myself why I hadn't just told
McCracken my theory instead of getting Alvin to check it out.

"And you did a little more snooping, didn't you?  Calling Harmony Head
Office to find out who offered Mitzi Brochu the special deal at the
Harmony.  Don't bother lying.  I already got a call from Corporate.
There was no special deal.  Just me getting Mitzi where I wanted
her."

Think, I ordered myself, while fighting to keep my face neutral.

"Mitzi was such a stupid, greedy bitch, she fell for it," he said,
apparently not expecting any comment from me.  "All I had to do was
wait for the right time to make her pay.  I

wanted her to know before she died, just why she was dying.  I told
her the whole story.  I watched her eyes."

I thought of Mitzi, tied and gagged, listening to Richard's explanation
of her coming death.  A shiver ran through me.

It was too late to pretend I didn't know anything, to hope he'd just go
away.  He hadn't made that revelation to someone he expected would live
to pass the information on to the police.

I had nothing to lose by asking.  Everything to gain by stalling.

"How did you get into Mitzi's bedroom without alarming her?  How did
you tie her up without her screaming the roof off the Harmony?"

His fists clenched when he talked about Mitzi.

"I told you she was stupid," he said.  "Vain, too.  She thought every
man had to be interested in her.  She thought I was coming on to her
and she was willing.  Imagine, a disgusting, ugly harpy like that." His
face twisted as he spoke.  Mitzi was dead, but Richard's hatred still
burned.  In his mind he must have been back at the scene, raging. "It
made me sick to touch her.  Before and afterwards."

Not before you wrote on the walls in her blood, I thought.  I fought to
control my shivering.

"You had your reasons," I said.

"Yes, I did.  And I could tell my wife that the witch was dead."

I nodded, and he seemed to bring himself back to the present and me.

He shook his head.

"But as I said, it was stupid of you to go digging around."

"I disagree, Richard.  It would have been stupid if I hadn't mentioned
it to anybody.  But I did."

He loomed in a little bit closer.  Where I'd felt warmth and
attraction just the day before, now I felt nothing but fear.  Trickles
of sweat soaked my hair.  The red dress clung to my back.

"Really?"  he smiled.  "Who did you mention it to?"

I wasn't about to tell him about Alvin and Elaine and Maria who all had
Richard's name.  I didn't want them to find themselves with poems
before they thought to take their information to the police.

"I told the police."

"I don't think so," he said.  "The police would never have agreed to
let me come here, if you'd told them what you knew."

"Exactly.  It's not seven yet.  McCracken will be here any minute."

"I'm afraid not.  McCracken and Mombourquette got a message from you
sending them over to search Jo Quinlan's farm in Chelsea.  I imagine
they're butting heads with the Quebec Provincial Police right now."

My heart beat wildly in my chest.  He was telling the truth, I was
sure.  I'd played right into his hands all through my investigation,
even telling him about the personalities of the investigating officers.
There would be no reinforcements.

"But even so," I said, "they won't find anything there.  And they'll be
back here afterwards."  I was surprised at how calm I could sound with
my cardiovascular system in crisis.

Richard's smile hadn't changed.  The emotionless grimace of the
damned.

"But they will find something there," he said, "Sammy Dash's wallet.
And a pair of Mitzi's shoes.  Souvenirs from Wendtz and his stooge too.
And they will come back here.  But it will be too late for you.  I'm
afraid you'll be dead."  Regret fluttered over his face and was gone.
The chocolate eyes

radiated pain for himself, maybe even for me.

He doesn't want to kill me, I told myself.  Try to reach him.  Keep
talking.

"You don't want to kill me, Richard," I said.

"I didn't before.  But you wouldn't stop digging."

"I thought you cared about me.  I thought we had something special."  I
could feel my stomach heave as I said the words.  "Didn't you feel it
too?"

"I did.  I felt it," he said.  "But now it's too late.  I have no
choice."

"Don't be too hasty, Richard.  I think we can get people to understand
your actions.  After all, your life was ruined by Mitzi, who promoted
an artificial ideal of thinness and made life hell for anybody who
didn't fit the mould."

At least he was listening to me.  I forced myself to lay my hand on his
arm without recoiling.

"It wasn't fair," I said, "a beautiful young girl like your daughter,
struggling to make it as a model, fighting a slight tendency toward
plumpness, reading fashion magazines, soaking up junk from people like
Mitzi, soaking up ideas that sparked the anorexia that killed her."

