Free Speak Ill of the Dead by Mary Jane Maffini Page A

it.
    “What about her?”
    “I’m sure you know she’s been killed, and in a most gruesome manner. A client of mine is being investigated for the murder and, as part of the background work for the defense, I’m looking into what kind of woman the victim was.”
    A little snort escaped from Deb Goodhouse’s red lips.
    I stopped.
    “Go on,” she said.
    “Well, there were some Ottawa people she liked to skewer in her columns and on her broadcasts. You were one of them. That makes me think you couldn’t be a fan. I wanted to get a sense of how the non-fan would describe her.”
    I sat back in my chair. Alex and Donnie’s little sister from hell.
    “Well,” she said, “how would you like to pick up your mail some day and see your flowered butt in full-colour spread across the pages of one of your magazine subscriptions? Of course I wasn’t a fan. She didn’t want me to be a fan. She wanted me to be one of her victims.” She paused and watched my face. “I don’t make a good victim, Ms. MacPhee.”
    “Doesn’t surprise me. But what did you think of her? What emotions did she arouse in you?”
    She laughed.
    “You don’t get elected, you know, by giving in to your emotions on every little thing. You’ve got to save your energy for what counts.”
    “So she didn’t bother you?”
    “Of course, she bothered me. Wouldn’t she bother you?”
    “She did bother me. And I wasn’t even one of her victims.”
    “Neither was I, Ms. MacPhee. She wanted me to be, but I wasn’t.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “My mother always told me three things, ‘Doing well is the best revenge, look at yourself and see the truth and make sure you find the opportunity in every situation.’”
    I raised an eyebrow at her.
    “When Mitzi first started to skewer me, as you call it, I was pretty steamed. I talked to my lawyer and I slammed every cupboard door in the house.”
    I liked this approach. It was the first feeling of warmth I’d felt for her.
    “Then I tried my mother’s advice and took a good look at myself. In the mirror. I saw a woman who was large and dumpy and wearing plenty of flowered polyester, but no make-up. At the same time, I saw a woman who’d spent a career fighting to help other people—street kids, refugees, the working poor—but the only time she splashes across the pages of a national magazine is when some shark-woman in Toronto decides she’s not fashionable.”
    For someone who saved her emotion for what counted, Deb Goodhouse’s neck was very red. Her lips were now clamped in a steely line.
    “Not fair, really,” I encouraged.
    “Of course, it wasn’t fair. But that’s not the point.”
    “What is the point?”
    “The point,” she said, pointing a red fingernail at me, “is I decided to take a few lessons. It doesn’t pay to be a laughingstock in this business. I didn’t sue the witch, that would just draw attention to her. But I changed my appearance, dropped the polyester, got professional advice, modified my hair a bit. Just gradually, over a year or so. And I didn’t say boo about Mitzi and her campaign of mockery. I got a lot of sympathy calls and visits from other people who thought I might be upset and a few smirks from so-called friends. But I’ve weathered it.”
    “What about the photographer?”
    “What about him?”
    “Did you have any reaction to him?”
    She shrugged. “Why should I? He was just doing his job. Mitzi was the driving force behind the articles.”
    “Tell me, why did Mitzi pick you?”
    “Who knows? Because I was there, I guess. I asked myself that often enough. I think she just liked to single out women who were doing something real and important and hold them up to ridicule.”
    “Did you ever meet her?”
    She shook her head. “Never wanted to. I might have had trouble holding my tongue, and I wouldn’t have wanted to read my comments in the media.”
    “So,” I said, “you must have hated her, though.”
    “I didn’t hate her. I have