really. Highly cost-effective. He works for even less than we do.”
Ramirez laughed. His own salary was a little more than Apiro’s. But the beagle worked for scraps.
TWELVE
Celia Jones sat at her desk, buried behind stacks of paper. Theoretically, she was on vacation for another few days; in reality, the holiday was over.
She had hoped that preparing the tedious paperwork to account for her trip to Cuba would take her mind off little Beatriz’s illness. But itemizing her expenses for the Rideau Regional Police Force’s accounting department was proving torturous.
There were two official currencies in Cuba. The tourist peso, the CUC, was the one foreigners were required to use. It was illegal for Cubans to have even one in their possession. The CUC was worth fifteen to twenty times as much as the domestic peso, but the rate fluctuated all the time.
Despite the laws against it, she’d paid for some things in Havana with domestic pesos and others with CUCs. Only the Parque Ciudad Hotel had provided her with receipts. She’d be tied up for months trying to get reimbursed. A Cuban dictatorship had nothing on Ottawa bureaucrats.
An email from O’Malley pinged in her inbox. “Stop by when you have a moment. Miles.”
“You are rescuing me from accounting hell,” she typed back, and hit “send.”
She stood up and stretched. She walked down the hall, said hello to Clare, and poked her head through O’Malley’s open door.
The police chief sat behind a large desk, chewing on a pencil. He’d quit smoking now that it was illegal in public buildings. He claimed it was a selfish pleasure that never satisfied him anyway.
“What’s up?”
“I had the dearly departed’s mother here first thing this morning. Practically frothing at the mouth. She swore at me so much, I thought she might have Tourette’s. She wants us to lay murder charges.” O’Malley leaned back in his chair and folded his big hands behind his neck, grinning. “I was almost in fear for my own life.”
“Yeah, right.” O’Malley was as big as Paul Bunyan. Good looking, afraid of no one, thought Jones. A guapo , they would say in Cuba. “And just which dearly departed was that?”
“Hillary Ellis. June Kelly is her mother. She says Michael murdered her daughter. She gave me these.” He pointed to a sheaf of papers. “Apparently they came from his computer. Take a look for yourself.”
Jones flipped through the pages. A guide to do-it-yourself poisoning. She burst out laughing.
“Buy a poison-dart frog on the internet and throw it at someone? Collect snake venom? I love this one: make your own ‘posin out of caster beens.’ Personally, I wouldn’t take advice on how to get away with murder from someone who can’t spell. I don’t mean to be rude, but is this woman nuts? She can’t expect you to take this kind of nonsense seriously.”
“She was quite rabid,” said O’Malley. “She told me she wanted to see Michael fry as she slammed the door behind her. I didn’thave the heart to tell her we don’t have capital punishment anymore. And that we never did have the electric chair.”
“Is she going to come after you now, if you ignore her allegations?”
Celia Jones’s job as the police department’s lawyer involved risk management. She was supposed to protect the Rideau Regional Police Force from lawsuits and bad press. And, wherever possible, from crazy old women.
“I may need to watch my food for a while,” O’Malley said, chuckling. “But seriously, it’s a sad situation. I assured her that we would keep her informed of whatever conclusions the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office reaches. If Ralph Hollands finds anything suspicious, I said we’ll follow up with her then.”
“I doubt there’s anything to find, Miles. Hillary got sick on a flight. I don’t see how Mike could have had anything to do with it.”
“I agree. But best if we keep on top of this. Look, Celia, can I leave it up to you to deal with
Ramirez laughed. His own salary was a little more than Apiro’s. But the beagle worked for scraps.
TWELVE
Celia Jones sat at her desk, buried behind stacks of paper. Theoretically, she was on vacation for another few days; in reality, the holiday was over.
She had hoped that preparing the tedious paperwork to account for her trip to Cuba would take her mind off little Beatriz’s illness. But itemizing her expenses for the Rideau Regional Police Force’s accounting department was proving torturous.
There were two official currencies in Cuba. The tourist peso, the CUC, was the one foreigners were required to use. It was illegal for Cubans to have even one in their possession. The CUC was worth fifteen to twenty times as much as the domestic peso, but the rate fluctuated all the time.
Despite the laws against it, she’d paid for some things in Havana with domestic pesos and others with CUCs. Only the Parque Ciudad Hotel had provided her with receipts. She’d be tied up for months trying to get reimbursed. A Cuban dictatorship had nothing on Ottawa bureaucrats.
An email from O’Malley pinged in her inbox. “Stop by when you have a moment. Miles.”
“You are rescuing me from accounting hell,” she typed back, and hit “send.”
She stood up and stretched. She walked down the hall, said hello to Clare, and poked her head through O’Malley’s open door.
The police chief sat behind a large desk, chewing on a pencil. He’d quit smoking now that it was illegal in public buildings. He claimed it was a selfish pleasure that never satisfied him anyway.
“What’s up?”
“I had the dearly departed’s mother here first thing this morning. Practically frothing at the mouth. She swore at me so much, I thought she might have Tourette’s. She wants us to lay murder charges.” O’Malley leaned back in his chair and folded his big hands behind his neck, grinning. “I was almost in fear for my own life.”
“Yeah, right.” O’Malley was as big as Paul Bunyan. Good looking, afraid of no one, thought Jones. A guapo , they would say in Cuba. “And just which dearly departed was that?”
“Hillary Ellis. June Kelly is her mother. She says Michael murdered her daughter. She gave me these.” He pointed to a sheaf of papers. “Apparently they came from his computer. Take a look for yourself.”
Jones flipped through the pages. A guide to do-it-yourself poisoning. She burst out laughing.
“Buy a poison-dart frog on the internet and throw it at someone? Collect snake venom? I love this one: make your own ‘posin out of caster beens.’ Personally, I wouldn’t take advice on how to get away with murder from someone who can’t spell. I don’t mean to be rude, but is this woman nuts? She can’t expect you to take this kind of nonsense seriously.”
“She was quite rabid,” said O’Malley. “She told me she wanted to see Michael fry as she slammed the door behind her. I didn’thave the heart to tell her we don’t have capital punishment anymore. And that we never did have the electric chair.”
“Is she going to come after you now, if you ignore her allegations?”
Celia Jones’s job as the police department’s lawyer involved risk management. She was supposed to protect the Rideau Regional Police Force from lawsuits and bad press. And, wherever possible, from crazy old women.
“I may need to watch my food for a while,” O’Malley said, chuckling. “But seriously, it’s a sad situation. I assured her that we would keep her informed of whatever conclusions the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office reaches. If Ralph Hollands finds anything suspicious, I said we’ll follow up with her then.”
“I doubt there’s anything to find, Miles. Hillary got sick on a flight. I don’t see how Mike could have had anything to do with it.”
“I agree. But best if we keep on top of this. Look, Celia, can I leave it up to you to deal with
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