“I know you’re pissed about Mombourquette, but is that any reason not to answer a simple question?”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Camilla. Call the station.”
“Oh, sure. Press One to get lost. Press Two to sit on hold forever.”
“Goodbye, Camilla.”
I played the wife card. “Alexa will find out for me. Put her on the phone.”
He caved. “I’ll get back to you.”
At least I knew Yee and Zaccotto weren’t there to give me bad news about the family. No one had drowned in the outhouse or blown the gas barbecue sky high. That was good.
Why else would the cops want to talk to me?
Four
I hate being dusty and sweaty. I calculated I had time to have a speedy shower and hop into clean clothes before McCracken called me back. I was still damp but dressed when the phone rang.
“Better let them in,” he said. “They’ll talk. You listen.”
I was surprised to find them still in the hallway when I opened the door. Zaccotto shifted from foot to foot. Yee gave him a look.
“Sorry it took a while,” I said. They didn’t waste time. I closed the door behind them and heard the lock click into place. “It’s been a bit crazy here.”
Zaccotto looked around the living room. “I can see that,” he said.
Yee shot him another look.
“You officers on some kind of housekeeping inspection?”
If they had been, I would have been ticketed for sure. It’s a beige, basic and functional apartment at the best of times. The best of times was before Gussie. Today he had scattered a couple of blankets, pushed his food and water around and tossed grubby, saliva-covered squeaky toys far and wide. He’d also eaten through most of the Yellow Pages. He’d knocked over my prickly cactus but didn’t appear to have eaten that. Not bad for a day’s work. Mrs. Parnell’s calico cat could be charged with leaving excessive hair in three colours on my old Ikea sofa.
I could be cited for leaving two weeks worth of unread newspapers in piles around the living room. I might get away with the stacks of case files. They stood in neat towers at one end of the dining table. On the other hand, the documents from several other dossiers were sprawled at the far end. Through the open door of my bedroom you could see the overflowing hamper and the unmade bed. My three sisters would have had synchronized cardiac arrests.
Except for coffee cups in the sink, the kitchen would pass inspection, since I hadn’t had much time to eat that week.
Of course, they were there on police business. I didn’t think uniforms would be involved in the SIU investigation into Mombourquette, and although it was possible I was being called back for another interview, this seemed a peculiar way to make the request. I had a sudden thought. “It’s nothing to do with theft of library books, is it? I’m not taking the heat for that. You can talk to Mr. Alvin Ferguson.”
God help them, they blinked.
“Please sit down, ma’am. This is important,” Yee said. Zaccotto smiled sadly.
I plunked myself in the middle of the sofa to discourage company. They each reoriented a dining room chair and sat.
Gussie and Mrs. Parnell’s cat took up defensive positions.
Yee had a piece of paper in his hand and a bead of sweat on his downy upper lip. Zaccotto looked more relaxed, but then he wasn’t in charge of talking. I broke first. “So what can I do for you?”
Yee said, “I am afraid we have some bad news.” Even from where I sat, I could see the beads of sweat had spread to his forehead.
Yee tried again. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
The little calico cat went flying as I jumped to my feet. “I told them to stay out of those goddam balloons.”
Yee said, “What?”
“Is Mrs. Parnell okay?”
Yee said, “Who?”
“Violet Parnell, my neighbour.”
He frowned. “I don’t know anything about a Mrs. Parnell.”
“Alvin! I knew that LTD was a deathtrap.”
“Alvin?” Zaccotto said.
“Alvin Ferguson. My office assistant. Has something happened to him?” I found myself standing, despite the tremor in my knees. Things always happen to Mrs. Parnell and Alvin.
“Please let us finish,” Yee said. “Ma’am.”
Gussie barked. The new neighbour thumped on the wall.
Yee took a deep breath. “I am sorry to inform you that Laura Brown died today.”
It was my turn to say, “Who?”
Yee blinked. Zaccotto blinked too. I imagine I blinked along with them.
“Laura Lynette Brown.”
“Laura Lynette Brown?”
Zaccotto raised his chin. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. Sorry, ma’am.”
I thought hard. Laura Lynette Brown. Not a friend. Not a relative. Not a client. I knew a Laura Brown from my Carleton University years. A pleasant and attractive woman with a luminous smile. I ran into her several times a year. She’d flash the smile. We’d make vague remarks about getting together for lunch. Lunch never happened. Maybe that’s who they meant. But why tell me?
“That’s terrible, but I hardly know Laura Brown. I didn’t even know her middle name was Lynette. If it’s even the same Laura Brown.”
Again with the looks. Yee glanced down at his sheet of paper, looked up again and said, “We have you as next-of-kin.”
“Next-of-kin? Oh, I get it. Must be some other Camilla MacPhee.”
“No mistake, ma’am. Yours is the address given. Is this your telephone number?” He held out the sheet of paper.
I stared at my telephone number. Because of the nature of my work, I do not give out my address, even to clients. My telephone’s unlisted. Clients get my cell number but not my home number.
“Well, it doesn’t matter what your papers say. It’s still a mistake.”
