The Dead Don't Get Out Much (26 page)

“Look at that,” Ray said, pointing. “That overhead passage connecting both sides of the street has windows in it. And laundry hanging out.”

“Obviously someone's home sweet home.”

The streets split in unexpected locations, one going down, another going up. Some had stairs built into them, others felt like long curving ramps, vanishing into blind corners. The old-fashioned lamps seemed like electrified versions of the gas lamps from a hundred years earlier. We puffed up hills and down stairs and down hills and up stairs. At one point, we arrived at a solid, wooden door that must have been there for centuries. Behind the door was a shop with two wide windows filled with furniture and beautiful objects that would have made my sisters melt. The sign said Giansante e Figlia Restauro. An alley no wider than my shoulders ran between the building and its neighbour. I peered into it, half expecting to find Mrs. Parnell, however silly that may sound. Except for the pile of boxes stacked there, the alley was empty.

Ray and I meandered around, leaning into each other. We didn't find a single soul who spoke English, but my Italian was enough to confirm that no one had seen Mrs. Parnell, and that,
certamente
, Annalisa Franchini lived at the very top of the town. She was out of town. From the expressions, I gathered there was something special about signora Franchini. Whatever it was, nobody seemed to miss her.

At the top of the hill, a pair of elderly ladies gestured toward Annalisa's house. It was a narrow three storey, with a smartly painted front door, bits of brass, newly restored stone facing and cast iron pots of bright flowers on the steps and in window boxes. No one was home.
“È partita! È partita la donna!”
the ladies shouted helpfully.

Ray was still chuckling when we reached the centre of a reconstruction project on top of the hill, although work had stopped for mid-day. He said, “Enough fun for today. I'll head over to the police station, introduce myself, and see what kind of reaction I get. I realize you hate that idea and have been stalling me. Still, it's got to be done.”

“I do hate that idea. They have a lot of different police jurisdictions over here. Do you even know whether you want to talk to the
carabinieri
or the state police? They're practically in competition with each other. Be careful, that's all I have to say. I've heard horror stories.” I ignored the look he gave me. He is, after all, a cop.

Our first enquiry told us the
posto di polizia
was situated on the opposite side of town and up another serious hill. On the way down, Ray stopped to examine some official-looking signs, with the architect's renderings of the reconstruction work for the medieval fortifications. “There's access through the underground passages,” he said.

“Gives me the creeps,” I said.

He gave me a nudge. “Want to explore it?”

“We're not on holiday,” I snapped. “Shoot, I'm being a jerk, but I can't relax. I wouldn't blame you if you had gone to Mexico with another woman.”

“That's never going to happen. And I'm not in any kind of race, Camilla. I know Italy has a lot of memories for you, and that's on your mind too.”

That came as a surprise, since I hadn't really talked much about being here with Paul, just mentioned we'd spent our honeymoon here.

He glanced down at me. “We'll do what we have to. I want you to think about this: your friend has played you like a violin. Is that going to affect the way you feel about her afterwards?”

I said, “I don't care. She'll have had her reasons. I just don't know what they are. Maybe I'll never find out. She is my friend, and she didn't ask me to chase after her. She didn't ask me to do anything. So I guess I deserve whatever I get.”

He raised a sandy eyebrow but kept a straight face. “Even getting locked in the supply cupboard at the car rental?”

“I was never in danger of anything greater than embarrassment. Face it, I was a legal aid lawyer for years, I eat embarrassment for breakfast.”

Ray's grin broke through. “Yeah, you criminal lawyer types. You've all got it coming.”

“Don't push your luck,” I said. “I'll just rub those Italian cops the wrong way if I go with you, so I'll mosey around town while you make contact.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Saving me the trouble of telling you that you'd only get under their skin. You have to be careful on other people's turf.”

“Right. Careful's not my best thing. There will be someone who speaks English there. If you're stuck, you can find me and I'll go back with you to translate. I'll try to behave.”

“Don't go far.”

I continued to make the rounds with my poster. A woman with two string bags full of groceries frowned at the image of Mrs. Parnell. She smiled, showing shiny new-looking dentures. She pointed across the hill to the hilly part of the old town we had just walked all over.

