The Devil's in the Details (13 page)

“Well, I'm surprised you didn't. Anyway, it's a creepy situation. I think the person who attacked me was involved in Laura's death.”

Elaine said, “Oh, come on. This is Ottawa. We don't have killers running loose. Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic?”

After dogmatism and inflexibility, drama was Elaine's best thing.

“I don't believe Laura's death was an accident.”

“Maybe you're imagining things because of your concussion. I've had clients with brain damage, and they're often fuzzy on facts.”

“I'm not fuzzy on these facts, Elaine. And I'm not in the habit of imagining murders.”

“Seriously, you don't look good, Camilla. You're pasty, like old dough or something. Better sit down,” she said.

I let the pasty old dough thing slide and looked around for somewhere to sit. Easier said than done in Elaine's house. Every surface was covered with piles of paper,
CD
s, magazines, files, craft projects, you name it. For no reason I could imagine, the coffee table was covered entirely in hats. Plus there were hundreds of plants, green and luxurious and just a tad overwhelming.

I'm no Suzy Homemaker, but Elaine has every scrap of paper, book, magazine, record, article of clothing, receipt, pair of shoes and tacky gift she's ever received. I liked that about her. I enjoyed visiting. You could relax once you found a place to sit. And this time, I was betting on her packrat habit to pay off.

I scooped a teetering stack of Christmas cooking magazines off the sofa and crumpled onto it.

“Were you in the middle of your video phase our first year at Carleton?”

“I see what you're getting at.”

“Were you?”

“In other words, do I have Laura on videotape? No. I'm sure I got into videography a couple of years later.”

“That's too bad. I thought if we could see who she was with at a social event, I might find someone who could lead to her family. It's a long shot. Aside from talking to the servers at Maisie's Eatery, it's all I could think of.”

“I was in my photography phase at that time.”

“That's right. It wasn't videos, it was photos you were shooting. Even better. You still have your pictures, of course.”

“Do I have pictures? Ha.”

“Let's have a peek at them. I'm looking for a pretty girl named Sylvie. I don't remember her last name.”

“Dumais?”

“Dumais. That's it. That's amazing, Elaine.”

Elaine peered at me strangely.

“What?” I said after a while.

“Sylvie Dumais is dead.”

“You're not serious.”

“She drowned. Her kayak overturned on a lake in Algonguin Park.”

“When?”

“Just this past June. Another accident. Like Laura's.”

I said. “Let me recap: Laura's death was suspicious. And I don't think I fell down the stairs by accident.”

“No need to snap. Let me get the photos. We'll see what turns up.”

Be careful what you wish for, I believe the saying goes. I followed Elaine up another flight of stairs. Her third floor study was full of photos. They were organized in dozens of fabric-covered boxes. Feminine and homey. Of course, it would have been easier if some of the boxes had been labelled.

Nineteen containers later, I'd confirmed that chronological filing wasn't Elaine's strong point.

“Never mind,” Elaine said. “It's been fun catching up, hasn't it?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Get a load of you when you were called to the bar. What a party that was. I had a week-long hangover.”

“That was eight years after I took that course with Laura. Let's focus on finding photos with her in them,” I said. “Early years, remember?”

Elaine stood up and stretched. “Break time. Want some coffee?”

I always want coffee. “Yes, but I don't want to lose momentum.”

I thought I saw her roll her eyes. She tucked a stack of photos on a chair and headed downstairs.

Elaine is passionate about so much, including coffee. Hers is always excellent. No decaf chez Elaine. I kept sifting through the boxes of photos while the aroma of the fresh brew rose up the stairs.

“Gotta be here somewhere,” Elaine said, returning with two
WAVE
mugs, full to the brim and steaming hot. “One of
these days I'll take a weekend and put them all in albums with nice commentaries. Oh, here's one of Sylvie. You can just see her in the corner. Candid shot. She didn't like to have her picture taken. Come to think of it, neither did Laura.”

I remembered Elaine's flash going off that entire year, every time you put a fork in your mouth, raised a glass or yawned. No wonder people resisted having their pictures taken.

“It's hard to believe we've known each other for eighteen years, isn't it?” Elaine said, swishing through shots. “Hey, here's Laura, turning away from the camera. Nice shot of her back. And there's Frances Foxall. What an ego. But even she wouldn't face me.”

“I'm trying to reach Frances,” I said. “Where is everyone this weekend?”

“Oh, my God.”

“What? You found one of Laura's face?”

“No. I found Joe Westerlund. Holy moly, remember him?”

“Remember him? He was my hero. I couldn't forget Joe Westerlund.”

“All the women liked Joe. Like a Viking god with a Ph.D.”

“He was awesome, in the old sense. I loved every course I took from him.”

“Me, too. And it wasn't just a man/woman thing.” Two bright spots appeared on Elaine's cheeks. “He made you think about social justice.”

“You're right. Joe had more impact on my personal philosophy than all the rest of the undergrad faculty.”

“And he was easy on the eyes.”

“Come on, Elaine. Joe was way more than just a pretty face.”

“And body. We're adults here. Allow me my vices. He was yummy. Lust lust lust.”

“You know what? Joe Westerlund taught the class that
Laura and I did together.”

Elaine was riffling through the photos, hunting for more shots of Joe Westerlund. “I always thought it was too bad he was married.”

“A lot of girls wanted to have a shot at Joe.”

“Except you, Camilla.”

“He put his wife on a pedestal. Which was nice. Remember, he brought her to all the social events? Of course, it might have been to protect himself from the salivating females, no names mentioned. But looking back, she was so damned gorgeous and sophisticated.”

“Speaking of pedestals. You were all wrapped up in Paul in those early days, I'm surprised you even noticed Joe.”

