[C. MacP #5] The Dead Don't Get Out Much Read online

“Nothing. Nothing for Orf either. Maybe that's someone's name.”

  “Ore is the Italian word for hours. That doesn't help us, does it?”

  Alvin kept pecking at the keyboard. “Nope. I'm trying to find something about these towns that will link them in some way.”

  “You know what?” I smacked myself in the forehead.

  He glanced at me, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “What?”

  “I'll need a car to visit these places.”

  “Are you sure you want to drive over there? I've heard about those Italian drivers. Can't you just take buses and trains?”

  “No way, if I'm heading to a bunch of mountain towns in different parts of the country. Are you turning into my sisters, Alvin?”

  “Remind me to laugh.”

  “I'm heading over to the CAA in Lincoln Fields to get my travel health insurance, an international driver's license and a couple of other things. I'll book a car through them. I know it's cheaper if you make your arrangements before you leave Canada. There's a currency exchange out there too.”

  “You have fun,” Alvin said. “I know, I know, someone has to stay here and work.”

  “By the way, I may as well take those letters to Italy. I'll have plenty of time on my hands, I can study them in more detail.”

  Alvin paled. “They're important to Violet. What if something happens, and you lose them?”

  “Relax. I'm not going to lose anything.”

  “Your luggage could go missing.”

  “What luggage? My little carry-on? My purse? Lighten up, Alvin. We have enough troubles without hallucinating new ones.”

  “Have it your way,” he said. “You're not getting the originals. I'll get you copies. And some copies of a picture of Violet. I should make a poster.”

  * * *

  I was well behind schedule when I got back home. I'd arranged for a car rental pick-up at the Milan airport, plus taken out health insurance, picked up a road guide and purchased stick-on Canadian flags, large enough to be noticed, for my carry-on. One major item remained. I straightened my spine, called Ray and spilled the beans.

  Ray said, “Where?”

  “Italy.”

  “Huh. Well, Italy's not actually on the list of the places we can get deals on.”

  “Okay, I feel like a crumb, but I have to find Mrs. P. No choice. We can take a vacation together when we're not facing a crisis.”

  “Don't know how to break it to you, Camilla: there hasn't been a crisis-free zone since I've known you. Unless you count the two months this fall when you were recovering from a concussion and couldn't get into any trouble. I was on sick leave. I guess that wasn't facing a crisis, because all the crises had already happened.”

  “We should have recovered in Mexico or something.”

  “Another missed opportunity.”

  “Come on, I'm sure we'll have nice uneventful trips. Think about it. This isn't the ideal circumstance for a relaxed holiday.”

  “Guess you got that right.”

  “I managed to get a seat on Air Canada, leaving this afternoon and connecting through Frankfurt. I get to Milan tomorrow morning. I should be at the airport already.”

  “You're leaving now? It's hard to keep up with you. I can't believe you planned an entire trip and called when you're leaving for the airport.”

  “Thanks, Ray, for understanding. You know I owe my life to her.”

  “Stay in touch and avoid situations.”

  “Don't worry.”

  “I won't be able to stop worrying. Do you have a plan for when you get there?”

  “I'm sure I will have.”

  “Dear God,” he said.

  “It will be a very good one. It's a long flight.”

  “I don't believe this.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Ray. We've already lost Mrs. P. What else could go wrong?”

  “About a million things.”

  “Hold that thought,” I said. “Gotta leave, or I'll never get through security in time.”

  14 Bridge Street

  Chesterton, Ontario

  September 23, 1944

  Dear Violet,

  I am so terribly sorry to hear about Harry's dreadful injuries. It is almost impossible to imagine this added tragedy so few months after Perce's death. They were like brothers. I cannot close my eyes and picture one without seeing both of them, so full of boyish high spirits. I only hope Harry will make it. Perce would have wanted that. They both had so much to offer us and the world. One of them has to go on.

  We both know Harry is also a valiant man and a great fighter. He will overcome this adversity. No matter how much the burns will have affected him physically, he will still be one of our golden boys. He is very lucky to have you on his side. It must be very difficult not to be able to see him now when he needs you most.

