“You open it.”
“Fine.” I scissored through the duct tape sealing the box and pried back the flaps. I lifted out a couple of smaller boxes, shoeboxes as it turned out. None of the boxes was big enough to contain Mrs. Parnell's laptop. “She sent you her shoes?”
Alvin lifted out the Rockport box from the top and lifted the lid. “Look at that. Letters. They're all tied up in bundles.”
“Hey, they're still in their envelopes. Are they to Mrs. Parnell?”
Alvin snatched one of the bundles and ruffled through it. “Stop breathing down my neck. These are addressed to Miss Violet Wilkinson. Looks like a woman's writing.”
“1940,” I said. “That's incredible. The paper's all brown. And three cent stamps. Can you believe that?”
“I like that King. He looks so sad,” Alvin said.
“This batch is from 1944,” I said. “Different writing. Hang on, some are from 1945, too. And even later. Look, there's a few from the fifties.”
“These here are typed,” Alvin said.
Alvin opened another box. “These are 1942 and 1943. You can sure squeeze a lot of letters in one box.”
“She kept these letters for more than sixty years,” I said. “Why would she hide them now?”
“You think it's connected with this dead man she was talking about?”
“Maybe something in these letters caused her to lose her grip.”
“She didn't lose her grip, Camilla. Remember what the doctor said?”
“I'm just trying to understand.”
“Don't forget her place was tossed, and we did see that guy in the hallway.”
“We don't know for sure that he's really connected. Anyway, we shouldn't get distracted. There's one box left. It looks like the one my Sorels came in. Remember when Mrs. P. gave me those boots? They probably saved my life.”
“That's just one of about a million things she did for you,” Alvin said as he lifted the lid of the Sorel box. Silver frames gleamed at us. The photos were intact. Alvin lifted the first one out of the box, then the others and set them on the coffee table. Clusters of people in military uniforms stared back at us. There were two shots of the late Major Walter Parnell, and one of Mrs. P. in her CWAC uniform.
“Violet told me those uniforms were considered really swell at the time.”
I said, “Mr. Parnell wasn't bad looking, in an intense way. I'm not sure how I feel about the mustache.”
“He sure doesn't look like a barrel of laughs,” Alvin said.
“Who are these people?”
“I've never seen this one before. This picture is not even framed.” Alvin sounded slightly miffed, as though Mrs. P. had been keeping secrets from him.
In the black and white photo, three young men and three girls were clustered around a leafy oak tree in front of a brick house. By the look of their clothing, it was late nineteen thirties or early forties, summer. There were a couple more taken on the same day, same people.
I squinted at the images. “I'd say it's small-town Ontario. See the pale brick on those buildings?”
Alvin discreetly wiped his eye behind the cat's-eye glasses. “Hmmm. Violet looks great, doesn't she? I love the dress.”
“Is that…? Oh my God, she does. She looks…”
“Full of beans,” Alvin said.
“I was going to say almost beautiful. And full of beans too, now that you mention it.”
“She had a great figure. And the hair is definitely retro.”
I said, “How the hell did they do those roll things? It must have been a lot of work.”
“You know what, Camilla? Even though those other two girls are really pretty, the one you would notice and remember is Violet.”
“Who are they? She never mentioned them to me.”
“Me neither,” Alvin said, letting the miffedness creep into his voice again. “The little blonde looks like she could have been in movies, musical comedies. Get a load of the legs. I can see her dancing.”
“You're right.”
“The brunette is sort of regal. She looks like she'd be keeping everyone in line. You know the expression, ‘sucking lemons’?”
“Maybe 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. You sound like my sisters.”
“Just don't rip the paper.”
There was a slight tearing sound. “Fine, you do it,” I said.
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 o
ut 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 the code and listened. Alexa and Edwina had left snappish remarks requiring urgent callbacks. I pressed delete.
The Dead Don't Get Out Much Page 6