"She wouldn't listen to us, her mother and me, everything was the
fashion gurus.  Mitzi..."  he spat the name, "Mitzi was the worst.  We
heard about her all the time from my daughter.  Mitzi Brochu this,
Mitzi Brochu that.  Even when we could see my little girl's ribs
sticking through her clothes, Jenny kept on talking about Mitzi's
latest witticisms about plump people.  I wanted to make an example of
Mitzi, with her vicious physical pronouncements on the right way for
people to look.  Mitzi and the scum like Wendtz who make money pushing
drugs to kids like Jenny."

"But Richard, no one knows what your motivations were,

they don't realize you were making an example of Mitzi ... and the
others.  If you tell them, and I'll help you, it will make people think
about these things."

"I don't think so.  There's still a lot of people out there who need to
pay the price for what they've done.  They'll lock me up and I don't
want that to happen until I'm finished my work."

Shit.  We had edged close to the patio doors to the balcony.  The
balcony I loved, where I savoured warm summer air.  Now I caught the
faint odour of death.  Buy time, I screamed to myself, buy time, buy
time.

"Did you kill Robin's cat?"

The man who had murdered four people looked offended.

"Of course not.  I figure it was Wendtz trying to scare you off.  The
kind of thing he'd do."

"Hmmm.  How did you know Wendtz and his muscle man would be at Justice
for Victims yesterday?"

"I didn't.  I was following them, looking for my opportunity.  When
they went into your office, I knew they were going to try to hurt you. 
I had the gun.  I was waiting for my chance."

"And you probably saved my life."

He nodded.

"Then why the change now?"

"You know what happened.  I have no choice."

"Really?  And did you write a poem for me?"

/--v r "

Ur course.

"What, um, does it say?"

The little smile played around his lips.  I watched it, horrified,
wondering how I could ever have wanted to be close to him.  His eyes
had once reminded me of chocolates.  Now they were cold, hard, dark and
dreadful.  Like dog turds in the snow.

"You wouldn't like it.  It's a suicide note," he said.  "It will

explain your guilty feelings about the other deaths.  Your involvement
in them.  Your suicide note is next to the items they'll find in the
woods."

All the time he was talking he kept shoving me toward the balcony
door.

My wonderful balcony, where I could see all of Ottawa and no one could
see me.  Or us, struggling.  Where a six-foot-two man could flip a
five-foot-two woman over it.  Where all traces of violent struggle
would be obliterated after the sixteen-story fall.  I tried not to
think of what that fall would feel like.  Instead, I decided it was as
good a time as any to put up a fight.  But the only weapon I had was
distraction.

"Get him," I shrieked, looking over his shoulder.

In the seconds when he turned to look, I picked up the little dog by my
briefcase, flicked the switch and flung it toward the other end of the
room.  A blizzard of barking filled the space.

Richard stared at me with contempt.  "I can't believe you'd think I
could fall for that.  And what's that dog thing supposed to do?  Scare
me?"  He had to yell it to be heard over the barking, but it didn't
detract from his menace in any way.

I hollered and kicked as Richard pried my fingers away from the door.
Just as he peeled the last finger off, I aimed a kick at his crotch. It
stopped him, but not for long.  As I streaked across the living room
towards the front door, he brought me down with a body tackle.  The
boom must have shaken the ceiling fixtures in the apartment below.

The dog kept barking.

I was gasping for breath as Richard slung me over his shoulder and
moved toward the balcony again.  I grabbed at his hair, pulled with one
hand and raked my fingernails across

his face with the other.  If he was going to kill me, there was goddam
well going to be evidence of it on my body and on his.  As I took a
tearing bite at his earlobe, he slammed the side of my head and I
slumped.

"Why?"  I pleaded.  "I understand why you killed the bad guys, but I'm
one of the good guys.  Why are you killing me?"

"You know too much.  I'm not done yet.  I owe it to my wife."

What the hell, I thought, it's a Sunday afternoon in a highrise
apartment complex in peace-loving Ottawa.  Someone must be going to
call the police.

"But still," I yelled, praying I had an audience somewhere, "it must
not feel right.  You don't want to kill me."

"You get used to it," he said, just before I elbowed him in the eye.

I grabbed the curtains as we passed through the door and held tight.  I
felt the fabric tearing in my hands.  None of me touched the balcony
floor.

"Good-bye, Camilla."