Oh, just great. What was all this hobbling up and down steep roads going to do to her condition? Should I head up there again myself? Before I settled on a course of action, I spotted Ray stomping towards me. His mouth was clamped in a thin line.

“Need an interpreter?” I said.

“Nope. The guy I spoke to had a good handle on English. Cousins in Prince George, it turns out. They hung on to the poster. They'll keep an eye out for Mrs. Parnell. I've been firmly instructed to leave it to them.”

“Did you tell them everything? About the hit and run and the attacks at home?”

“Well, sure I did.”

“The black Mercedes?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mention Sergio and Annalisa?”

“I told them everything, Camilla. And I was politely reminded I'm a foreign national. I was pretty well put in my place. They said I have to be careful not to defame anyone. Defamation's a pretty serious crime over here, apparently.”

“I can see how that could be convenient in certain lines of work.”

“No kidding. Anyway, he gave me the name of a few good restaurants, and suggested that we find one this evening.”

“Like we couldn't find a restaurant in this place. There's a new one every ten feet.”

“The point was that we should cool it and let them make enquiries. And that's what we'll do.”

Speak for yourself, I thought.

Ray yawned. “They know the locals. Let's give them a chance. They also suggested the Hotel della Collina.”

“That means the hotel on the hill. Hill number three actually.”

“Figures. We'll get settled and have an early dinner. The time difference is catching up with me. Let's head for the payphone first. I'd like to touch base with my girls.”

“I'd like to check in with Alvin once more. In case.”

That was easier said than done. I left a message giving the name of the hotel.

The cop at my side didn't have any better luck. His home line was busy.

* * *

What the Hotel della Collina lacked in red velvet and dark furniture, it made up for with a huge modern bathroom. I enjoyed a long shower without actually touching the walls. I emerged some time later, towelling my hair, to find Ray crashed on the orange-patterned bedspread, snoring. Jet lag. You gotta love it. I decided to let him sleep a bit. I didn't feel like being cooped up in the hotel room though, so I headed back to the square and the payphone to try Alvin one more time.

People were still straggling through the streets making their way home from work and school. The lovely day had been replaced by the now familiar creeping mist. Off the square, you could see it swirl around the old fashioned lights. They shone eerily through the shadows.

The police hadn't told
me
not to do anything. I figured I could continue to ask these locals if they'd seen Mrs. Parnell. I hustled across the square, which was filled with cars, and headed to the side of the hill where she had last been seen. Ray and I had been all over the area, and I didn't really expect to see her out on the street. Never mind, I had to do something. I set off up the narrow street.

The dark doors and shuttered windows allowed no glimpse into who lived there, just the odd glimpse of warm light hinted at lives lived behind these stone walls, at people sitting down for dinner, or homework or television.

A young couple passed me, leaning into each other, laughing, glancing back at me and shrugging in unison. I felt a pang. I wished Ray were there with me at that moment. I could have happily leaned on him in the fog and gloom. As the young couple reached the top of the hill, I heard another burst of laughter. They rounded a corner, vanishing into the light and warmth of a restaurant.

It seemed a bit odd to be knocking at strangers' doors and asking in my bad Italian if anyone had seen my grandmother. I considered it anyway. I was low on choices.

 

Huxtable Hall
1 Huxtable Crescent
Toronto, Ontario
September 7, 1954

Dear Violet,

Please accept my condolences on the death of your husband. Car accidents always seem so senseless. How terrible for you that he was travelling in England at the time. I would have written sooner, but I just learned the sad news recently. You have always been strong and brave. You will weather this too, just as you did your war service. Do not let anger at your personal tragedy prevent you from living a productive life. I have seen that happen too often.

I know that you will be a dignified widow, unlike some. You have probably heard that Hazel, after creating the most awful scandal by marrying a man more than twice her age, has remarried again in Kingston. Someone in the military this time, a Murphy, if you can imagine. Who knows, with a name like that, he might even be RC! Tongues are wagging. Hazel wouldn't care about that, as long as she had a new hat to wear. Consider yourself lucky that you managed to move to Ottawa in time. With your education and interesting job in the government, you would find her most tiresome.

I have continued on with my own education, which has led, in turn, to a promotion to Assistant Headmistress here at Huxtable Hall.

