“For the last time, I’m not going. I’ll be fine here.”
“I don’t think so, Missy,” Edwina said.
“Then think again. May I remind you, I am a functioning adult.”
“There is absolutely no need to yell,” Edwina sniffed.
I said, “I’ll go Monday evening for the party. Which reminds me, shouldn’t you start preparations? What about marinades? Do you have enough ice? Is there gas for the boats? Are there tiny tears in the personal flotation devices? Is someone on the lookout for salmonella at the BBQ? Who’s getting the spare ribs?”
Edwina said. “Get a move on. The doctor said not to stay by yourself. And may I remind you, Alexa was a nurse.”
“Not in the last twenty-five years, she wasn’t. Anyway, I am not by myself. I have Mrs. Parnell. Plus P.J. And Gussie.”
Mrs. Parnell raised her sherry glass in confirmation. P.J. blanched.
“Yes, well,” said Edwina, implying a world of things.
“You’ll be better off with the family,” Donalda said.
I hardly thought so, especially since two out of my three brothers-in-law were not speaking to me and the third lived in his own fishing dream world. “I’ll be careful.”
Alexa said. “How do we know that you won’t head right out and get injured again?”
I took a deep breath. “You can trust me.”
“Me too.” Mrs. Parnell blew a couple of spectacular smoke rings. Lucky me, she never mentioned balloons once.
As the morning wore on, I tried Yee and Zaccotto again. The switchboard put me through to their voice mail. The same thing happened when I tried to reach Major Crimes. Maybe the constables were on the four to eleven shift, but where the hell was everyone in Major Crimes? I didn’t think the fact it was Saturday before noon should make much of a difference.
My brother-in-law didn’t answer his cellphone at the cottage, where he was in charge of father-sitting, and I got a chilly reception from the only other person I could think of, Detective Sgt. Leonard Mombourquette. I tracked him down at home.
“Yes, well, I’m not in Major Crimes right now. I’m on extended sick leave, as you may remember.”
“I know that, Leonard.”
“I have an SIU investigation to get through. Do you have any idea what a frigging nightmare that is?”
“I can imagine.”
“No, you can not imagine it. After that, I’ll face a Professional Standards investigation. Then once those are over, I can look forward to testifying at the Coroner’s Inquest. Try having that hanging over your head. My actions and my decisions will be under the microscope in both investigations and again at the inquest.”
“But you did what you had to. You had no choice at all but to shoot.”
“Well then, I feel better. I can relax while they turn every part of my life upside down.”
“Look, Leonard, the point I want to make is . . .”
“If I hadn’t been dealing with you, it wouldn’t have happened. Okay? I wouldn’t be spending every night questioning myself, what if I had planned better, if I’d been more alert, if I’d aimed lower. I am not going to get involved with any of your harebrained schemes. Clear?”
“I take your point, Leonard, and I understand how you must feel.”
“You do not goddam well understand how I feel. I have to deal with it every time I look in the mirror. And when all the investigations are finished, I’ll still have to live with it.”
“Okay, here’s what’s happening: this friend of mine died, and the circumstances seem to be quite suspicious.”
“People die around you all the time, Camilla. Have you asked yourself why that is?”
“I think she was murdered. I need to talk to someone in Major Crimes. Conn’s fishing with my father, and I can’t reach the constables who informed me about the death. Maybe they’re not even on duty this weekend. They won’t be in Major Crimes anyway. The more time that elapses, the harder it is to solve a crime. You know that.”
“Yes, I do. When you do connect with Major Crimes, they’ll be glad to have you explain how the police screwed up.”
“I’m not saying the police are at fault. I’m asking for help, Leonard.”
“You’re on your own, Camilla.”
One good thing about being next-of-kin: you’re entitled to information. Mrs. Parnell needed no urging to drive me back to the hospital to see what I could find out from the pathologist.
The results of the post-mortem were bad or good, depending on your perspective.
“Are you sure?” I said.
The pathologist was small and puckered looking, as though he’d been stored in formaldehyde. His face was dominated by thick dark glasses and even thicker eyebrows. The eyebrows were dramatic enough to take your mind off his other features.
“I think she was murdered.”
He wiggled one of the dramatic eyebrows. “Not according to our findings.”
“Well,” I said, “there’s a few things you should take into consideration.”
“This woman died because she tumbled a hundred feet on to rocks. Her blood sugar was extremely low at the time. There were witnesses around. She climbed over the protective fencing in full view of other people. Then she must have passed out or become dizzy.”
“I can’t believe she would climb that fence. She was a sensible middle-aged woman.”
“Not the first one to meet a nasty end defying the laws of physics.”
“You were trying to find the cause of death, and you found one that made sense to you. But I’m saying there are factors at work you may not have been aware of.”
“Thank you. And you are . . . Doctor?”
I drew myself up. “No need for sarcasm, Dr. Varty. I may not have a medical degree, but let me remind you, I am the next-of-kin. Here are the facts: some of Laura’s belongings were stolen from her home; I was attacked there the night after she died; and someone definitely removed her insulin from the fridge.”
