Camilla. I know you’re terribly upset to see Alvin go, but he deserves a proper send-off.”
“He sure does, Daddy.”
“Then, you should do it. The MacPhees are not afraid to show their deepest emotions when it’s appropriate.”
My deepest emotion over Alvin’s decision to leave was unrestrained joy. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share that with this crowd.
My father said, “You are equal to the task.”
And so I gave it my best shot.
“Alvin Ferguson is surely the most unbelievable office assistant anyone ever had. Justice for Victims will not be the same without him,” I began. That meant, among other things, our utility bills would be paid, the collect calls from Sydney would cease, messages would be passed on, outgoing correspondence would not contain coffee spills, and no topless bathers would be painted on our solitary window. It might also mean no more pilfered library materials would land on my desk.
Alvin had lasted twenty-six long months at Justice for Victims only because my father would never let me fire him. I chose not to mention that.
“Hear, hear!”
“I feel confident the management of the Gadzooks Art Gallery will continue to be surprised, no, amazed, when they realize what kind of gallery assistant they’ve snagged in our Alvin.” And by the time they did, I figured I would have had the locks changed at Justice for Victims.
I swayed on the chair. The crowd gazed on expectantly. I noticed some of them were getting a bit fuzzy. Perhaps they’d had a bit too much hooch.
What the hell. Sometimes you’ve got to let go. Why not tell the truth?
“As many of you know, I owe Alvin my life, and I will always be grateful to him. To Alvin! There’s no one quite like him.”
I was telling the truth. The truth but not the whole truth. Sure, I’d be dead if it weren’t for Alvin. Sure, he could ferret out more information by quasi-legal means than anyone else. But that didn’t mean I wanted to be cooped up in a fifteen by fifteen office with someone who sported nine visible earrings, a fresh tattoo, a fondness for bad music and major attitude.
Al-vin. Al-vin. Al-vin. People chanted and waved their Waterford stemware and sloshed their red wine on Edwina’s new pure wool cream carpet.
I continued, “Alvin, as you know, risked his own life to put a murderer behind bars.”
My seventy-nine year old neighbour, Mrs. Violet Parnell, put down her new high-end digital camera long enough to beat a military tattoo on the frame of her walker. “Bravo, young Ferguson.”
Alvin, splendid in a tuxedo jacket over his skinny lizard-skin patterned jeans, stared at the floor modestly.
I continued, “It has been an astounding experience working with him.” Working might have been stretching it.
Alexa began to cry. People blew their noses. My father stood proud. Edwina blotted the carpet.
I shouted, “After Alvin, we have nowhere to go but down.” They tell me that’s when I fell off the chair.
Two
By Monday morning, when you would think they’d still be doing the dishes after the party, my in-laws and outlaws were massed at the airport security gate ready to begin a three-week jaunt en famille through an unsuspecting Scotland. I was half the send-off party. Leonard Mombourquette, my brother-in-law Conn McCracken’s partner on the force, made up the other half.
Too bad. Mombourquette always brings out the worst in me, especially if I have a hangover. I think it’s his strong resemblance to a rodent, although no one else seems to notice it. But I suppose someone had to bring McCracken’s car home.
“Good luck, Braveheart,” Mombourquette said, as McCracken disappeared through the security gate.
“He’ll need it.”
“Better him than me,” Mombourquette added, in case I’d missed the point.
“Oh, I don’t know. Conn will have a great time with the girls.” I’d caught the dead man walking look on McCracken’s face as he was frog-marched through security by my sisters. But that was his problem. I couldn’t stop smiling. Not even when my iced latte dribbled down the front of my silk blouse.
“I can’t believe they asked you to look after Stan’s new Buick.” Mombourquette eyed the blotched blouse as we headed for the parking lot. “Are they crazy?”
“He’s worried about vandalism. And face facts, nothing’s going to happen to it.” I clicked the snazzy remote to open the Buick’s door.
“With you driving it?”
“I am not planning to drive it. They asked me to park it in the garage at my place. We have video surveillance and on-site security.”
I didn’t mention the space was available because my Honda Civic had never fully recovered from certain events the previous winter. This time, the transmission was on the fritz. I didn’t want Mombourquette to bring up the circumstances of the Honda’s troubles.
“And I like to walk.” In fact, I needed to walk because of the ten pounds I’d packed on while my broken leg healed.
“I think Stan’s out of his ever-loving mind. It’s like praying for bad luck.”
I didn’t care for his smirk. “Speaking of bad luck, you better keep your eye peeled for black cats, Leonard.”
Very restrained of me, considering the company.
Half an hour later, I tucked the Buick safely in the garage of my apartment building and looked forward to a tranquil morning. Most people would take the day off in lieu of the Canada Day holiday, which had fallen on Sunday, but I had planned a pleasant stroll to work in my empty office at Justice for Victims. No relatives. No appointments. No Alvin.
It doesn’t get any better. I was in an excellent mood, even though I had to change my blouse. It was a sunny twenty degrees, amazingly fresh for July in Ottawa. I had no need to rush. That meant I could linger over my coffee. I slipped into Bermudas and a tee, then joined Mrs. Parnell’s little calico cat on my balcony. I enjoyed my jumbo mug of French roast. Mrs. Parnell’s cat enjoyed a bowl of milk.
From the sixteenth floor, I get the long view down the Ottawa River. The green roof of the Parliament buildings are just visible to the East. To the West I can see the white sails at the Britannia Yacht Club.
I got a glimpse of tents popping up for Bluesfest. After five years as a widow, it was time for me to get a life. I hadn’t quite got the hang of it, but this year I’d kept the Bluesfest program. I’d read it cover to cover. Twice. The blue booklet lay open on the table, waiting to be read for the third time. The pages were dog-eared. I picked it up and stuck it in my backpack.
My phone rang the minute the apartment door closed behind me and the lock clicked in. It rang on and on as I headed down the hall. I figured it could wait. All my clients had my cellphone number.
The
