[C. MacP #4] The Devil's in the Details

by Mary Jane Maffini

“I doubt it had to do with Laura herself. The medication has an effect on him. The disease has an impact on his emotions. He’s unpredictable. He has bad days and good. This is a bad day. I’m glad you didn’t tell him she was dead.”

  “Me too. Did you know anything about her family?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sorry to have bothered you. I remember Joe as such a compassionate teacher. He influenced my notions of social justice,” I said.

  “That’s Joe. Passionate.”

  “I ended up being a lawyer because of him.”

  “A lawyer? Really? Law is not always on the same team as justice. Joe used to say that.”

  “Well, I tried to be one of the white hats. That’s why I’m searching for information about Laura.” Not that I was feeling defensive or anything.

  “He’d like to hear that he was an influence for good.” Her manner toward me seemed to have warmed.

  “Thanks. I’d better head out.”

  She didn’t argue. “Will there be a memorial service for her? I’d like to go.”

  “That’s part of why I need to find the family. I’ll make sure you know what’s planned as soon as things are settled.”

  She stopped at the door. “What if you don’t find them?”

  “Then I’ll arrange something. A memorial. I’ll put a notice in the paper, I guess. Wait a minute. You said you knew her. Had you seen her lately?”

  “Not for ages.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Kate said, “She should have had lots of friends. She was pleasant. Not really outgoing, but charming and warm. I remember her smile.”

  “Yes. Do you know what she did for a living?”

  “No, but she will have succeeded at whatever it was. She should have gone to grad school. She was Ph.D. material. Joe used to say she had the capacity to carve out a major place for herself in the academic world.”

  “She was bright, hard-working and serious.”

  “Impressive. Once, years ago, we had her to the house for dinner when we still lived in Centretown. He tried to convince her not to throw it all away. They got into a shouting match. Well, Joe did. It was a one-man shouting match. She said the academic world was not for her.”

  “And she didn’t lose her cool. That must have been hard with Joe.”

  Kate Westerlund laughed suddenly. “She held her own with him. He could be overwhelming.”

  “I remember.”

  “She stuck to her guns, and we didn’t really see her after that. I wish I’d kept in touch.”

  “Can you think of anyone she could have stayed in touch with? Someone who might know her family?”

  “I don’t think she had any family. If she’d had family, I’m sure she would have mentioned Christmas or a birthday. Something.”

  “What about her home town?”

  Kate hesitated then shook her head.

  I said, “Can you let me know if you think of something else? Here’s my card. Home number and cell. Especially if you remember someone who might have known her.”

  I hurried down the walkway. I was anxious to get away from the house and the stranger that Joe had become. At the same time, I felt unkind, unfeeling and inadequate. Something about Kate bothered me too, but I was in too much turmoil to think clearly about her.

  Sixteen

  My hands shook when I tried the ignition. Was it the reaction to seeing Joe? Or lack of sleep and the presence of painkillers? I closed my eyes, but that just made things worse.

  I hoped I wasn’t going to have to arrange a funeral when I didn’t even seem to be able to turn a key.

  The Pathfinder seemed hot and stuffy, even though the air was cool. I opened the windows. On the lawn, the birds were gone, and the grey squirrel had repositioned himself to take a run at the nearest birdfeeder. At the sound of the window opening, he turned to chatter at me. Do whatever it takes, he seemed to be saying.

  Is it a sign of a worsening concussion when you start taking advice from squirrels? “You’re just a rodent with a fabulous tail,” I said. “Even if you do have exceptional analytical skills.”

  The squirrel went back to its business.

  That reminded me of someone who might be able to help.

  Sgt. Leonard Mombourquette. No bushy tail, but otherwise quite rodent-like himself. Even better, he was just a short drive away. I figured Leonard could find some useful information, even if he’d already said he didn’t want to. He’d have access to all the police files and connections. I’d never been inside his home, but I’d dropped Conn McCracken off once, so I knew where he lived. Like the MacPhees, Leonard Mombourquette is from Cape Breton, and as an added bonus, he was Ray Deveau’s first cousin. Maybe he’d . . . No, I wasn’t going down that route.

