Law and Disorder

by Mary Jane Maffini

  As the waters cleared and our boat circled the area, I spotted Ashley, blonde hair darkened by the river water, staying afloat and doing a slow, elegant Australian crawl toward the waiting Zodiac with her arm bent, expertly holding somone’s head above water. Of course, leave it to Ray to make sure his girls had lifeguard training.

  I took out my cellphone and called P. J. “Here’s your payoff. Head down to the locks by Parliament Hill. You’ll have the story of your dreams and my nightmares.”

  SEVENTEEN

  So what’s wrong with lawyer jokes?

  -Lawyers don’t think they’re funny,

  and nobody else realizes they’re jokes.

  If the amount of time you spend in the cop shop is any indication, it’s only marginally better being a witness than being a suspect.

  At the end of my long, complexstatement, I said, “Leonard here can back me up.” I glanced at Mombourquette, who was watching, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded.

  “You knew this was going to happen why?” the interrogating officer said. Most likely because of the serious nature of my accusations against Wentzell, Mombourquette had brought in a very senior dude indeed. I had already forgotten his name, if he’d ever given it, but it was obvious from his body language that he was way up the ladder.

  “I’ve already answered that. Twice. I got a joke in my mailbox. And, more importantly, I got what the joke was intended to convey. My, um, friend’s daughters went on the cruise in place of me and would have died if I hadn’t figured out what that joke meant and passed the information on to our mutual friend, Leonard. But once more, let me tell you the story: Annalisa Fillmore, Jamie Kilpatrick, Kristen Wentzell and France Cardarelle had lost loved ones and blamed the legal system for not taking action, specifically lawyers who help their clients to evade the kind of punishment these people felt they deserved. I guess they also didn’t find the existing services to the bereaved sufficiently calming and decided to make a point. So they rigged up a conspiracy: each one of them would contribute a name, someone they felt deserved to die as retribution for a wrong-doing. One was chosen to commit the murder, while the person with the grudge had an unassailable alibi. Each one of them got the satisfaction, if you could call it that, of revenge without much danger of being caught. For instance, Annalisa Fillmore hated Rollie Thorsten, and everyone knew it. So, he was killed while she was in full public view, eliminating her from suspicion. I think I was part of the plan all along. Annalisa knew I shared her loathing for Brugel. They were most likely counting on me to catch on to the joke theme, and they figured I’d work hard to pin the crimes on Brugel, an easy target. I believe the group had solid reasons for a shared hatred for Brugel too. Getting him blamed was an extra motivation for them.”

  “Who killed Rollie?”

  “It had to have been Madame Cardarelle, as Jamie Kilpatrick was being interrogated here by your own Kristen Wentzell at the time. You never got back to me on that, Leonard, but I’m thinking I’m right and it fits perfectly with my theory. These people collaborated beautifully.”

  The cop and Mombourquette exchanged glances pretty well confirming that.

  I kept talking. “So Madame Cardarelle was the only possibility. I imagine that Wentzell would have been able to get her mitts on a weapon that wouldn’t be traced.”

  “So who was Madame Cardarelle’s target?”

  “Her own husband, the judge. She hated him with a passion, especially since her teenage son died after his father refused to allow him to come home. Judge Cardarelle was killed while she was undergoing surgery. My theory is that Wentzell offered the judge that nut-laced cookie. He might not have respected cops, but he wouldn’t have feared her. And if he put up any resistance, she would have had her weapon handy.”

  I could tell the new guy didn’t like this story any more than Mombourquette had. They were both going to hate the next bit. I kept going. “Why Wentzell, you wonder? Well, I’m pretty sure her real target was Anstruther.”

  Mombourquette jerked. “What?”

  “I think if you check that pile of paper I brought in and asked you to read, you’ll discover a small item about Anstruther’s partner being killed four years ago, shot while they were on a routine patrol in the market. Right outside Red Roxxxy’s, in fact. He was a young guy, left behind his grieving fiancée, one Kristen Wentzell. I guess she wasn’t even a cop then. But I wonder if there wasn’t some talk that if Anstruther had done his job right, his partner wouldn’t have been killed. Of course, Wentzell would have a hate-on for Brugel too. As a police officer, she was able to track Bunny’s current address. Plus she knew Anstruther had the Brugel connection. And she would have had an unassailable alibi for the night Anstruther was run off the road. On duty in full view of her own partner, I’m thinking.”

