The Dead Don't Get Out Much. Mary Jane Maffini
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the sun's just in her eyes. Get a load of those boys. They're so debonair,” I said. “The tall dark guy with the spiky hair has a bit of a lantern jaw, not like the chiselled chins on the fair-haired guys. They look like heroes.”
“Or old movie stars, not smalltown boys. I love the trousers. You think they could get any higher on the waist? I can't believe dudes that age would dress like that. You can tell they're cool, though. It's all in the body language.” Alvin flipped the photo over. “It just gives a date. June 24, 1940.”
“What else do we have?”
“I can't believe Violet had these photos and never mentioned them. I love old photos. She knows that. Why wouldn't she ever show them to me?”
“Maybe she didn't want to look back to that era.”
“The letters might give us a clue.”
“We can't read Mrs. Parnell's personal letters,” I gasped.
“She'd understand.”
“I would not understand if you found my letters and took it upon yourself to read them.”
Alvin's eyes glittered. “Do you have a secret stash of letters, Camilla?”
“Don't change the subject. These letters are private.”
“You don't know that they're private if you haven't read them,” Alvin said.
“You'll have to do better than that, Alvin.”
“We have to.”
“I just had a thought.”
“What?” Alvin said suspiciously.
“We didn't check her computer.”
“I thought you didn't want to violate her privacy.”
“She probably has an address book in it.”
“Isn't that just as intrusive as reading these letters?”
I ignored the comment. “These letters are more than sixty years old. Mrs. P. is on that computer every day. I don't know why we didn't go through that earlier. We must have been punch-drunk. Let's have a look at what she's been doing. Oh, don't sulk, Alvin.”
“I'm not sulking. Why do you turn everything into an argument?”
“We can check them in the morning. I can hardly keep my eyes open, and you must be bushed too. One of us should stay at Mrs. P.'s place, in case she shows up.”
“I'll go over and crash on the sofa. I'll take the letters with me,” Alvin said.
“Better leave them here, just in case our visitor comes back. And Alvin?”
“What now?”
“Be careful.”
England
March 21, 1942
Dear Miss Wilkinson,
I am very sorry if I have offended you. I did not realize that you were engaged to Sgt. Harrison Jones. I will, of course, cease writing to you immediately.
I certainly do hope that you and Sgt. Jones will be very happy and that he realizes that he is indeed a fortunate man.
Should we meet again, I do hope that your engagement would not preclude a discussion of music. I would like to change your mind about those Russian composers.
Sincerely,
Walter Parnell
Five
Lester and Pierre screamed in outrage when I arrived at Mrs. Parnell's on the morning of November 12. I chose not to comment that Alvin looked exhausted. He'd have to point out that I looked even worse. There was a good reason for that. I hadn't been able to sleep and had spent the time between three and five a.m. driving up and down the streets of Ottawa, hoping to catch sight of Mrs. P.'s Volvo.
“Not a word from her.” Alvin said.
“Any luck with the computer?” I said.
“I've been through everything. Every file, every directory.”
“Did you try her e-mail inbox?”
He rolled his bleary eyes and headed back to the computer. “Well, of course I did. It's the first place I looked, and I've kept checking every half hour, in case she gets a message. It's empty, except for today's spam. But come over here. I want to show you her sent mail folder.”
“Good thinking.”
I peered over his shoulder as he clicked on the keys.
“Take a look at that,” he said, pointing.
“It's empty. That's weird,” I said. “Didn't she send you stuff all the time?”
“She did. Maybe she liked to keep her system nice and clean. See? The deleted mail is empty too. She probably set it to empty automatically. Don't breathe down my neck, please.”
“No need to be peevish, Alvin. What now?” I pulled over a chair and sat far enough away to keep Alvin happy.
He said, still peevishly, “Why don't we read the letters?”
“You know I don't feel comfortable about reading them. They're a last resort. Maybe you should feed the birds.”
Alvin sniffed. “How about you do it?”
“Because they're the spawn of the devil. Have you forgotten what happened the last time? You do it.”
“In a minute. I forgot to check and see what websites Violet may have visited lately.”
I resisted the urge to jump up and lean over his shoulder.
“Hey, here's something. It's a website on war graves. She was in there yesterday.”
“What else did she visit recently?”
“Some veteran's stuff, sites on Canadian army regiments.”
“Not too surprising around Remembrance Day.”
Alvin jumped to his feet, rattling the computer table and shouting, “Jackpot.”
“What? What?”
“Expedia.ca and Travelocity.”
“You're kidding. Travel sites? When was she checking those?”
“Yesterday.”
“Must have been after she left the hospital. That probably indicates her mind was clear. Oh, unless she was researching before the ceremonies.”
Alvin nodded absently. “And take a look at this site—it has to do with the Italian campaign. Whoa, Violet's been busy.”
“Back to the travel one. Does she have a folder for travel?”
“I thought of that earlier. She doesn't seem to use folders. There's nothing about a booking anywhere. It's like she didn't want anyone to know what she was doing. She deliberately wiped out her sent e-mail messages and forgot about the history feature of her web searches.”
“Let's concentrate. We'll figure out what else there could be. What about the printer?” I said.
“Good thinking.”
I got up and leaned over the printer. “Nothing in the tray. If she printed something, she must have taken it with her.”
“The red light's on. Maybe there's a printer jam.”
I flipped open the printer lid. “I hate printer jams, although I'm prepared to love this one, because something's stuck there.”
“Just wait. This is a delicate operation. You know what you're like with equipment, Camilla. You don't want to break the printer.”
“Sheesh.