I looked over his shoulder and shrieked, "Get him."

"You don't think that will work again," he said, too softly, as he
lifted me higher.  Over the edge.

I clung to the wrought iron railing of the balcony, screaming.  My body
dropped, and I could feel the skin on my palms shredding.  I fought the
thoughts of the sixteen-story fall as Richard pulled at my hands.

"Hang on, Camilla!"

I hung.  Richard whipped his head around and slumped, half-stunned.
Mrs.  Parnell whacked him in the chest with the leg of her walker.  He
reached over to loosen my hands.  I heard the sound of metal hitting
bone as Mrs.  Parnell loomed behind him.

I heaved and managed to climb back onto the right side of the balcony,
my legs without bones.

Mrs.  Parnell continued to slash the walker at him.  He staggered and
lurched towards her.  He struck with both fists in her direction.  Mrs.
Parnell dropped her walker and tumbled forward.

I flung myself at him with enough force to throw him off-balance.  I
picked up the walker and hurled it at him, pushing him back to the edge
of the balcony, striking the side of his head.

Mrs.  Parnell crawled toward him.  A woman who never gives up.

Richard lurched against the balcony rail and kicked Mrs.  Parnell.  She
slid and lay still on the balcony.  He picked up the walker and dropped
it over the side of the balcony.

I could hear my breath in harsh rasps as he turned toward me.  I
stepped back and leaned down.  With every bit of failing energy
mobilized, I picked up the cast-iron pot of geraniums and heaved.

The thonk of metal against skull reverberated in the fear filled air.

Richard's head snapped back.  His arms flailed and he grabbed for the
rail.  Blood spurted from his forehead, washing into his eyes.  He
staggered, blinded, stumbling against the balcony rail.  Crying and
sweating and hardly believing he could still be conscious, I pressed
myself against the wall.

He made a growling sound and surged forward, one final vicious lunge.
Against the balcony rail, he reached and found only air.

I stared as Richard plunged tearing and grabbing through the sixteen
story drop, his scream echoing back on the wind.

Mrs.  Parnell's shrivelled paws shook as much as mine did when we
locked hands.  She leaned against the wall and gasped for air as I
collapsed on the chair.

"You're pretty good with that walker, Mrs.  Parnell," I said, when I
could talk again.  "Thank God for those weights."

"I never did trust that man."  She closed her eyes.

Of course, I knew Camilla would never have that dog thing barking in
her apartment with the mother cat and four kittens there.  There had to
be something terribly wrong," Mrs.  Parnell said with a coy glance at
my father.

"So, in a way, you can thank me you're still alive," Stan smirked.

July 1. Canada Day and also Edwina's birthday.  My family and friends
were jammed into my apartment swilling cheap Spanish champagne provided
by me, gorging on an elaborate buffet prepared by my sisters and
fussing over the Canada Day fireworks about to begin on Parliament
Hill.  From my balcony, you had one of the best views of the display in
town.  This would be the first time I'd ventured out on the balcony
since May, when Richard had tried to hurl me over the side.  I had to
get used to going out there again.  My knees wobbled and my knuckles
whitened just thinking about it.  No one was paying any attention to
Stan or to me bantering.  My sisters were more absorbed by Mrs.
Parnell's habit of lighting up cigarettes between trips to the buffet.
She was polishing off another plate of cold sliced rare roast beef with
potato and bean salad and roasted red peppers in olive oil and
garlic.

Conn McCracken gazed at Alexa like she was the winning combination for
the Lotto 6/49.  Whenever she glanced back at him, she glowed.

On the other hand, Robin and Ted were looking suspiciously solemn. The
month of rest and the knowledge that Brooke hadn't been directly
involved in Mitzi's death had been good for Robin.  She was pink and
white again, her blonde hair shining and from time to time, and when
she wasn't being solemn, she flashed a 12-volt smile at Ted, who would
instantly turn flame-red.

Lucky for Merv he was out of town.

All that romance was making me queasy, and I was looking forward to the
crimson, green, deep yellow and electric white flash of fireworks.  The
papers were promising a spectacular show with new fireworks called
"Five Pointed Stars" and "Yellow Ribbons".

"It's almost ten.  Let's go out on the balcony, or we'll miss the
show," I said.

No one paid any attention.

My father watched Mrs.  Parnell through a cloud of smoke.  "So you've
really had some adventures," he said.

Mrs.  Parnell stuck a fresh cigarette into her holder and smiled
mysteriously at him.

