rear expanse. “Is our Princess of Polyester full of hot air or worse? Will she rise in the House and float through the ceiling? If looks could kill, she’d be six feet under,” the commentary read.
The articles featured pictures of Mitzi too. Looking much better than the last time I had seen her. Emaciated, with blood-red lips and a crow’s nest of black hair. All in black with bare shoulders, black gloves past the elbow, black hose and pointed black spike heels. The photo of Mitzi floated without background, a judge, ruling without mercy on fashion crimes.
Somebody had taken revenge on Mitzi. Just a glance at these articles told me there would be a long list of candidates. Not to mention the hundreds of others who must have suffered at Mitzi’s hands. I hoped the police would do a good job of checking out Robin’s competition. If not, I decided I’d have to do it myself.
Alexa was home this time when I called to warn her.
“Oh good, Camilla,” she said. “I was just about to call you. Edwina wants us all to have dinner at her place. Six o’clock…”
I interrupted. “I had no choice but to suggest you might be willing to get a call from this cop you used to know in high school. Sorry. But you can always take your phone off the hook.”
“A policeman? Oh, not Conn McCracken, was it?”
“Yes, look, I’m sorry….”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much, just how were you.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you were so so.”
“Oh, Camilla.”
“And I told him that Greg died.”
“That’s all?”
“What did you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Did he ask how I looked?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, he might call you and you can tell him how you look yourself.”
“Oh, Camilla.”
“Gotta go, I hear the dreaded Alvin approaching.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Alexa breathed. “Does he still have all his hair?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“For God’s sake, Camilla,” she said and hung up.
The only good thing about being the boss is making up rules and then changing them without reason or warning as you go along. So when Alvin crashed back into the office, dropped his bags, and snarled something about how can you stand all those fucking tulips all over the place, I beamed as I picked up my jacket and opened the door.
“So long, Alvin. There’s plenty to keep you busy. I see about fifty linear feet of filing on the floor. By tomorrow, I expect to be able to see the pattern of the carpet.”
His wail followed me down the stairs. “Don’t you want these panty-hose?”
Three
After twenty years or more, the tall respectable husbands collected by my sisters had begun to settle into middle age and to develop creeping hairlines, baby paunches, and minor peculiarities, some easier to adjust to than others. Take, for example, Donalda’s husband, Joe, each year withdrawing more and more into a world of his own, of golf and fishing and imaginary trophies. Or Edwina’s Stan with his collection of dribble glasses, plastic dog turds and fake vomit. I wish I had some kind of coin for every time I encountered a whoopee cushion in the passenger seat of Stan’s Buick LeSabre.
“Better take it easy on the baked beans,” he always said.
I suggested to Edwina that perhaps Stan was developing Alzheimer’s and should be locked away for his own protection, but I noticed she still kept sending him to pick me up for family get-togethers. This dinner was no exception.
A hand mirror lay on the passenger seat as I opened the door.
“Would you mind moving that?” Stan said.
As I picked up the mirror, it screamed with laughter and kept on laughing after I threw it on the floor.
“Perhaps you should get your hair done more often,” Stan said, between his own screams of laughter.
“Perhaps you should get a life, Stan,” I suggested, not laughing but giving some thought to screaming myself.
HAHAHAHAHAHA, howled the mirror from the floor, just before I picked it up and chucked it out the window.
Stan was still sulking when we reached Nepean and pulled into the driveway, which I think Edwina vacuums twice weekly.
“Aw, Camilla, the girls would have gotten a big kick out of that at dinner,” he said.
“Like hell,” I told him.
If “the girls” had sent Stan to get me into some kind of a mellow mood after a distressing day spent mulling over Mitzi’s death and Robin’s continuing state of withdrawal, “the girls” were going to be let down.
They were hanging around the entrance, three vultures with dish cloths, when we arrived. I could tell they’d been bustling around the kitchen, discussing my mental state, when they’d heard the car. Now they were trying to look like they’d all accidentally ended up near the front door just as we got there.
They scanned my face and turned to Stan. He shrugged, before perking up a bit.
“Wait a minute,” he said, flinging open the door to the basement and thundering down the stairs. “I think I have something else that might do just as well.”
“Are you all right?” Edwina asked.
“Well, I’ll never look in another mirror again.”
“He’s just trying to cheer you up, dear.”
“Let’s chat in the living room,” said Donalda, steering me, as if I hadn’t been there a thousand times.
Edwina’s entire house is picture-perfect polished mahogany, pastel brocade, flowers in silver or crystal vases. In the living room, my father glanced up from the newspaper, peering over the top of his little half-moon reading glasses. He matched the decor. Eighty-year old gentleman, distinguished, white-haired and slim, seated in wingback with matching ottoman.
“Hello, um, Camilla,” he said.
“Can I get you a little drink?” Alexa asked me. Her colour was high and she had a sparkle I hadn’t seen about her for months.
Donalda looked at my father after Alexa left the room. “Do you think she has a fever, Daddy?”
“No idea, dear,” said my father, with a
