The Devil's in the Details

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Nice try,” he said. “Are the police there yet, or do you want to make a run for it?”

  “I think that’s them now.”

  I stepped back out to the front porch, carrying the portable receiver. The alarm was a loud one, very effective, the type that gets folks in an upscale area engaged. The previously invisible neighbours were already gathering. A cluster of people were actually advancing toward the house.

  “I didn’t see a sign that said premises protected by anybody,” I said, peevishly.

  “That’s the idea,” the dispatcher said. “The element of surprise.”

  “Well, I’m surprised. Hang on,” I said and waited for a chance to explain to the police how I was the next-of-kin but didn’t know about the alarm, the alarm code, the homeowner’s mother’s maiden name or anything else.

  As the first squad cars converged on the house, roof lights flashing, I stepped toward them. Two young officers, a male and a female, got out, leaving the doors open.

  “Hi,” I said. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  I was right.

  After a longish time, they reached Yee and Zaccotto on the radio and confirmed my right to enter Laura Brown’s home.

  My inner lawyer knew this was not as clear-cut as Yee and Zaccotto thought, but I kept that to myself.

  The officers entered the house.

  “Maybe you should talk to the security company,” I said, as yet another cruiser pulled onto the street. Neighbours continued to spill from their houses. We now had an audience three deep.

  The female officer was young, black and brisk. She dealt with the security company, spelling out my name among other things.

  “They need to know your birthday,” she said.

  “August 10th,” I said. I’d turned thirty-six, and the less said about that the better.

  “August 10th. Good. And your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do I look like the kidding type?” she said.

  “MacDonald,” I said. “M-A-C.”

  “MacDonald,” she repeated. “M-A-C.”

  Three seconds later, she punched in a code and finally, blessedly, the alarm stopped.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “No problem. They had your details on file.”

  “What?”

  “They have you listed as an authorized person. But you should have had your access card on you. Could have saved all this trouble.”

  “No one ever sent me an access card for the security system.” Of course, compared to not mentioning I was next-of-kin, it seemed a minor oversight.

  “Not our problem. Better arrange to get your card from them,” the cop said, handing me the receiver.

  I gave my particulars to the dispatcher.

  “That it?” he said.

  “How about a new code? Can you give me one?”

  “You just select a four digit number and key it in.”

  “You don’t give it to me?”

  “No. You’re the only one who knows it. That’s why you have to remember it. Four numbers. Something you won’t forget. Not 1111, and not your birthday either. Key it in now.”

  “That’s all?”

  “You key it in once. You key it in again to make sure it’s the same. I’ll confirm. Then all you got to do is use it when you leave, then you key it in again when you come back. Easy.”

  I picked 1986. The year I’d met Laura Brown. I was troubled. How and why had Laura gone to the trouble to find out my mother’s maiden name?

  “We’ll send you an access card. Call the 1-800-number on the alarm box. Write it down and keep it with you.”

  The cop waited until I finished.

  “This call’s going to cost you sixty bucks for a false alarm. You’ll get a bill.”

  That was truly the least of my problems.

  Six

  Laura Brown’s place was cosy and well-ordered. It was full of suede cushions, silky throws and the kind of upholstery you sink into with a book. Laura must have done that often. I found four historical novels scattered around, each with a bookmark, indicating she hadn’t finished. A couple of recent CanLit bestsellers in hardcover editions were stacked on the coffee table.

  Laura’s colours: copper, warm yellow, woodsy brown, dominated the decor. Every room had potpourri with a pleasant green apple scent. I’d become more aware of these important details since my sister, Alexa, had started dragging me through model homes.

  That’s how I knew the kitchen was a showpiece. The Chinese red accent wall warmed the room, and black granite counters screamed big bucks. The stainless steel appliances might have been chic, but they still creeped me out. I kept my mind off the morgue and headed upstairs. In the linen closet, I found Egyptian cotton sheets, including some still in their packaging, next to stacks of white towels.