"But I still don't understand why this man felt so driven to kill these
people," said my father.

"It was his daughter's death that sent him over the edge.  A beautiful
girl, she was a model in Toronto.  His only child and the focus of his
existence.  Her death was brought on by anorexia, I believe they call
it.  Apparently she did a bit of drugs, too.  The combination led to
heart failure.  She'd been a big fan of Mitzi Brochu as fashion guru.
It drove Richard's wife around the bend.  He was out for revenge.  He
wanted to kill the kind of people who create the climate where young
women starve themselves to be acceptable.  He wanted the image
distorters to suffer.  He had a thing about drug dealers

too.  Mitzi and her gang were perfect."  Mrs.  Parnell had the air of
Nero Wolfe filling in the details of the nearly perfect crime.

"Yes, well," I said, intending to fill in the key details myself.  But
nobody gave me a glance.

"Amazing the way it all got worked out," said my father to Mrs.
Parnell.

She shrugged, modestly.

"Well, I knew even Camilla would never permit a dog in the apartment
with those kittens, so I had no choice but to go on over and see what
the problem was."

"Very brave."

I looked at my father with irritation.

"Don't forget I provided the geraniums," Edwina said, tearing her eyes
away from the saccharin spectacle of Alexa and Conn and turning her
attention to Robin.  "How is your sister doing, Robin?  Is she getting
over this?"

"Pretty much.  She's getting some treatment.  It shook her up when Rudy
Wendtz and Sammy got killed.  And when she found out her name had been
on the list they found in Richard Sandes apartment, she flipped.  I
suppose in a way it was good for her to be shocked into looking at what
she was doing to herself."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," said Edwina.

I doubted Brooke would ever be fine.  Her selfishness cut too deep. But
I wouldn't have mentioned it to Robin.  Ted's eyes met mine when the
comment was made.  He felt the same way.  Maybe between the two of us
we could insulate Robin from whatever misery her sister would bring to
her life next.

"It's a good thing Alvin was available to do all that investigating.
Otherwise, how would Camilla ever have explained the situation to the
police?"

This time I gave Edwina a look.  I would have glared at

Alvin as well, but he was on his third round through the buffet table
and he had his black leather back to me.

"Really," said Alexa, "the police would have been much better off
without Camilla meddling in the investigation."

"Well," said Conn, "we were distracted by all the calls we got about
Camilla's investigations.  When you get complaints from Members of
Parliament and television anchor people, you can't ignore them."

"But," said Alexa, tapping his nose, "you were just about to crack the
case anyway.  If only Camilla hadn't gotten in such hot water right
then."

Well, whoop-de-doo, I thought.

"Yes," said my father to Mrs.  Parnell, "we thank heaven you were
there."

No one said, oh good for you, Camilla, stirring everything up like that
and bringing the situation to a head.  But at least 7 knew what was
what.

Alexa cleared her throat.

"Actually, we have something to announce."

Everyone turned to look at her.  Of course, it didn't hurt that she
banged the table to get their attention.

"Conn and I," she paused to squeeze his hand, "have set a date.
Valentine's Day."

What mushy drivel, I thought.  But the rest of the gang seemed tickled
by the news.  Even I raised my glass to toast them.

"Violet," I overheard my father saying to Mrs.  ParnelLAvhat a lovely
name.  I don't know how we can ever repay you.  Violet."

I chug-a-lugged my champagne.  And inspiration came flooding in.  The
perfect repayments.  The perfect thank-yous.  The perfect revenge.

I slipped into the bedroom.  At five weeks, the kittens

looked very presentable indeed.  And lively.  They had already
shredded my new curtains.  Both Ma Calico and I were thoroughly fed up.
I picked them up, basket and all, and hot footed it back to the
party.

"Congratulations to both of you," I said, fishing out a marmalade
kitten and dropping it in Alexa's lap.

"Happy birthday, dear," I said to Edwina, handing over the second
marmalade kitten before it ripped up my arm.

"An expression of my undying gratitude," I said to Mrs.  Parnell.  I
popped the baby calico into the pocket of her walker.

"This will go well with your floor, Alvin," I said, attaching the inky
black one to his leather jacket.

"Wicked," Alvin said, with admiration.

"Oh, Camilla," said everyone else.

"Myrtle," Robin squeaked.

The little calico cat wound herself around my leg, purring, just as the
fireworks started.