The Dead Don't Get Out Much. Mary Jane Maffini
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Alvin has weird, long, artistic fingers, perfect for disengaging paper. He flattened the scrunched sheet, getting plenty of ink on those artistic hands and on Mrs. Parnell's sleek computer desk.
“What? What does it say? Hurry up.”
He said. “It's part of a travel itinerary. That means she really did plan a trip.”
“A trip? Where to?” I asked.
“It doesn't say. It's just the top of the last page. Part of the itinerary number is there. Not enough to read.”
“When you book online, they send you all kinds of confirmation e-mails.”
Alvin said, “That must be why she deleted everything. She didn't want anyone to know where she was going.”
“Exactly. Including us. She knows we'd check.”
“That's bad.” Alvin said. “The only reason we know anything is because of this paper jam.”
“Hey, wait a minute. It couldn't be an old one, could it? Just stuck in there?”
“No way. Violet used that printer all the time. She would have cleared the jam the minute it happened. She's really good with equipment. She believes in keeping her stuff in top condition. She probably wouldn't have gotten ink all over her hands either.”
“Wait a minute. Forget the computer. Let's check her paper recycling and the garbage.”
Alvin loped into the kitchen while I took the bedroom and bath. “Empty,” he called out.
“These are too. She did that on purpose, Alvin.”
He said, “She's pretty crafty. She knows us.”
“She's being strategic.” I didn't suggest that someone else might have emptied them. I wanted Alvin to be calm, since I wasn't.
“Well, we can play that strategic game, too,” Alvin sniffed.
“Exactly. She may be determined to give us the slip, but we can't let her get away with that.”
“We're on the case,” Alvin said.
I found myself pacing. “Okay. Where is she going to go? And when?”
Alvin paced alongside me, his ponytail flicking from side to side. “Or has she already gone?”
“No point in contacting the online booking service. They won't give out that kind of information. Too bad we don't have the entire itinerary number.”
“The cops could find out. They must be able to get a warrant for something like that.”
“We haven't had much luck with the police so far. I suppose it's worth a call anyway. We'll cross that bridge later. We have to go.”
“Go where?” Alvin stopped in his tracks.
“To the airport. She might just be sitting there now.”
* * *
I dropped Alvin off near the passenger exit and watched as he loped past the glass door of the garage and across the street to the airport entrance. I inched through the parking lot until I spotted the Volvo tucked almost out of sight behind a pillar near the exit. I whipped my Acura into a parking spot and got out. I put my hand on the hood of the Volvo. Cold. Our bird had flown.
Half an hour later, Alvin and I were sure of one thing. Mrs. Parnell was not in the ladies’ rooms. Not in the waiting rooms. Not in the coffee shops, unless she'd gone through security. Even though we'd already called the police to report finding Mrs. P.'s Volvo, we were less than a hit with security. Even with all our talk of heart attacks, the ticket agents looked at us with suspicion when we described Mrs. Parnell. The officer made a note of our names and our alleged problem and made a phone call. No way were we getting through those gates to the other side.
“You know, Alvin,” I said, as we headed home, “We're going to need a good picture of her.”
* * *
“I don't think it's quite so necessary for people to be so incredibly rude,” Alvin said, as we splashed through the latest downpour and back into my house, which I still couldn't think of as home. “We're not trying to violate anyone's privacy. We're trying to make sure Violet is all right. I thought they were supposed to be public servants.”
“Nothing like an official with a rulebook to make you realize your place in society,” I said. “There was no way to get past security without a boarding pass. Oh, shit. How dumb was I?”
“Sometimes you're pretty…I mean, why?” Alvin said.
“Why didn't I just buy a ticket?”
“To where?”
“To anywhere.”
“You didn't want to go anywhere…oh, right, I get it. With a ticket, you can get through security. Why didn't you?”
“Because I just thought of it now.”
Gussie turned circles with excitement as he greeted us. No wonder. I figured he'd missed a walk or two in all the confusion. I grabbed his leash and my hooded rain jacket and we headed out, leaving Alvin to come up with a next step.
When we returned a short time later, a pot of hot orange pekoe was waiting, Mrs. Parnell's little cat had been fed, and a selection of dog treats was laid out for Gussie. By the time I got rid of my wet rain gear and dried Gussie's giant paws and sodden undercarriage, Alvin was fussing over the rumpled itinerary, trying to extract some information.
“I have to do something,” he said. “It's not like the so-called police have offered any help. Nor has anybody else.”
“We need more bodies working on this. I've been trying to think who could help us: everyone's out of town.”
“What about that awful Mountie?”
“Merv. He's on an international assignment, guarding some politico. Hush-hush.”
“P. J. then. He's a reporter. Maybe he can get us something in the paper.”
“He probably could, but P.J.'s in the States doing a follow-up feature on the U.S. election. I can't even reach him. I left a message with the news desk. They should get back to us.”
Alvin said, “Elaine Ekstein? She's always willing to help us. She's a mover and a shaker. And she's fearless.”
“Elaine's in Australia. And Robin's away at a wedding in Edmonton. That wipes out my friends.”
“Maybe the other cop, Leonard Mombourquette.”
“He took some additional leave without pay and went to Australia too.”
Alvin said, “Australia? I knew there was something between those two.”
I shuddered. “Don't hallucinate, Alvin. It's just a coincidence. That would be too bizarre to contemplate.”
“So we're SOL?”
“We have to rely on each other. Nobody wants to be in Ottawa in November. Of course, there's always my family.”
“Let's not go there. They haven't been much help so far, even Conn. That reminds me, you got voicemail,” he said. “I didn't know your code.”
“Just as well,” I snapped. “Voicemail is personal.”
“What are you talking about? We just checked out Violet's voicemail, and her computer, and that's personal.”
“I'm not an eighty-three year old missing woman, so you don't get to listen to my messages.” I should have said “any more”. For most of the time Alvin has been “working” for me, my messages have been neither private nor interesting, and Alvin has heard them, and frequently failed to pass them along. That was then. Now, Ray Deveau's current vacation fantasy was emphatically none of Alvin's business. I picked up the receiver, tapped in