The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  Firefighters pushed their way through, brandishing hoses.

  “We're here!” I yelled, from my moving crouch. “Someone's injured.”

  I turned to Mrs. P. “Welcome back,” I said, with a lump in my throat.

  I collapsed in a heap, as the first fireman picked up Betty. Someone pulled me to my feet, and I was propelled out the door to the street. Paramedics were already attending to Betty. Mrs. Parnell allowed herself to be helped away. Firefighters steered the gathering crowd from the building, forcing everyone to the safety of the piazza as the hoses opened.

  Ray held his ground. He was right where I needed him.

  Nineteen

  The early evening light bathed the hills surrounding our new digs in the Villa Verdi. I sat in silence with Mrs. Parnell, Guy Prendergast and Ray. We watched the sun sink below the horizon in an explosion of crimson and gold. From the hillside courtyard, you could still see the cypress and olive trees silhouetted by the dying light. Snatches of opera wafted from the open windows along with the scent of roasting tomatoes, rosemary, veal and porcini mushrooms.

  The air had begun to chill after yet another unusually warm November day, but no one showed any inclination to move inside. The evening sky and the ambiance were irresistible following our hellish first days in Italy. Forty-eight hours had passed since the fire that claimed the Giansante e Figlia business and left Betty Connaught clinging to life with third-degree burns and other injuries. Our long hours in Italian hospitals and police stations were behind us. We were just beginning to unwind.

  Well, three of us were unwinding. Ray continued to do his duty. He moved off to the far corner of the patio, engaged in an intense telephone conversation on the Villa Verdi's portable phone. He kept his hand pressed to his ear to drown out the noise as our conversation picked up again.

  Guy Prendergast bent his tall body and expertly applied a corkscrew to a fresh bottle of Chianti. He grinned at Mrs. Parnell, who was comfortably ensconced with the best view. I was happy to note her hair was neatly arranged, her clothing crisp and her colour normal. She was as good as ever, with a clean bill of health from the Italian medics. Go figure.

  Guy said, “Couldn't have you folks stuck in a hotel when this was available. Villa Verdi's usually a great little money maker. I'm darned glad it wasn't rented this November for once. Needed a place myself.”

  I said, “Not everyone has a spare villa in Tuscany. Definitely comes in handy.” I wondered if he had villas in every shade. “It's a shame about Villa Rosa though.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” he said, splashing yet another refill into my glass. “Lucky I ran out of vino rosso that night, or I'd have gone up in flames with it. All the same, it was only a house. I have plenty of those.”

  “We're glad you're alive,” I said.

  He took the chair next to Mrs. Parnell. “Gave myself a scare. Brought it on my own head, and on everyone else's. Should have kept my mouth shut instead of trying to impress you, Vi.”

  Mrs. Parnell shook her head at the offer of Chianti and took a long pensive sip of her Harvey's Bristol Cream, before putting the glass down. She took her time lighting a Benson & Hedges, and frowned. I held my breath. I bet Guy Prendergast did too.

  “How could you have known?” she said at last. “Who could have imagined the intricate conspiracy that Betty cooked up to save her precious Perce? Once that was threatened, nothing was safe. And none of us.”

  Guy spoke with the now familiar tremor in his voice. “But that Falcone fella in Florence would still be alive, and poor Hazel never would have ended up with a cracked skull, if I hadn't stuck that photo under your nose, Vi.”

  I leaned forward. “You couldn't have known what you were going to unleash.”

  “Perhaps not, but I still wish I'd done things differently. Hope I can make it up to you.”

  Mrs. Parnell shrugged, indicating to me that she'd been in Italy too long already. “It really wasn't your doing, Guy. If I'd been more civil to you much earlier, some of this could have been avoided. I have always avoided anyone connected with Harry.”

  I butted in. “One thing, Mrs. P., without Guy, you would never have found out that it wasn't the real Harry who broke off your engagement.”

  “I should have realized it myself. Harry would have found a way to make the break face to face. We were both in England at the time. I should have twigged that something was wrong as soon as Harry called me Violet in that letter. He'd never once in his life called me Violet.”

  Darling Vi. I remembered the letters. I felt a deep sadness for Mrs. Parnell, and for what might have been if the real Harry Jones had come back to Chesterton after the war. Maybe she really would have ended up as someone's grandmother, the happy centre of a large family. Hard to imagine. I kept that speculation to myself.

