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

by Mary Jane Maffini

  Before she could seat me at some other server’s table, I hustled across the restaurant to the table I’d been at before. Someone else was already sitting there, so I took the next one, hoping it was still in Jasmine’s section.

  Norine followed me, glossy lips compressed, body language screaming “Ready for battle”.

  I whipped the napkin out of my glass with a flourish and fiddled with the fork. I turned to the people dining to my right.

  “Wonderful atmosphere here, isn’t it? And the desserts! Don’t leave without one. You’ll only end up coming back. I did.”

  They stared, their forks suspended in mid-air. But this was Ottawa, so in the end they had to nod politely.

  Norine knew when she was beaten. I could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t intend to lose to me again. We’ll see about that, I thought. Jasmine, on the other hand, produced her wide smile. Some tips have that effect on people.

  I ordered the white and dark chocolate cheesecake with raspberry cognac coulis and caramelized pecans, because after all, it was Labour Day weekend, and I had a head injury, and no one I didn’t care that much about had called me.

  The dessert certainly felt like it had health benefits. Well worth the inflated price. I’d blown a wad of cash on a guy named Youssef that day, and I still needed to hang on to more cab fare, so I had to accompany Jasmine to the desk to use my cash card. Everything had started to hurt again, and my slight dizziness had been replaced by intermittent flashing.

  “When you get a chance,” I said, as I keyed in my PIN, “I need you to look at some old photos. You might recognize some of the people.”

  “I’d be glad to.” She glanced in Norine’s direction. “But I don’t think I can do it here. She looks like she could put a stake through your heart.”

  “Does she?” I said, happily. Jasmine did not succeed in stifling a smile. “What time do you get off?” I asked.

  “Usually by ten-thirty, it’s pretty well empty here. I’m out around eleven, as a rule. Look out, she’s on her way over.”

  “I can wait for you.”

  “I wouldn’t do it here, if I were you,” she said. “Norine will just keep me late doing set-up for tomorrow. She’s made spite into an art form.”

  “We’re ahead of her. I’ll meet you somewhere else.” She hesitated. “I’ll be fast, honest.”

  “With two jobs, I need my rest. Could we meet tomorrow instead?”

  “I know this sounds strange, but it’s a serious matter, and I am desperate.” I fished around in my full backpack and finally pulled out a business card, only slightly crumpled. I scribbled my cell number on the back. “I only need about fifteen minutes. You pick the spot. I’ll be happy to pay you for your time.”

  “All fifteen minutes of it?” she smiled. The girl obviously knew her way around a toothbrush. “Double time and a half.”

  “You got it.”

  “How about I meet you at Legal Beagle? You know it?”

  “I’ve seen it. Catch you there between ten-thirty and eleven.” I could tell by the look on her face that a stormy encounter with Norine was on the horizon. I took the offensive and strode from the desk to head off Norine.

  “Wonderful desserts. Well worth the return trip. I’ll tell my friends.”

  She managed a smile that could chill soup. “Thank you.”

  I marched off with a jaunty step that belied the whirly stuff going on in my head.

  Legal Beagle.

  Cute.

  I found myself at loose ends. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do. Couldn’t annoy or be annoyed by my family, since they were at the cottage. Most of my friends had departed for the weekend. I’d already pissed off Elaine Ekstein, and anyway, she didn’t answer her phone. I could hardly go back to Mombourquette’s.

  I certainly wasn’t hungry.

  I’d hit a wall with Laura Brown. And I had time to kill. I wandered around the Byward Market, enjoying the evening scene. Restaurants were emptying, people were starting to trickle into bars. Foot traffic was heavy. Couples strolled by, holding hands, peering in the windows of shops and restaurants. I thought Elgin Street had a lot of restaurants, but new ones were springing up all over the place in the market. I wondered how long it would take to eat at every restaurant in the area, especially including all the fast food places. I love shawarmas. How many different types could I find there? It didn’t take long to get tired of the food game. I strolled up and down the narrow streets, William and Byward, peering at the shrouded market garden stalls, dodging laughing pedestrians. The last weekend of summer, and everyone was having fun jaywalking.