  I strolled toward Mombourquette’s red front door a short time later. Unlike the Westerlunds’, this one was in good order. If you don’t want visitors, you shouldn’t have a tiny, perfect house with a tiny, perfect garden and a tiny, perfect flagstone walk with some tiny, perfect herb growing in the cracks.

  My sisters could have identified the herb with their eyes closed. It smelled wonderful when you walked on it. I tried not to walk on it, because the entire garden and walkway looked like a labour of love for someone, a dream location in the middle of an old neighbourhood. It was all soft shades of sage interspersed with pink and white.

  Most of the gardens I’d passed had an end-of-summer parched look to them. Not this one. It was small-scale and subtle. Fragrant. Every plant seemed to be at exactly the right stage and in precisely the right place. I can scarcely tell the difference between real and artificial flowers, but I know a work of art when I see one.

  The house and garden reminded me of the illustrations in a Beatrix Potter story. Small rodents in flowered dresses and mop caps might greet me, while others scrambled to prepare for a welcome guest. Instead, Mombourquette answered the door wearing grey cotton knit running shorts and a well-washed grey T-shirt. He wore charcoal and white flip-flops with a little swoosh on them. He hadn’t shaved, giving him a growth, of soft grey bristles.

  “What do you want?” he said, wrinkling his pointy nose.

  Everything about him drooped. Where was the ill-tempered little ratlike figure I had come to appreciate slightly?

  “I’d like a bit of advice.”

  “Forget it.” His voice sounded suffused with self-pity. I gathered I wouldn’t be getting camomile tea and poppy seed cakes.

  “Come on, Leonard. Don’t be like that.”

  “Oh, pardon me. Why don’t I just await the results of the SIU investigation with a song in my heart?”

  “Those sound like words to live by.” I meant to sound supportive. Perhaps the tone wasn’t quite right.

  “Goodbye, Camilla.”

  I stuck my foot in the door. “I need help.”

  “Not my problem. I’ve already told you.”

  “What kind of attitude is that?”

  “The attitude of someone who gets to live with the shit generated by you the last time you needed help.”

  “That was unavoidable. You can hardly hold me responsible.” His whiskers twitched. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. Believe me.” He still didn’t meet my eye. “Fine. I get the message.”

  Mombourquette had the door half-shut, when I said, “One question. What do you call those little plants growing between the stones? They smell nice.” I didn’t say that they smell particularly nice if you walk on them, because I knew that wasn’t the way to Mombourquette’s small grey heart.

  “Thyme,” Mombourquette said. The door opened a bit more.

  “Makes me sorry I live in an apartment.” His noncommittal grunt gave me hope. “Who created this wonderful garden?” I burbled.

  Bingo.

  Five minutes later, I was sipping ginger peach tea in the living room. The house was what my sisters would call a loving reconstruction of a unique heritage property. I figured the black metal fireplace was over a hundred years ol
d. Leonard favoured antiques. A carved maple sideboard, a camelback settee upholstered in faded blue brocade. A hutch with some chintz platters. We took our tea in blue and white china cups. We sat on chairs with needlepoint cushions. Leonard slid a plate of old-fashioned molasses cookies onto the polished maple table.

  Tea and garden talk or not, Mombourquette was not my biggest fan. In fact, outside of arguments, emergencies and shooting incidents, we’d never really had a conversation. I realized it would be up to me.

  “For what it’s worth,” I said, “you did the only thing you could. You saved lives. That’s the conclusion they are going to draw.”

  “The SIU puts you through the grinder. It’s one way to find out who your friends are.” Mombourquette sipped his tea morosely.

  “Yeah, well. With a union like you cops have, who needs friends? Lot of legal muscle behind the police association.”

  The sun glinted off his incisors. “It’s bad enough we officers put our lives on the line to keep society safe, you don’t think our union should stand behind us?”