“I am very sorry for your loss. I understand this is difficult for you. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with a death like this. And there’s nothing to indicate Laura Brown’s death was anything but a tragic accident. If you have evidence to the contrary, it’s a matter for the police, not for pathology. If it’s any consolation, because of the nature and location of the death, there will almost certainly be a Coroner’s Inquest. In the meantime, we can release the body to you for burial. Do you have a funeral home in mind?”
“Are you certain you’ll be all right without a vehicle, Ms. MacPhee? I really must be off,” Mrs. Parnell said as she stopped the Volvo at the door to our building.
“I’m not going anywhere. Thanks for taking me to see the pathologist.”
“A shame you couldn’t get him to see reason. Would you like me to help you make the arrangements?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just call the funeral home.”
“You should rest. Save yourself to fight another day.”
“I will.”
“I hate to go, but I did promise Young Ferguson I’d head over to the festival site. He’s volunteering for a few things, and he wants me to drop by.” She picked up her digital camera. “I’ll take both cameras. I am sure he will understand if you can’t manage photos today.”
I experienced a brief flash of what life would be like with Alvin if I didn’t do photo duty this time. I reached for the camera.
“Happy to do it, Mrs. P. I’ll be there for take-off. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“Are you certain, Ms. MacPhee? I am concerned about your physical state.”
“Nothing wrong with me. I’ll cab it over. It will keep me from being bored.” I managed a martyred smile.
Back at my apartment, I patted Gussie and let the cat in from the balcony. I hunted for a paper and pen while the cat had a nap on the freshly vacuumed sofa. My sisters, of course, had cleaned up all those unesthetic writing supplies, and it took a while to find them.
I started a l
ist. It turned into three lists, then four.
LAURA—SEEN—WHO ELSE?
FOUL PLAY – Indications
ONTARIO TOWN?
ACTION
LAURA SEEN was the easiest. I racked my brain for who else at Carleton University in 1986 would have remembered her. The eighties tended to be a blur for me. From the moment I met him, life had been about Paul.
I had few recollections of Laura outside of class. I did remember her in the library and occasionally in the pub. I did remember her walking with another woman near one of the beautiful spots by the Rideau, where you could enjoy sun on a rock in the spring and fall. But I couldn’t remember the other woman’s name. Sophie? Sally? How do you recall the names of the people who were in your classes nearly twenty years after the fact? Wait a minute. Sylvie! But Sylvie who?
I’m not the kind of person who would have bought a yearbook, even if Carleton had produced one at that time. Of course, the Registrar’s Office was closed for the weekend. I’d tried to phone just in case they would release some information from their old files. After all, I was the next-of-kin. That reminded me of an unpleasant duty. I called the only funeral home I could think of to start the process of getting Laura’s body. Apparently you need an appointment for that. “I’ll get back to you soon.”
I closed my eyes, ignored my pounding headache and went back to the lists. Think think think. Eventually the thinking paid off. There was Frances Foxall, of course. I didn’t remember ever seeing them together, but they must have known each other. Frances had been tough and hard-nosed. The kind of person who thought everything that happened was her business. She’d been closer to Laura’s age than mine. I figured she’d be a good bet to remember Laura’s hometown and possibly even details about her family. I put Frances Foxall’s name on the list. At the very least, she’d probably remember Sylvie’s last name.
Like Frances, Sylvie had been about Laura’s age. But that was the only similarity. I remembered Sylvie being quite beautiful in a delicate way, but for all her looks, she had been shy and easily embarrassed. Except for Laura, she’d kept to herself.
I wrote Sylvie? on my list. These memories weren’t much to go on. I tried calling Elaine Ekstein, but she didn’t answer. Next I made a note to contact Carleton and ask for Laura’s home address. Tuesday would be the earliest. I had visions of administrators screeching about privacy and the rights of students. I shook myself. I wasn’t sure if they’d still have that information. I intended to find Laura’s family well before Tuesday. With luck, Major Crimes would be deep into the investigation by then. For sure, it would be faster if I could find just one person who remembered the name of the damn irritating little town that started with C.
I began with Frances Foxall.
Thirteen
Naturally, Frances Foxall wasn’t in the phone book. A lot of people still changed their names when they got married back in the eighties. That didn’t seem like a Frances Foxall thing to do. Come to think of it, getting married didn’t seem like a Frances thing to do. If Mrs. Parnell had been home, I could have asked her to check Canada411. She would have found not only a phone number but a full address with Postal Code.
Sometimes the old-fashioned ways pay off.
I dialled 4-1-1.
The automated system didn’t care for my vague request. A real operator turned up good old Frances in a small community south of Ottawa. Whole name, no initials.
Frances wasn’t home. Naturally. I was the only person in Canada hanging around the house on the Labour Day weekend. A man who sounded like he had a bad cold said to leave a message after the beep. I left my name, my cellphone number and a vague yet compelling reason to call. I chewed my nails and thought hard. Who were the women Laura had been lunching with? Why hadn’t she introduced them to me? Why hadn’t I been interested enough to look at them?
I had an idea how to find out. It was getting close to noon. I decided to head downtown for lunch and a side order of information.
Just to be safe, I called a cab.
