The Icing on the Corpse

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “You know, Conn, I'm not sure that's her in the video. In fact, I'm almost certain it's not. But, even in the unlikely event that it were, she'd have to be psycho to move a body in front of a surveillance camera. I'll make sure she gets a proper psychological evaluation.”

  Mombourquette leaned forward and gazed at the screen. Elaine stood, apparently admiring the unboxed sculpture, her face turned away from the camera. She ran her hand over the smooth surface of the ice.

  Mombourquette's pointy little teeth showed. “Spunky little gal, though, isn't she?”

  Okay, so here's what I believe. Sometimes life can treat us roughly. Then we need a bit of help to cope with some of the slings and arrows. Big deal. I do my bit through Justice for Victims. I've seen what big bureaucracies, small minds and bad breaks can do. I'm happy to line up on the side of the angels and toss a few punches.

  But that's where it ends. I do not believe victims have the right to make every one else miserable. I do not believe it gives you special privileges or absolves you from the responsibility of looking after yourself and just getting over whatever shit happened to you. And except in clear and immediate self-defence, I sure as hell don't believe it gives you the right to kill another human being. Period.

  Despite years in the law, I was foolish enough to believe in justice. I bored myself with my personal philosophy as I drove Mrs. Parnell's LTD back to Lindsay's place on Echo Drive. Elaine might be happy, locked in a cell in the Elgin Street station, waiting for her bail hearing, but I was not.

  Her wacky perception of the public relations benefits for WAVE didn't do it for me. But something bothered me even more. All I needed to put my mind at rest was a couple of minutes upstairs at Lindsay's without anyone watching.

  “Nothing, Merv. I'll tidy things up a bit. Take care of a bit of girl stuff.”

  “You? Tidy up? Girl stuff? Holy shit, what can I expect next? A rain of red frogs?”

  “There are thousands of comedians out of work,” I said. “Several of them are slumped on their butts in the kitchen. I wouldn't try to change jobs if I were you, Bucko.

  “Some things scream for commentary, Camilla.”

  “Right, and here's one. The cops are grilling Elaine about the discovery of Benning's body. They gave me the boot. I need to keep busy. But, as one of the brotherhood, you might be able to ferret out some information from the Ottawa police. I'll keep an eye on Lindsay.”

  Merv stood and looked way, way down at me. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don't upset Lindsay.”

  “Why would you even suggest that, Merv? For one thing, she's sound asleep and sedated up the ying yang. And why would I want to upset her? I'm here to help my client, remember? I brought you here. Does that ring a bell? Who looked after Lindsay's interest while you bitched about driving over?”

  “Yeah, yeah, you know what you're like.”

  Tricky. What could I say? No, I don't know what I'm like? Or I'm not like anything? Neither served as a snappy comeback. After Merv reluctantly headed downstairs, I muttered, “I'm the good guy here.”

  I said it to Lindsay. In fact, I leaned over and whispered it into her ear as she slept. Not so much as a twitch. Excellent. That gave me some time.

  The funny thing about Lindsay was, no matter how terrifying her life became, her home and her bedroom remained pristine. So I found no piles of underwear, no rumpled clothes heaped over a chair, no shoes kicked in the corner. No brushes or makeup tumbled on the dresser tops. No stockings slung on the brushed metal doorknobs. No magazines open. I spotted the golden swirl of her bottle of Organza on the bathroom vanity counter. Her slippers were parked by the bed, waiting for her. That was the extent of the disorder.

  First, I lifted the lid of the laundry hamper. I'd never seen anyone's dirty clothes folded before. Not even in a fashionable bleached cotton mobile hamper. For a bizarre second, I thought Merv might have done it, in a peculiar form of homage to Lindsay. But then I remembered Merv's living quarters. Merv didn't even fold clean laundry. Possibly Merv didn't even have clean laundry.

  Fine. The folded laundry made it easy to check. But I didn't find what I was looking for.