  Again with the looks.

  “And Roxanne,” Mombourquette said. “Who killed her?”

  “I thought for a while it was Wentzell.”

  Mombourquette shook his head. “Airtight alibi.”

  “It would have to have been Jamie Kilpatrick then.”

  “Too bad he drowned when the Leila Q sank,” the senior officer said. “We can’t really ask him.”

  “Remind me again, why the burglar was involved?” Mombourquette asked.

  He had me there.

  “I never told you because I still don’t know,” I admitted. “But I have to leave something for you guys to investigate. I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

  My family managed to stay on top of the Ottawa news even on their Mediterranean cruise. Stan somehow got the Ottawa Citizen on his laptop. Don’t ask me to explain how that all works. P. J.’s story had quite the impact. They could count themselves lucky that I hadn’t given them the blow-by-blow description of my evening at police headquarters and the debriefing about the sinking of the Leila Q and the Shattered Families plot. I didn’t angle for a sympathy vote by telling them about my shoulder, as it seemed to be mending nicely. Anyway, I didn’t want to spend the whole day yakking.

  While busily carting dishes and glassware to the backyard, I’d already had awkward telephone conversations with my father and all three brothers-in-law, especially Conn, the recently retired detective. My sister Donalda had given me an earful as I set out the napkins. Now my sister Alexa was squawking. I was holding the phone away from my ear. It’s hard to do anything else when there’s a full-sister assault.

  Before she could launch into more recriminations, I decided on a distraction, “All right, but we’re all okay here. In fact, we’re just about to have a big party for Ray’s girls. They’re upstairs getting dressed and we’re rushing around preparing. No, I’m not making the food. Don’t be silly. Alvin has done a great job. I think he’s used some of your recipes. What? Of course, the place looks all right. More than. That reminds me, put Edwina on.”

  After the requisite squawks, I said, “Good news. Your Jacki Jewell is a giant pain, but she sold the house. She’s picking up the signed offer tonight, in spite of the fact that we’re having a party and maybe even because it’s not in the least bit convenient. All to say, please, never again set one of your rabid realtors on me. I couldn’t stand the woman.”

  Edwina snapped, “What are you talking about, my Jacki Jewell? Don’t try to distract me, missy. How do you get yourself into these situations that—”

  “Well, you told her I wanted to—”

  “As if I would get mixed up in trying to sell your house. It would have needed to be completely gutted before anyone would take a look at it. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t pick that Jacki Jewell. She’s a real flake. There are dozens of terrific real estate agents in Ottawa, why would I—?”

  “You didn’t send her? No need to snort, Edwina. I guess she fibbed to get the job. That shouldn’t be a surprise. Troubling, and entirely in character, in fact. But, never mind, I guess the main thing is, she sold the house. Anyway, I have to go. We have nearly two dozen people on their way to our little backyard shindig any minute. Oh, M
rs. Parnell’s arriving now and the girls are all ready to meet the guests.”

  When the Paratranspo van’s door opened, Alvin met Mrs. Parnell with open arms and his Cape Breton tartan apron. He left the Colonel and the Major to look after themselves and took over the operation of getting Mrs. P. wheeled into the backyard to sit in splendour on the lawn near the table and in front of the Tuscan fresco. It was a beautiful evening, close to the longest day of the year, warm and bright, without the familiar haze of humidity. I was tasked with stacking up cups to serve the chowder. Alvin had a vat of it sitting on a hot plate on a serving table. The aroma was making my mouth water.

  I was still stewing about Jacki Jewell’s duplicity and Alvin was still blathering, “It’s a kitchen party, Violet! But our kitchen is so small we have to move the gang outside. But aside from that it’ll be the traditional type.”

  “Splendid, dear boy. I’m all for tradition, as you know.” Gussie nuzzled up to her in greeting. The Colonel and the Major limped behind, jockeying for position.

