Thirty

She's gone,” they said, when I buzzed to get into the ICU. I felt like the breath had been knocked out of me. I toppled back onto the plastic chair in the waiting room. I didn't hear the scratchy voice of the nurse on the other side.

A pleasant-faced woman I recognized from the waiting area touched my arm. “Not that kind of gone, dear. She's moved out of ICU. That nice boy who's always with you carried her things.” I was surprised at how wobbly my knees felt when I stood up. I was still shaky when I finally located Mrs. P. settled into a room with a view.

“This is a relief. I thought you were on your way to the great beyond,” I said.

She was propped up in bed looking dangerous and nibbling on a Godiva truffle. “Old soldiers never die, Ms. MacPhee.”

She had enough flowers to open a kiosk. I noticed roses from my father. Red. A tasteful bouquet from the girls. And a perky African violet from Doug, the building super.

“Glad to hear it. Do I conclude by that unusual heartshaped lei formation that Alvin has visited?”

“Indeed. You missed young Ferguson. Would you like one of these splendid chocolates he brought? You have to admit, he has style.”

“If you want to call it that. When did he leave?”

“Quite a while ago. Couldn't wait to see you.”

“Ditto. But when exactly?”

“Let me think. It was just after that snippy young woman from the Crown Attorney's office dropped in to give me a talking to about the legal fine points of stalking policewomen. Oh look, he forgot his lovely Mickey Mouse scarf.”

“Who?”

“Alvin. He forgot his scarf.”

“What snippy woman?” I gripped the side rails of her bed.

“I was taken aback too, Ms. MacPhee. The nerve of the girl. She told me I could be in just as much trouble as you if I didn't stop.”

“You mean Mia Reilly was here?”

“Can't remember the name. Blonde hair. Stop jumping around, Ms. MacPhee. You'll give my roommate another heart attack.”

I lowered my voice. “When? How did she know you were here?”

“Don't worry about it. Young Ferguson put her in her place. He told her the evidence he found at the river would be enough to get Elaine out of the slammer. And finger the guilty party.”

“Shit.”

“I don't understand. What is the problem? We have not been unduly constrained by that young woman in the past.”

“That was before we knew she was a killer.”

“I beg your pardon, Ms. MacPhee.”

“I should have realized when McCracken confirmed that there was a hole drilled into the door of Elaine's car.”

“You are mystifying me.”

“I thought Randy Cousins used the drill bandit technique to get into Elaine's car. But it must have been Mia. She was prosecuting that case. She even told me that. Everything adds up. She knew how the drill bandit acted. Apparently she ran into Elaine at the pizza place when the coffee was sitting in the SUV in the parking lot, nicely out of sight. Elaine would have told her she was heading to Lindsay's. Mia would have figured, two birds with one stone.”

“But why?”

“Because she'd already killed Benning.”

“Killed Benning? Surely that is taking prosecution too far.”

“I've been thinking about it. The failure to get Benning convicted was just as likely to result from an ally in the Office of the Crown Attorney as in the police.”

“And you think this woman was his confederate?”

“Or lover. She's engaged to a partner in a big law firm. She sure wouldn't want Benning dragging her down.”

“But surely, Ms. MacPhee, a professional woman like that wouldn't have been involved with Benning.”

“Think of Rina Benning. Think of Lindsay. Educated, attractive, both of them. The more I think of it, the more it makes sense. She was in a position to engineer his escape. She was also in a position to frame someone else.”

“That explains her determination to prosecute Ms. Ekstein. And you, for that matter.”

“Elaine played right into her hands.”

“But how would she know where Lindsay was? I don't think Ms. Reilly was in on that.”

“She wasn't. I think she was trying to set Elaine up. And then Elaine let it slip about Lindsay and us guarding her. All she had to do was follow Elaine. That SUV is the size of a county. No trouble tracking it. She would have been prepared with the drill, some Rohypnol. She probably had it on her. I'm betting the autopsy showed Benning had taken Rohypnol too. Benning was a wild man. She couldn't have handled him conscious.”

“Good grief.”

“So she's aware that we found the site where he was murdered?”

