Law and Disorder

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “It’s after noon. Twelve thirty, in fact. I thought you were gone too, it was so quiet here.”

  “Twelve thirty? That’s impossible. I never sleep late. It must have been those painkillers. I’m so groggy I can’t focus.”

  “You have to focus because we’re having a kitchen party tomorrow night.”

  “We are?”

  “The girls are finished their events, and they’ll be returning to Nova Scotia on Tuesday. It’s hard to believe they’ve been here almost a week. I’ll do all the cooking and logistics, but I can’t be in two places at a time and I have a list of things for you to…”

  I suppose he kept droning on.

  Five minutes later, coffee finished and painkiller popped, I hit the shower, and the combo of warm water and green apple shampoo seemed to help. I emerged squeaky clean and slightly less out of it. The downside of all that pleasantness was that, as my mind began to focus, the matter of murder returned.

  I sat on my unmade bed and Mrs. Parnell’s little cat snuggled in. I stroked her fur and thought hard. Something Alvin had said was twitching in my brain and clamouring for attention. What was it? Something about the kitchen party the next night. Why would I pay any attention to that? Party preparations wouldn’t lodge in my brain, even when I’m not groggy.

  The little calico nudged my arm. That’s code for “keep stroking”. Gussie jumped back into bed too and nosed my leg. Why should the cat get all the attention? “You guys sure can work as a team to distract me. It’s quite a talent,” I said, glad I had two hands, one for each pet.

  My hands stopped mid-stroke. The cat and the dog glanced at me with reproach.

  “That’s it.”

  The cat nudged again.

  “Teamwork,” I said. “That’s how they did it. Holy shit. That’s it! Alvin! Where are you? Get moving! Find me a phone!”

  One receiver turned up buried in the sofa cushions. I may have been responsible for that myself. Alvin continued to radiate resentment as he searched for my cellphone. “Other duties as required,” I said. “Never forget that job description.”

  I called Mrs. Parnell, praying she’d be in her room.

  No answer.

  I called the nursing station and pleaded family emergency. Three minutes later, Mrs. Parnell came on the line. “Is young Ferguson in any difficulty?”

  “He won’t be if he finds my cellphone. I need some help from you. The photos you printed out last night were amazing. Great quality. Thanks for printing extra copies.”

  “Splendid. You are most welcome, Ms MacPhee. Glad to be of service.”

  “As a result of those photos, I think I understand something more about what’s going on. I think several people are involved: Annalisa Fillmore, James Kilpatrick, and now, I believe, Constable Kristen Wentzell.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Yes. I need you to dig around and see if you can find any connections between them. For instance, do they have anything in common?”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will do. I’ll get on that immediately.”

  As soon as she disconnected, I checked the messages.

  Bunny. Breathless. Agitated.

  “Why aren’t you answering any of your phones? We can’t stay here any more. If you could find us, anyone can. Please try not to put my family in any more danger. I don’t know why you left those pictures here. Someone might have followed you. That really creeped me out, Camilla. And I didn’t even recognize any of them except for Lloyd Brugel and Rollie Thorsten. And did you know you left the package with the offer to purchase your house here with those photos, and Tonya thinks I should let you know. By the way, she recognized somebody, but she thinks it’s probably not connected.”

  Thanks, Bunny. You’re the person who drew me into the investigation anyway, I thought crabbily, and you couldn’t even mention which person Tonya thought looked familiar, let alone where you are going now.

  I made a quick trip back to Clearwater Crescent to pick up the offer on the house. In apartment 1608, there was no sign of Bunny anywhere. I couldn’t blame him for hiding out, but I hoped he hadn’t made a pact with some devil to get him to a safer place. My footsteps echoed eerily on the parquet floor of Mrs. Parnell’s apartment as I walked to the dining room table to get the document.

  I glanced around the apartment sadly. Was our old friend and ally ever going to be able to return to her home? It seemed like the right time to visit her again.

  I wasted no time in gettting off to the Perley, determined to look on the bright side where she was concerned.

