day spying on the occupants of the sixteenth floor. “You’ve had an active morning.”
I nodded and tried to keep walking.
“Do you have time for a visit?” Behind her, the lovebirds, Lester and Pierre, squawked.
I had a fifty-five minute walk ahead of me to get to the office. On the other hand, I owe a lot to Mrs. Parnell.
“Afraid not. I’ve got some catching up to do. How about tonight?”
She blew out a splendid stream of Benson and Hedges smoke. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Something wrong?”
She sniffed. “Young Ferguson’s gone on to greater adventure and glory.”
“We both know Alvin’s gone on to work in the Gadzooks Gallery. Avant garde, I admit, but definitely not glorious.”
The tip of her Benson and Hedges turned red. “They could have an armed robbery. A heist.”
“I don’t think Alvin is hoping for a heist and, even if he is, I feel confident his new employers are not.”
She leaned forward, bony and angular. A long convalescence will do that to a person. I might have gained ten pounds after my injuries last winter, when we had taken on a murderer, but she’d lost at least that. She looked every one of her seventy-nine years.
“You are correct, of course, Ms. MacPhee. Pay no attention. I’m finding myself yearning for excitement. Aren’t you?”
Our last bit of excitement had almost killed us. “No. I’m not. I’m really looking forward to a quiet summer with no trouble.”
I was humming “I Got My Mojo Working” as I hit the elevator button.
• • •
Usually the best part of my walk is along the river. It’s cool and silvery in the mornings, no matter how scorching the day ahead. The bike path I followed downtown meandered through Lebreton Flats, and I slowed a bit to catch a look at the set-up for the Bluesfest.
Five days to go, and the staging was already partly erected. I spotted a fleet of flatbed trucks near the acoustic stage up on the hill and more trucks by what looked like the Main Stage.
A trailer with a long line of porta-potties was pulling in.
I figured the rectangular tent off to the Northwest was probably the gospel tent.
It was the first time in years I had let myself get close to the festival grounds. The Bluesfest was the last special place I’d been with Paul. Back when it was much smaller, a cosy, sexy, schmoozefest over in Major’s Hill Park.
The sight of the tents brought back Paul’s memory. I couldn’t imagine what the sounds and smells would do to me when I actually went.
But if I was going to get a life, I couldn’t think of a better place to find it.
Three
By the time I got downtown, my T-shirt was stuck to my back. The Bermudas chafed my thighs. My feet smelled, and my head hurt. I clutched my iced latte from the Second Cup and finally pushed open the door of Justice for Victims. A rivulet of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. But I was alone, gloriously, wondrously alone.
I decided to get in the mood for the funding proposal by whipping the in-basket into shape. I started with the stack of bills. Quite a few of them had a telltale red strip on the return envelope. Apparently Alvin had been distracted during the previous three months. Half an hour later I confirmed it. JVF was in great shape, if you didn’t count the hydro, the business tax, the photocopier rental and the insurance. Our phone bill, now two months late, had an entire sheet detailing collect calls from Alvin’s mother in Sydney.
Then I found the note from the landlord outlining what to expect if we didn’t ante up the rent, pronto.
To offset the bills, I had practically no income and, unless I was wrong, I had missed our deadline to file for several key grants that keep organizations like Justice for Victims from going down for the third time.
Never mind. I was alone and loving it. With a song in my heart, I answered the phone. The song faded when the automated voice asked if I would accept the charges for a long distance call from someone called Ferguson. I had a damn good reason to press one for yes.
“Mrs. Ferguson,” I said, before she could say a word, “Alvin, as you should be aware, does not work here any more. I suggest you direct your calls to his new place of business. I will be happy to provide you with that number.”
“Hello? Allie?”
I rubbed my temple.
“Who is this?” the voice said.
“Let me make my point again. Alvin does not work here. Not that he ever really did. You can find him at Gadzooks Gallery. Goodbye.”
“I need to speak to Allie.” You couldn’t mistake the hysteria in that crazy woman’s voice. No wonder Alvin was always so distracted.
“Sorry. Alvin doesn’t work here any more.” I enjoyed hanging up.
When the phone rang again, I was ready to press two for no, nay, never. But this time it wasn’t a collect call. It wasn’t Alvin’s mother either.
“Miss MacPhee?”
“Yes.”
“This is Tracy Ferguson. Alvin’s sister? We are so sorry to bother you, but we don’t know what to do. We know Allie has a new job, but we need your help.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I think it was because Tracy Ferguson was someone’s sister, and yet, she sounded gentle, nervous and utterly inept. My sisters are more like the offensive line for the Argos. Jump out of their way, or you’ll get grass up your nose.
Unless I was wrong, Tracy was the sister who taught elementary school. I could hear her speaking urgently to someone in the background. “It’s all right, Ma, you lie down now. I’ll talk to her. Okay?”
I tried being reasonable. “As you know, Tracy, Alvin started his new job this morning. Let me get the number for you.” I flipped through my desk for the Gadzooks Gallery cards that Alvin had thoughtfully deposited around Justice for Victims during the final three weeks of his employment.
“But that’s it, Miss MacPhee. Alvin isn’t at the gallery.”
“Well, he isn’t here. He should be at Gadzooks.”
“But he isn’t.”
“It’s an art gallery. They don’t answer their phones before ten.”
“But they did answer the phone, and they said Alvin wasn’t in.”
I found myself massaging my temple again. “Well, I don’t think you have much to worry about. He’ll drift in to work in his own sweet time. Trust me.”
“Miss