  I have to admit the backyard looked amazing. Even the two-fours of Moosehead and Keith’s seemed festive. Alvin had attached lanterns around the perimeter and somehow rigged up a long table in the grass. It was covered with a white tablecloth that draped invitingly and stacks of Cape Breton tartan napkins dotted the surface. As I didn’t own any white tablecloths, I was pretty sure that my white sheets had been put to good use. Luckily that’s not the kind of thing I get tied in knots over. I didn’t like to speculate as to where the two dozen lawn chairs had come from.

  Mrs. Parnell was looking very much at home and probably euphoric to be out on the town again. I made sure she had a tumbler of Harvey’s Bristol Cream in her hand in record time. “Without your quick work, a lot of innocent people could have died when the Leila Q sank, Mrs. P.”

  She said, “Glad to be of service and wish I could have done more. I suppose this is a bit too late, given that James Kilpatrick is dead, but I found another connection for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “The drunk driver who killed Kilpatrick’s grandparents, was a man named Foster Whitby. He’s had dozens of drunk driving charges and convictions over the past twentysome years. But the first time he got off from a case that badly injured a young woman, his lawyer was—”

  “Roxanne Terrio, before she turned her back on defence and took up real estate law.”

  “Precisely, Ms MacPhee!”

  “If he’d been convicted, perhaps he wouldn’t have been on the road to collide with Jamie Kilpatrick’s grandparents.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “We can only hope the various authorities will be able to confirm that when they interrogate Kristen Wentzell and France Cardarelle. At least the sinking of the Leila Q was so serious that they can’t ignore my theories any more. Too bad the other information we have about the Shattered Families plot is such a combination of guesswork and circumstance that a good lawyer will have them out in no time. Unless someone confesses. And I’m not too confident of that. We should make sure that Mombourquette knows about this latest twist.”

  We both turned at the tweedledee of a fiddle. Someone was tuning up. I thought I spotted my grouchy neighbour with her nose pressed to the window. This should be fun, I decided.

  I took a minute to leave Mombourquette a telephone message about Kilpatrick and the Whitby/Roxanne Terrio connection and then turned my attention to the party.

  “The girls are really excited about the party, Violet. You have to meet them.” Alvin trilled. “They’ve brought some of their friends from the team too. Listen to that. One of them brought a fiddle, and the other one has her guitar. I think we’ll have some great music.”

  Aside from one tuning her fiddle and the one tuning her guitar, the rest of the gaggle of girls in bright skimpy dresses and fancy flipflops were making a fuss over Mrs. Parnell’s little cat.

  “I imagine they’re glad to be alive,” Mrs. Parnell said, waving to P. J. who was making a beeline for the bar. “And ready to celebrate that. Are you having a big crowd?”

  “You have no idea,” I whispered. “It’s gotten totally out of hand.”

  Alvin said, “I’ll introduce you. No point in waiting for Camilla to do it.”

  I heard a screech. Brakes? I dashed to the side fence in time to see Elaine’s old Pathfinder come perilously close to my neighbour’s glossy Beamer. Mombourquette slithered out of the passenger seat. He looked like he wanted to kiss the ground. I understood. I’ve been in that passenger seat, although only when I had no choice.

  “Why did you invite Mombourquette, anyway, Alvin. What were you thinking? He gave me a lot of grief about this whole thing with the Shattered Families gang. Anyway, he’s been such a pain in the—”

  Of course, at the sound of Elaine’s voice, I snapped my mouth shut.

  Alvin put his hands on his tartan hips and said, “Think about it. Leonard is Ray’s cousin, isn’t he? So in that case, he’s practically—”

  “Only a second cousin, I believe.”

  “Whatever. Lord thundering Jesus, if you will let me finish a sentence for once, Camilla, he’s related to Ashley and Brittany too.”

  “What does that make them? Fourth cousins twice removed? Hardly worth keeping on your Christmas card list.”

  “First, since when do you have a Christmas card list? And second, the relationship is closer than that. You’d better get used to it. If things keep on so lovey-dovey with you and Ray, Leonard Mombourquette could be your relative.”