Maisie’s Eatery sits on the fringe of the Market and, lucky me, that meant it was open all weekend. Although I’m pretty down-to-earth as a rule, I enjoy the atmosphere at Maisie’s: soothing white tablecloths, fresh flowers, pretty yet undemanding paintings on walls, plus the tempting aroma of fresh rolls. Except for the fact you had to climb a flight of stairs to get in, it was the perfect spot for lunch. I forced my bruised body up the steps, knowing what I’d find there would be worth it.
My first questions didn’t get me far with the young woman at the desk in the front of the restaurant. “Sorry, but your friend sounds like a lot of women who come in here.”
“She does? Oh. Can I have a look at your reservation list for July please? That could help me solve the problem.”
“Gosh. I don’t know. I’d have to check with Norine, the owner, and she’s not here right now.”
“I’d just take a quick peek. I wouldn’t take it away. Cross my heart.”
“Sorry. There might be privacy issues. I’d really have to get authorization.”
I loved that. Privacy issues in a restaurant. That’s the trouble with servers nowadays. Half the time they’re MBA students or actors or perhaps even out-of-work lawyers, and they know way more than you want them to.
This girl seemed nervous. Probably because the place was nearly packed, and she was taking time from her tables.
I said, “This is an easy question. My friend lunched here quite often during the work week. She always sat at that table in the sun. I just need to know if you know the name of any of her companions.”
She shook her head. “I just do weekends.”
“Anyone here today who works lunch weekdays?”
She glanced around. “Let me see. I guess Chelsea.” She pointed to a foxy-faced girl who had spiky hair with multicoloured tips. Chelsea was balancing three full plates on her way from the kitchen to the opposite end of the restaurant. She served her tables and chatted with people. I liked her wicked grin.
“Okay, I’ll talk to her.”
“She’s busy right now.”
“No problem. I’ll have a look at the menu while I’m waiting.”
“Sure. You want a table?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just stay here. I’ll let you know if I decide to eat.”
She smiled and skittered back to her customers. I kept an eye out for her as I leaned over the desk and flipped back through the reservation book. No point in alienating anyone, since I still hadn’t found what I wanted.
I couldn’t remember the dates when I’d seen Laura, except for one. I’d dropped in with a colleague after a hearing toward the end of July. I glanced at the reservations for the last week in July and didn’t find Laura Brown’s name. That was probably good. If her companion had made the reservation, that could be the break I needed. I noticed the reservations were usually first names and phone numbers. Good. I needed an opportunity to write down everyone who’d reserved for that time period. Without getting permission or getting caught. I was digging for my pen when Chelsea walked toward the desk. She nodded to me and said, “I’ll be right with you.” She led the newcomers to a table, handed out menus with a flourish and returned before I found my pen.
“Hi. I’m Chelsea. I understand you want to speak to me?” she said. Up close, she looked older and wiser than her foxy grin and spiky hair suggested.
I tried a new approach. “I’m looking for a friend. It’s a matter of life and death.” True enough, if somewhat misleading. “I saw her having lunch with another woman, sometime in late July. They sat there.” I pointed. “My friend is medium-tall, a little bit plump, dark auburn hair, mid-forties, attractive but not stunning. She was wearing a linen suit, professional looking.” I stopped. “She came here quite often.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “I remember meals, not faces or clothes.”
“I don’t know what she ate. She had an alligator handbag, if that helps.”
She gave a short bark of
laughter. “It doesn’t. And to tell you the truth, I don’t even remember meals that long after I’ve served them. Well, sometimes I remember faces, but I’d have to see her. You don’t have a photo?”
“That’s part of the problem. There’s not a picture anywhere of her. She was diabetic, though. Maybe she needed special meals. Does that ring a bell?”
“Jasmine might know. She’s got a knack for remembering people. She often works that corner. And people are always telling her about their diets and their problems. She’s your best bet.”
“Can I talk to Jasmine?”
“She’s not on shift right now.”
“When will she be here?”
“Not sure. She works a couple of jobs. She’s putting herself through university. Hang on, I’ll check the schedule. It might take a couple of minutes, we’re really frantic, as you can see.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You having lunch?”
“Yes, I’d like that table.” I pointed to the window where I’d last seen Laura lunching.
“Sure. That’s one of mine today.”
I sat down at the table with relief, because I was feeling a bit woozy. It crossed my mind that I hadn’t eaten for a long time, despite my sisters’ best efforts. I loved the Maisie’s Eatery menu.
“I’ll order too,” I said. “Something with chicken. Pick the best one. And a cappuccino for dessert.”
“You want soup or salad?”
“Sure. Surprise me there, too.”
I waited and watched Chelsea whirl from table to table. I used the time to try to remember what Laura’s companions had looked like. Being in the same spot helped. One had dark hair, I knew that much, pulled back in a sleek ponytail. I wondered if she might have been Sylvie after eighteen years. I didn’t think so. The eyes had been too dark, the cheekbones too prominent. But then I wasn’t sure how accurate my impression had been.
Fifteen minutes later, I had my lunch, hot and sour soup, followed by chicken with coconut and fruit.
[C. MacP #4] The Devil's in the Details Page 8
