Speak Ill of the Dead. Mary Jane Maffini
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 élan.
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