Law and Disorder (5 page)

“Yeah, that’s it. Can you help me out here? I’m really hoping Thorsten wasn’t shot first so he wouldn’t have drowned.”

“What? Are you...?”

“Just check that out, will you, Leonard and get back to me.”

After I hung up, I turned to Bunny. He was sunk in a melancholy slump. Gussie the temporary dog had his head in Bunny’s lap. Alvin had at long last produced the tea in his grandmother’s tea set and added a plate of homemade shortbread to the tray. Bunny picked up his flowered cup and saucer with one hand and absentmindedly stroked Gussie with the other.

Alvin said, “Those shortbread cookies are the traditional recipe, except that I’ve added—”

I said, “Watch out, Bunny, Gussie’s trying to get into your pocket. He likes to chew paper. I hope you don’t have any valuable documents in there. Car registration, anything like that. I speak from sad experience.”

“He chewed your car registration?”

Alvin interrupted. “It was an accident. You really should learn to let things go, Camilla.”

Have I mentioned that Gussie started out as the Ferguson family’s dog? But no point in harping. “So, Bunny, you didn’t keep any of these so-called jokes?”

“Well, why would I? Did you keep yours?” Bunny’s voice rose into a squeak. Alvin blurted, “It’s not my fault. Gussie eats every piece of paper around here the minute it hits the floor.”

Gussie gave a soft belch to reinforce Alvin’s point. I didn’t bother to inquire about why pieces of paper would be on the floor. “Be quiet, Alvin. Okay, Bunny, at what point did you start to realize there was something going on?”

Bunny shrugged. “After the second one, I guess. I thought it was kind of funny that each of those names arrived the day after a joke, but before that person’s death became public. I mean when these people died, it made the papers.”

I nodded. Bunny was right. People talked about it. People wrote about it. Cyclists had written furious letters to the editor after Roxanne Terrio’s death. People had waxed eloquent about the dangers of nut allergies after Judge Cardarelle’s demise. Everyone would be buzzing over Rollie’s bizarre end.

“So, you don’t still have any of the jokes?”

“Nah. Tonya is crazy clean. She hates any kind of paper around. She threw them out probably even faster than your dog could eat them. But when I got Rollie Thorsten’s name today and I knew from the news that he was defending in Brugel’s trial, I had to get over there to warn him if he was still alive. I heard there was a suspicious death today, but they didn’t give the name on the news. I knew it would be Rollie Thorsten, because that’s the name I got. I was too late.”

“We didn’t get that name,” Alvin said. “I know because I open the mail and I would have—”

“Hold that thought, Alvin. So, Bunny, why did you come to me?”

“I thought maybe I could talk to you and explain about the jokes and the names and figure out what to do. I called your cell, and someone said you were in court today.”

“That was me,” Alvin said. “She forgot her phone at home.”

“Then that Sgt. Mombourquette gave me the brush off. Do you think he’s good enough for Elaine? She’s really special and she deserves—”

“Bunny!”

“Sorry, so I came here tonight hoping you wouldn’t think I was nuts.”

“Not exactly nuts,” I said.

“Maybe peculiar,” Alvin said.

Bunny pouted. “You made fun of me. The Bunny of Death? Like I’m going to forget that anytime soon?”

“I think I said I was sorry.”

“You didn’t.”

“Well, I am saying it now.” Bunny has always been a sensitive flower. He said nothing, just kept stroking Gussie. Alvin seemed to have joined the conspiracy of silence.

“Fine,” I said. “Alvin? Anything to add?”

“How was I to know that those names were connected to the jokes?”

My voice rose. “You mean to tell me we did get them?”

Bunny said, “What can we do about it?”

“In the end, I think you’ll find that a lot of people probably got those jokes, and they’re not really connected to us.”

Bunny pulled his towel closer. “I sure hope you’re right.”

THREE

What do you call an honest lawyer?
-A statistical improbability

S
aturday morning, I was annoyed bright and early by more knocking at the door. I whipped it open expecting to see Bunny there with yet another nutty bit of information.

A small, crisp woman with expensive blonde highlights gripped my hand and shook it. I was so startled that I hardly noticed that she’d actually stepped right into the house. Maybe I was taken aback because her teeth seemed to twinkle, and her skin glowed like she was some kind of magic lantern.