Yours truly,

Elizabeth Connaught, B.A.

T
he streets were so disorienting that I had no idea where I was or where I had been. There was nothing to do except keep walking, now through a thin drizzle. I fished out my travel umbrella and flicked it open. A gust of wind yanked it from my hand. The umbrella tumbled down the steep, winding street. I bent to grab it and noticed a slight flutter of movement not far off. Something in the entrance to one of the houses. Or someone. I straightened up and stood still.

Was it Ray? Awake and irritated at my walkabout? Most likely just another citizen hurrying home to dinner.

I moved along the street, keeping an ear out, just in case. There's something about a foggy medieval town on a November evening that makes the hair on your neck rise. There. I heard something. Behind me. The soft splash of feet in puddles. I stooped and pretended to adjust my shoe. I peered over my shoulder. I was just in time to see someone wearing dark clothes duck into another front entrance. Definitely a he. I watched as he fiddled with a door. The door didn't open, because I could still see his shadow in the lamplight. I hustled my buns up that hill, turned a corner and ran like hell. I reached yet another crossroads and chose the left turn.

Two could play the same game. I hugged the wall of an entrance, thankful I was wearing basic black, always just right for hiding out in the fog. I held my breath.

The footsteps stopped at the corner, where yet another choice had to be made about which murky twisting street to check out next. He picked the same one I had and passed by my hiding place. I was pressed so tight against the wall that I could feel the rough stone wall surface through my jacket.

I could have reached out and touched him, but I couldn't make out his face. His body outline showed clearly, though, as he moved stealthily past the next street lamp. He seemed tall, slim, fit, maybe even athletic. Definitely male, although I wouldn't have expected anything else. From his confident stride, he appeared to know exactly what he was looking for. Was I just being stalked by a pickpocket? An opportunistic mugger or rapist who had just picked a convenient victim?

As soon as he moved out of sight, I ducked out of my hiding spot and dashed in the opposite direction. I splashed and puffed loud enough to be heard inside the houses as I ran past. I prayed my head start would get me back to the piazza before he caught up.

I hadn't gone far when I heard footsteps behind me. I picked up the pace. I had wild thoughts about banging on the many doors I passed. Too bad it was impossible to tell which houses had people at home. And whoever he was, he was gaining on me.

I put on the afterburners and ran like hell. I turned a corner, expecting to see lights and people in the piazza at the bottom of the long hill. Where the hell was it? I'd been running longer than I'd been walking. Had I gone around in circles? The footsteps were closer now. I darted left and took a twisty street that I'd noticed on my earlier stroll with Ray. One house had a narrow garden court that ended with a low stone wall. I glanced over my shoulder as I approached the wall at full speed. Just at the point where the street curved behind me, I dashed across the garden and vaulted over the wall. I hoped like hell my pursuer went straight.

I dropped onto the soft hillside below and rolled into another garden court, a half-street lower. A few stacked terra cotta pots clattered loudly around me. No lights flicked on in the windows of the house. I picked myself up, dusted my knees and kept going. This street had to lead back to the downtown area. I figured I'd shaken off my pursuer and stopped to catch my breath. My relief was short-lived. I realized that I had headed away from the downtown. I heard footfalls behind me, getting very close. Worse, the street appeared to be a dead end. I spotted a set of stairs that looked amazingly uninviting, but I was cut off from anything else. There wasn't even a door close enough to bang on. The stairs clanged a bit more than I thought they would. I wasn't expecting a metallic rattle in this world of old stone and wood.

I felt my way into some kind of tunnel. It was too dim to read the large signs on the side. It had to be part of the reconstruction site for the fortifications.

Aside from dripping water, the only sound was my own ragged breath as I felt my way along in the dimming light. Behind me, I heard the clang of the stairs. I was in my own personal horror movie, brought on by my own personal bad decisions.