  Laura’s home had everything. Flat screen television, air-conditioning, central vac. Some lovely moody watercolours on the walls. Originals.

  No sign of a home computer though, and I’d thought I was the last person without one. Even Alvin had his laptop. Mrs. Parnell had a computer system and two laptops.

  Speaking of Mrs. P., she would have approved of the high-end sound system. She loves Bose. Laura’s taste ran to light classical, jazz and easy listening. I found a half-finished knitting project in a covered basket near the sound system.

  But I didn’t find a single photo, not even one of herself. No diplomas. Not a letter or memento. Not a message held by a fridge magnet.

  After a serious search, I found bank statements in a portable file box in the upstairs den closet. The monthly statements from her broker were included. She had one hell of a portfolio. I now had the name of her bank and her account numbers for chequing and savings. There was nothing much of interest in the statement. Debit purchases at clothing stores and restaurants, mostly Maisie’s Eatery, the popular new spot where I’d run into her the last few times.

  Most of her bills were on direct debit. Hydro, phone and gas records had been neatly placed in labelled household files. There was not one long distance call on any phone bill.

  I went through the small file box hoping to find her passport and with it her place of birth. No deal.

  I did find two envelopes. The first, marked “Emergency”, held three new-looking one hundred dollar bills. The second was in a legal-sized envelope from Barkhow, Delaney and Zolf. It held Laura Brown’s will. Good news. If you don’t mention your relatives and friends in your will, where do you mention them?

  Laura’s will was crisp and to the point.

  She left all of her worldly belongings to Camilla MacPhee. Frederick Delaney was named as the executor. It goes without saying that the office of Barkhow, Delaney and Zolf was closed for the weekend. I dialled the number anyway and left a message for Delaney, leaving my name, home and cell numbers.

  That was all I needed. To be the sole heir of someone I hardly knew. To make matters worse, Laura had made no bequests, no mention of anyone else, and no charitable donations. Nothing.

  I stuck the small envelope with the cash into my canvas backpack for safekeeping. I rolled the envelope containing the will to make it fit and shoved that in too.

  Next stop was the master bedroom closet. A nice selection of flowing summer dresses in copper, yellow and apple green. A collection of linen separates that I could never afford. Two halter dresses. And the regular assortment of slacks, jeans, cotton sweaters, plus two pairs of Birkenstocks, the footwear of choice in the Glebe.

  What had I expected? It was an elegant yet practical wardrobe for any fortyish successful woman. Nothing unusual. I kept going. The bed was made, although not to my sisters’ standards. I dropped to all fours and peered under it. Waste of time.

  I straightened up and asked myself why I spent so much time looking under other people’s beds. My sisters were always saying I needed a hobby. I hoped this wasn’t going to be it. I flicked on the clock radio and found it set to Oldies 131
0. “Stand By Me” was playing.

  Laura had been neat but not compulsive. Her home was comfortable and welcoming, even if something seemed missing. It was several grown-up housekeeping steps ahead of mine.

  Laura’s reading taste ran to popular magazines. She had baskets full of those and a shelf lined with mass market editions of historical novels. Her bedside table held a hardcover copy of One Man’s Justice by Thomas R. Berger, and three more historical novels. I’d been meaning to pick up a copy of the Berger book, since I was an admirer of the man. I figured Laura wouldn’t mind if I took it, being next-of-kin and all.

  There’s no way to check out someone’s medicine cabinet without feeling sleazy. The cabinet yielded nothing of interest, unless you count high-end moisturizer and an apricot face masque. No over the counter medications. I was looking for prescriptions. Something with the name of her pharmacist and doctor. Anything that might get us a step closer to knowing something, anything about Laura Brown. There were no prescriptions. Not a single outdated antibiotic container, nothing for allergies or migraines. No birth control.