  “Ms MacPhee!” she cheered as I found her in a wheelchair having a Benson & Hedges at the specially designated smoking area outside. I’d wondered how she’d adjusted to that.

  “Caught you,” I said with a grin.

  “I have something for you, Ms MacPhee.” She waved the cigarette holder with her usual drama.

  “Let’s have it. I already know there’s some kind of connection between Constable Kristen Wentzell and Roxanne Terrio. Anything else on them?”

  “Not really, although I will certainly continue to try to ferret out additional information. This is just a reference really. I wasn’t able to find a lot of connections, but I’ll keep at it. Guess who I found?”

  “Constable Kristen Wentzell and Jamie Kilpatrick?”

  She shook her head. “Give it another try.”

  “Annalisa Fillmore and Bunny Mayhew?”

  “Keep guessing, Ms MacPhee.”

  “Rollie Thorsten and Steven Anstruther? Judge Cardarelle and…?”

  “I see I have you bested. But of course, it wasn’t really a fair fight.” She grinned at me.

  I did my best to grin back, but I was truly exhausted by the strain of the last few days and the worry about Bunny and his family. “I admit defeat,” I said. “Let’s have it.”

  “Well, I found a document from an organization called Shattered Families. It’s dated eighteen months ago and appears to be a group of people who have had terrible things happen to loved ones. This seems to be an agenda for what was an initial meeting. As far as I can tell, the terrible events or tragedies all involve crimes.”

  “Really? What did you…?”

  “Patience, Ms MacPhee.”

  “Okay, but not much.”

  “It merely listed members attending the meeting and the name that had been chosen for the group. All the names rang a bell. And the major one of interest to you is of course, A. Fillmore.”

  “Who were the others?”

  “One was K. Wentzell.”

  “Oh! And Kilpatrick?”

  “There was a J. Kilpatrick too. And you may find this interesting, someone called F. Cardarelle. The coincidence of the last name is striking, is it not?”

  I sat back on the bench, stunned.

  “Ms MacPhee? Are you quite all right? You’re shockingly pale. Should I call for a nurse?”

  I fought back a wave of nausea. Who and what else had I misjudged? Was anyone else going to die because I couldn’t grasp what was going on?

  “Anything else about this organization? Are there more names on the list?” I croaked out.

  “I’ve searched around for minutes or other documents from the organization, but I haven’t been fortunate enough to find them yet. Of course, they’d hardly be sharing documents that indicate any kind of conspiracy. I assume this initial attendance list just escaped their notice. However, I shall keep ferreting about. I’ve just taken a brief break, but I’ll be back at my station in a minute.”

  “Great. Keep doing that. We must find links. Okay, I know that Annalisa Fillmore lost her son as a result of a street racer, and she was really devastated that Rollie got him off. Jamie Kilpatrick’s grandparents were killed by a drunk driver. I don’t know what happened to him. We need to know who killed them. Do you think you can you locate that information for me? Same thing with Kristen Wentzell. Did she lose someone? Who? And Madame Cardarelle. She lost a chil
d. I’ll check that out with Coco Bentley. She’ll probably know the details.”

  I counted off on my fingers. “There are four names here. But so far, there are five people who appear to have been targeted, including Bunny. That would indicate that a fifth person is involved. We need to know who the fifth one is.”

  Mrs. Parnell reached out to touch my hand. “If you will forgive me, Ms MacPhee, you have been receiving the jokes too. We must consider that you may be a sixth intended victim.”

  I was already on my cellphone, hoping like hell that Coco Bentley was still lounging around. To my relief, she answered. “Coco! Don’t show those photos to Madame Cardarelle. Whatever you do.”

  “Hello, Camilla. I couldn’t have anyway. She doesn’t seem to be home this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Promise me you won’t mention it to her. I’ll explain later.”

  “Over drinks?” Coco is always hopeful for an extra social situation.

  “Sure. But I need a bit of information. You mentioned a tragedy with a child. I need to know about this. What happened? A traffic accident?”