I didn't want to go down the conversational path to Paul. “Do you think Joe Westerlund still lives in Ottawa?”

“Don't know. I haven't seen him since my undergrad years. You could call the school and find out.”

“They're closed this weekend.”

“Too bad.” She grinned evilly. “Want another look at him?”

“Put a sock in it, Elaine. Joe was connected to his students. Laura was quite smart and capable. He'll probably remember her. He might even know where she came from.”

“Can't hurt to ask.”

“What was his wife's name?”

“I've blocked it out. Raging and deep-seated jealousy. When all else fails, try the phone book.”

Elaine continued to scramble through photos, tossing some back into boxes, keeping some on her lap, sliding some into empty spots on chairs. “Boy, do I have some great blackmail material here. The hairdos alone should bring in a fortune. Look at your hairdo. Of course, at least you had a hairdo back then.”

“Can you find a phone book in the middle of this stuff?”

Elaine said, “Can you try to be less high and mighty when I'm doing you a favour?”

“Me? I'm not making digs about
your
hair. And you're not really doing me a favour, Elaine. You're helping find Laura Brown's family, which is the decent thing to do. So never mind putting it on my tab.”

“Don't be so fatuous.” She slapped the phone book down in front of me. In that orange and yellow Elaine way.

Fatuous. Sheesh.

I found Joe Westerlund right away, a listing on a quiet street I thought ran off the Vanier Parkway. I didn't have to remember his wife's name. Their answering machine took care of that. A woman's voice said, “If you have a message for Joe or Kate, leave it after the beep, along with your name, telephone number and the time of your call.”

There's something about leaving a message saying so-and-so's dead, it's four-thirty, that didn't seem appropriate. People have been after me to work on my sensitivity. When I remember, I give it a try.

“It could take days to get through these shots,” Elaine said when I hung up. “I can't believe there's not a single picture of Laura's face in this pile.”

“Keep hunting. We have to find out something about her. I have to arrange her funeral. People have to know.”

“Maybe she didn't have family,” Elaine said.

I was about to say “can't live with them, can't live without them.” I bit my tongue in time. Elaine never mentioned her own mother and father, just her brother Eddy. I had no idea if her parents were dead or alive. But I was sure they weren't part of Elaine's life.

“I'm hot on the trail,” Elaine said. “But I have someone
coming to the house for an appointment, so I can't do it now. I should try to clean up after you leave.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are, Camilla. Just until after I talk to this person.” She stared at her oversized yellow watch. “It's too late now to do anything about the chaos.”

The apartment didn't look any more chaotic than it had before the photo sorting, if she wanted the truth, which she probably didn't. “I have people to see, so I can't hang around here all day,” I said.

“We'll get back to the photos after my session is over.”

“Perfect. I appreciate what you're doing. Even if you spot someone who spent time with someone else who might have known Laura. If that makes sense, we'll track them down. We have to do something.”

With her head stuck in a box, Elaine said, “I'll put everything that might be relevant aside, and you can go through it later. Except for the eighties hair and fashion blackmail material, of course. I'll keep those. Oh, there's another one. Where did you get those god-awful spangled sweaters, Camilla?”

I felt like saying, the same place you got your leopard print stockings and platform shoes. But I bit my tongue. “I'm pretty banged up, so I don't think I can manage the walk home. Not sure if I mentioned the Honda's in the shop again. I'd better call a cab.”

Elaine swallowed. She is naturally generous and helpful, at least during her waking hours. Her instinct would be to lend me anything she owned. Except for her beloved vehicle. She clutched a batch of photos and bit her lip. She loves that Pathfinder.

I said, “It'll be hard to get a cab now. How about if I hang
around in the bedroom and promise not to listen to your session?”

Judging from the expression on her face, she sure wanted me gone. The keys to the Pathfinder jingled in my hand as I limped out. Elaine clomped down the stairs after me and set up the security system.

I smiled as the deadbolt clicked.

Elaine's Pathfinder was piled with empty Tim Hortons cups, Timbit cartons, plastic bags, half-finished notes, overdue library books, dry-cleaning and much, much more. Sort of like an archaeological find but without the time lag. I was glad I wasn't a passenger, because only the driver's seat was clear. Still, I was grateful. I was on a mission. Mission Phase One was a quick buzz of Laura's place on Third to confirm something. This time the security system was flashing properly. I keyed in 1986 and headed straight for the fridge. I kept my ears open and my back to the wall as much as possible. I opened the stainless steel door and peered in. Sure enough, insulin containers and syringes. Okay, was my mind playing tricks on me? I didn't think so. But someone sure was. And that someone would be banking on the idea that people would blame my recollection of the missing insulin on my head injury. My family and friends already thought I was nuts on the subject. This would just convince them.

But it told me a couple of things. Whoever had pushed me had access to Laura's house, a key and stranger still, the security code. So that would have to be someone close to her, someone trusted. I formed a hypothesis: this person had tampered with Laura's insulin, maybe all of the vials, just to be
sure. Then afterwards, they'd slipped back into the house under cover of darkness to replace the insulin, perhaps in case there was an issue from the autopsy. If anyone checked after the fact, the insulin would be back in its place. Laura Lynette Brown would appear to have died a natural if foolhardy death. Exactly as the pathologist had said. Good work on the part of the murderer. I was betting that I'd interrupted the return of the insulin, and that's why I'd got shoved down the stairs.

My hypothesis still had a few holes in it. Such as how you could count on no one seeing you enter the house, twice. I had my crazy theory, but I was no closer to having a clue about who would want to kill Laura or why. And I wasn't anxious to spend a minute longer than necessary in that house.