The Icing on the Corpse Page 2

  You get what you pay for in office space. In our case, not much. Justice for Victims is in a lousy financial position at best. It would be a hell of a lot worse if I took a realistic salary. Or if Alvin did.

  Was it my imagination or could I see my breath? I put the hat back on.

  “Guess you're not expecting anyone to drop in,” Alvin said.

  I still didn't bite.

  “Wind chill factor must be some new record. I can tell because all those little hairs on your upper lip are covered with frost.”

  My hand shot up to my face.

  “What hairs on my upper lip?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  Alvin so often wins in the game of gotcha. As if it weren't bad enough being the stubby, dark-haired younger sister to a trio of elegant, willowy blondes, now I had a moustache. This could send my family into crisis. They'd have me waxed and plucked and probed by a dermatologist if they even suspected a hairy upper lip.

  Alvin leaned back and flicked his ponytail over his shoulder. Behind the cat's eye glasses, his eyes glittered. He didn't react to the cold other than conversationally. The shirt with the parrot motif was a nice touch. So was the Jimmy Buffett CD. “Margaritaville” blasted out of Alvin's portable player.

  But what was different about him? Ah. I spotted the squeeze tube of flash tan on the desk. That explained the coconut scent in the air. It also explained why Alvin's face was an odd shade of rust, as was one of his arms.

  “Are you turning orange, Alvin? Perhaps you should seek medical attention before it's too late.”

  “I'm using the power of positive thinking. You should try it. Decide it's not cold. Let your mind dictate to your body.”

  “Assuming you have a mind,” I muttered. “The jury's still out.”

  But Alvin wasn't finished. “If your mind dictates to your body, then you don't have to be a prisoner of winter and wear ugly clothes and have frost on your lip which makes you look like W. O. Mitchell. The white moustache, I mean, especially teamed with those red socks. Although, I'm not sure W.O. would have been caught dead in that hat.”

  I picked up the coffee from his desk, bent down and retrieved the bag with the biscotti, and limped over to my own desk. I sat in silence and popped the lid. All the foam was gone. I took my first taste. Slightly better than a cold shower.

  “It's not a style for everybody, but you carry it off, Camilla.”

  Sometimes you have to make the best of adversity. On a typical day, I send Alvin on clusters of low-level yet time-consuming errands all over town: the post office, the dry cleaners, the bank. He finds addresses from the public library, pays traffic tickets at City Hall, and picks out birthday cards for my sisters, although after his last selection I had to stop that. But this could be the morning to send him to the drugstore for panty liners.

  I dipped my biscotti into the flat cool latte and daydreamed about precisely what it would take to carry Alvin out of my life. I was rubbing my socks in an effort to restore feeling to my toes when the phone rang. And rang again.

  “Answer the phone, Alvin.” I did not swear. I did not indulge in sarcasm. I did not hyperventilate. Not even on the third ring. I didn't want Alvin to press my buttons. This was harder than it sounds. “And take a message if it's one of my sisters.”

  Midway through the fourth ring, before it flipped over to call answer, Alvin lifted the receiver with a languid hand and produced the kind of upbeat chirp you might expect in a chewing gum commercial.

  “Justice for Victims. Good morning! Yes. Yes, it is. What? Oh! All right, certainly, I'll see if she's available. Please hold.”

  “What? Of course I'm available. I'm right in front of you.” I reached over and snatched the receiver from Alvin's hand. “Camilla MacPhee here.”

  “It's your sister,” Alvin said.

  “Damn.” Too late. I didn't even have time to ask which one.

  Edwina's measured tones drifted down the line. “Camilla, you have to get rid of that boy.” In a previous life Edwina might have been a head of state, leading the population through war and famine, brooking no opposition, keeping the dungeons full. Of my three sisters, she is the one I am least fond of finding on the end of a phone line.

  “Perhaps you're right,” I said, “but I'm always afraid they'll bring back the death penalty.”

  “Why can't he answer the phone like any normal person?”