“Jacki Jewell,” she said with a wide smile that left stars in my eyes. “You must be Camilla. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

I said, “I’m not sure I…” Oh, hang on. I knew the name Jacki Jewell. That toothy grin was plastered all over For Sale signs in The Glebe, Sandy Hill and New Edinburgh. But what the hell was she doing in my front hall?

Closing the door behind her, I discovered. “Your sister sent me,” she said.

Of course. I should have known.

I said. “Which one?” Each of them is capable of meddling in my life in ways I never imagine until the meddling is in full swing and then it’s often hard to find a defensive position.

“Edwina,” she said cheerfully.

“Oh, well. She’s out of town. They’re all on a three-week Mediterranean cruise along with my father. Not back until the first of July.”

I didn’t bother to add that I’d been reveling in a spell of peace and quiet without their daily badgering about my failure to measure up on so many fronts: quality of housekeeping, career path, marital status and driving skills being the main ones. Of course, I’d been dashing back and forth to Nepean to check on their houses every few days, but that was a small price to pay for peace and quiet.

Her expression stayed positive, but I sensed a bit of strain at the corners of her lipsticky smile.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “But…”

“So whatever it is, I want you to know it wasn’t my idea.” I smiled grimly, expecting she’d take the hint.

“That’s fine,” she said, sticking to her guns. “Doesn’t matter at all. There’s no finders’ fee for my services. I hear you’re interested in selling this house.”

“Well, I guess I’ve been thinking about it. A bit. I haven’t really decided yet because…” I trailed off.

Of course, I’d been thinking about selling the house. That was putting it mildly. I’d inherited the property, car and a pile of financial assets. The house was pretty and convenient, but I had good reasons to feel guilty living in it. The neighbours were less than lovable and Alvin’s decorating didn’t help. To add to it, the house had been fully furnished, and now my own belongings and whatever had survived from my office were squeezed in too.

“Well, good, that’s why I’m here.”

“Doesn’t work for me. I’m not ready yet. I have stacks of material from my previous office, and it’s taken quite a while to get that sorted out. In fact, I’m working on that this weekend.”

She reached out and patted my shoulder, something I’ve never really tolerated well. I barely resisted the urge to swat her hand, partly because I’ve been working on being a nicer person, but mainly because I didn’t want a barrage of long-distance calls from my collective sisters admonishing me for my bad manners. Jacki Jewell must have read my mind because she withdrew her hand and kept it out of swatting distance.

She didn’t lose her glow though, nor did her linen wilt. I had to hand it to her. “I can help with that. It’s a specialty really. You’ll be so glad when it’s over.”

“Thanks for your interest, but as I just clearly said, I’m not ready yet and—”

She opened her mouth.

I held up my hand. “And I don’t do well under pressure.”

Alvin’s voice piped up behind me, speaking directly to Jacki Jewell. “It’s so true. You’d want to watch out for that.”

“Of course,” Jacki Jewell’s smile lit up again, “you won’t get any pressure from me. That’s why I have such satisfied clients.” I think she believed that.

Alvin approached her, admiration on his face, his hand outstretched to shake hers. “Alvin Ferguson.”

Gussie the dog took that opportunity to fart softly on the sofa.

I said, “In the interests of saving time, let me state categorically that I’m not ready to sell the house.”

Alvin piped up, “But Camilla, just the other day you said—”

“Naturally,” Jacki Jewell said, “you have to act when you’re ready and not a moment before. If I could just look around a bit, that would help.”

“Help what?”

“Exactly. At some point you will want to sell, and I can give you a few tiny bits of advice that will make that process easier, even if,” she paused here for full effect, “you go with another broker.”

And I will, I promised myself.

“What kind of advice?” Alvin said.

She turned her blinding smile on him. “Staging a home can make the difference between a quick sale and the price you want and a protracted and miserable selling period.”

“Staging,” Alvin breathed. “I’ve heard about that. You mean someone would come in here and make things look like a model home? That would be great, wouldn’t it, Camilla? People do that for a living. I think I’d be good at that, myself. I’m an artist. I did these.” He pointed proudly to the nearest Tuscan murals.

“Oh,” she said glancing around and losing a bit of her bright colour, “did you? My.”

