“You mentioned that. Tell me, has anyone else asked about him?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nobody.”
“That's good. You are safer that way.”
“Safe,” he snorted. “Who cares to be safe? I need some excitement in my life.”
“Maybe you can tell your son about the connection with Luciano Falcone, find out what happened there. Suggest that it was suspicious. That's a good idea. I'll call and see what you've learned. That would be exciting.”
“Humph,” he said. “He don't want any extra paperwork. None of those cops do. Lazy bums.”
I could tell Stefano liked the idea. The proof came when he wrote down the telephone number at his son's place and handed it to me.
“And I'd appreciate if you'd try to remember the guy's name,” I said.
“That's the trouble with us old dogs,” he said, tapping his head. “Memory.”
I thought back to Giuseppe at the Bar 45. If he could do it, anyone could. “Keep trying.”
“You know what? It sounded something like this movie star. That makes sense. It was an exciting time. Like the movies, except not always with a fake ending.”
“Like what movie star.”
“Sure, you know the one, Indiana Jones guy.”
I thought for a minute. “You mean Harrison Ford?”
“That's the guy.”
Of course. It was close enough. Harrison Ford. Harrison Jones.
Harry Jones.
Harry, who had been engaged to Mrs. Parnell, the same Harry who never came back. Harry had escaped from a downed bomber. So what? Why would Mrs. Parnell find that so strange? Was it because he bailed out while his comrades died? Never mind, at least I knew who if not why.
“You're a hero, Stefano Braccia,” I said.
56 Oak Street
Chesterton, Ontario
September 14, 1956
Dear Vi,
I hope you remember me: I am Hazel Stiles now. I was very sorry to read of your husband's tragic death. Of course, I never met him, but I read about all those military awards listed in his obituary in the Globe and Mail. He must have been very special. What a shame to lose a doctor so young. It must be a terrible loss for his patients too as well as for you. I hope you won't let it make you nervous about driving.
I am sure you will find yourself feeling quite lonely. I certainly did after my husband died nearly two years ago. Of course, in our case, it wasn't an accident. He had three heart attacks, and then he just didn't pull out of it after the last one. He was courtly and kind right to the end. I miss him very much and, as you know, black was never my colour. Also, I am stuck with this rambling house, way too big for one person.
Perhaps now that we're both widows we can get together again to talk. We have something in common, even if it is a sad thing. Remember how much we loved the movies? Of course, they're not as good as they used to be. I did enjoy “The Ten Commandments” though, especially Charlton Heston. That's not how I imagined Moses.
I have decided to move to Kingston and start over. What a shame that you have already moved to Ottawa. I can't imagine you with a job in the civil service. I heard about that from Mrs. Reverend Dornan, who heard it from Betty Connaught. Betty's way too important to talk to me any more. She's the assistant headmistress now, I hear.
Anyway, I hope Ottawa is not too boring for an adventurous girl like you. I must say, I don't like the sound of all those politicians. Oh well, I suppose you get to wear some lovely hats, what with your career and all.
Your friend forever,
Hazel
Fourteen
I did my best to drive like an Italian. I used Mario Andretti as my role model. I needed to be back in Florence by one, and I was behind schedule. On the other hand, I was hampered by the Ka, which may be small and easy to handle, but is not built for the racing circuit.
I tried to recall what I'd learned about Harry Jones from his letters. For sure, both Betty and Hazel thought he was special.
And Mrs. P. had been engaged to him. Now she was interested in this crash. Damned if I knew why. If I pulled over and took the time to reread the letters, I'd miss my best chance of catching up with her when she collected her new rental car. The letters would have to wait. A glance at the fuel gauge told me I couldn't put off getting benzina. I pulled off the autostrada and into a service station. As I was getting the Ka filled, I spotted a black Mercedes accelerating out of the opposite side. I would have followed, but I was blocked in by two other vehicles.
There are almost as many black Mercedes in Italy as there are red Fiats and white Alpha Romeos. So probably nothing to worry about. I headed into the station, found the pay phone, consulted my notes on signor Braccia's number and made the connection.
Mariella answered. “Pronto!”
I did my best to remind her of possible danger, including shouting “Pericoloso! Molto pericoloso!” a couple of times and “Mercedes-Benz! Nera!” to round out the picture. I raced back to the car. The surrounding motorists seemed to feel I had taken too much time. I tossed some euros to the attendant, who shook his fist at me. I hopped into the Ka, pausing just long enough to employ one of the gestures I'd picked up from other drivers in Italy. I left Ka tracks on the asphalt as I peeled out of the service station.
* * *
The drive back through Florence was a nightmare. I found more blocked streets, lunatic motos, jumbo SUVs, jaywalking tourists and blocked streets. In fact, I found more of everything except space to drive. The buildings seemed to lean further over the narrow winding streets. Once I'd crossed over the river, the zillion or so pedestrians were all walking faster than I was driving. I did my best to ignore their sneers.