  “Oh no. A drug overdose, I believe. Terribly sad. Alain was a difficult teenager. Always so rebellious and challenging, in trouble in school from a young age. The father was stern and uncompromising. He was close to fifty when Alain was born, and France was in her forties. I believe he came as a complete surprise. His mother did her best, but when he hit his teens he went right off the rails. He found the wrong companions and tried every drug going, including crack cocaine. France managed to get him into treatment and then tried to bring him home. I accidentally overheard a discussion between the parents one night from my garden. My French isn’t too bad, you know. France was pleading with the miserable old swine to let the boy come home. He wasn’t having any of it. Two weeks later, Alain was dead. Would it have made a difference to that troubled lad if he’d been able to stay with his parents? If he’d felt any love and support from his father? Who’s to say?”

  “But it certainly made a difference to his mother.”

  “You said it. If she hadn’t been in surgery at the time of his death, I wouldn’t have put it past her. But of course, she couldn’t have done it.”

  “Sure she could have, Coco. With the right team.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind. At last, I’ve figured out that part. Whatever you do, just stay away from her.”

  “I remembered where I saw that young man.”

  “Let me guess. Visiting France Cardarelle in her home?”

  “Close. Having a cozy coffee together in a little bistro, if that’s any help.”

  Another confirmation. Always helpful.

  I clicked off, asked Mrs. Parnell to check back and see who Kristen Wentzell might have been grieving for, said goodbye, and bolted for my car. On the way, I tried to reach the spectacularly unavailable Leonard Mombourquette. I’d given up on expecting him to check his phone. I drove to the Queensway, got off at Metcalfe and headed for the Police Station.

  Mombourquette was not at his second floor desk. Not too surprising on a Sunday when he had only a few weeks to serve. Undeterred, I explained my conclusions to one of his fellow officers in Major Crimes. He took a few notes. This guy had raised his technique for looking bored to an art form.

  “They’re in it together. Jamie Kilpatrick, Madame Cardarelle. Annalisa Fillmore was too. There may be others. That’s why they have alibis. I believe they are seeking revenge against a justice system that failed them. Lawyers, judges, police officers, like your own Steve Anstruther.” I was talking faster than normal and sounding a lot less rational than I needed to. I didn’t mention Kristen Wentzell. No point in getting tossed out on my ear just when things were going well.

  “We’ll look into it,” he said, meaning he would not give it a moment’s thought, and the notes would end up filed under N for Nutcase along with those unfortunate souls whose hobby is confessing to crimes they haven’t committed.

  I thought that a visit to Loreena Holmes was next in order. For years, she’d been running Ottawa Bereavement Services with a gentle touch and a heart full of hope and caring. Of course, OBS would be closed on Sunday and Loreena’s home number was unlisted. Luckily, we’d been chummy enough because of Justice for Victims that I knew exactly where she lived. She was warm and hospitable to her friends and colleagues too, and I’d been invited more than once to her home. I was back on the Queensway in a flash and on my way to Foster Street. I found Loreena in the vine-festooned backyard, relaxing in a lawn chair, and enjoying what was not the first glass of ruby red wine with a woman friend she introduced as Gillian. A heavenly aroma drifted from the charcoal barbecue on the patio. The cheerful women were about to have their afternoon ruined, but there wasn’t much I could do about that.

  “Won’t take a minute,” I said, sliding onto a bright yellow chair, before she could say a word. “Shattered Families. Tell me what you know.”

  Her friend snorted and said in the crisp way of the transplanted Brit, “Bunch of nutters.”

  Loreena nodded gently. “I’d have to agree that they are a bit off the wall. They seemed much more interested in payback than in healing. A lot of forgiveness issues.”

  “Who was involved? Any names?”

  “Why?”

  “I just need you to trust me on this. It’s really important.”

  “All right. Glass of red, Camilla?”

  I shook my head. “Do you think any of them would actually be dangerous?”

  “Without a doubt,” said Gillian.

  “Hard to say,” Loreena mused. “Why do you ask?”