Mrs. Parnell seemed to be trying to get out of bed. “Young Ferguson was heading back there to check something out and…”

“You mean she knows he was headed there?”

“No, she'd left before he told me about it.”

Even so, Alvin's adventure seemed like a bad idea. I had no choice but to check him out. Too soon old and too late smart, my father likes to say. I learned my lesson last year about putting myself in danger. Running off alone into the park to see a possible crime scene fitted nicely into the class of stupid things.

Right. So who could help? I remained persona non grata with the police, so scratch the force. Mrs. P. was seriously out of commission.

“I'll head over and see that everything's all right.”

“You don't think she'd hurt young Ferguson?”

I thought back to the scent I hadn't been able to identify just before I was shoved into the snowbank on the canal: cedar and bergamot. First Mia's cologne. Then Mia's knees in my back forcing me deeper into the snow. All that goddam exercise she bragged about had served her well.

“Yes. I think she'll hurt him.”

“I'm coming with you. Don't try to stop me.”

“No. You need to call for help. You're needed as communications central. Alvin has my phone, but you can reach Merv or Conn McCracken. Or Leonard Mombourquette. They'd listen to you. Merv's probably at Lindsay's. The rehearsal's not until seven. McCracken or even, God help us, Mombourquette, might still be at the station. Call everybody you can think of. See if you can get someone to meet me by the Rideau River in lower Strathcona Park. Tell them it won't take long. It's just to be on the safe side. What the hell, call P. J. Lynch too. As soon as I find Alvin and the cellphone I'll be in touch. If you don't hear from me in half an hour, call 911 and tell them one hell of a story.”

“Don't forget the scarf.” Mrs. Parnell handed me Alvin's hand-knit mile of mice. She was already on the phone as I raced out the door.

Six o'clock came and went.

Alvin, with his slippery, leather-soled shoes and light clothing, was not exactly dressed for success in the great outdoors. What if he'd slipped on the path near the river? The days might be getting longer, but with the cloud cover and driving rain, no one would spot him. All the Jimmy Buffett music in the world wouldn't keep him from freezing to death overnight.

Minutes later, the rental car fishtailed toward the Rideau River. I was dressed for the rehearsal, wearing my ankle length wool coat, the deep green silk scarf Edwina had given me for Christmas and my good knee-high black leather boots. I had the Sorels in the car, just in case, plus an umbrella and a flashlight. You never know.

By my calculations, it wouldn't take more than ten minutes from the hospital to the river. Then ten minutes to check it out and another fifteen, twenty at the outside to get to St. Jim's. Barely on time.

I took short cuts and maybe broke a few speed limits. The drizzle had turned to hard rain again. By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the end of Range Road, the wipers were working overtime and wind rocked the rental car.

Mrs. Parnell's LTD was one of five cars parked in the lot. There was no sign of Alvin. Although the way the rain sluiced down, you couldn't see anyway. I pulled off my dress boots and jammed my feet into the Sorels. I grabbed Alvin's Mickey Mouse scarf and substituted that for the green silk. I wrapped it about eight times around my head and neck, stepped out of the car and unfurled the umbrella. The wind whipped it inside out.

Three people with four drenched dogs raced for cover out of the dog area in lower Strathcona Park and dove into their cars. I banged on their windows, one by one. None of them had seen Alvin.

I headed down through the slushy snow on the path, glad of the waterproof boots and the light standards along the way. I'd walked through that park hundreds of times when Paul and I were in law school, living in a second floor apartment on Marlborough Avenue. It's not the kind of place where you worry about your safety. Dog parks are never empty. This one has its share of joggers and cyclists in the summer, cross country skiers in the winter, and it's crawling with pooches and owners anytime. I told myself the worst that could happen to Alvin was a wet kiss from a Lab.

Two more people with dogs splashed past me on the way to the parking lot. A lone jogger, heading out of the park, followed close behind them.

By the time I hit the site, in spite of Mickey Mouse, my hair hung in wet strings, definitely not a French twist anymore. My coat was soaked, and I was damn cold, if you didn't count my feet in the trusty Sorels. I imagined Alvin's twiglike ankles snapped because of a fall on the path. That might explain it. He'd be lying helpless with the cellphone out of his agonized reach.

