Speak Ill of the Dead. Mary Jane Maffini
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.
“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.”
“Good-bye.”
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 Alvin’s 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