“Doesn’t look like a mistake, ma’am.”
“If Laura’s dead, her family needs to know.”
“We have no information about them, ma’am. Do you have an address?”
“No. I don’t know them.”
“But we have you listed as . . .”
“I am not the right person. I run into Laura every couple of months, tops. We’re not even friends, just old acquaintances from university. So you see, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
Yee’s lips were just the tiniest bit pursed. He wouldn’t have been long out of university himself. “Do you know where her family might be?”
“No clue. Wait. She used to make a joke about being from a small town in the middle of nowhere.”
“So you don’t recall the name of the town?”
“Somewhere in Ontario, I’m pretty sure. We took classes together in 1986, so I can’t recall details. I’m surprised I remember about the small town. Started with C, I believe.”
Yee wrote down something. C perhaps.
Zaccotto was unable to contain himself. “Carleton Place?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Caledon?”
“No.”
“Collingwood?”
“Maybe it started with G. I’ll let you know if it comes back to me.”
“G?” said Zaccotto. “Georgian Bay?”
Yee said, “If she put your name as next-of-kin, it could mean her relatives are all dead.”
“Still must be someone closer than me.”
“Apparently not, ma’am.”
“Okay, I guess we’ll get to the bottom of it. How did Laura die?”
“We don’t have the full results. But our information is that she slipped down the escarpment behind the Supreme Court Building.”
“Behind the Supreme Court? She fell? What a terrible thing to happen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was that this afternoon? There was a lot of disruption on the bike path about an hour ago.”
“Yes. It takes a while for them to get the scen
e processed.”
“I didn’t know you could go right to the edge of the escarpment there. I always thought it was fenced.”
“According to witnesses, Ms. Brown climbed over the fence.”
“What a strange thing to do. It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Laura Brown was sensible.” I tried to block out the image of how she would look after bouncing off rocks for a hundred feet.
“Our information is that she may have lost consciousness once she got behind the fence.”
“Do you know why?”
Zaccotto said, “I don’t want to say anything until the autopsy. They’ll let you know the results. As next-of-kin.”
“You’re sitting here telling me she’s dead, that she climbed over a restrictive fence and then passed out.”
Yee said. “She was diabetic. Possibly that would account for it.”
“Really?” I sank back onto the sofa.
Yee watched me carefully. “You must have known she was diabetic.”
“No. I didn’t.”
Zaccotto’s brow furrowed. “But you were her next-of-kin.”
I may have raised my voice at this point. “I was not her next-of-kin. I don’t care what it says. I am not related to her. I don’t even know where she lives. I only ran into her in this one restaurant every couple of months. Really, that’s it.”
Zaccotto cleared his throat.
“Hold on,” I said. “How do you know she was diabetic?”
Zaccotto said, “She had a MedicAlert bracelet.”
Yee said. “We called them. They had your name too.”
“What?”
“Yes, ma’am. You were listed as Personal Emergency Contact,” Zaccotto said, giving Yee a break. “This address and telephone number plus one for your office. Justice for Victims, right?”
“Wait a minute, you said my name too. You mean there’s someone else?”
“No. I meant you were also listed on the information card in her wallet. It said next-of-kin there. We can show you,” Yee said.
I said, “This will turn out to be a clerical error.”
“One more item,” Zaccotto said.
I was ahead of them. “Oh, no.”
Yee said, “We will need you to identify the body.”
Five
I’m not that crazy about the morgue. I made the point again. “It should be a member of her family.”
Yee stuck to his guns. “You are listed as the contact in case of . . .”
“I hear you. My point is that Laura must have some family members who will be pretty upset if someone else IDs her. You have to make every effort to contact them.”
“We’ll work with you on that,” said Yee, cagily. “But before we contact them, we need the body identified. It will speed things up.”
“Come on, guys. Maybe it’s not even Laura Brown. This is all so bizarre, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Then you would inform us the individual was not Laura Brown, and we would pursue her identity through the proper channels.”
I felt a new throb in my temples. Whatever the circumstances, there was something horrible about leaving a person in the morgue waiting for ID because of a clerical screw-up.
And if the person wasn’t Laura, at least some other family would be informed early rather than late.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But we have to walk the dog first.”
I took Mrs. Parnell’s Volvo to the hospital. I didn’t like the idea of sitting in the back seat of a cruiser. Too many of my former legal aid clients had been there. Yee and Zaccotto stopped the cruiser in the entryway. I found a parking spot and walked back. They waited for me to catch up. As we headed into the bowels of the hospital, they walked slowly but, even so, I found myself lagging on the endless stretch of corridor. My heart had already started to thud. Once you’ve identified your husband on a stainless steel tray, even six years later, the route to the morgue will be intensely disturbing. In recent months, I thought I’d come to grips with Paul’s death, but in front of the door to the morgue, I struggled with old images.
Any emotional upheaval triggers my father’s voice in my head. A lifetime of aphorisms and advice. “MacPhees are not afraid to do the right thing. No matter what the cost.”