The floor sloped, and I bumped my head on some protrusion from the ceiling. I ducked down and lumbered forward in a fast crouch, groping my way along the damp and slippery walls. Behind me, someone grunted in pain. He must have hit that ceiling too. It didn't stop him long. I stumbled and landed on my knees. I scuttled sideways, intending to press myself against the wall, hoping to hold my breath until he passed. But there was no wall, just a gap where the wall had been. Would I fall into some ancient cistern? Tumble into a sewer? In my head I heard Mrs. Parnell's voice.
Remain calm, Ms. MacPhee
. Right. I used my hands to try and find the extent of the gap, feeling to the left and right and then up. I inched forward to avoid falling into some unseen void. Just as the footsteps moved closer, I felt a solid wall about knee-height. I realized I'd been feeling around an entrance of some sort. I felt forward and encountered solid ground. Sanctuary. I crawled forward into it, banging my knees on what felt like broken bricks and jagged rock. I was cold, wet, shivering in the dark, breathing musty air. My knees and shins stung from being scraped by the broken bricks. I was scared shitless. Something slithered by my foot. The sinister foggy streets seemed very Martha Stewart in retrospect.

No one in the world knew where I was. Ray would wake up and feel annoyed, then bewildered, and eventually betrayed. He'd been counting on a holiday, and he was getting a dead girlfriend whose body would probably never be found. I hadn't said goodbye to him. I knew the hard way how not saying goodbye could haunt you years later.

My sisters would make new careers out of besieging the Italian embassy and bedevilling the Canadian Department of Foreign Affairs. They'd find a way to pester Interpol. Of course, it would be too late.

I sniffed a bit thinking about them. Although they drive me nuts, at that moment I longed to hear their piercing voices. I thought about my father. He'd never again say, “Oh hello, um, Camilla.”

And maybe Mrs. Parnell was right, maybe I was too hard on Alvin. Something about him always brought it out in me. Still, I had to admit Alvin is loyal, resourceful and never boring. That's pretty good. I would have given anything to have him show up at that moment. He could be as irritating as he wanted. Of course, I wouldn't see Mrs. P. again either. I'd never learn what trouble had driven her to Italy, setting off this weird chain of events. Seeing dead men, that was weird enough for anyone. I wouldn't be able to help or protect her. And who would look after her little calico cat? What would happen to Gussie? He'd already been discarded by the Fergusons. My sisters would never let a dog inside their pale cream houses. Alvin's apartments never allowed pets. Would wonderful stinky Gussie end up at the Humane Society?

Ray would take them. Of course, he would. If only I could leave him a message. I dug in the pocket for a pen. I only located the goddam useless cellphone. I might have used the light from the cellphone to examine my surroundings if I hadn't thought even that tiny light might be seen. That left my lipstick. What good was Graffiti Red in this situation? Hold on, red graffiti might be just the ticket. I used it to scratch out “Love you, Ray, Camilla.” He probably wouldn't be able to read it, in the unlikely event he ever saw it, but I knew it was true. That one fact surprised me as much as anything. It gave me a lift too.

I straightened up, as much as I could. It's not like me to go down without a fight. What's more, that wasn't going to happen. I could almost imagine Mrs. Parnell shouting, “onward into the breech.” Of course, Mrs. Parnell was far too cagey to get herself get blocked in a place like this without back-up.

What did I have going for me? Cavelike opening, dark, dank, low ceiling, floor covered in debris of some sort. Impossible to see. Difficult to move around in. Definite weaknesses.

The cave wasn't really visible from the tunnel, so that was a strength, although it could be found by someone either crawling, such as I had been, or searching with a light. I was safe only as long as my pursuer didn't find the opening, or come back with a flashlight. I could have done with a bit more imaginary sympathy from Mrs. Parnell.

The damp from the earth floor seeped through my jeans. My thighs felt numb, my bum itched, my teeth chattered. I could hear them. Could someone else? The broken bricks and stones dug into my legs. I'd cut myself on a very pointed one. Hey. If it could hurt me, it could damage someone else. I scooped up the brick. I moved my arms to see how I could best deliver a projectile to disable someone crawling toward me. What if he had a gun? Broken bricks aren't much good against a bullet. If he did have a gun, wouldn't he have fired it at me as I was fleeing, when there was enough light to see? No one would have heard a thing. So no gun. A knife maybe.

Trying to be silent, I gathered brick bits and stones. My hand tightened on the brick with the sharp end as a splash sounded in the passageway.

I listened intently.

