Deficit Punctures Polyester Politicians”. The rear view shot of local political mover and shaker Deb Goodhouse bending over probably would have cost the photographer his life, if she’d caught him snapping on his wide angle lens.
Two minutes into the first article and I knew one thing: I had no desire to meet Mitzi Brochu.
Femme Fatale was reputed to be outselling Chatelaine and Canadian Living, the former leaders in the field of women’s magazines. I was astonished that people paid to read it.
“Oh God, look at that,” said my waiter as he deposited my plate on the table. “Mitzi Brochu, isn’t she wicked? My favourite one was her TV piece on ‘Ban the Bum’. A lot of people are still blushing over it.”
“Hmmm,” I said, only partly because I had a mouthful. And partly because I was asking myself what kind of person took such obvious pleasure in holding other people up to ridicule.
* * *
Even on the walk to the office, I kept asking myself why Robin Findlay, my oldest and closest friend, the most sensible person in the world, who dreamed about picket fences and children, slept in blue flannelette nighties and doted on her six cats, would want to see Mitzi Brochu.
When I opened the door, Alvin was pointing to his watch. “Robin called in a panic. You just missed her.”
I made room on the desk for the pile of Femme Fatale and dug out my briefcase.
“Better hustle,” he added. “It’s a hike over to the Harmony. And she sounds like she’s going over the edge. Oh, and don’t give another thought to your threads, maybe Mitzi will keep her eyes closed.”
* * *
Alvin was right. It was a hike to the Harmony. I clomped along Elgin Street and snapped left at Laurier West, not giving a glance to the hundred thousand tulips in the park. People jumped out of my way as I plunged along the sidewalk. I’m told I get this look on my face when I’m concentrating. Sort of a short, square Terminator.
What was Robin upset about? Was Mitzi Brochu planning an article on creeping polyesterism in the legal profession? “Lumpy Lawyers on the Loose?” or “Barristers: the View from Behind?” That wouldn’t have bothered Robin. From kindergarten through law school, she never worried about fashion or appearances at all, just went through life being her serene, reliable self. And it would take more than a mean-mouthed pseudo-celebrity to make her panic.
I was running through the fourth or fifth scenario (Robin had a client who wanted to sue the silk underwear off Mitzi the Mouth) when I passed the National Parole Board Office on Laurier West.
“Sorry,” I said, without sincerity, to a man who had misjudged my velocity.
“Camilla MacPhee,” he said, stepping back on to the sidewalk.
I looked at him, trying to remember who he was.
“Ted Beamish, remember me?” he said. “You were a year behind me in law school. I was a pretty good friend of Paul’s.”
“Right,” I said.
“It’s good to see you. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s the running shoes.”
He blinked. “No, something else.”
I didn’t want to dwell on this theme. Ever since Paul was killed, people keep telling me I look different. It bothers them.
“I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the way you…”
“So, Ted, what have you been doing with yourself since Law School?” Men always like questions like that.
“I’m at the Parole Board now. What are you doing?”
“While you try to make sure they get out, I try to make sure they stay in.”
He flushed. A deep, mottled red clashing with his coppery hair. Then he plunged on. “Everyone deserves a chance.”
“Tell that to the victims.”
“Oh yes,” he said, with the flush up to his cheekbones and rising, “I remember hearing you were heading up an advocacy group. I guess you have your reasons. Well, I have mine, too.”
“Sure,” I said, tapping my foot. Two-thirty was coming fast.
“Listen, you got time for a cup of coffee?”
“Late for a meeting.”
“Some other time then.” The flush flamed past his ears and kept going to the top of his head. And you could see it right through the thinner bits of red hair in front.
* * *
The Harmony had been designed back when people thought the nineties would be a time of tranquillity. Soft aqua shades on walls. Deeper turquoise in the carpets. Mountainous silk flower arrangements backing onto mirrors. The lighting was misty and indistinct, and generic music was oozing out of the walls. I tried to remember the Harmony Hotel slogan. What was it? Oh yes, “Harmony Hotels, where the client never has to worry.”
There was no sign of Robin. I checked the slip with the phone message, but it was hard to read under the coffee stains.
At the registration desk, I asked for Mitzi Brochu’s room.
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you that information,” the little trainee with the big hair trilled. Her brass name tag said Stephanie.
“She’s expecting me.”
“Well, I can put you through by phone. She can give you the room number herself. Sorry, it’s a policy.” She handed me the house phone.
It rang and rang until I slammed it down. I gave Stephanie a dirty look and stalked over to a cluster of love seats.
I sank into the turquoise and silver striped upholstery to wait for Robin. I hoped she wasn’t expecting me in whatever the suite was. But she wasn’t. I spotted her capturing an elevator.
“Robin!” I bellowed, dashing for the elevator, but the door had already closed.
I got to the eighth floor without looking at myself in the mirrored walls but not without asking myself if the Mormon Tabernacle Choir could possibly have recorded their own version of “Satisfaction”.
The eighth floor was done in shades of peach and gold. It would have been very relaxing if I hadn’t been so revved up. I fished out the message again. Suite 8 something something wasn’t going to get me to Mitzi, but I held the paper up to the light just in case.
One door stood open, with a maid’s cart heaped with fresh towels and toilet paper and all those little bottles they put in bathrooms.
“Hello,” I hollered into the room. “Halloooo.”
A dark-haired woman in a uniform popped out of the bathroom and stared.
“Hello,” I said. “Can you help me? I’m meeting