  “He can't, that's all. He just can't, and he'll never be able to. Deal with it and move on, Edwina. Or better yet, back me up the next time I try to tell our mutual father why I need a change of staff.”

  “Oh, Camilla, you know how Daddy is about helping people. He'd never understand.”

  Nicely understated. Somewhere back in time, my father had fond memories of Alvin's mother, now the widow of a spectacularly alcoholic shoe salesman. Alvin was number six of seven children and definitely in need of help. Since my father is the only person in the world I've never talked back to, Alvin continues to clog my life in his own special way.

  My cellphone rang. This time Alvin answered on ring one.

  “You're right, Daddy won't understand,” I said to Edwina. “And I'm stuck with the situation. So learn to call me at home.”

  Alvin tapped my shoulder.

  Edwina likes to dish out orders, not receive them. “No need to be snippy, Miss. I need your cooperation to deal with Alexa's wedding. The way it's going, it will drive the whole family crazy.”

  I swatted at Alvin's hand. “Take a message,” I mouthed.

  “The whole family's already crazy, Edwina,” I said. “And what do you have to complain about, anyway? It's not like you're stuck with being a bridesmaid. Try a little perspective.”

  “Perspective?” Edwina sounded like she was choking. “Don't tell me to show a little perspective, Little-Miss-I-can't cooperate on any of the arrangements for my own sister's wedding because I was put on this earth to make life difficult for the human race.”

  Alvin moved over to the front of my desk. He had his hand over the receiver. “I think you'd better take this one.”

  “Listen, Edwina, if you mean the…”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “No need to be nasty.”

  I showed Alvin my middle finger.

  Edwina sputtered from the receiver.

  “Gotta go, Edwina. We should keep the discussions of the wedding to non-office hours, since you're so emotional.”

  “What? You listen to me, Camilla MacPhee. You are the biggest problem we have. The point of my call is to tell you to shape up.”

  Alvin stuck his face six inches from mine. Behind the pointy black spectacles his eyes were slits. He tried to wrap my hand around the receiver.

  “One minute.”

  “Don't you ‘one minute’ me,” Edwina barked. “Your sister has a well-deserved second chance at happiness, and she doesn't need you to act like a spoiled brat and ruin everything. Do I make myself clear?”

  “If Alexa's foolish enough to think she can be happy with a pudgy middle-aged police officer.…”

  It takes more than a loud voice to force the supreme ruler to back down. “Fine. We're having a family dinner,” she said. “Wednesday. My place. Six thirty. We'll discuss it then.”

  Family dinner? I thought fast. Trip out of town? Frostbite? Amnesia? “But.”

  “No buts. Stan will pick you up.” Edwina hung up before I could think of twelve unassailable reasons why I couldn't attend. Trounced again.

  Alvin paced in front of my desk. The parrots on his shirt flapped.

  “Is it necessary to hound me when I'm on the phone?”

  “It's Lindsay Grace,” he said. “She says it's an emergency.”

  I grabbed the receiver.

  “Lindsay?”

  Nothing.

  “Lindsay? It's Camilla. Are you all right?”

  Dead air.

  “Lindsay!” Shouting didn't help. The dial tone was the last sound I wanted to hear. I s
ank into my chair. To do Alvin credit, he didn't think it was funny.

  “Did she say where she was calling from?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did she say what happened?”

  “No. She said it was urgent, and she needed to talk to you.”

  “That was it?”

  “She kept saying Benning was out.”

  “Hardly.”

  “That's what she said. She was practically hysterical.”

  “Well, she's often hysterical. And he can't be out. That's absurd.”

  “But what if he is?”

  I couldn't bring myself to think about it.

  “Not possible. Ralph Benning is a guest of the Regional Detention Centre, and he's not going anywhere.”

  “But it's Benning. Anything could happen. He is going somewhere. They have to move him to the Courthouse.” Behind the fake tan, Alvin was pale. Who wouldn't be?

  “Look, Alvin. He is behind Plexiglas and bars. When they move him, he'll be shackled and surrounded by big guys with Glocks and nervous twitches.”