According to my watch, it was five to one, which apparently was the magic time in Florence when all the parking spaces turn into pumpkins. I was still a block from the car rental location. Finally, in desperation, I tucked the Ka into a ridiculously small space. I set out on foot, running. I'd nearly reached the car rental office block when it dawned on me that I'd forgotten to lock the Ka doors. So what? I decided. If someone wanted to steal it, they could just pick it up and walk away.
It was too late to turn back. Mrs. Parnell has a military respect for punctuality. She would be there at precisely 1300 hours as scheduled with the car rental agency. I peeked into the office. No sign of her. Probably in the pick-up area. I puffed up the ramp and into the garage, bent over and gasped for breath.
Three young men were busily vacuuming the interiors of returned cars. They all had on what looked like Mp3 players and seemed caught up in whatever they were listening to. Excellent hip movements.
An Opel with its doors open sat waiting in the return area. I glanced around, and my heart soared. Mrs. P. emerged from the glass-fronted office on the far side of the garage. She was engaged in an intense conversation with a short, bald man with an immense moustache and a rental agency logo on his shirt. She spotted me a second after I spotted her. I stood there with a big honking lump in my throat and felt something sting my eyes. I raced toward her. She nodded curtly to the car guy and turned to me.
“Thank God, you're all right,” I babbled. “I've been so worried. I won't hold you back. I'll help you with anything you're doing.”
“Leave me alone, Ms. MacPhee.”
“What?”
“This is none of your business.”
“Of course, it's my business. I am your friend. I need to know that you're all right.”
“I do not require your help. Cease harassing me.”
“Harassing you? Are you joking?”
“I am very serious,” she said.
“Well, I'm serious too, and I won't stop until I find out what the hell is going on. I know about Harrison Jones and the downed aircraft. Are you aware that your apartment was broken into? Do you know that some guy in a black Mercedes is driving around Italy claiming to be your son, and that Luciano Falcone has been killed by a hit-and-run driver, probably by that same guy? How's
that for serious?”
Tough words. I could tell by the way her face whitened that I'd gotten to her. I felt a twinge. Maybe shouting about people she knew being killed wasn't the best way to keep her from having a heart attack.
“This is none of your business, Ms. MacPhee.”
“Oh, it's my business all right. I have a right to know what you are involved in before anyone else gets hurt.”
“You have no such right.”
“You may as well get used to the idea and fill me in. I want to help you.”
She lit a Benson & Hedges, although this was a distinct non-smoking area. I felt strangely reassured. She regarded me through narrowed eyes and blew a few smoke rings.
“I can be part of it, whatever you're doing,” I said. “You've helped me so many times.”
“You are correct, of course, Ms. MacPhee,” she said. “I will indeed fill you in.”
“Great.”
She looked around, her gaze flitting from one oblivious car maintenance worker to the next. She lowered her voice. “Not here. We can't be too careful.”
“No problem,” I said, glancing around. I was pretty sure none of the guys with the vacuums in their hands and the music in their ears had anything to do with anything. Was this part of the paranoia problem?
I said, “Where?”
She nodded in the direction of the back wall.
I decided to humour her. “Sure.”
She moved stiffly, but with purpose. Her cane thumped on the cement floor. I followed. We ended up by a wall with a fresh Ka poster and a faded Opel poster. We stopped in front of what looked like a large supply cupboard. Mrs. P. turned around again, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the young men busying themselves with a Ka at the other end of the garage. I reminded myself that signor Falcone hadn't been paranoid, and someone had flattened him. Maybe Mrs. Parnell was on to something.
“Come here,” she whispered, sidling into the storage closet. What did she think? That they could read our lips? Never mind. I followed her. We'd soon get back to our usual cordial comradeship. Anyway, if we did have to worry about being overheard, better be safe.
She held the cigarette in her left hand and put her right fingers to her lips. “Shh.”
I nodded.
She pointed to the interior.
I looked.
“Inspect this, Ms. MacPhee,” she said. “I think you will be most surprised.”
“What?” I said, staring at a pile of rags and a stack of cleaning products. “What am I inspecting?”
“Move carefully. Soon you'll understand.”
I moved carefully toward the pile of rags. I was still puzzled. Was there something underneath? I lifted the first rag and the second and found more rags.
“What is it?” I whispered, peering back over my shoulder. Mrs. P. was already out the door, which gave a metal bang. I sprang forward in time to hear the latch click shut.
“Mrs. P.!”
I turned the handle and pushed. It didn't budge.
I banged. “Hey, not funny!”
The light went out.
I banged and hollered seriously at this point. What were the chances that the guys at the other end of the garage would hear me over the vacuums and their music?
I hammered on the door until my hands hurt. Then I slid to the floor and swore long and hard in the dark.
Once again, I had plenty of time to think about what the hell was going on.
* * *
What can you ever really know about a person? How had I been so wrong about Mrs. Parnell? From early in our relationship, she had symbolized bravery, spirit, honour, loyalty, unflappability. And more recently, the spirit of fun and adventure. So many admirable qualities in one woman. And now, in an underhanded move, she had locked me in a stifling foreign closet and, perhaps, left me to die. All right, it was November, so it wasn't exactly stifling. It was definitely foreign, and it stank of ammonia and car wax. It didn't take long before I decided the guy who invented air fresheners for cars should be locked in a closet with them for the rest of his wretched life.