  Depends on what the officer has done, I thought, as a couple of high profile recent incidents came to mind. “Not saying that, Leonard. I’m glad you’ve got support. And, speaking of support, everyone in my family seems to hold me responsible for your situation.”

  He nodded. Pleased, I suppose.

  “So listen, here’s the problem.” I sketched out the background from Laura’s death, my newfound next-of-kin role, the on-again, off-again insulin, the will, my tumble on the stairs, the fruitless search for Laura’s home town, her relatives and the women she had lunch with. “You can see how important this is. I can’t arrange the funeral yet. That’s pretty awful. But you have access to all the police systems, you could get someone’s SIN number and their place of birth, and last ten addresses and so on. Since you’re on leave, I figured you could help.” I smiled brightly at him.

  He did not return the smile. If he’d had a tail, it would have flicked dangerously. “You know something, Camilla?”

  “What?”

  “You frigging astound me.”

  “That’s a yes?”

  Turned out it was a flaming and dramatic no. Close to nuclear no. It seems that if you are a police officer on extended medical leave, it’s a really bad idea to go over to Central and ask for information. If the brass spot you out of bed, you’ll get slapped with a desk job.

  Well, who knew that?

  Sometimes you have to walk away from a situation. This was definitely one of those times. I hightailed down the street and around the corner to the Pathfinder and huddled with the Tim Hortons cups. I could have used a coffee to wash the taste of herbal tea out of my mouth. I pulled away from the curb and around the corner and angled the Pathfinder in again, thinking I’d figure out where the closest Second Cup was. Anyway, you shouldn’t drive when you’re really mad. I tried breathing deeply to regain my composure. My head felt like the inside of a jet engine. Talk about the mouse that roared.

  Alexa’s always suggesting meditation to calm down. I tried a few of her suggestions. I closed my eyes and thought of a distant beach. Blue soothing water, the sparkle of sun on the waves, the warm touch of sand on bare feet.

  I woke up with a start. The sky seemed darker than it should have, but I checked my watch, and it was only four-thirty. Fall certainly comes early, I thought. I had to get hustling to make it to Hull for the launch. I picked up my cellphone to give Elaine a call and tell her I’d bring the Pathfinder back after the launching.

  I held the phone away when I heard her voice. What a pair of lungs. What was her problem?

  Spinning head and shaky hands notwithstanding, I got the Pathfinder on the road, heading down the Vanier Parkway to the Queensway, the fastest way back to face the raging redhead. I asked myself why everyone I knew was always so bellicose.

  Elaine was still in outrage mode when she unlocked, unbolted and unchained her door. She said, “That was inconsiderate. For all I knew, you’d been killed in an accident.”

  “Hate to disappoint you. I didn’t have an accident. Not even a near miss.”

  Elaine is not one to let go of an issue. “You never mentioned you needed the Pathfinder for hours.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. But may I remind you, you practically booted me out before your appointment. If I’d had half a chance, I would have filled you in on my plans. Gladly.”

  “Fine, forget about it.”

  I could tell she didn’t mean it. “I was shaken up after I saw Joe Westerlund.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She went white as I described the ravages of Joe’s illness. “ALS. I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s totally unfair. Can we go upstairs?”

  She turned and led the way. “So sad. A wonderful person like that.”

  “Wouldn’t matter who it was, it’s still awful,” I said.

  “But if it was some miserable rat, that wouldn’t be so tragic.”

  “Even then. That reminds me, I dropped in on Leonard Mombourquette. I was hoping he’d cooperate, but he’s obsessed with the SIU investigation.”

  Elaine stopped at the top of the stairs. “You’re calling someone else obsessed?” she said. “I feel sorry for Leonard. He’s cute. I hope things work out in his favour.”

  The world is full of surprises.

  “What’s the matter now, Camilla?”

  “Leonard Mombourquette? Cute? Have you forgotten that time you were arrested?”

  “That wasn’t personal. Just part of his job. Don’t stand there gawking. Do you want to see the photos I found?”

  That Elaine can always reel you in.