  He turned toward the wall and bit his lip. “He'll murder her. Remember? He's threatened to.”

  I remembered all right. If anyone could escape, he could. And if Ralph Benning was out, he would find a way to kill Lindsay. No doubt about it. But how could he be out? My hands were shaking as I dialed her number.

  But Lindsay Grace didn't answer.

  Three

  Stop hyperventilating, Alvin.”

  “Well, do something. If he's cunning enough to slip out of jail, he can find her too.”

  “It's obviously some kind of mistake, but if she's upset, she needs help. I'll head right over and see what I can do to reassure her. It's probably the stress of knowing the sentencing hearing's today. She's been overwrought.”

  “I'll call 911,” Alvin said. “She needs help.”

  I yanked the receiver from his hand. “No. Remember the last time he was on the loose so long? People figured he has some kind of inside contact. Even Lindsay thought so. We don't want some dispatcher blasting out Lindsay's address and the wrong person hearing it and passing the information on to Benning. He could use some of his connections to harass her.”

  “Lord thundering Jesus.”

  “Exactly.” I stuck my feet into the depths of the icy boots.

  “I'm coming with you.” Alvin grabbed his studded black leather jacket from the coat rack. I knew his jacket had no winter lining, although it was accessorized with an extensive Mickey Mouse scarf. Oh sure, that was all I needed. To have to explain to my father and Alvin's sainted mother how I'd encouraged him to die of exposure while under my tutelage.

  “You must be kidding.”

  “I'm not kidding.” Alvin's black eyes flashed behind the cat's eye glasses.

  “You are not coming.”

  “Yes, I am.” Alvin was already zipping up the jacket.

  “Get this straight, Alvin. You are staying here.”

  “Wrong.”

  I hate that manic glitter in his eyes. Time to change tactics. No point in discussing his lack of suitable winter clothing. I didn't want to bring on another bout of mind over matter. “Your newfound interest in social justice is touching, but it's important for you to be in the office.”

  “That's quite a change in policy.”

  He had a point. I spend my energy devising ways to remove him from the office on a permanent basis. He raised one eyebrow over the rim of the cat's eye glasses. It was an effect my sisters would have envied. But I was ready for him. “Lindsay may call here, and if you don't answer, she could panic and put herself at risk. She could go into hiding, and we wouldn't be able to contact her at all. That's why.”

  Alvin's hand paused on the zipper.

  I said, “So, if she does call, keep her calm, find out what happened and call me on my cellphone.”

  Alvin removed the jacket and slumped back in his seat.

  “Okay,” he said.

  I busied myself with my parka and gloves. I was still wearing the hat, socks and long silk underwear. Alvin busied himself staring at the phone. Jimmy Buffett busied himself singing “Trying to Reason With Hurricane Season”.

  I snatched the cellphone. “And turn the music off and put the radio on CBC. This is not a holiday camp.”

  Alvin plunked his feet on the desk and watched me slantily. “Aloha,” he called as I headed for the parking garage.

  I'd been parked long enough for my recently acquired, pre-enjoyed Honda Civic to chill. The engine turned over on the third try. By that time, the vinyl seats had frozen my behind. Despite the red socks, my feet felt ready for amputation. I sat shivering and prayed the car would warm up before the engine flooded or the battery died. It wouldn't help Lindsay Grace if I joined the long list of people praying to be rescued by the CAA. A one-hour wait on sub-zero vinyl.

  Therefore, I wasn't going anywhere until the heat gauge crept from the red into the black zone. The air in the garage was full of exhaust fumes. I gobbled some mints to get the taste out of my mouth. Winter in the nation's capital. No end to the fun.

  I kept trying Lindsay's line, but the phone rang on and on. I was about to dial for the tenth time, when my own phone rang. “Hello, Alvin. Did Lindsay call back?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then why are you tying up the line?”

  “Don't you have your radio on?”

  “No, I'm warming the car, and I don't want to drain the battery. I also don't want to chat. Hang up.”

  “It's on the radio. It's confirmed. Benning's escaped.”

