Little Boy Blues. Mary Jane Maffini
The truth but not the whole truth. Sure, I’d be dead if it weren’t for Alvin. Sure, he could ferret out more information by quasi-legal means than anyone else. But that didn’t mean I wanted to be cooped up in a fifteen by fifteen office with someone who sported nine visible earrings, a fresh tattoo, a fondness for bad music and major attitude.
Al-vin. Al-vin. Al-vin. People chanted and waved their Waterford stemware and sloshed their red wine on Edwina’s new pure wool cream carpet.
I continued, “Alvin, as you know, risked his own life to put a murderer behind bars.”
My seventy-nine year old neighbour, Mrs. Violet Parnell, put down her new high-end digital camera long enough to beat a military tattoo on the frame of her walker. “Bravo, young Ferguson.”
Alvin, splendid in a tuxedo jacket over his skinny lizard-skin patterned jeans, stared at the floor modestly.
I continued, “It has been an astounding experience working with him.” Working might have been stretching it.
Alexa began to cry. People blew their noses. My father stood proud. Edwina blotted the carpet.
I shouted, “After Alvin, we have nowhere to go but down.” They tell me that’s when I fell off the chair.
Two
By Monday morning, when you would think they’d still be doing the dishes after the party, my in-laws and outlaws were massed at the airport security gate ready to begin a three-week jaunt en famille through an unsuspecting Scotland. I was half the send-off party. Leonard Mombourquette, my brother-in-law Conn McCracken’s partner on the force, made up the other half.
Too bad. Mombourquette always brings out the worst in me, especially if I have a hangover. I think it’s his strong resemblance to a rodent, although no one else seems to notice it. But I suppose someone had to bring McCracken’s car home.
“Good luck, Braveheart,” Mombourquette said, as McCracken disappeared through the security gate.
“He’ll need it.”
“Better him than me,” Mombourquette added, in case I’d missed the point.
“Oh, I don’t know. Conn will have a great time with the girls.” I’d caught the dead man walking look on McCracken’s face as he was frog-marched through security by my sisters. But that was his problem. I couldn’t stop smiling. Not even when my iced latte dribbled down the front of my silk blouse.
“I can’t believe they asked you to look after Stan’s new Buick.” Mombourquette eyed the blotched blouse as we headed for the parking lot. “Are they crazy?”
“He’s worried about vandalism. And face facts, nothing’s going to happen to it.” I clicked the snazzy remote to open the Buick’s door.
“With you driving it?”
“I am not planning to drive it. They asked me to park it in the garage at my place. We have video surveillance and on-site security.”
I didn’t mention the space was available because my Honda Civic had never fully recovered from certain events the previous winter. This time, the transmission was on the fritz. I didn’t want Mombourquette to bring up the circumstances of the Honda’s troubles.
“And I like to walk.” In fact, I needed to walk because of the ten pounds I’d packed on while my broken leg healed.
“I think Stan’s out of his ever-loving mind. It’s like praying for bad luck.”
I didn’t care for his smirk. “Speaking of bad luck, you better keep your eye peeled for black cats, Leonard.”
Very restrained of me, considering the company.
Half an hour later, I tucked the Buick safely in the garage of my apartment building and looked forward to a tranquil morning. Most people would take the day off in lieu of the Canada Day holiday, which had fallen on Sunday, but I had planned a pleasant stroll to work in my empty office at Justice for Victims. No relatives. No appointments. No Alvin.
It doesn’t get any better. I was in an excellent mood, even though I had to change my blouse. It was a sunny twenty degrees, amazingly fresh for July in Ottawa. I had no need to rush. That meant I could linger over my coffee. I slipped into Bermudas and a tee, then joined Mrs. Parnell’s little calico cat on my balcony. I enjoyed my jumbo mug of French roast. Mrs. Parnell’s cat enjoyed a bowl of milk.
From the sixteenth floor, I get the long view down the Ottawa River. The green roof of the Parliament buildings are just visible to the East. To the West I can see the white sails at the Britannia Yacht Club.
I got a glimpse of tents popping up for Bluesfest. After five years as a widow, it was time for me to get a life. I hadn’t quite got the hang of it, but this year I’d kept the Bluesfest program. I’d read it cover to cover. Twice. The blue booklet lay open on the table, waiting to be read for the third time. The pages were dog-eared. I picked it up and stuck it in my backpack.
My phone rang the minute the apartment door closed behind me and the lock clicked in. It rang on and on as I headed down the hall. I figured it could wait. All my clients had my cellphone number.
The door to apartment 1608 creaked open as I strode by. “Good morning, Ms. MacPhee.” Mrs. Parnell leaned on her walker in the doorway, getting ready for a busy day spying on the occupants of the sixteenth floor. “You’ve had an active morning.”
I nodded and tried to keep walking.
“Do you have time for a visit?” Behind her, the lovebirds, Lester and Pierre, squawked.
I had a fifty-five minute walk ahead of me to get to the office. On the other hand, I owe a lot to Mrs. Parnell.
“Afraid not. I’ve got some catching up to do. How about tonight?”
She blew out a splendid stream of Benson and Hedges smoke. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Something wrong?”
She sniffed. “Young Ferguson’s gone on to greater adventure and glory.”
“We both know Alvin’s gone on to work in the Gadzooks Gallery. Avant garde, I admit, but definitely not glorious.”
The tip of her Benson and Hedges turned red. “They could have an armed robbery. A heist.”
“I don’t think Alvin is hoping for a heist and, even if he is, I feel confident his new employers are not.”
She leaned forward, bony and angular. A long convalescence will do that to a person. I might have gained ten pounds after my injuries last winter, when we had taken on a murderer, but she’d lost at least that. She looked every one of her seventy-nine years.
“You are correct, of course, Ms. MacPhee. Pay no attention. I’m finding myself yearning for excitement. Aren’t you?”
Our last bit of excitement had almost killed us. “No. I’m not. I’m really looking forward to a quiet summer with no trouble.”
I was humming “I Got My Mojo Working” as I hit the elevator button.
• • •
Usually the best part of my walk is along the river. It’s cool and silvery in the mornings, no matter how scorching the day ahead. The bike path I followed downtown meandered through Lebreton Flats, and I slowed a bit to catch a look at the set-up for the Bluesfest.
Five days to go, and the staging was already partly erected. I spotted a fleet of flatbed trucks near the acoustic stage up on the hill and more trucks by what looked like the Main Stage.
A trailer with a long line of porta-potties was pulling in.
I figured the rectangular tent off to the Northwest was probably the gospel tent.
It was the first time in years I had let myself get close to the festival grounds.