  The customized walk-in closet was the next hot spot. It equalled the size of my Grade Eight classroom at Saint Jim's but with a lot more mirrored surface. I hoped my sisters never got a look at this closet, or serious renovations could replace weddings as the next family obsession. Maybe Lindsay was fussy or a careful spender, but there weren't many clothes in the closet to check. She could have increased her wardrobe tenfold and not filled the hangers, drawers, shelves and shoe holders. I glanced over the jackets, dresses, blouses and slacks hung in colour order. I checked the drawers.

  I returned to the bedroom and dropped to my knees to peer under the bed. Next I tried the laundry room. Someone that meticulous could run a load of laundry even when faced with immediate death. It made as much sense as folding your soiled bra. The laundry room was discreetly out of sight on the bedroom level. The one basket sat empty. So did the washer and dryer. Nothing hung on the little stainless racks.

  I wasn't happy. I headed back to the bedroom and poked behind the shantung silk pillow shams and four pewter-coloured pillows. Lindsay had turned over. I checked the spot where she had been lying, but I didn't find what I was looking for.

  Bad news. Or perhaps I was overreacting. After all, it hadn't been the most relaxed twenty-four hours in my life. So where the hell was the cream cashmere outfit Lindsay had worn the previous day and evening?

  I sure as hell hoped it turned up. In the meantime, Lindsay had been through plenty already. I didn't plan to mention the tunic and pants. And if someone tipped the police that Lindsay's leather boots were sitting in a salty puddle by the front door, it damn well wouldn't be me.

  She was a victim. In my book, she needed protection, not persecution. So I'd have to find out what happened to that tunic before some snoopy cop did. But of course, they had their hands full with Elaine.

  “Thirty-two messages saved for you on the Justice for Victims voice mail,” Alvin said.

  “Great.”

  “You might want to listen to them.”

  “We have enough on our plate here, Alvin. I'll listen to them when I get back to the office.”

  “Let me suggest…”

  “No, Alvin, let me suggest I'll get to them in my own sweet time. Just because you can phone in and get messages doesn't mean you have to. I'm not a slave to this goddam technology.”

  Alvin shrugged. “Your choice, Camilla.”

  “Yes, it is.” Everything always had to be an argument with that boy.

  “There's something you should know.”

  “Put a sock in it.”

  “No problemo.” Alvin leapt out of his chair in Lindsay's kitchen and headed into the living room. Merv sipped his coffee and watched his retreating back. Alvin's bony shoulders were held high. I'd be paying for that “put a sock in it” remark, but I held my ground. Maybe sleeping on the living room floor and facing that particular sock at the crack of dawn had brought out the worst in me.

  “Why the hell doesn't the little jerk get his mangy butt over to your office and open it up?” Merv said.

  “We're off to a slow start today. It can wait. In case you didn't notice.”

  “You never gonna get rid of that guy?”

  “Give me time. At the moment, I have a full agenda.”

  “Yeah, yeah, maybe you should show a little spine, Camilla.”

  I put my own coffee cup on the table and stood up. “I'd better go up and talk to Lindsay.”

  “She's asleep.”

  “Well, time for her to wake up.”

  She raised her head and opened her eyes.

  “Be straight with me, Lindsay,” I said. “I have a question and I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “Of course. Why wouldn't I tell you the truth?”

  “Where are the clothes you wore last night.”

/>   She blinked. “What?”

  “Your long cream sweater. The one you wore yesterday.”

  She puckered her forehead. “Well, it's in the hamper.”

  “No.”

  “But it must be.”

  “Listen to me. It. Is. Not.”

  “Perhaps I hung it up.” Her hands clenched and unclenched.

  I shook my head.

  “Oh. I guess I must have tossed it somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I don't know. I'd have to look.”

  “I've already looked.”

  “Maybe I hung something on top of it. Maybe it slipped behind a chair.”

  I glanced around. “Somehow I don't see you tossing things.

  Or letting your cashmere sweaters slip onto the floor.”

  “Not usually. But this isn't usually.”

  “So where's the sweater?”

  She met my eyes. “What difference does it make?”