  Two girls roller-bladed by at breakneck speed, their matching blonde ponytails lit by the moon. Panhandlers stuck their hands out. I counted three buskers making music at different corners. The Roy Orbison lookalike was good, and the country guitar even better, but I was most impressed by a guy playing “Für Elise” on the accordion. I tossed a loonie into his cap on the sidewalk.

  You feel safe in the Byward Market at night, whether you should or not. That’s because there are always people everywhere. That set me thinking again. Having lots of people around hadn’t helped keep Laura alive. Was I wrong? Had Laura’s death really been just an accident? Tragic, but no more than being at the wrong place at the wrong time? Had my fall down her stairs been a bit of clumsiness on my part? Had I imagined the missing insulin?

  Was I wasting my time and everyone else’s trying to find out about her, when all I had to do was give the all clear for the burial, put the notice in the paper and see who showed up? Should I just stay home and rest until this head thing fixed itself?

  Self-doubt is not my best thing.

  I kept it at bay until it was time to meet Jasmine.

  Legal Beagle was dark and swirling, black painted wood, matte finishes punctuated with the flash of stainless and the throb of neon. Pink, blue and purple neon accented signs, mirrors, doors. The bar was just starting to get moving. I felt like having a beer, but I ordered a San Pellegrino out of grudging respect for the drugs in my system.

  “Quiet tonight,” I said to the bartender.

  He glanced at the clock with its pink neon frame. “Still early.”

  It was 10:30 on Saturday night on the weekend. I sat and sipped my designer water and tried not to feel peevish as the minutes ticked by. At 11:10, as my second bottle of San Pellegrino neared the end, I figured it was time to call it quits. Jasmine wasn’t coming.

  At 11:11, I got up to leave, just as the other server, Chelsea, flounced through the door. Her hair was gelled into spikes, all green tonight, and her colour was high, even flushed. She wore a leather bomber jacket over an orange bustier teamed with a black spandex mini-skirt. First time I’d ever seen hand-tooled cowboy boots paired up with fishnet stockings. And to think I’d felt self-conscious because there were butterflies embroidered on my jean jacket.

  She ordered a Absolut Mandarin shooter before she said hello. Obviously an emergency.

  “I’m sorry.” She hopped up on the bar stool, showing quite a lot of fishnet. “I thought you might have left.”

  “Where’s Jasmine?”

  “You can’t believe what that bitch Norine put her through,” Chelsea said breathlessly.

  “I bet I can.”

  “She’s a real piece of work at her best. At her worst, which I think I’ve just seen, she’s unbelievable.”

  “She gives that impression even to the casual observer,” I said.

  Chelsea’s shooter arrived, along with a dose of sympathy from our waiter. “The hag still giving you a hard time?” he said.

  “She’s spreading it around.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “She’s got Jasmine doing stocktaking plus cash out and shut down. And she gave her setup for tomorrow.”

  “That explains why she’s not here. But I thought you weren’t working tonight.”

  “Jasmine sent me a message through one of the other girls. I said I�
��d catch you here. She’ll call you tomorrow after work.”

  I figured we needed to vent a bit, so I ordered my third San Pellegrino, or maybe it was my fourth. I’d be running to the bathroom all night, but so what. I didn’t have anything better to do.

  “When you have time,” I added, figuring the bartender was prepared to hear Chelsea’s story and offer constructive advice.

  Chelsea snarled, “Jasmine has to refill the fucking salt shakers.”

  The bartender gasped. “You have so got to get a new job.”

  “I am out of there,” Chelsea said.

  “Well, you could do a lot better,” he said. “Talk to management here.”

  “I might,” Chelsea said.

