Law and Disorder by Mary Jane Maffini

but really not even then if you want to sell the house. People polarize around red. We need neutrals. Neutrals!” She yelled this rather like a fireman bellowing for the pumper truck.
    “I’ve heard that red is a neutral.”
    “Red. Is. Not. A. Neutral.”
    I shrugged. “Guess I was wrong.”
    “And aside from the colour, what is going on in that room?”
    “In what sense?” I said, radiating innocence.
    “In the sense of big duffle bags and underwear and make-up. It looks like an explosion.”
    “Oh, right. That would be Ashley and Brittany. They’re visiting. Didn’t I mention that?”
    “You’ll have to tell them to keep things neat.”
    “Um, that won’t be happening.”
    I thought her hair stood on end. “What? I can’t show a house in this shape.”
    “I hear you. But I am going to bend over backwards to make these girls feel at home and welcome.”
    Her lip seemed to quiver. As I watched with interest, it hardened up again. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know if it’s worth my effort to drag anyone in to see this place in its current condition.”
    “Of course. It’s perfectly understandable if you choose not to represent this house.”

    It had to be done, as much as I hated it. Just after dinner, I slipped into the kind of outfit in the no man’s land between what my sisters wouldn’t be horrified by and what they would approve of. My lightweight black cotton dress had a bit of stretch, a short-sleeved top and a flared skirt. I squeezed my feet into a pair of cork-soled high-heeled sandals that were neither too sexy nor too comfortable. I knew I’d regret that, but the situation called for them. I transferred everything from my regular Roots shoulder bag to the vast glossy yellow oversize handbag my sister Alexa had given me for my birthday. I drew the line at jewellery.
    I headed for Rockcliffe Park and the perfectly manicured lawns, circuitous streets, spacious homes full of diplomats, mandarins, technology wunderkinds, and business people, old money and new. Luckily, through the Coco Bentley connection, I knew exactly where Judge Cardarelle had lived out his days. I found the woman I assumed was Mrs. Cardarelle cutting peonies in the garden. She was humming happily and didn’t notice as I arrived. She gasped in surprise as I said hello. Her lustrous silver bob swung in a flattering arc as she turned her head. I smiled and held out my hand.
    She shook it uncertainly. I put her at about sixty-five, with the fine lines that go with it. But her skin was soft with a pale glow, and she had the most perfect bone structure I’d ever seen. She was also tall, fluid and elegant, in tan linen pants and a black linen top. I figured her clothes had come from Holt Renfrew, rather than a certain discount outlet like mine. Not that I care a fig about bone structure or where your clothes come from, despite my sisters’ propaganda wars.
    On the other hand, Judge Robert Cardarelle had resembled a bad-tempered basset hound more than the kind of man I’d expect to be her husband. Of course, he hadn’t been as likable as any basset I’d ever met.
    I had already worked up a discreet yet sympathetic smile. “Hello, my name is Camilla MacPhee.”
    Up close, Madame Cardarelle was beautiful, a Spanish Queen perhaps, with a bit of Nordic ice showing in the pale skin and the cool, distant gaze. She tilted her head very slightly.
    I felt compelled to add, “I’m a lawyer. I only just found out about your husband’s death and I wanted to express my condolences. Your husband was very kind to me.”
    “Kind?” she said.
    “Yes. Very kind.”
    “Robert?”
    “Judge Cardarelle.”
    “Kind in what way?”
    Somehow this wasn’t the reaction I expected. “Well, when I was in practice, I had occasion to meet with him to get some information, and I found it most helpful.”
    Mild interest flickered across her face. “Robert met with you?”
    Keep it simple, I always told my legal aid clients, back when I had