  “What difference? Because Ralph Benning was murdered. Because you had a damn good reason to want him dead. Because we all fell asleep and you could have left the house. Because Elaine Ekstein will be charged with his murder. And because.…”

  “Elaine?”

  “That sweater is not in this house. It is nowhere. Ditto the leggings.”

  “Elaine couldn't murder anyone.”

  “True.”

  “How could she be charged?”

  “Easy. The police think she could have done it.”

  “But that's silly. Elaine? What an idea.”

  “Where's the sweater, Lindsay.”

  She raised her elegant chin. “I don't know where it is.”

  “Did you leave the house last night?”

  “Of course not.”

  I spotted the little flash of anger behind her words. Interesting. Anger was a change from Lindsay's usual grace and fragility. Maybe I'd been treated to a glimpse of the real person. “Then where's your sweater?”

  Merv loomed into the room and stood between Lindsay and me. “She's already told you she doesn't know.”

  “Thank you, but I'm not finished here.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Goddam it, Merv, let go of my arm.”

  I found myself staring at the closed door of Lindsay's bedroom. Of course, it takes more than that to stop one of the MacPhee girls. I turned the handle. Locked. I rattled the handle. Nothing.

  I knocked on the door. Still nothing. I poised to give it a nice solid kick when I felt Alvin's hot breath.

  “I can't believe even you would do this, Camilla.” Reproach oozed out of his pores.

  “Do you believe Elaine will spend the night in the slammer?”

  “No, she won't. And even if she did, Elaine's tough as old rope. There's no reason for you to terrorize Lindsay.”

  “Terrorize? I'll terrorize you, you little twerp.”

  Alvin managed a certain bony dignity. “You have to pull yourself together, Camilla. I can't allow you to upset Lindsay.”

  While I sputtered “You? What do you mean you can't allow me?” I lost my advantage. Alvin insinuated himself between the door and me. The only way to knock would be to push him down the stairs first. I thought about it.

  Unlike the others, Mrs. Parnell did not treat me like a pariah. She poured my cup of coffee and issued her stream of smoke away from my face, always a sign of affection on her part.

  “Quite the discussion.”

  “You heard it from down here?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Well, I had a legitimate question and I didn't get any kind of a legitimate answer.”

  Mrs. Parnell issued one of her long wheezy chuckles that always tempt me to call 911. “So I gathered.”

  “Maybe I lost it a bit.”

  “Who doesn't get caught up in the heat of battle from time to time? And the question remains not only legitimate but delicate. We shall have to be most strategic in this matter.”

  “But Alvin and Merv don't share your opinion.”

  “Nevertheless,” Mrs. Parnell said. “Ain't love grand?

  “I can't believe you didn't tell me you were protecting Lindsay Grace. I'm your buddy, Tiger. You could trust me with your life.”

  I lounged at the table at Dunn's and watched P. J. fiddle with his fried eggs. Dunn's has an all-day breakfast, which was handy because P. J. was late, even by his standards. I could tell his mind was on the Benning story and how I might have information to improve it.

  “You're a reporter. I wouldn't even trust you with your life. And don't bother pouting. It'll give you wrinkles.”

  P. J. poked at the home fries. “Don't hold back on me. What's the dope on Elaine Ekstein? Cops slapped her into interrogation fast enough. Did she know this Benning?”

  I didn't have the heart to tell him I wanted information from him. There was no plan to give him any.

  “It's a mistake, P. J. They're grasping at straws.”

  “Got a tip for you. Cops are confident she did it. They're closing the book on it.” He waited.

  “That's crap and you know it. Elaine couldn't kill someone. Three officers staked out Lindsay's place. How could she or anyone else get out without them noticing? Incompetence? Or railroading? Your call.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Your turn to trust me. If you find out how Elaine was supposed to have slipped by them, let me know. Maybe she can make herself invisible at will.”

  P. J. slipped from the booth, tossed a ten on the table and ran like hell for the door. “Will do.”

  Well, that was one way to find out what happened to Benning. Wait and read it in the paper.