I took a deep breath. I had forgotten about the chemical smell and how it can kick-start memories. Images flooded my brain, shattered bone, jagged slash against a pale lifeless cheek, hands that could never hold or be held again.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Yee said.
“Fine.” I wasn’t fine, but that was none of their goddam business. I wanted to run like hell for home, crawl into the unmade bed and wail.
Yee and Zaccotto waited.
“You’re awful white. You aren’t going to pass out, are you?” Zaccotto said.
My father’s voice said, “When faced with a hard task, get it over with.”
I braced my shoulders and instructed myself not to think of Paul. I followed the officers through the door.
I hated the harsh lighting, I didn’t find the stainless stylish, and I didn’t even wish to speculate about the background noises.
Two minutes later, the attendant slid the body toward me. The attendant lifted the sheet. Her hair was out of sight, her right cheek bruised and scratched.
I nodded. “Yes.”
Laura Brown’s luminous smile was gone.
I don’t know what felt stranger, the contrast of the bright sun after the morgue, or the fact I was walking out holding a small stack of Laura Lynette Brown’s possessions. Of my few memories of Laura, she was usually sitting in the sun. Now she’d never see it again.
Her fanny pack contained a house key and wallet. A few pieces of ID, no credit cards. Nothing else. I saw for myself where Laura had carefully hand-printed my name and address, in green ink, right down to the apartment number and postal code. Why would she specify next-of-kin anyway? I didn’t have my next-of-kin noted anywhere. Even your passport just asks for emergency contact. It was too weird for words.
The two constables were still walking with me.
I said, “May I ask you not to release her name until I locate her family? I wouldn’t want them to hear it on the news.”
Not a problem, apparently. They promised to follow up on that.
As Zaccotto and Yee sped off in their cruiser, I headed for the Volvo. The sight of it, still unscathed, was at least a relief. I climbed in and turned on my cellphone.
It rang immediately.
I was actually hoping it would be a “blocked number” call, but no such luck. Instead it was Alvin, calling from the balloon.
I held the phone away from my ear, but not far enough to drown out his words.
When the tirade died down, I said, “Are you finished, Alvin? Because contrary to your suggestion, I had a good reason for missing the launch, and it was not just to make people miserable. I was identifying a friend at the morgue.
“Come on, Alvin, I am not making that up. Why are you acting like such a jerk lately?
“No, I don’t believe I am the most self-centred person ever born. Nor is it true I don’t have a friend left in the entire world because no one can count on me. Is Mrs. Parnell there? I’d like to talk to her, if you’re quite finished raving.
“Well, the same to you, Alvin.”
I turned off the cellphone after that.
Even if Ray Deveau did manage to call, who had time to talk? I needed to track down a goddam candy-apple red balloon.
There wasn’t a single balloon in the evening sky at eight-thirty when I finally gave up. I couldn’t figure out where Alvin and Mrs. Parnell had drifted. They could have been miles down the Rideau River or half-way up the Ottawa. Or in the Gatineau Hills. Even back in Mrs. Parnell’s living room swilling sherry.
Plus, I still wasn’t any closer to understanding the Laura Brown situation.
Life was definitely not a bowl of cherries. On the other hand, since I did have Mrs. Parnell�
��s Volvo at my disposal, since I was tense and jumpy after my visit to the morgue, and since I had pretty well lost my appetite, I figured I might as well check out Laura’s place. It was bound to shed some light on her life. Something would point to her parents or friends. I could hand over the fanny pack, the ID and keys along with the responsibility of being next-of-kin.
Laura Brown had lived in the Glebe. No surprise there. She would have fit perfectly in this affluent, tree-lined neighbourhood, home to professionals, coffee shops and quirky boutiques. The area was still sprinkled with enough students, artists and musicians to keep it interesting and funky. And it was close enough to walk to Parliament Hill but far enough not to notice.
Laura’s address was a few blocks from Bank Street on Third Avenue. I found a small, attractive infill single with the distinctive touches of a local architect. I glanced around the street, hoping to find someone to talk to.
It was before nine on a Friday night. In the Glebe, I would have expected lots of neighbours puttering in gardens, strolling slowly along the sidewalk, chatting in small groups. But I saw no one.
The key opened the front door, no problem. The problem arrived with the shriek of the alarm. Within a minute, a telephone rang nearby. Lucky for me, the phone was close to the foyer. Thank God, someone was calling Laura.
“Yes?” I was slightly out of breath as I shot into the living room to pick up the receiver.
“Pronto Security. We have a report of an alarm going off in your residence.”
“Thank you. Can you turn it off?”
“Are you the homeowner?”
I said. “Not exactly.”
“Do you know your code?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Do you have an access card?”
“An access card?”
“Are you listed as having access to the house?”
I raised my voice. “Probably not. It’s hard to hear with the noise.”
“Where is the homeowner?”
“She’s dead.”
“Dead? Are you the police?”
“No. Turn off the alarm.”
“Do you know her mother’s maiden name?”
[C. MacP #4] The Devil's in the Details Page 3