  The new school year has started, and I have a large class of children. The girls, with a few exceptions, are eager to learn and well-behaved. The boys are a different matter. It is hard to get the enthusiasm to instill knowledge into their thick heads when you think that in a few years a war may claim them in a foreign country. I shouldn't say such things, I realize. However, this ghastly war has cost us all dearly and continues to do so.

  You are in my thoughts. I can take some comfort in the fact that you have stayed in England, at least, and not gone off to the continent to be killed alongside our poor fighting men.

  Sincerely,

  Betty Connaught

  Eight

  The minute the wheels touched the tarmac at Linate Airport, everything changed. People smiled. They called me signora. I'll take signora before Ma'am any old day. I might have been crabby after flying all night and attempting to work my way through forgotten Italian words, but I wasn't.

  The first part of my plan involved picking up a car. The second part of the same plan involved finding someone who recognized Mrs. P. I submitted my papers to the dark-haired man behind the counter, where I'd expected to arrange to pick up my car. This resulted in a waving of hands. There were many rapid words too. I had no idea what they meant. I reminded myself I was in Europe and responded with a magnificent shrug and matching hand gestures. For added emphasis, I stabbed my finger on the papers and said, “Già pagato in Canada. Pagato! Pagato!” Already paid in Canada.

  The dark-haired man said, “Is mistake. We don't have thees car.”

  “Fine,” I said, “give me another one.”

  There was such a flap behind the counter that I figured they must be paid by the word.

  “Un'ora,” he said. “One hour. We have, signora.”

  I didn't wish to expend any energy on a temper tantrum, so I said, “All right.”

  I slumped on the plastic bench nearby and asked myself what Mrs. P. would do. Of course, I already knew she'd come up with a strategy. I fished through my papers and pulled out the nice little poster Alvin had done up, with her photo, her name, age, and MISSING written across the top with bold lettering. He'd put my phone number and his e-mail address. In the poster, Mrs. P. was smiling and jaunty, her grey hair in a neat bun, her hand raised in a salute. That was before she'd started seeing dead people.

  I found a washroom, where I cleaned my face, used some bottled water to brush my teeth and slapped on a layer of the Dior Graffiti Red. I managed a half-hearted attempt to tame my hair and made tracks back to the rental counters.

  I started at the next car rental and flashed my lipsticky smile at them. I answered to “Signora, buon giorno.” Next I pointed at Mrs. Parnell and asked in my best Italian if the clerk had seen her.

  Smiles, spectacular shrugs. The woman at the first counter said, “Sua nonna?”

  I shrugged again. The translation part of my brain was still asleep.

  The woman stared at me. The woman standing next to her said in perfect English, “She asked if this is your grandmother?”

  I blinked. “Yes! It is! Mia nonna!”

  That went over well. Everyone smiled.


  “Have you seen her?” I asked the English-speaking woman.

  “We see so many people.”

  “Her name is Violet Parnell,” I said. “Does that help?”

  A quick check of their computers showed that it didn't.

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “Not in our system. Good luck, signora.”

  I thanked her and moved off to the next counter. I slapped down the picture again and tried in English. “This is my nonna,” I said. “Mrs. Violet Parnell. She is sick and lost. I need to find her. Big emergency.” At that counter and the next two, the language barrier raised its head. Everyone was friendly and pleasant, but all I managed to produce was a look of bafflement.

  I stopped to consult my dictionary. I looked up the words sick, lost and family emergency. Nothing to lose. I returned and tried with La nonna è malata, La nonna è perduta, and è un’ emergenza per la famiglia.

  Zero results, lots of sympathy. In fact, I left behind me a trail of workers who obviously loved their nonnas to bits and felt my loss. Despite their wishes, I was feeling pretty low by the time I got to the last counter. I did my intro one more time.

  “Certainly, signora,” the man behind the counter said. And then, “Sorry, no record of her in our system.”