  I said as I was being reeled, “Did you find some of Laura?”

  “Plunk yourself down and have a look.” She positioned herself on the sofa and picked up a batch of photos.

  I sat beside her. She passed the pictures to me, one by one, sorting as she went. A few were doubles, I guess. She slipped those onto a nearby chair, next to the other pile.

  “These pictures were taken during an end-of-term party, and then I shot these here during the winter term of first year.”

  I said. “You did well.”

  “Not as many as I wanted. It’s a start, though.”

  I frowned as I worked my way through them. “You still can’t see Laura’s face in any of them.”

  “I know. Terrific shots of the back of her head, though. She always had great hair.”

  “What were you so excited about showing me?”

  “Even though Laura doesn’t show up, I found lots of other people.”

  “This is great. Look, I hope you don’t mind if I take the Pathfinder again, because I have a real short time to get over to the balloon festival. I’ll be back by ten at the latest.”

  “Sorry, Camilla, I have an appointment.”

  “Again? Is this because I was late?”

  “No, really. I do.”

  “What’s with all the appointments on the long weekend?”

  “Holy moly. When did you sign on as my mother?”

  “Fine, how about you give me this pile of photos, and I’ll try to figure out who people are?” Before she could object, I dropped the photos into one of the small cloth-covered boxes stacked nearby. “Don’t worry, I’ll return them. Your pretty box too. And can you drop me off at home, so I can take the dog out? I’ll get a cab over to the launch site. I have to be there by five to be sure to get some good shots. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Did you say by five?”

  “I suppose five-thirty would be okay. Why?”

  “Among other reasons, because that was hours ago.”

  “Don’t be crazy,” I said.

  “Check your watch.”

  I checked my watch. “Four-twenty. Told you. Oh, shit. My watch must have been damaged last night. That’s about the time I fell.”

  “Even so, didn’t you notice that it’s practically dark?”

  “That was a good wa
tch, too. What time is it?”

  “How does 7:28 sound?”

  It wouldn’t take a neurologist to tell me I wasn’t thinking too clearly if I could make that kind of mistake.

  I stayed around home just long enough to do my urgent park duty with Gussie and to provide Mrs. Parnell’s cat with an evening meal suited to her high station in life. I wasn’t prepared to admit it, but I liked looking after the animals. There’s something soothing and relaxing about dogs and cats.

  As a rule, Mrs. Parnell is happy to make a visit to my apartment, no key apparently required, and feed the animals when I’m tied up at the office. Throughout the summer, when I couldn’t get home, she’d teetered around the park using her walker to give Gussie an outing. So in a moment of warm camaraderie, I had agreed to pop some fresh seeds into the cage for Lester and Pierre any evening when Mrs. Parnell wasn’t home.

  But before I fed the always ungrateful lovebirds, I wanted to check my phone messages. But perhaps I should refer to that activity as “Return to Voice Mail Hell.”

  BEEP

  Alvin here. Got a list of towns in Ontario that begin with C. I printed it out and we’ll have it for you at the launch site this afternoon. I think you could have got pretty much the same thing from a road atlas, but what the hell. Anything for our friend, Camilla.

  BEEP

  This is a message for Camilla MacPhee from Constable Jason Yee. Can you call me as soon as possible. I believe you have my cellphone number. Thank you.

  BEEP

  Camilla, this is your sister Edwina. Why aren’t you answering? I’d better not hear you’re wandering around town with a concussion, causing trouble for your family. I will assume you’re in the bathroom, which you will notice is now spotless. Keep it that way. You have five minutes to return this call.

  BEEP

  Hello? I hope I’ve reached Camilla MacPhee. My name is Robert Watson. I’m Frances Foxall’s husband. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Would you be kind enough to call me back? Thank you.

  BEEP

  This is Conn. I hear you’re hounding Leonard Mombourquette. You know damn well he’s going through a rough patch now. He’s on sick leave, he can’t even sleep. It is unconscionable for you to be badgering him. Just stay away from him. What is the matter with you?