  “I’ll have that San Pellegrino in the meantime,” I said.

  Chelsea said, “I think it was deliberate. She figured out Jasmine was planning to meet with you, and she wanted to mess that up.”

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t need a reason. She’s a fifth dan black belt in bitchery.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, wondering if I could use that line some time. “Too bad I caused Jasmine trouble.”

  “Not your fault. But next time I meet someone, it’s gotta be in Hull. I really need a smoke.”

  “We could grab a cab and head over if you want,” I said. “I’m in no rush.”

  “It’s okay. I just dropped in to give you the message. I got people to see.”

  “Right.”

  “Jasmine told me to give you her phone number and said she’d be happy to meet you. But please don’t contact her at work.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Chelsea handed me a folded piece of paper. “That’s it, really.”

  I glanced at the slip of paper. I hated to drop it into the chaotic backpack.

  “Wait a minute.” I put the photo box on the table. “Since you’re here, maybe you can do something for me.”

  “Hope it won’t take long.”

  I fished out my best shot. “Have a quick look. Here’s a side view of Laura. Does she look familiar?” I slipped my last thirty dollars on the bar. It would mean a trip to an ATM for cab fare; but so what.

  Chelsea flicked a glance at the cash. It seemed to help her decision.

  “Not a great photo. What was she doing, hiding from the camera? When was this taken?”

  “A long time ago. And yes, I think she didn’t want the camera to catch her.”

  “No wonder. Yuck. Where did people get those ugly sweaters?”

  Fine words, considering the bustier and fishnets.

  “You get a sense of her overall look, although she’d gained a bit of weight recently.”

  “I think I’ve seen her.”

  “Can you look through the rest of these photos?”

  Chelsea gave a whoosh of exasperation. My bribe had worn off pretty fast.

  I said. “Maybe I should get a refund on that thirty.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Come on, Chelsea. Just glance at these pictures and tell me if you recognize anyone from Maisie’s.”

  At that point, the bartender arrived back with Chelsea’s second vodka shooter. Plus a beer on the house for her and a San Pellegrino for me. Not on the house.

  I signalled for the bill. I wanted to indicate a sense of urgency to the bartender. I didn’t need to sit in on Chelsea’s career planning. “Is there anyone you recognize?”

  “Hard to say, with everyone looking so weird. The glasses are hysterical. Hadn’t people heard of contacts?”

  “Let’s just go through one by one,” I said. “I know you’re in a hurry.”

  “You got that right.”

  “So if we can just clip along.”

  “I’m late for a date now because of meeting you for Jasmine.”

  “Can you call your date? Let him know you’ll be delayed a couple of minutes?” I assumed it was a he.

  “I guess I could leave a message.”

  “Excellent. So, no one in this batch?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t try to call anyone.

  The second photo got a negative shake too. And so did the third. She wasn’t sure about the next one. There was something familiar about two of the people, but that was all.

  I squinted at the figures. The combination of the dark bar and the flashing neon and the post-concussion activity in my head made it hard to see clearly. I scrawled a note on the back of the photo. Elaine would have their life histories.

  “But I see a lot of people, you know?” Chelsea said.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “And it’s not like work is my entire existence.”

  “You obviously have a lively social life,” I said.

  “And intellectual life,” she added.

  “Of course. It goes without saying.” It had never crossed my mind that Chelsea might have an intellectual life.

  I decided to finish the photo project before the vodka shooters and beer chaser hit her like a typhoon.

  I watched Chelsea flip through the shots in a desultory fashion. I was about to abandon hope when she gave a little start. Her foxy face lit up. “What’s this worth to you?”

  “Come again?”

  “Information is a commodity. You need it fast?”

  “Perhaps you have forgotten I’ve just given you thirty dollars.”

  “Well, I definitely recognize two people here from Maisie’s. They were fairly regular customers. They used to have lunch with another woman. Auburn hair, tall, a bit overweight, big smile.”