  The rest of the bathroom was equally unremarkable. A damp towel hung slightly askew on the towel rack. The sink was clean but not sparkling, same for the tub and shower. A couple of strawberry-scented bath-bombs waited on the side of the tub. An electric toothbrush sat on the vanity. A hair dryer with a big diffuser hung from a hook. Could have been anyone’s bathroom.

  I’d learned nothing about Laura’s friends and family when I headed back to the kitchen.

  I forced myself to open the stainless steel door of the fridge. As I expected, I found food—a half-filled bag of skim milk, a container of orange juice, a chunk of cheese repackaged in a Ziploc bag, some leftover roast chicken. All neatly arranged. A large supply of condiments, including three kinds of Dijon mustard, and two jars of fiery salsa, plus salmon fillets, asparagus, a salad that looked like arugula, a tub of mascarpone cheese and an array of other cheeses. And honey. No chocolate anywhere.

  Lots of ice cubes in the freezer.

  The pantry held canned soups, jars of red peppers, a few dietetic jams and no sweets whatsoever, except for a large package of Splenda.

  She had a serious collection of cookbooks, including several on cooking for one. Two Lucy Waverman cookbooks that I recognized from my sister’s kitchen sat next to Bon Appetit Weekend Entertaining. A couple of pieces of paper marked recipes. I opened them to see if anything interesting fell out. Nothing did.

  A list on the counter said:

  Salmon Fillets

  Asparagus

  Arugula

  Chunk Parmigiano Reggiano

  Balsamic Vinegar

  Mascarpone

  Figs

  Every item on the list had a check mark next to it. Laura already had a nice selection of moderate to high-priced wines, nothing flashy. Heavy on the Australian Shiraz, but with some Italian and French pinot noir too. A bottle of Fat Bastard stood on the glass bistro table, with a stainless steel bartender style corkscrew lying next to it.

  Looked to me like Laura had picked up the ingredients for a special dinner. But for whom? She obviously hadn’t had it at the time of her death, because the ingredients were all still in the fridge.

  With luck, if I persevered and learned the name of her guest, I might find out something more about her. I just hoped it wasn’t some new acquaintance.

  The basement was down a fairly steep set of plain wooden stairs. On the side ledge, Laura had organized her cleaning supplies, easy access, yet out of sight. The vacuum hose was wound around a hook on a pegboard and hung alongside a broom, mop and a long-handled feather duster. Neat but not prissy.

  A quick peek in the basement storage area revealed cross-country skis, solid but not top of the line. No skates. A rack with a bicycle. One swimming noodle. A pair of flippers. A pair of well broken-in hiking boots. A tennis racquet and a squash racquet.

  She had obviously liked sports. But she must have biked with someone, skied with someone, hiked with someone. Who would have only one swimming noodle?

  The basement storage connected to a neat, empty garage.

  I headed back upstairs.

  The magazines were ordinary enough. Maclean’s, Canadian House and Home, Style at Home, Walrus. The previous week’s New York Times Magazine.

  I found no clue about where Laura worked. Everything about her lifestyle indicated she was some kind of professional. But everyone has something from their place of business. A Health Insurance form. A T-shirt. A mug. Or some kind of a file. I chugged back to the second floor to recheck her T-shirts. None of them had logos.

  Back downstairs to hunt for mugs.

  At least I was getting some exercise.

  The dining area had a fashionable dark wood streamlined table and a Zen-looking sideboard. The table was set for two with fashionable pale green china and sleek silverware on cream linen placemats with contrasting napkins. A trio of creamy orchids sat in the middle as a centrepiece. Slender wine and water glasses flanked each place-setting, confirming my special dinner theory.

  Back in the kitchen, the cupboards held dishes for four, in a pumpkin colour, with matching cups and mugs. I peered in the depths of the cupboard. Not a single mug with a letter or graphic on it. I pulled one of the bistro chairs over and climbed up on it. I squinted at the far corners of the top cabinets, the place I always hide junk, such as undesirable Christmas presents. The corner looked empty. I stuck my hand in anyway. I netted two mugs. One said Ottawa printed over an image of the Canadian flag. The other said Toronto, printed over an image of the CN tower.

