The Devil's in the Details (14 page)

In front of Laura's place, I blinked in the bright sunlight. A small, round, white-haired woman walking a pair of tan dachshunds smiled at me. I smiled back. I've learned from having a purely temporary dog that you walk dogs, and then you walk them again and then you walk them again. And you're still not done. You become a neighbourhood fixture.

“Hello,” I said. “Nice dogs. Do you live around here?”

She pointed across the street. “Yes. I'm Mary Buttons. The boys and I live across the street and down three in the blue house.”

I said. “I don't know if you heard that Laura Brown, who lived here, was killed in a tragic fall behind the Supreme Court yesterday.”

Her hand shot to her mouth. “Oh, no. That terrible accident. You never think of these things happening to one of your neighbours.”

“You never do,” I agreed. I tried to ignore the two hungry-looking wiener dogs sniffing my ankles.

“Very sad. Are you . . . ?”

“Next-of-kin,” I said. “I'm trying to locate her friends and co-workers before her name is released to the media.”

“Naturally,” she said.

“Did you see her coming and going?”

“Sure, I did. I'm around with the boys three times a day.”

“Do you know where she worked?”

“I thought you were next-of-kin.”

“There is an issue about where she was working.”

She frowned. “I see. That's a bit strange, but no, I don't know where she worked. Or if she did. She was around a lot during the day. Maybe she worked at home.”

“That would explain it. Did you see clients coming and going?”

“No. Hardly ever saw her with anyone. Just exchanging a word with the neighbours over there, that's all.” She pointed toward the house next door, which now had the mums neatly planted.

“Oh,” I said, disappointed.

“I saw her early yesterday afternoon with someone, though.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She went into the house with another woman. And a while later they went out again.”

“Did they walk off together? Did you see where they went?”

“They drove off. Then later, she came back alone. Then she went out again. Heavens, that must have been just before she died. How sad.”

I interrupted the sadness. “What did the other woman look like?”

“I didn't really get a good look. Just an ordinary person.”

“What about hair colour? Height?”

“Everyone seems tall to me. I couldn't see her hair or eyes. Not that the old sight's that good any more, but even if it were, they were wearing straw hats and sunglasses. They were having a good time, laughing, putting stuff in the car, like they were heading out to a picnic or something. They looked cute. I had some scooping to do, thanks to the boys, and when I glanced up, they were gone.”

“And then Laura came back later?”

“Yes. And then she went out again.”

“A long time later?”

“Maybe half an hour. Mid-afternoon, I guess. We had forgotten to mail some letters, hadn't we, boys? So we had to go out again before we missed the afternoon pickup. We're always forgetting something. Must go up and down this street twenty times a day. You'd think we'd be skinny.”

“And where did she go?”

“She came out with a box, then she went back in again and got another box and put them both in her car. I was about to offer to help, but she got in and drove away. I waved, but I guess she didn't see me.”

I handed her my card and scrawled my cellphone number on it. “If you think of anything else, can you call me?”

“We will. Sorry for your loss.”

The boys barked in agreement.

That gave me something to think about. And just enough time to get something accomplished before I had to be at the balloon festival. First, I tried Joe Westerlund's number twice
from my cellphone. No luck. Both times I hung up without leaving a message. What if Joe and Kate were out of town for the weekend? Everyone else seemed to be. Worse, what if Joe Westerlund were on sabbatical? I figured he was in his mid-fifties, at least. He could even be retired from the university and on a six-month hike in the Himalayas.

I checked my watch. I had plenty of time to swing by the Westerlunds' house. And I had nothing better to do. Someone in the neighbourhood might know if Joe was in town.

Next, I called Alvin's home number. Lucky me, he picked up.

“Alvin, can you do a search for me?”

“Violet says maybe I jumped the gun yesterday. I'm sorry I got angry when you missed the flight last night and this morning. I realize you didn't have any choice.”

“I thought it didn't take off this morning because of wind.”

“It didn't, but if it had, you would have missed it. Anyway, I hope you're feeling better. I understand you're in this sad situation.”

“Tell you what, all is forgiven and, as a bonus, I won't get upset in the future when you continue to remind me I missed the launch.”

“That sounds reasonable. What's the catch?”

“I need you to get a list of towns in Ontario that start with C.”

“Lord thundering Jesus. We're in the middle of the balloon festival.”

“Save it, Alvin. You and Mrs. P. can find this on the net in seconds.”

“So could you.”

“But I don't have a computer at home. You have your laptop. Use that. Didn't you just tell me you were sorry for being upset?”

“You're the one who wants the information. You could go into the office.”