  “I should have treated poor Hazel more kindly,” she continued. “I blamed her for the break-up. I didn't even open most of her letters. Betty fanned that division, of course. She couldn't have us getting together and comparing notes, having some little oddity not add up, questions being asked.”

  Over in the corner, Ray ended his calls. He made his way back to us and his full glass of wine. He joined us at the small table, reached over and raised his glass in a toast. “To the end of the Connaughts, Betty and Perce and his two sons and his grandsons, William and Dario. May they do no more harm.”

  Guy said, “Don't count the English side out yet. I've got the British papers here, and those sons already have lawyers. They've got the money to pay for the high-priced help for William in Canada too. They might get away with it.”

  “I don't think they'll get away with much,” Ray said. “Too many crimes, too many people in the know. I made a couple of calls. The Ottawa guys have William in custody for the attack on Hazel. They have a positive ID from Hazel, and at least one of her neighbours, who saw him in the building. No bail for him either. Flight risk. That's worth another toast, if you ask me.”

  We were happy to raise our glasses.

  Guy said, “Maybe that will work here too. The Italian papers are blustering about the war hero il Falco being murdered. They're talking about a witness. With any luck, they'll get Dario for that, as well as the attack on you, Camilla.”

  “The witness is probably that kid, Fabrizio,” I said. “He'll cave under questioning. And Lucia and Sergio Giansante will be able to testify about everything Betty said in that workshop. Betty's gloating will come back to haunt Perce for as long as he lives. Maybe they'll get Annalisa Franchini too, as part of the conspiracy.”

  Mrs. Parnell said, “But the fact is, Betty was pulling everyone's strings. I should have realized that as soon as I saw that photo. Perce could never have pulled all that off by himself.”

  “We all played right into her hands.”

  Guy said, “Especially this old fool. I called Betty after you gave me the bum's rush that night, Vi. Didn't know how to reach Hazel, but I knew Betty was in Ottawa. She never changed her name. I didn't realize what I was doing, but I blabbed about everything I'd told you. Of course, I thought Harry Jones was the bad guy. Never occurred to me Perce was living life as Harry. You figured that out as soon as you saw that photo of the grandson, didn't you, Vi?”

  Mrs. Parnell gazed off into the darkening sky. “When I saw his face, I couldn't let myself believe it right away. Because the implications were simply too horrible. The Remembrance Day march sent me to hell. All I could think about was our wonderful Canadian boys, and our women too, who perished under such awful conditions. It magnified Perce's heinous crime. I knew, of course, that I had to do something. I knew he must have had allies, confederates, including Betty, of course. Perce had turned into a very dangerous man. Much too dangerous for me to involve the people I cared about. As it turned out, I was right.”

  She kindly didn't mention Guy Prendergast blundering about, or me, making waves.

  She continued to stare into the distance, sorrow etched on her features while Guy Prendergast chattered on.
“Guess I'm lucky to be alive,” he said. “Betty invited me right over, but I'd had a bit too much of the good stuff at my hotel, so I took a rain check. Supposed to go for lunch the next day. Instead, I hightailed it back to Italy and my Villa Rosa, to drown my sorrows.”

  I said, “That probably would have been your last lunch. You were in line for a fall, or an accident. Or a fire.”

  “Sure didn't take long to torch the Villa Rosa.”

  I said, “I wonder if we'll ever know who did that? Dario was in the hospital, after I hit him on the head. Annalisa perhaps?”

  Mrs. Parnell turned her gaze back to us and lifted her glass again. “My money's on Betty herself. She would have blamed you for the whole thing, Guy. Wasn't her first fire.”

  “Still blame myself,” Guy said.

  I said, “Please don't. We all played into her hands. I left her messages with everything she needed to know. William must have been picking up Betty's messages when he wasn't ransacking apartments and bashing people on the head. We're lucky no one burned down my house with Alvin and the pets in it. This reminds me, I wonder what William stole from your apartment, Mrs. P.”

  “I had my laptop and camera with me. I imagine he was looking for photos and letters. As soon as I fully understood what might have happened, I packed up everything like that and left it with Alvin for safekeeping.”

  “Good thing you did, or we wouldn't have had a thing to go on.”

  “I didn't want you to have anything to go on, Ms. MacPhee. Perce Connaught was such a vicious scoundrel. I never really understood why Harry was such a good friend. But once I realized that he'd…”

  Murdered Harry, I thought.