My, indeed.

“Let me get you some lemonade, Ms Jewell,” Alvin said, fluttering from the room like a lovesick moth. “I’d like to hear more about this.”

As he disappeared from view, she leaned toward me and said, “First, I’d recommend getting rid of the murals. Contemporary buyers want neutrals, harmony and simplicity.”

“Do they? Well contemporary buyers are just going to have to suck it up if they want this house. The murals stay.”

“Oh, certainly, just as long as you realize that it will limit the number of people who come through.”

“It will limit it to none, because if you recall, less than a minute ago, I said that I was not ready to sell.”

“Well, of course, you did. And I agree, but we’re just blue-sky thinking about the future. Anything I could do to help make the transition easier for you and...”

“Alvin,” I said.

Gussie yawned. The little calico cat got up and stretched.

“Your dog is quite, um…”

“Flatulent? Yes indeed, although I should point out that he’s not actually my dog although he is lying on my sofa. He belongs to Alvin’s brother, but for complicated reasons he’s been here for a while.”

“He seems to get along with your cat,” she said, a tiny frown line appearing between her eyebrows.

“Again, odd as it may seem, that is not my cat. She belongs to a friend, Mrs. Violet Parnell, who is actually in the Perley Rideau Hospital recovering from a broken hip.”

“Do I hear tweeting?”

“Lester and Pierre. Peach-faced lovebirds. Also visiting.”

“That’s a relief. Pets make it much harder to sell a place. So if these cute creatures could move on, things would go much more smoothly.”

Gussie had been in residence for more than four years, and Mrs. Parnell’s cat, for various reasons, had always more or less stayed at my place. The birds were just hanging around until Mrs. P. was discharged from hospital.

“Move on? That won’t be happening.”

“Well, fine, of course, it is your home. Keep in mind that a lot of buyers are afraid of dogs and others are allergic to cats. Birds make people nervous, but I’m sure we can work around that.”

Was she deranged? “I don’t actually have to work around anything, because I’ve decided I’ll be happy in this house forever.”

“Certainly, take your time and think it over. Do you mind if I look upstairs?”

“Yes,” I said, “I do mind. I’m not selling this house, and you can tell my sisters that from me. Now I’m extremely busy today, and you’ll just have to excuse me.”

“Absolutely,” she said, not moving.

I opened the front door, letting in a blast of hot humid air. I smiled and said, “Goodbye, Ms Jewell.”

To do her credit, she turned that right on its head. She glanced at her watch and raised her eyebrows. “I really have to go, but I’ll just leave this information package for you. I’m here to help. I can certainly facilitate your paper purge.”

“You don’t seem to understand—my files are highly confidential.”

“Confidentiality is one of our specialties. I’ll call you.”

As she minced toward her black Mercedes SUV, I lifted my middle finger. “Call this,” I muttered.

Alvin scowled at me. “She seemed very professional. Knows what she’s talking about. I bet she can sell anything.”

“Well, she’s not selling this house, Alvin. And I think we’ve seen the last of her.”

I took advantage of having the front door open to snatch the mail, which must have been still sitting there from the day before, the office assistant once again asleep at the wheel. The mail contained the usual slim bundle of pizza delivery ads, fitness centre come-ons and bills, which were no longer a big problem for me.

This time there was also a single white unstamped, unaddressed number ten envelope. Sealed. I opened it.

Alvin always hovers when I get the mail. He likes to be in charge of all that exiting stuff. “I must have forgotten to bring the mail in yesterday. I’ve been busy with my cooking project. There are thousands of recipes for oatcakes.” He frowned as I stared at the note.

I lowered my voice. “It says Rollie Thorsten.”

“I honestly thought it was your brother-in-law, Stan, sending those jokes.”

It would be just like Stan to try to creep me out by sending unfunny yet unsettling jokes in plain envelopes. This was the man who’d inserted whoopee cushions, fake dog turds and ice cubes with insects into every MacPhee family gathering that I could remember. I thought back to the stick-on cigarette burns on my sister’s custom upholstery, the piles of plastic vomit under the coffee table. And those were just the highlights. This envelope business was all very Stanlike. But Stan was on the Mediterranean cruise with my sisters and the other two brothers-in-law and my father.