Speak Ill of the Dead Read Online Free

Findlay’s allergic to cats. Oh my God, now Robin’s going to fret about them.”
    I didn’t need anyone to tell me what she meant. I am no fan of cats, and this particular six irritated me every time I dropped in to see Robin. But this wasn’t the right moment to mention it.
    “Don’t worry about the cats,” I said, feeling a sudden, regrettable largeness of spirit. “I’ll make sure they’re all right.”
    I gave Robin’s hand a little squeeze and felt her squeeze back, just as her eyes closed.
    Once Robin was out cold, Mrs. Findlay slipped back in front of the boob tube and lit up a cigarette. As long as I can remember, she’s been addicted to soap operas. Once Robin told me her mother had been at the grocery store with a long lineup at the cash. When she realized she might miss Another World , she left her groceries and hightailed it home.
    Robin’s father and I just kept bumping into each other and not having anything to say. What could you say? I didn’t want coffee. I didn’t want a drink. I didn’t want to try the lemon poppyseed muffins which were still cooling on the counter. Neither of us mentioned the police and their questions. We both knew Robin’s troubles were just beginning.
    “Don’t worry, there’s no need for you to hang around, chewing your nails. Thank you for helping. There’s nothing you can do right now. You go home, and I’ll let you know when she can talk,” he said. “Camilla’s leaving now, dear.”
    Mrs. Findlay butted out her latest cigarette and tore her eyes away from a blonde woman and a dark-haired man who were engaged in some kind of wrestling match under a sheet. And in the afternoon, too.
    “God almighty, those two scamps, eh?” Mrs. Findlay lit another cigarette and pointed to the TV with it. But it was too late, an ad for detergent which would get your sheets sparkling clean replaced the wrestling scene. “That Nina. If they’re not careful, her husband will catch them. Then there’ll be hell to pay.”
    “I can imagine,” I murmured.
    “You just try and relax,” said Mr. Findlay as he opened the door for me.
    *   *   *
    Just relax. Sure. You can picture just how relaxing it was at my place once my nearest and dearest got a gander at Robin and me on the six o’clock news. Hot and cold running relatives, everywhere you looked.
    “Would you like a martini? Some warm milk? Toast? A nice boiled egg? Something else? Although there’s not much in your fridge.” That was Alexa. She believes in the efficacy of food and drink in the face of any disaster.
    “Not really hungry.”
    “Would it help if I did a bit of this laundry?” Donalda. She’s only comfortable in a well-administered household. Whenever she visits me, she perches on the edge of the sofa and stares into the kitchen at the dishes in the sink. “I could wash up those dishes for you, if you’d like.”
    “Sure, anything you want.”
    “I think your home would be much improved by the addition of some dining room furniture. Nothing too avant-garde, just a couple of nice chairs and a good table. I don’t know how you can stand to have a desk in there. Why don’t you spend a little of your money on fixing it up? You could even get a pretty desk and put it in the living room.” Edwina. House Beautiful has always been her bible.
    The burbling of decorating tips was drowned out by the squeal of the blender in the kitchen and the roar of the vacuum cleaner around our feet. Robin’s cats took refuge in my bedroom. My father sat in the armchair in the corner and studied me with keen interest.
    No one mentioned the murder. And I sure wasn’t going to.
    “Something else? What about a nice little rum and coke to settle you down?” Alexa never forgets our Nova Scotia roots.
    To tell the truth, it felt rather good to have them bustling around, dispensing elbow grease and unsolicited advice, their voices blurring. Usually I protect my territory and independence and try to keep a handle on