I’m still waking up in the middle of the night, dreaming about it. And I’m a tough old goat, not a young woman who stumbled onto a murder scene alone.”
The Armagnac arrived before I could say something cranky. In the interests of keeping the very pleasant evening very pleasant, I decided not to talk about Robin anymore.
Instead we talked about me growing up in Ottawa, my family, my weird job, even a bit about Alvin. The Alvin parts caused Richard to laugh, lightening his face, warming it.
I didn’t ask him much about his personal life, and he didn’t volunteer much. But the questions were bouncing around in my head, questions I wouldn’t hesitate to ask a man who didn’t interest me. Things like: are you planning to stay here permanently, does your wife have some kind of job commitment in Toronto that prevents her from joining you, are you separated, divorced, growing apart? Things like: do you feel lonely, how did you vote in the last election, what do you like for breakfast? I stopped myself at that last thought. Careful, careful. Don’t be an idiot.
“So,” I said out loud, all business, “thanks for your information about Rudy Wendtz.”
Richard had been nursing his Armagnac with a semi-smile on his face. His head snapped up at this.
“I’ve been thinking. I shouldn’t have told you about him at all. This is a very dangerous situation, and he’s a pretty sleazy guy. The police know about him. I think you should let them handle it.”
“Too late,” I said, “I’ve already tracked him down. And are you sure the police know about him?”
I didn’t mention that I hadn’t been able to talk to Wendtz yet. Some things are better left unsaid.
“Oh yes,” said Richard, “I made a point of letting them know. Just on the off chance he didn’t turn up in their investigation. Although it’s unlikely they would have missed out on someone so close to…the deceased.”
I nodded. We both knew that.
“Who knows what they’ll turn up about him.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated, “Well, I’ve got reason to believe he’s involved in some pretty bad stuff.”
“Like what?”
Richard shrugged, “Dealing drugs, I’m pretty sure.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked, having drawn the same conclusion myself on the very slim grounds that this guy had a lot of money and not much job to show for it.
“Information from the staff. They talked about everything Mitzi did and anyone who spent time with her. They tell me that Wendtz is involved in big league stuff. No facts, mind you, just gossip. But I believe it.”
“Hmmm.” Alvin could be put to work on this one too.
He smiled at me, “I hope we’re not going to be talking about this all night.”
“No,” I said, meeting his eyes. “Just one more thing.”
A sigh and then, “What is it?”
“The photographer, Sammy Dash, what do you know about him?”
Richard thought for a minute. “Not a lot. He was in and out. Acting like a big shot. Aggressive little creep. Making a play for good-looking women all the time, especially the tall, slim ones, and always looking for a shot that would sell. You know, paparazzi type.”
“Wow,” I said, with mock amazement, “here in Ottawa. Imagine.”
“Exactly. Here in Ottawa, they don’t like that sort of thing.”
He glanced away, and I spotted a well-known politician dining with a less well-known, but most influential, pillar of the consulting community.
“That must have given you a bit of grief.”
“It did. I had to speak to Ms. Brochu and tell her to keep him on a leash, or our special arrangement might have to end. I couldn’t risk a complaint whispered in the ear of the CEO or the Chairman of the Board by some outraged politico,” he twinkled. “And I enjoyed telling her, too.”
The Ottawa river glittered as we drove along the Parkway. The usual blackness was lifted by the vigorous full moon beaming down on us. Aretha was belting out “Chain of Fools” on the
The Armagnac arrived before I could say something cranky. In the interests of keeping the very pleasant evening very pleasant, I decided not to talk about Robin anymore.
Instead we talked about me growing up in Ottawa, my family, my weird job, even a bit about Alvin. The Alvin parts caused Richard to laugh, lightening his face, warming it.
I didn’t ask him much about his personal life, and he didn’t volunteer much. But the questions were bouncing around in my head, questions I wouldn’t hesitate to ask a man who didn’t interest me. Things like: are you planning to stay here permanently, does your wife have some kind of job commitment in Toronto that prevents her from joining you, are you separated, divorced, growing apart? Things like: do you feel lonely, how did you vote in the last election, what do you like for breakfast? I stopped myself at that last thought. Careful, careful. Don’t be an idiot.
“So,” I said out loud, all business, “thanks for your information about Rudy Wendtz.”
Richard had been nursing his Armagnac with a semi-smile on his face. His head snapped up at this.
“I’ve been thinking. I shouldn’t have told you about him at all. This is a very dangerous situation, and he’s a pretty sleazy guy. The police know about him. I think you should let them handle it.”
“Too late,” I said, “I’ve already tracked him down. And are you sure the police know about him?”
I didn’t mention that I hadn’t been able to talk to Wendtz yet. Some things are better left unsaid.
“Oh yes,” said Richard, “I made a point of letting them know. Just on the off chance he didn’t turn up in their investigation. Although it’s unlikely they would have missed out on someone so close to…the deceased.”
I nodded. We both knew that.
“Who knows what they’ll turn up about him.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated, “Well, I’ve got reason to believe he’s involved in some pretty bad stuff.”
“Like what?”
Richard shrugged, “Dealing drugs, I’m pretty sure.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked, having drawn the same conclusion myself on the very slim grounds that this guy had a lot of money and not much job to show for it.
“Information from the staff. They talked about everything Mitzi did and anyone who spent time with her. They tell me that Wendtz is involved in big league stuff. No facts, mind you, just gossip. But I believe it.”
“Hmmm.” Alvin could be put to work on this one too.
He smiled at me, “I hope we’re not going to be talking about this all night.”
“No,” I said, meeting his eyes. “Just one more thing.”
A sigh and then, “What is it?”
“The photographer, Sammy Dash, what do you know about him?”
Richard thought for a minute. “Not a lot. He was in and out. Acting like a big shot. Aggressive little creep. Making a play for good-looking women all the time, especially the tall, slim ones, and always looking for a shot that would sell. You know, paparazzi type.”
“Wow,” I said, with mock amazement, “here in Ottawa. Imagine.”
“Exactly. Here in Ottawa, they don’t like that sort of thing.”
He glanced away, and I spotted a well-known politician dining with a less well-known, but most influential, pillar of the consulting community.
“That must have given you a bit of grief.”
“It did. I had to speak to Ms. Brochu and tell her to keep him on a leash, or our special arrangement might have to end. I couldn’t risk a complaint whispered in the ear of the CEO or the Chairman of the Board by some outraged politico,” he twinkled. “And I enjoyed telling her, too.”
The Ottawa river glittered as we drove along the Parkway. The usual blackness was lifted by the vigorous full moon beaming down on us. Aretha was belting out “Chain of Fools” on the
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