  At that moment, we were joined by the woman from the first counter. She had a printed paper in her hand. “We have found your nonna!” she said.

  “That's wonderful.”

  “She was here yesterday. We didn't recognize her from this photograph. Was it taken a long time ago?”

  “In September,” I said. “Before she started to get sick.”

  Everyone nodded sadly. One woman bit her lip.

  “Do you remember how she seemed?” I said, straining unsuccessfully to see the paper. “Was she understanding everything?”

  “No, she seemed very intelligent. She spoke some Italian even, more than…” She stopped herself abruptly and looked at me. “Everything appeared normal.” I caught the implication that I came up short in that department myself. Maybe I needed a better phrase book.

  The girl next to her uttered a rapid-fire sentence. Everyone laughed

  “What?” I said. “What's funny?”

  “She went outside to have a cigarette. Our grandmothers would not do that. They probably wouldn't rent an Opel and drive off into another country either.”

  “She's definitely in a class of her own,” I said. “By any chance, did she happen to mention where she was headed to next?”

  “Not to me, signora.”

  “She was thinking about Berli, Pieve San Simone, Montechiaro and Alcielo,” I said.

  “I don't remember her mentioning any of them. We mostly talked about relatives. I have a lot of cousins in Toronto. That's where I learned to speak English. She had a conversation with my colleague too. Momentino, I'll ask.”

  She turned and directed the question to the girl next to her. A staccato conversation ensued. I leaned forward, but I couldn't make out a single word.

  “She said she was looking forward to seeing the mountains,” the woman said.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “So I think it must be Berli, that's in the Apennines.”

  “Is it a big place?”

  “I imagine it would be just a mountain village. It's not really on the tourist track. Most of the clients who would go there would be people with relatives in the area.”

  “How far?” I asked.

  One hour later, in addition to the best wishes of the two women, coupled with greetings to Mrs. P., I had a map with the route out of Milan marked in yellow highlighter. I had a second map with the route to Berli clearly indicated too. I was on my way in something called a Ka, which is a vehicle made by Ford slightly smaller than my sister's new dishwasher. I was hot on the trail of my alleged grandmother who, unlike me, was travelling in style in a silver Opel. I had to hand it to her. Mrs. Parnell might have been losing her marbles, but not her sense of occasion.

  * * *

  Let me set you straight about Italy. Outside of the cities, it is very green, and much of it is situated on forty-five degree slopes. Imagine vineyards marching up and down. The roads are dotted with snazzy cars doing two hundred kilometres an hour. I should also mention there are a zillion silver Opels going almost as fast. My Ka, on the other hand, just chugged along a little faster than a roller blade. On the autostrada, there were no English signs, and apparently no speed limit. If it hadn't been for the toll booths, some cars might have become airborne. I was damned glad to get off it. The smaller roads were a bit better, if you didn't count the narrow lanes, blind corners, steep hills and complete lack of guardrails.

  The further south I drove from the urban industrialization and design mecca of Milan, the more the countryside changed. Soon enough, the roadway was surrounded by vineyards snaking up hillsides.

  I was making good progress towards Berli when I found myself heading for a ditch. I swerved back on to the road. The Ka would have fishtailed, if it had had a tail to fish. What was wrong with me? It occurred to me that I might need to eat. Perhaps that's why I was feeling lightheaded. I gripped the wheel and drove until I passed an old stone building with a sign indicating it had a small hotel and a bar-restaurant. That looked promising. A large shambling dog wandered outside. It reminded me a bit of Gussie.

  I had a glass of the proprietors’ own red wine, a bottle of mineral water and a plate of fragrant local salami, salty cheese and warm crusty bread. It was hard not to care about that food, although my eyelids kept thumping closed. The hostess pressed a second glass of red on me. If I understood her, the offer came because I was Canadian. I did my best to resist, which isn't easy in Italy. Even the first glass wasn't such a good idea in retrospect. The last thing I needed was to relax.