  “Rollie Thorsten’s gruesome murder.”

  “Oh, boy. That dangerous. Well, there were rumours, but you have to be fair to people. They’d all been through hell, and who are we to say they can’t be furious?”

  “Let me help you. I’ve heard of Annalisa Fillmore, France Cardarelle, a cop called Wentzell and a young lawyer named Jamie Kilpatrick. Were they part of your organization? Maybe didn’t fit in because of anger issues?”

  Loreena leaned forward and refilled her friend’s glass, then her own. She shook her head. “Camilla, you know I can’t tell you that.”

  Short of writing “yes” on the grass in red paint, her expression told me what I wanted to know.

  “Annalisa’s body was found after she apparently torched my client’s home.” I didn’t bother to explain the nature of my relationship to Bunny. “She had an iron-clad alibi for the time of Rollie’s death although she hated him with—”

  “A white-hot passion,” Gillian said, raising her glass.

  “Right. I need to know if you think these ‘nutters’ could band together to plot to kill people they felt had taken their loved ones.”

  Loreena shook her glossy silver hair. “I really wouldn’t like to say anything like that. They’ve all been through so much.”

  “I’d bet the farm on it,” said the friend. “Two farms.”

  “I think they provided alibis for each other. I think someone else on the team killed Rollie, and in return Annalisa planned to kill someone for that person, although she failed.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” Gillian agreed.

  Loreena pursed her lips and sent her friend a warning glance.

  “Anyone else you can think of, Loreena?” I said. “I believe there are five of them, as five people have received, um, anonymous communications from this group.”

  She didn’t meet my eyes. “I can’t really tell you that, Camilla. You of all people should understand confidentiality. There’s no way I can reveal anything about the people who pass through our group. It would be unconscionable.”

  I tried to read the expression on her friend’s face. She wasn’t about to blow the whistle and may not have known enough to, but there was something there. I decided to stall and get a bit of useful information. “Mind if I use your phone?”

  Loreena nodded distractedly. Inside the house, I switched my cell to mut
e and called it from her telephone. Sure enough. Loreena’s number showed when I checked. I returned to the backyard and said. “Did I mention there might have been a child in the home that burned? I think the incendiary device was in a stuffed toy, a big green dog. Call me if you think of anyone.”

  Loreena paled but shook her head again. “I’m sorry, Camilla.”

  “That’s my cellphone number, in case that family being burned out, or the woman who was run down on her bicycle or even Rollie Thorsten being shot in the knees before being dumped from a boat to drown bothers you in any way.” I half-expected to hear my name called as I walked away. I tossed my card on the table.

  Next I squealed to a stop in front of Elaine Ekstein’s second-floor apartment on Spruce Street, on the crosshairs of what is known as Little Italy and Chinatown. Elaine’s battered Pathfinder was parked in the driveway. There was no other vehicle. Mombourquette must have slipped through the trap yet again.

  As usual, Elaine’s place looked as though something had just exploded. She appeared to be in the middle of a project that involved taking all of her clothing out of every cupboard and drawer and rearranging it somehow. Under normal circumstances, I might have speculated as to how the fastidious Mombourquette could stand visiting her there, but I didn’t want to distract myself from the matter at hand. Anyway, Elaine was not pleased by my impromptu visit.

  “No, he’s not here, and you’ve got to stop hounding him, Camilla. Give the poor guy a break. He’s under a lot of pressure over that Rollie Thorsten case. And now this horrible fire and the dead woman.”

  “The woman killed in the fire was trying to murder Bunny and his family as collateral damage. I’m just reminding you of that. So, my calls on that topic are important. And wouldn’t you think if he was working a case he’d answer his cellphone at least occasionally?”

  “He picks up his calls, Camilla. Just not yours.”

  “But does he listen to my messages at all? Has he passed the information along?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. We never talk shop. Well, except for Thorsten’s murder and the fire at Bunny’s place. Bunny himself is off-limits. We’ve agreed to disagree.”