  I don’t know what got my back up more—lovey-dovey or the prospect of Mombourquette as some kind of kin. Anyway, I didn’t know how lovey-dovey things would be once Ray realized that I’d almost gotten his daughters killed.

  What a rat’s nest this past week had turned into. Elaine rounded the corner and I was glad I had stopped my Mombourquette routine just in time.

  “Hi Elaine. Isn’t this something?”

  Elaine loves a party and she was prepared. “You want traditional Cape Breton foods? Here’s my contribution. Nanaimo bars. I bought them myself.”

  “Traditional Cape Breton foods? But Nanaimo bars aren’t—”

  “That’s cool,” Alvin said. “Every Canadian loves Nanaimo bars.”

  “And deviled eggs, from Leonard.”

  I suppose there were benefits. Deviled eggs are my drug of choice. When my sisters make them for me, it’s always because they want something. Because of the deviled eggs, I often cave in. What the hell did Mombourquette want?

  I took both containers from Elaine’s hands. “Where’s Leonard?”

  Elaine stretched and yawned. “Out front. Checking his phone messages. He’ll be in soon. I’m really looking forward to meeting these girls, Camilla. What are they like?”

  “The girls? They seem kind of magnificent. Although I’m not sure what they’re like, Elaine. I haven’t gotten close to them.” I was saved from that conversational foray by the arrival of Bunny, Tonya, Destiny and dolly. Coco Bentley followed them in. She had brought two bottles of Glen Breton single malt whisky.

  She said, “I am so astonished that France Cardarelle has a new little dog, Lulu, of all things. Cute as anything. Were you surprised? Did you invite her here today? She seems quite taken with you and your dog.”

  I decided against filling Coco in on the details of the Shattered Families’ plot while in the middle of our party. I knew most likely France Cardarelle wouldn’t have little Lulu for long. It was just a matter of time now before she was arrested and charged with conspiracy and murder. Sad for Lulu. On the other hand, Coco could use some canine company and that would solve a problem. “You know something? I see a little dog in your future, Coco.”

  As Coco drifted off, I turned to Bunny and his family.

  “Tonya,” I said, holding up my hand to silence Bunny’s latest round of abject apologies. “Bunny said you recognized one of the people in the photos. Who was it?”

  “I didn’t,” Tonya said. “I�
�d never seen any of them before.”

  I took a deep breath and went with my latest brain wave. “By any chance, were you talking about the brochure of Jacki Jewell, the realtor that was with the offer to purchase the house? Had you seen her on posters? Something like that?”

  “You can hardly miss her picture around town, but I saw her on our street, walking along, right in front of our house. She commented on our unit and even asked me to let her know if I wanted to list it.”

  “Really.”

  I slipped back into the house and took a chance on one more call.

  “Just deny it if it’s not true, Loreena. Was Jacki Jewell one of the members of Ottawa Bereavement Services who left and joined Shattered Families? Maybe after the initial group started?”

  Her sharp intake of breath was all I needed. “You know I can’t discuss anything to do with—”

  I hustled out to the backyard to find Leonard Mombourquette and said, “Good work, Leonard, on getting those resources there in time to save the passengers on the Leila Q. I can almost forgive you for ignoring my desperate pleas for help.”

  Mombourquette said, “Elaine. She’s starting. You said I could leave if she did.”

  “No, no, Leonard. I’m not starting. Just to show you there’s no hard feelings, I’m going to give you a chance to make one last arrest. It’s a surprise. Hope you’ve got your gun.”

  “What gun? You never quit, do you, MacPhee?”

  “Not until it’s over, I don’t. Come with me. Alvin, call 911! Don’t stare, just do it. Don’t use your cell. Tell them it’s an assault in progress and then hang up.”

  I scampered into the house, followed by Leonard, and waited for the surprise. Jacki Jewell didn’t let me down. “Hello,” she said. “I know you’re in the middle of your party. Your assistant has been very excited planning it. Sorry to butt in, but I brought you some lemon squares. Everyone loves lemon squares. I did up a special large one just for you.”