  I don't know why I was surprised, after two sleepless nights and a head full of worry, the high-octane vino rosso caught up with me. My eyelids kept closing. The hotel had rooms available, which came as no surprise, and they seemed unconcerned that I only wanted to crash for a couple of hours. I was canadese, therefore, they expected me to be nice but weird. They were used to Canadians. They had cousins in Moose Jaw. As long as I was paying the day's rate, I could do what I wanted.

  Si, signora. Va bene.

  These were fast becoming my favourite words.

  I produced the picture of Mrs. P. No one had seen her. Oh, well. I stumbled up the stone stairs, heaved my carry-on and my purse onto the single chair and pitched headfirst onto the small hard bed. I have no memory of hitting the feather pillows. Nor of any dreams. I think that was a good thing. When I finally opened my eyes, the sky was a strange grey. It took a couple of minutes lying there, hearing a man and woman sharing an apparently hilarious exchange from downstairs before I figured out where I was.

  I stuck my head out the window to encounter fog. Solid, almost impenetrable, from the ankle up. I couldn't see the Ka parked ten feet away.

  I wasn't going anywhere.

  * * *

  My cellphone did not care for this particular location in the Italian hills. In fact, it had been uncooperative since I got off the plane. I was forced to fall back on Plan B, which was to use the Canada Direct number on a pay phone and bill the call to my calling card number. On the bright side, it was a much cheaper option. The drawback was it meant finding a public phone whenever I needed to check in with Command Post Alvin. After three tries, I got the hang of it.

  “Uh-oh, Camilla. You better call Ray,” Alvin said.

  I don't know what I was expecting. How was your fourteen-hour trip, maybe?

  “Of course, I'll call him. He knows I'm in transit. Tell me, any luck so far?”

  “He's pretty insistent. He says he can't reach your cellphone.”

  “It's not working over here. I'll call him. Fill me in first.”

  “I haven't found anyone who'll give me information about Mrs. Parnell and the people she served with. I keep getting voicemail. I'll keep at them. Maybe everyone needs a res
t the week after Remembrance Day.”

  “Could be. How's it going with the surveillance stuff?”

  “The Super let me in. I have to look at the images on his computer. Mostly they're residents and regulars, like me. I got to know a lot of people since meeting you and Violet. After a while, you can't concentrate any more. The Super had to go out, so I'm going back later.”

  “What about this guy who passed us when we were heading into Mrs. P.’s place, after she left the hospital?”

  “He's there. I can't see his face clearly.”

  “It's just that the timing's right. He has to be the one who was searching her apartment, and he decided to leave when we started to ring the bell. I bet that box had her missing laptop and camera.”

  “Unless she took them with her. Anyway, the Super thinks he's seen this guy before, so I'll watch a bit more and see if he shows up again. Did you learn anything? You distracted me from Violet, the most important thing.”

  “She was all right when she rented her car at Milan airport. No one noticed anything odd about her behaviour, except that she was smoking. They think she was heading for the mountains. They loved the idea that she was taking this car around Italy, by herself.”

  “Cool,” Alvin said.

  “Well, it will be cooler when we find her. I'd better get on the road again.”

  “Call Ray,” Alvin said.

  * * *

  “And just where are you?” Ray said.

  “Somewhere along the road to Berli.”

  “You don't know the name, or how long you'll be there?”

  “What's with the tone, Ray? This an inquisition?”

  “If you didn't want an inquisition, you shouldn't have mentioned swerving all over the road because you're exhausted and you're in a strange country, and I believe you said you were driving a lawn mower.”

  “It was a joke. I'm driving a Ka, which is also a joke, I guess. Look, Ray, I've been to Italy before. I know what I'm doing. And don't sigh, Ray. You sound like my sister Donalda. Not a good thing.”

  “I could meet you and help you look for Mrs. Parnell.”

  “I'll be fine.”

  What the hell was wrong with me? Here was a police officer, with all those useful police skills, who refused to be thrown off by snide remarks and crabby behaviour. I knew first hand what a warm heart he had. So why didn't I just say yes?