  Laura. Chelsea must have known who she was all along.

  “I know someone else she used to have lunch with. But she’s not in these pictures. And like I said, it’s going to cost you.”

  “Be serious.”

  “You need it. I have it. What’s it worth?”

  “We are talking about people finding out that a close friend has died.”

  “So in that case, say a hundred each.”

  “I’m astounded.”

  “Okay. No problem, got to go. I told you I was late.”

  “I don’t believe Jasmine would take this approach.”

  “Why don’t you wait for her then? You can get together by Monday or Tuesday.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “There’s an ATM up the road.”

  I stared at her. This little minx thought information about Laura and her friends was a commodity. I had to admit she had me in a corner. But my chequing account didn’t have a spare three hundred just waiting for an extortion attempt.

  “End of season sale,” I said. “Two hundred for the three names. Take it or leave it.” I was about to hop down off the bar stool and head for the cash machine when I remembered the bills I’d found in the file at Laura’s. According to Laura’s will, it was all mine anyway. And this was for Laura.

  “All right.” I dug around the backpack and fished one of the hundreds from the envelope. “Let’s get a face first before we get the other hundred.”

  Chelsea shrugged. She stretched out a sharp green fingernail to point at Frances Foxall.

  I swallowed. “When did you see her?”

  “Back in the summer. Late June. July maybe.”

  “Frances Foxall.”

  “Want the other one?”

  I nodded and extracted another hundred.

  This time Chelsea pointed at Sylvie Dumais. “This one’s name is Sylvie. I haven’t seen her for a while.”

  “There’s a reason for that. She’s dead.”

  Chelsea shrugged. The second hundred vanished into some hidden pocket.

  “You want that third name? It will cost you another hundred.”

  “We had a deal.”

  She licked her lips. “I don’t recall agreeing to it.”

  I hated to give in, but on the other hand, Laura’s money was there, and no matter how much I felt like giving Chelsea a swift kick instead of a large bill, she had provided me the identity of two people who had been a
t Carleton with Laura, who had had lunch with her, and who were now dead. I needed that third name. I slapped the last hundred dollar bill on the bar. I kept my hand on it. “After this, do you have more information?”

  “This is it.” She reached forward to pick up the bill.

  “The name,” I said, keeping it firmly under my palm.

  She shrugged. “Bianca.”

  Not enough to let go of the cash. “I don’t know a Bianca.”

  “Your friend Laura did. She had lunch with her all the time. Including last week.”

  “How do you know her name?”

  “Bianca used to make the reservations when they had lunch together. You get to know the regulars at Maisie’s.”

  So sly little Chelsea had known who Laura was all along.

  “Do you have a last name?”

  “Just Bianca.”

  “What about a phone number?”

  “That will cost you another two hundred.”

  “Be serious. I’ve given you more than enough for a single name.”

  “Your problem. Another two hundred or forget it.”

  “I don’t have another two hundred.” If I’d feigned a lack of interest earlier, it might have put me in a better bargaining position. “Maybe I could pay you tomorrow.”

  “Call me at Maisie’s when you have the cash. I’m out of here.” Chelsea snatched the hundred. I sat with my mouth hanging open as she skittered out to the sidewalk.

  Nineteen

  I slipped Jasmine’s number into my pants pocket and hopped off the bar stool, jarring my knees and creating a few new stars in my brain.

  “Going somewhere?” The bartender plunked the check in front of me.

  “Hang on until I speak to Chelsea.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Right.” I reached into my backpack for my cash card and came up empty.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  I patted my pockets.

  He curled his upper lip.

  I said, “It’s in here somewhere.”

  He crossed his arms.

  Pockets, no luck. It didn’t help that my head was spinning.

  “I can’t imagine what happened to my card,” I said. That must have been a familiar tune, because the bartender had slipped around the bar and neatly blocked my exit. I patted my pockets again. Thinking back to the last time I’d had the card.