Something slithered past my back. I was getting used to that. This was different. Squish, squish. Footsteps, soft-soled shoes coming closer, stopping nearby. I heard a scraping, an ooof, and then the slow, measured sound of someone inching his way into the opening, moving toward me.

Adrenaline shot through all my systems. Fight time. Never forget the element of surprise, Mrs. Parnell whispered in my head.

His breath rasped. Or maybe that was mine. I thought my lungs might burst from trying not to gasp. Nice girls, even lapsed Catholics, are not programmed to hurl dangerous objects at others. That kind of thing is trained out of us in school, home, church. And a good thing too.

I needed to break free from constraints of law and decency. My pursuer had. He would not be expecting an attack. I lobbed my first brick. I followed with every piece of debris I could reach. The brick bits were lighter than the stones, but sharper. My fingers were so cold and stiff, it was hard to grip them. Keep going, I told myself, or you'll be colder than this forever.

I heard a grunt of pain.

Within seconds, I'd hurled every projectile in reach. I heard a yelp. Then nothing. Holding a stone in my hand, I crawled the short distance toward the spot where I hoped the opening was.

I bumped into a soft, inert form. I crawled over the warm body, trying not to vomit. Was he unconscious? Was he dead?

I felt for the opening and crawled through. I stood up in the passageway and gulped the air.

Who was lying there? I had no light. My desire to flee was tied with my desperate need to know. Of course, the useless cellphone! Was there enough of a charge left? I kept a rock in one hand, while I dug in my pocket and fished out the phone with the other. I flipped open the lid and fumbled to turn it on. The pale light on the small screen flicked off almost immediately. I bent forward, pressing keys to keep the light on. I gasped. I was expecting the dark-haired middle-aged man who claimed to be Mrs. Parnell's son. Or the balding, chiselled face of her burglar. Instead, I saw the dark trickle of blood that worked its way across the handsome unconscious features of Dario, my most flirtatious friend.

My cramped muscles screamed as I raced through the tunnel, stumbling many times. I kept looking behind me, half expecting Dario. I found the stairs and clattered up them to the deserted street. The mist turned to solid rain as I limped toward my hotel and Ray.

I lurched through the dark streets, slipping on the damp cobblestones. The piazza was dim, storefronts shuttered.

A black Mercedes sat among the Fiats and Golfs and Opels along the edge of the square. I stopped and stared.

Had Dario been the man in the Mercedes all along? But Dario drove an Alpha Romeo, and I could see it parked at a brazen angle on the edge of the piazza. Dario had been the one to tell me of the son. No one else had ever mentioned him. Dario had told me he was in a black Mercedes. At the time, I'd been quite appreciative.

The vicious little bastard. There'd never been a black Mercedes following Mrs. P. And no false son, just misinformation to get me off track.

I jerked my head at a shadow. A dark figure approached through the misty piazza. I yelped and raised my arms to strike out.

“Camilla. Where the hell have you been?”

I capsized into Ray's arms and burst into tears. How girly was that?

 

March 17, 1980

Dear Vi,

I think you could get off your high horse one of these days and answer some of the letters I have sent over the years. I go to quite a lot of trouble to find out where you are. I have lost my third quite lovely husband, a man who was kindhearted all of his life. He had a hard couple of years. I guess he's in a better place now. I sure hope so. My point is, we're all off to that same location sooner or later, so we shouldn't waste a single day on old grievances. Let's face it, the dead don't get out much.

I'd really love to see you and have a grand laugh about the good old days. For instance, do you remember the time that Perce managed to get that cow up on the roof of the school? Poor Harry got the blame for it, and him afraid of heights! I remember you told the principal you thought the cow on the roof must have been an act of God. I thought Betty would die on the spot when she found out her precious Perce was the culprit. She kept her mouth shut, though. Couldn't have the family lose face, I guess.

I have met a lovely widower from South Carolina. Sam Thurlow is his name, so I am about to become Hazel Fellows Stiles Murphy Thurlow now. Practically the whole alphabet. Sam is at loose ends too and very gallant. Unlike the others, he has no youngsters. That's all right, I have plenty of step-grands to love and buy presents for. I am happy to report that the Southern girls dress up a bit more than we do.