  Mrs. Parnell fell silent.

  “Well, who could imagine something like that?” Ray said. “I'm a nasty suspicious cop with twenty years on the force, and it wouldn't have crossed my mind. Although from the sound of this Betty, she probably would have wiped out anyone who threatened Perce.”

  Mrs. Parnell said, “At least I have the consolation of knowing that Harry didn't really turn into a cad, and Walter wasn't foolish enough to get drunk and kill himself on the country lanes of Hampshire. And to know that I still have friends I can trust.”

  “You mean Hazel? You'll be seeing her?”

  “I will, but I meant you and young Ferguson, Ms. MacPhee. I wish he were here with us now.”

  Conversation stopped when Guy Prendergast's housekeeper bustled through the open door with a plate of bruschetta for us. For the first time since I'd arrived in Italy, I planned to taste the food and savour the wine. It would be worth waiting for.

  The phone call from Canada came first.

  I held my ear away from the phone. Alvin shrieked, “I got my passport! ‘Three-day expedited’, and it was worth every penny. I'm on my way. And I got a way better price on a ticket than you did, Camilla. Everything's under control here now.”

  “What do you mean, everything's under control now?” I said.

  “What? Nothing. I mean Hazel's getting out of the hospital. She sends her love to everyone, and she's really hoping to see Violet.”

  “And she will.”

  “Don't tell Violet I'm coming. I want it to be a surprise. I hope you'll give me some time alone with her to catch up.”

  “That can be arranged,” I said, glancing across the table and watching Ray's sandy hair ruffling in the light evening breeze.

  “Your sisters said they'll walk Gussie and feed the cat, and even look after those evil lovebirds.”

  “They did? I'm amazed.”

  “And news flash! You know what I heard from the Super? Your nasty neighbour in 1604 got evicted. Arrested, too. Guess there was a smell of marijuana coming from his apartment, when the cops came around to check Violet's place, after Ray called with all the news. Lord thundering Jesus, what a lot of fuss about a little weed. But what goes around comes around, right?”

  “For sure,” I said, not wanting to know who might have made that happen.

  “I have a surprise for you when you get back. I think you'll be overwhelmed.”

  Overwhelmed is one of my least favourite things.

  “Alvin? Wait. Don't tell me, it will give me something to look forward to.” Maybe my house was now a replica of a pharaoh's tomb, or possibly a space station. Perhaps Gussie was sporting a mohawk, or the little calico cat now had a stylish touch of sky blue fur. With Alvin, the possibilities are endless.

  I had an entire week left in Italy with Ray. I didn't want anything in the world to take my mind off that.

  Mary Jane Maffini is a lapsed librarian, former co-owner of the Prime Crime Mystery Bookstore in Ottawa, author of two mystery series and a double Arthur Ellis winner for short crime fiction.

  The books in the Camilla MacPhee series are: Speak Ill of the Dead, which was shortlisted for an Arthur for Best First Novel, The Icing on the Corpse, Little Boy Blues, The Devil's in the Details and The Dead Don't Get Out Much. In 2003, she launched a new series, the Fiona Silk mysteries, the first of which, Lament for a Lounge Lizard, was shortlisted at the 2004 Arthurs for Best Novel.

  Mary Jane Maffini resides in Ottawa, Ontario.

  Also by Mary Jane Maffini

  LAMENT FOR A LOUNGE LIZARD

  A Fiona Silk Mystery

  As if it weren't bad enough being a failed romance writer with no sex life, poor Fiona Silk has to cope with the spectacularly embarrassing demise of her old lover, the poet, Benedict Kelly. It's exactly the sort of thing people notice in St. Aubaine, Quebec, a picturesque bilingual tourist town of two thousand. Now the police start getting nasty, the media vans stay parked on her lawn and the neighbours’ tongues keep wagging in both of Canada's official languages. Worse, someone's bumping off the other suspects. Can Fiona outwit a murderer in the mood for some serious mischief?

  “stylish and amusing…” -Maclean's Magazine

  “..as adept at comedy as she is at laying out a tangled crime trail…Maffini surrounds Fiona with memorable—but often annoying—friends…Surviving their needs and obsessions is almost as daunting as solving the murder.”

  -Foreword Magazine

  $13.95 CDN, $11.95 U.S. ISBN 1-894917-02-2 280 pages