  Okay, forget that.

  I climbed down and decided to have a look at the phone. Laura had a couple of the high-end ones, the type that showed your last ninety-nine callers if you pressed the down arrow. Except for the security company call, only six calls were recorded. The date for three was July 14th. More than six weeks earlier. One on July 13th and two on the 15th. As far as I could tell, no one else had called Laura Brown.

  The six calls had come from “Unknown name. Unknown number”. Was that the guest she’d invited? Someone from out of town? No way to know.

  Of course, I realized the unknown name thing was no more mysterious than a cellphone not on the Bell system. Maybe someone choosing to block calls. Maybe a telemarketer. A glance at the times of the calls made me reconsider that. Telemarketers favour dinner hour. These calls had come during the day and evening.

  I had nothing left to check but the garbage. Upstairs to the bathroom, the smart little mesh wastebasket was empty.

  Fine.

  While I was up there, I checked the small den on the same floor. Nothing.

  Laura had a stacked washer and dryer. Front loading, Energy Star. I peered through the glass. Both machines were empty. The wastepaper basket held two dryer sheets.

  On the main floor, the only garbage can was in the kitchen. It was empty too; a pristine white kitchen garbage bag lined the can. Nice fresh lemony smell too. No paper of any kind. No container or wrapper that gave out any information.

  I tried the back entrance, where a large garbage can and both blue and black recycling containers stood. All empty. I lifted them, just in case something had slipped underneath.

  Nothing had.

  What were the chances that the garbage and recycling were collected on Friday morning in this neighbourhood, and Laura hadn’t been home since?

  I’d just have to find out.

  Feeling rather foolish, I checked in each of the stainless canisters on the counter. The flour and sugar contained flour and sugar. The tea and coffee contained tea and coffee. I found that irritating.

  As a last resort, I opened the drawer in the hall console. I picked up the telephone book and flipped to the Bs.

  No listing for Brown, Laura, L. or L.L. at that address. Or any other address.

  I took one last look around Laura Brown’s lovely home. It stood in sharp contrast to the dwellings of most of my clients. As far as I c
ould tell, Laura Brown had everything she could have wanted until she took that last walk.

  I collected my new book, set the alarm with my access code and slunk off toward the Volvo.

  I didn’t get far.

  Seven

  It was nearly eleven and, although it was Friday night, the street was empty once again, except for Laura’s neighbour to the left. He was standing alone, clearly visible in the glow of the street light. He was an attractive man, late forties, early fifties, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair, blue eyes behind pricey looking rimless glasses. He wore a short-sleeved taupe golf shirt, although the temperature had fallen, and there was enough of a nip in the air to make me wish I’d worn a sweater. He stood on the sidewalk, staring at his immaculate front garden, scratching his head. The head-scratching seemed to be brought on by a selection of mums in nursery pots.

  His garden had the look of a professional design, profuse, yet precisely planned, with just the teensiest suggestion of goose-stepping storm troopers. I could hear a woman’s voice from inside the three-storey brick house. “Stop obsessing, plant your wretched mums on Sunday. We have to get up early tomorrow, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “You know I like to do things right,” he said. I caught the implication that others came up short in the doing things right department. He didn’t make that comment loud enough to be heard more than two feet away.

  “Hello,” I said, fishing out my best smile.

  “I’m trying for a lively, jaunty mood this fall,” he said. “I can’t just have them stuck in straight lines. Can I?”

  Like I cared. “Good point,” I said.

  “Gardening’s an art form, really. The harmony of the whole.” I assumed he was seeking support for his position.

  “You bet,” I said.

  “I don’t want to be up all night,” the woman inside the house said. She had a voice that carried.

  “My name is Camilla MacPhee,” I said. “Did you know your neighbour, Laura Brown, well?”

  “Laura Brown?” he said.