The Devil's in the Details (11 page)

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 list. 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.

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.