Camilla MacPhee Mysteries 6-Book Bundle. Mary Jane Maffini
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sat up, and for the first time since the murder, looked a bit like her perceptive self.
“Don’t recall seeing you in a skirt after work hours. Ever. With your cashmere sweater yet.”
“I felt like a change.”
She leaned forward and squinted at me.
“I do believe you’re wearing make-up.”
Maybe I’d overdone it. My black pumps with the challis skirt and the good sweater. The lipstick was a bit much, I thought. I wasn’t that used to applying it.
“Tell me you’re in love.”
“I am not in love,” I snapped. “I am just making incredible personal sacrifices for you.”
“You must be. Lipstick. My God.” She fell back against her blue and white flowered pillowcase, laughing. Just like the old days.
After two minutes, I told her to shut up.
“I’d hate to think of what you’d do if you saw someone in an evening dress, for God’s sake. You’d have to be put down.”
“An evening dress,” she howled. “Camilla in an evening dress.”
Robin’s old self was reappearing, and what did it matter if my ego had to be sacrificed to make it happen?
“I’m doing it for you,” I said, with a small martyred smile.
All I got in response were snuffling, choking sounds.
“I’m busting my butt investigating other suspects in Mitzi’s murder in order to get the police off your back, and what do I get for it? Mockery and derision.”
The mockery and derision stopped as the words came out. The blood drained from Robin’s face, and she sank into the coverlet.
“Oh, don’t do that,” she whispered.
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
“You might…get hurt.”
“Don’t be silly. What could happen to me?”
“Look what happened to Mitzi.”
“That happened because Mitzi was Mitzi. Nothing like that is going to happen to me on the streets of Ottawa.”
“Please, don’t do it. Leave it to the police.”
“The police, may I remind you, are sniffing around you. They think all this collapsing in bed looking like a stale pudding is exactly the type of thing a remorseful crucifixionist would do. What the hell is wrong with you? What do you know about the murder? Who did you see? Stop lying to me, Robin.”
“I told you. I didn’t see anything. Nothing.”
When Mr. Findlay tiptoed through the bedroom door with Robin’s latest dose of medication, he found her lying with her eyes closed.
I, on the other hand, was sitting there steaming. Robin was making herself sick about this. And refusing the very type of activity that could help her. Bullshit, I said to myself, I just can’t stand this kind of bullshit. What really bugged me was that underneath the signs of weakness I could sense a steely stubbornness. Maybe she hadn’t seen anything, but she was damn well deflecting attention from someone. Who and why were the questions.
“It’s been very hard on us,” Mr. Findlay whispered in the hallway, “having her like that. Thank heaven Brooke’s here, or I think her mother’s heart would break. Thanks for coming. It usually cheers Robin.”
Right.
As I passed by the living room on my way out, Mrs. Findlay was on the phone to her friend.
“Honest to God, Marge,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Clarissa told him about the baby. I couldn’t believe it.”
She gave me a little wave without breaking stride in her conversation as I left.
They told me later that Robin just lay upstairs, not speaking, until the next day, when the police came back.
* * *
Driving back downtown, I thought about Robin and whatever she was hiding. I’ve known her for twenty-seven years. She was holding back something, and knowing Robin, it couldn’t be for her own benefit. Therefore, it was for someone else. Since Mitzi’s murder had been brutal and vicious, even taking into consideration Mitzi’s nasty side, under normal circumstances Robin would not have tried to protect someone who would do such a thing. Not unless it was someone very special. Someone close.
I thought back to an episode when we were in seventh grade. Someone had broken Mrs. Findlay’s prize possession, a Royal Doulton figurine. Tensions had run high in the Findlay household, and Robin had taken the rap for it. Even though I’d been sitting next to her on her blue chenille bedspread when we heard the crash. Even though I’d told her parents that. Even though she’d been grounded for a month, and God only knows what emotional havoc was heaped on her by her loony mother. Even though.
Robin had kept a pale-faced silence throughout, never once protesting her innocence. Never once pointing her finger at the real culprit, a seven-year-old vision of blonde hair and blue eyes and sweet smiles.
And Brooke, of course, had never confessed.
By rights Robin should have been jealous of the much younger little brat who got all the attention, but she never was. Always supported, always defended. Since I was the little brat in my own family, there wasn’t a lot I could say about it to Robin. Brooke was another story.
“You’ve had your First Communion, Brooke,” I’d made a point of saying at the time. “So I guess you realize that you’ll burn in hell for this. This is a double mortal sin and your soul doesn’t have even one little tiny patch of white left on it.”
Deep down I’d suspected that Brooke wasn’t worried one bit about God and his helpers. She knew she could wrap them around her little finger.
“Leave her alone,” Robin had told me, her eyes still red-rimmed from her mother’s last verbal blast. “She’s just a little kid.”
“Old enough to fry.”
Brooke had started to cry at that point. She had an amazing trick of crying while still looking beautiful. No blotches, no red eyes. Just little rivulets of tears and a trembling pink lower lip.
“Better go home now,” Robin had told me, as she reached down to comfort her poor, trembling little sister. “See you tomorrow at school.”
“Sizzle, sizzle,” I mouthed at Brooke as I left, making sure that Robin didn’t see me.
The memory of that encounter was crisp and vivid, even though it was nearly twenty years old. And two things I knew: Brooke hadn’t changed a bit. And neither had Robin.
* * *
Even the soothing tones of the Harmony couldn’t quite dispel my miserable mood. The ambience in The Tranquillity Room should have been enough, given the string quartet and all. The poached Atlantic salmon helped a lot, and so did the chocolate pâté and raspberry coulis. Still, I was on edge. As we sipped our cappuccino, Richard Sandes leaned across the white linen tablecloth and gave my hand a squeeze. Warm and protective. Like a father.
“Maybe she’s right,” he said.
I gazed into his deep-brown eyes and said, “Don’t be silly.”
Ruining the mood.
He gave me one of his sad smiles, but I thought I saw a flicker of concern cross his face as he beckoned for the waiter.
The waiter practically vaulted over the serving table to get to us. He managed to maintain his dignity, although I couldn’t help noticing his toupee was a bit askew.
“Armagnac?” Richard asked.
“Better not. I’ve got my car.”
Naturally.