The worst part was that I'd been betrayed by my friend. If I reflected on the letters, it wasn't the first time either. She'd dropped her friend Hazel too, over a bit of gossip apparently, and no amount of begging and apologies had made her change her mind. I had hours to ponder, what was Violet Wilkinson Parnell really all about?
Speaking of unreal, what about my so-called relationship with Ray? That had ended up with him hightailing it to a Mexican beach with some bimbo. Not even leaving me a voicemail message to say “so long sucker”. Then there was my so-called assistant, Alvin, busy being useless in my house and on my nickel. Okay, so I wasn't actually paying him, and he was probably doing his best, but how hard could it be to find a couple of CWACs, or to confirm the identity of an intruder?
It was a perfect time to fume.
* * *
At three o'clock, one of the dancing cleaners opened the door and shrieked in alarm. I barely dodged the pail of filthy water he dropped. In return, I nearly mowed him down getting the hell out of the supply cupboard. Escape first, explain later. That's always been my motto.
The garage manager spoke English far better than I spoke Italian. He had lots of cousins, all over Canada, although that didn't help me any. He offered no information about where Mrs. Parnell had gone or what she was now driving, despite my impassioned pleas. He seemed to feel I had been trespassing in his supply cupboard.
“Look, my grandmother has a blocked artery. Something terrible could happen to her. Do you want to be responsible?”
“Sorry, signora. I cannot tell you anything about another client. Perhaps if the police request it.” I have to say, he didn't look sorry.
“It's a matter of goddam life and death,” I shouted.
He shrugged.
“Don't shrug at me. I hate shruggers! Surely you can do something.”
A second shrug. Grander this time. Italy is crawling with shrugsters. It was starting to get on my nerves.
“Fine,” I said. “Just tell me if she decided to switch cars again? Did she stick to the Volvo? That's all. I'll find my grandmother without any help from you.”
“And we would never consider giving out that kind of information, even if we could provide different cars at a moment's notice. Surely you can understand that.”
“I understand I was held hostage here in your garage. You and your staff were definitely negligent by allowing that to happen. I can report that to the police. Have you thought about that?”
This time he produced a world-class shrug. Maybe he'd had special training. “I will tell them that our client specifically asked us to be on the lookout for a person of your description. You have been harassing her. You say you are her granddaughter. Frankly, I am beginning to doubt that.”
I had to admire his command of the English language, although I didn't bother to say so.
“You haven't heard the last of this,” I said. Might as well sound like the villain in a B movie.
I headed back out into the chaotic, crowded streets and stomped all the way back to my illegally parked Ka. The good news was that the Ka hadn't been ticketed or towed. The bad news was that it had a flat tire.
I had plenty of time to kill while I waited to get my tire changed. That was all right. I had people I needed to talk to.
* * *
“Well, I'm sorry, Camilla. I haven't been able to find those colleagues of Violet's. The people at Veterans’ Affairs and at the Legion keep talking about privacy concerns. I'm working on it. I'll find them.”
“What's that banging noise?”
“What banging?”
“It sounds like a hammer. What's going on?”
Alvin interrupted, “Before I forget, you gotta get in touch with Ray Deveau. He seemed pretty anxious to talk to you. Don't forget.”
If he wanted a distraction, he got it. I wasn't about to share with Alvin my failed attempts to contact Ray, let alone my feelin
gs about him and his trip to somewhere exotic with another woman.
He didn't stop anyway, “So have you any idea where Violet is?”
“I found her all right, and she gave me the slip.”
“No way. Are you kidding? What's the matter with you?”
“She locked me in a closet, and I think…Are you laughing, Alvin?”
“For sure.”
“This isn't a game of hide and seek and may the oldest player win. This is serious. May I remind you that you were worried about her health?”
“If she could give you the slip, it sounds like she's her old self, and that's the best news. She must be okay.”
“She's definitely not herself.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It's like there's someone else looking out of her eyes.”
“That's just plain creepy. Have you been watching Italian horror movies?”
“Fact, Alvin. She wasn't happy to see me. She did everything she could to get away both times…”
“Both times? Hey, did you say both times? You let her get away twice?”
“Leave it, Alvin. The point is that there was no warmth in her response. She was cool, collected and very determined.”
“Even if you're embarrassed, the main thing is we have Violet back.”
“Will you listen to me? We don't have her back. She's changed. She's like another person. She's on some kind of mission, and she doesn't want us involved.”
“She's okay, right. That closet thing sounds kind of playful.”
“It damn well wasn't playful,” I snapped, remembering the stench of the air fresheners in the darkness.
“Doesn't sound too bad.”
“It was and, pay attention, you didn't see her expression. She meant business. And I got no help from the car rental people. For some reason, they all love her and they hate me.”
“You can be pretty abrasive. Maybe they don't realize you only want to help.”
“That's what I said to Mrs. P. So why would she turn on me?”
“So do you have any other brilliant ideas to find her?”
The Dead Don't Get Out Much Page 20