  “What? I can't believe it!”

  “Believe it. He was supposed to have had a dental emergency, and when they were moving him somewhere, he overpowered his guard somehow and disappeared.”

  “Not even possible.”

  “Possible, and that's not all. The guard who was escorting him? Benning bit off his nose.”

  “What?”

  “Bit the guards nose off.” Alvin s voice rose.

  “Oh, how could that happen? He had only one guard?”

  “I don't know how many, but they reported Benning was armed.”

  “How could he be armed? He was in jail!”

  “You tell me.”

  My heart thundered against my ribs. Lindsay.

  Alvin said, “And there's an unconfirmed report an officer was shot.”

  “When?”

  “As far as I can figure out, it must have happened about an hour ago. Explains all those sirens.”

  “Where are their brains? They might have figured out a lunatic like Benning would need a back-up guard. A guy facing an indefinite sentence might be willing to take a real big chance. But how the hell could he have a weapon?”

  “Wait a minute. There's an update. Wow, shot at least one officer during his escape.”

  I was thinking fast.

  Alvin squeaked, “He must have called Lindsay. No wonder she was so upset.”

  “No, her phone's unlisted. Only a couple of people have it. He wouldn't know it.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Maybe she caught the news report and called us right away.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Has to be,” I said.

  “You better shift your butt, Camilla.”

  I let it slide, just that once.

  Ralph Benning had nothing to lose going after Lindsay.

  “I'm on my way, but we have to get the police there fast without alerting Benning to the location.”

  “But you said…Okay, so how do we let them know?”

  I fished out my phone book. “You track down Elaine Ekstein. Here's her cell number. She always picks up. Explain what's happened. She'll fix it. She makes a lot of noise as Executive Director of WAVE. She'll tell them to hustle enough officers over to Lindsay's and do it on the QT.”

  “But Elaine's a civilian. What if they don't listen to her?”

  “Trust me. They'll listen. Every cop in this town's scared shitless of Elain
e.”

  My father spent twenty years as a high school principal. The legacy is a nice pension and a collection of useful clichés. His favourite saying has always been when the going gets tough, the tough get going. My sisters prefer to say when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. In my case, when the going gets tough, the tough get stupid. Which means that I wasn't giving proper respect to Benning's cunning abilities as I eased off the ramp and onto the street.

  January's gift to the residents of Ottawa had been snow. Most of it was still piled on the edges of the side streets. That reduced the streets to one car width in many cases. Under the snow was ice. I didn't want to slide off the road, because I already knew I wouldn't find a tow truck in any big hurry.

  Well, what did I have to bitch about? Icy vinyl seats? Small potatoes compared to knowing that a man who would slam a wounded woman with a baseball bat was on your trail. Benning would still have the taste of the guard's blood in his mouth. But Lindsay. I couldn't imagine what it would feel like to sit alone and wait for Ralph Benning.

  I used the time at red lights to place calls that might yield a bit of new information on the Benning situation. First, I phoned my brother-in-law-to-be in Major Crimes. We didn't see eye to eye on much, but he would be steaming over this. Conn McCracken takes a dim view of domestic assault, to begin with. He'd done the groundwork on Benning's last arrest. He'd seen Rina Benning's broken body in the hospital. He'd know what it meant to have Benning loose. He'd understand what Lindsay Grace was up against.

  I left a message after the beep.

  You'll never catch me complaining about voice mail. I love it. What's not to love about a technology where no one can avoid your opinions and instructions any time of the day or night?

  Next I punched in P. J. Lynch's cell number. That's the best part about having a reporter friend. He'd know what was happening. If I were lucky, he'd fill me in. Speculation and all. He must have been on the line. I left my detailed message after the beep.

  Twenty minutes later, six blocks from Lindsay's townhouse, my brain engaged. Benning was smart. I still got chills remembering his cocky smirk when I'd accompanied Lindsay to testify at his trial. He knew I was her legal support. He knew I was connected and in touch. As soon as the word reached her or me, he'd bet I'd head out to protect her.