When I located the spot Lindsay described, I found no sign of Alvin. Nothing but slush, the sound of open water and breaking ice.

Could he have gone further into the park? But why? Because he's Alvin, that's why, I thought. What else would you need to know? I concentrated on trying to locate the little twerp. I almost missed the ringing noise.

A phone? There wasn't a building nearby. The ringing stopped briefly and started again. Four more rings and then it stopped again. Obviously, someone who used the same strategy as my sisters.

I spotted the black receiver on the far side of a scruffy bush near the river bank. I picked it up and pressed TALK.

“Camilla,” someone bleated, faintly. The “battery low” sign blinked.

“Yes?”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Edwina?”

“Who else? You get yourself over to this church in the next two minutes or you may as well change your name. Got it?”

“Listen, Edwina, I need your help.”

“No, you listen. Everyone's here and we're ready to go.”

“What do you mean, everyone's there? It's not seven yet.”

“Six-thirty. The rehearsal's at six-thirty.”

“Is Leonard Mombourquette there?”

“You're breaking up. Talk loud.”

“Edwina,” I yelled, “I'm down at the river and…”

“Did you say down at what river? Oh, Camilla. Alexa's in tears. Stop this stupidity and get over here.”

“But Alvin's…”

The line went dead. The faintest blip. Then nothing. Okay. Deal with the girls later. Now to locate Alvin mondo quicko, get help and be on my way. I figured he must have slipped with those stupid shoes and skidded off the path. So the thing to do was, check for marks, find him and drag him back to the car. Logically, the skidding would have taken place near where he dropped the phone.

“Alvin!” Yelling is always good. Ask anyone in my family.

I made my way along the path, hollering and checking the river side for sign of a long skid. No sign. The path sloped and even in the dim light, I could see the pointy tracks leading through the slush to the little clump of woods. I followed, sinking into the wet snow.

The driving rain was cold enough to chill but not to freeze. My long wool coat grew heavier. Even the wool dress underneath was getting damp, but unless I found Alvin soon, that was the least of my problems.

In the distance, I caught sight of another jogger heading out of the park. Or maybe it was the same one. They all look alike. I slid down the incline, grabbing at brush to keep me from falling. How the hell do the joggers manage in the winter, I wondered. An image of the jogger passing Lindsay's place the bitterly cold night Benning was killed flickered in my mind. That image offered answers to a couple of nagging questions. Click. Click. Could the jogger have been Mia? Had she trapped Alvin? If yes, I hoped like hell she hadn't seen me.

At the bend in the slope, I spotted it. A long track in the piled snow. Big one too. Like someone had slid right to the edge of the river bank. I left the path and waded further into the slush. Something heavy had skidded across and kept going. The track went right to the bank and then down to the edge of the river.

Lucky I had the flashlight. I shone it down toward the partly frozen shore. Even with the flashlight, I couldn't see well in the glare of the rain. There were no convenient lamp standards off the path. It takes a lot to freeze the Rideau and the weather had been mild for days. The river was noisy, strong currents moving fast under the ice. Open water frothed at the shoreline. Further out breaks showed between large plates of ice.

I was too goddam cold and wet to think straight. Not far away, a duck quacked miserably. It took a time to locate the dark, still lump near the shore.

The orange lei was a dead giveaway. It fluttered in the wind. Plastic doesn't care about the weather. Alvin lay on a small triangle of ice broken away from the shore. What the hell was he doing there? The ice plate sloped badly. I hung on to clumps of brush and half-slid, half-crawled down the bank.

“Alvin,” I yelled. “Wake up!” The lump didn't move. The lei flapped in the wind.

“Alvin.” That was stupid. I didn't even know whether he was dead or alive. But if he moved and the ice slab tilted, he'd be dead soon. If he went under, he'd surface downstream at the locks in the Spring. Or not at all.

Maybe yelling his name wasn't the greatest idea. I could startle him and he'd roll over and then…or, typical Alvin, he'd do the opposite of what I wanted, with the same result. If I could just reach him. But first things first.

My jaw dropped as a chunk of ice flew through the air and sent the flashlight flying in a wide arc toward the river. The splash that followed was the worst sound in the world.