chirped. “No, I’m sorry, Mizzz MacPhee is in a staff meeting. No, no idea when. Sure, try later.”
He hung up before I could snatch the receiver from his hands.
“What meeting? What meeting am I in?”
“This is important. This woman can make or break you. Any chance you could skip home and put on your teal suit? And ditch those running shoes?”
“No, there is no chance I will skip anywhere. And, furthermore, this woman cannot make or break me. I am not trying to make a fashion statement, I am running an advocacy agency for victims of violent crime. I don’t give a shit about Mitchy Bitchy.”
“Mitzi Brochu,” said Alvin. “That’s too bad, because Robin said it was really important. Incredibly important. Let’s see, where did I put that message?”
He rummaged through the desk drawers one by one. Five minutes later, he located the message in the wastepaper basket and wiped a coffee spill from it.
“Harmony Hotel, this afternoon at 2:30. Suite…” he held the message up to the light, “it’s a bit washed out…but I think it’s Suite 815.”
“Come on. I’ve got to get ready for Ralph Benning’s parole hearing. And I’m way behind on the brief to the Department of Justice. Not to mention the membership drive…”
“Camilla, Camilla, Camilla. That’s what I’m here for, membership drives and that stuff. It’s called delegation, remember?”
“I do remember. I remember it was all here to do before you came and now you’ve been here for three weeks, it still is.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll do it. But first, why don’t I run over to the library and get you some background on Mitzi? You don’t want to put your foot in it.”
There was only one place where I wanted to put my foot. I thought about it. Sure would be easier to breathe in the minuscule office without Alvin. And easier to think without his radio. Really, that’s the way I had set it up. To work alone, long and hard. The three visitors’ chairs were just enough for the devastated crime victims and their relatives who found their shaky way to the office. The rest was all business. Phone, fax, photocopier and mile-high files. I loved my mingy little office—when Alvin wasn’t in it.
He stuck his head through the door just as I was enjoying the foot thought.
“By the way, your sister called.”
I forgot the foot. “Which one?”
Alvin shrugged before he closed the door. “I can’t keep them all straight.”
I knew it didn’t matter which order I called them in, it would be the last one who left the message. The other two would have plenty to say. Sure enough, it was Edwina with an invitation.
“Why don’t you come for lunch on Sunday? Frank will pick you up.”
Lunch with my family comes off the time you have to log in purgatory, but no one wins arguments with Edwina, so I didn’t bother. I was just finishing up with her when Alvin got back.
He tossed a pile of magazines on the desk. All back issues of Femme Fatale. All with the Ottawa Public Library stamp still on them.
“There you go, here’s the sort of thing our girl Mitzi’s written in the last two years.”
“Alvin. The library doesn’t lend these magazines. How’d you get them past the security system?”
“It’s easy when you know how.”
“Well, I can’t survive without using the library for research. Don’t get me into hot water with them.”
I got up and stuck my nose out into the hall to see if any librarians had tracked Alvin back to the office.
He took advantage of my move to reclaim the chair at the desk. “Take a look at them. You’ll get an idea about Mitzi, anyway, before this afternoon.”
The Benning hearing was supposed to occupy my mind that morning and it did. I pored over the transcript of Ralph Benning’s trial and the newspaper reports of the same. I reread notes from my interviews with Myra Anderson, the victim, and worked on a strategy for the hearing. I made a note to myself to talk to the prosecutor of the case. But it was hard to concentrate.
“Do you mind not whistling while you type?”
“What, I’m just a happy guy. It’s better than you, grunting and snarling to yourself over those files.” Alvin tossed a pile of envelopes into the wastepaper basket.
“What’s wrong with those?”
“Mistakes on them.”
Since Alvin’s arrival our garbage rate had soared. We had become a fifteen foot by fifteen foot, four-basket-a-day office. I rescued the envelopes from the garbage.
“Put labels over them. If you can’t think cheap, can you at least think green?”
“Sure.”
Alvin flicked his coal-black ponytail over his shoulder and turned back to the typewriter. I pretended I didn’t hear his next little remark about hormones.
The rest of the morning yielded little. By noon, I was hungry and faced with a pile of paper with Benning doodled on it over and over, surrounded by meaningless squiggles, crosses and puffs of smoke.
On a normal day, I like to eat a sandwich for lunch in the office. But Alvin was there, and I wanted to get away from him. He handed me the pile of Femme Fatale issues as I headed out.
“I can’t take those,” I said. “They are clearly marked Ottawa Public Library.”
Rip. Slap. The covers landed in the overflowing wastepaper basket.
“Happy lunching,” said Alvin.
As I walked away from the door, I heard him answer the phone.
“Sorry,” he said, “I have absolutely no idea if or when she’ll be back.”
* * *
Elgin Street was showing the first signs of spring. Lily white, bare arms were sticking out of short sleeves everywhere as I shlepped along several crowded blocks to the Manx Pub. Time to get out the summer clothes. That shouldn’t be hard, since I hadn’t had time to pack them away over the winter.
I snagged the last table for two in the Manx and wiggled right in, spreading my coverless magazines out on the other side. I ordered the pasta special and began checking out the samples of Mitzi Brochu’s style. Her prime targets were overweight celebrities and royalty (“Porky Princess Should Shun Public Participation”). The Princess was lucky enough to hightail it back to Europe after Mitzi skewered her. The media people were not so fortunate. Mitzi liked to take aim at the fashion foibles of television personalities too. “Dump the Frumps—Ship Media Fashion Losers Back to the Boonies” targeted female news anchors and talk show hosts across the country. One of our local news anchors, Jo Quinlan, got it right between the eyes with the headline “From the Barn to the Big Time”. The caption