  “We have no comment at this time.” I tried to push past a circus of journalists, mikes and cameras outside the Elgin Street Courthouse on the way to Elaine's bail hearing.

  Elaine took a different approach. “I'd like to take this opportunity to say…”

  I stuck myself in between her and the brace of microphones. “My client has no comment.”

  I thought I saw P. J. Lynch well back in the crowd. Of course, unlike the guys with the television cameras, he could head on in and hear for himself. Mind you, that crossed the border between police reporter and court reporter, but maybe it was time for P. J. to make the switch and get the occasional night's sleep.

  “Elaine! Did you do it?” An anonymous voice attached to a mike.

  “No comment.”

  “Elaine, do you have any words for battered women?”

  “We have no comment.”

  Elaine said, “Well, I certainly do.”

  I stood up taller, the better to block her face from the flashes. “My client has no comment on that issue.” I turned to her and whispered, “You have no goddam comment. Now move your butt through the door on the double.”

  “No comment,” I called back over my shoulder as we swung into the Courthouse.

  We were all the way into Courtroom Number Five before I finished Elaine's short refresher on how to behave before the media and in the court. I pulled no punches.

  The Superior Court judge had a crisp new perm and manicured short nails lacquered in a classic red. She also had a rep for not suffering fools gladly. I hoped to hell we weren't about to be fools. Although with Alvin along as my able assistant, the possibility was real.

  The Crown was represented by Mia Reilly, profoundly irritating in her black robe and expensive cologne. But so what? We were in an excellent position. The Crown might not think Elaine should get bail, but I didn't expect to have any trouble showing cause.

  “Your honour, my client is a professional social worker, a tireless volunteer, a member of the boards of directors of numerous charities and social agencies in the city. She is highly regarded.” I felt no need to spotlight the small matter of picketing and protesting and even less reason to mention traffic violations and parking tickets. Let alone that awkward occasion when guards had ejected her from the visitors' gallery of the House of Commons.

  “She i
s a respectable member of society, fully supported by her family and friends. We ask that she be released on her own recognizance. There is absolutely no danger of flight, nor is she a threat to the community.”

  “I wouldn't go that far.” Elaine had a voice that carried.

  “Be quiet,” I said, as softly as I could.

  Elaine beamed at the judge. One judgely eyebrow rose.

  “Ms. MacPhee, are you responsible for your client?”

  “Of course, Your Honour.”

  “Keep that in mind.”

  “I certainly will, Your Honour.”

  “There is no likelihood your client would fail to appear?

  “No, Your Honour.”

  “Could happen,” said Elaine.

  “Absolutely not, Your Honour,” I paused long enough to give Elaine a sharp kick in the ankle.

  The judge's eyebrow hit her hairline. And the shit hit the fan. “Bail denied. The accused will be held in the Regional Detention Centre until preliminary hearing.”

  Of course, that could be six months.

  The irritating Mia Reilly smiled and bobbed her sleek blonde head in approval. No one in court had a problem with Elaine being slapped behind bars. Except me and Alvin.

  Unless you counted Mombourquette. I spotted him in the back row, his mouth a tense line.

  “I hope you're happy,” I whispered in his greyish pointed ear as I walked past. “An innocent creature like Elaine, think she'll survive in the RDC? Lots of guys in there are serial batterers she helped put behind bars. Something to think about.”

  Even though we both knew men and women were well-segregated at the RDC, I took some pleasure as his pale olive face turned to putty.

  Another thing bothered me. I could understand how I could fall asleep at Lindsay Grace's place, ditto Alvin, Mrs. Parnell, Elaine and even Merv. We'd been lulled by hot carbohydrates and general winter laziness. But what about the two officers watching the front of the house and the one guarding the rear entrance? Shouldn't they have been shot for dereliction of duty? Since when were our tax dollars supposed to be asleep at the wheel? Funny. P. J. knew nothing about them.

  I had no choice but to cozy up to McCracken and find out what had happened to the three officers outside Lindsay's place. I gave him a call and tried to cushion the blow by suggesting we meet at the Second Cup near the police station.