“I'm in the middle of something. It won't take you long, and you can give me the list when I meet you at the launch grounds this afternoon. That way I don't have to dock your pay for being
AWOL
yesterday.”

I clicked off. That's often the best policy with Alvin. Show a little kindness and you're toast.

Time to try Joe Westerlund's number again. A woman answered. “Wrong number,” I said and hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up in front of a slate-coloured bungalow on River Road near the Vanier Parkway. I checked the number, but it was the right one. The house had a row of new-looking skylights and a huge conservatory. I was surprised to see the property looked neglected, even rundown. It was a far cry from the elegant brick house Joe and Kate Westerlund had owned in Centretown back in the eighties.

Alongside the flagstone staircase, with its weed-filled cracks, a long wheelchair ramp provided another access to the front door. The paint on the ramp was cracked and peeling. Three birdfeeders stood on long poles near the front. Each one had a different variety of seed. I spotted sunflower, niger seed and a mix. Each feeder had a different and more complicated squirrel baffle. I recognized the baffles as types that the bird lovers in my family had tried. Unsuccessfully. As I walked toward the door, a grey squirrel with a dramatic and luxurious tail turned from regarding the birdfeeders and chattered at me. Such confidence. We both knew who'd win the battle of the baffles.

The birdfeeders stood at the edge of a large garden bed that must have been splendid at some point. Now it was choked with creeping Charlie and nettles. People are starting to cultivate natural gardens, to my sisters' horror, but this went way beyond that.

I hobbled down the flagstone path to the entrance and
knocked confidently. Kate Westerlund opened the front door. The last time I'd seen her, she'd been in her mid-thirties, radiating sensuality. At parties, she'd be barefoot, sporting woven clothing from Third World countries. The styles always accentuated her long arms and legs. On her, the no-makeup look had seemed naked and frankly sexual. My last memory was of a party where she sat by herself, smoking a joint on the back porch, while a trio of sophomores drooled in the background. Now, the dark hair that had once cascaded to her waist was pulled back in a short no-nonsense salt and pepper ponytail. She wore black linen Bermudas and a sleeveless black tank. Her deeply tanned skin spoke of many hours not worrying about the sun. She wore no jewellery, except for a plain gold wedding band. She looked a lot more sophisticated now. And substantially more intimidating.

“Yes?” she said.

“You probably don't remember me,” I said. “I was one of Joe Westerlund's students back in the eighties. Could I speak to him, please?”

She said. “I didn't catch your name.”

“Camilla MacPhee,” I said, leaning against the door frame.

Her brow furrowed. “Joe had so many students over the years. Are you all right?”

“No problem. I didn't expect you to remember me.”

“MacPhee,” she said, uncertainly.

“Don't worry about it. Is he around? I don't want to interrupt your weekend. This will just take a couple of minutes.”

“You'd better come in,” she said, standing aside and holding the door open for me. The foyer was wide, with only a spectacular woollen wall hanging and a stylized metal table with a portable phone. I followed her through the foyer to the living room.

The inside of the house was furnished mostly with books
and artwork, much of it woven. That had been Kate's medium. Every wall held at least one huge woven piece of art. Some were handspun wool in rich vegetable dyes, others freeform quilts with raised images. Trapunto, I think Kate had called that technique. At one time, a Kate Westerlund wall hanging had been quite a status symbol. Her huge commissions dominated many public buildings. I wondered if my art-loving burglar client, Bunny Mayhew, had ever made off with any. I hoped not. Kate's works still had warmth and power, although a filmy layer of dust indicated they'd been hanging for years in the same spots.

The living room was roomy, with bare, dark oak floors.

“Have a seat,” Kate said, pointing to a ochre-coloured leather sofa with a minimalist design. I was happy to sit. Kate said nothing. I looked around, wondering if Joe was about to stick his head in through the doorway. The living room was large, but aside from the sofa and a coffee table with a huge vase of sunflowers, there was little to detract from the art on the walls. In the far corner, French doors opened on to the out-of-control garden. A reading lamp and a leather arm chair with a small area rug to the side of the door were the only signs that someone did any living in the room.

Kate had never been a woman who made small talk. She probably wouldn't expect it from others, I decided. “Is Joe here?”

“I guess you could say he is.”

Where I come from, people are either there or not there, or occasionally not all there. “I don't understand.”

She hesitated and after a while seemed to reach a decision.

“Come with me,” she said.

I got up from the sofa and followed her down a long hallway into a room at the back of the house. It had a wall of windows with a Western exposure like my apartment and the
same late afternoon sun. This view looked across the park. A dozen birdfeeders were set up outside the window. There was more action here than at the front feeders. I spotted the usual clusters of industrial sparrows and a few blue-black starlings. A pair of goldfinches alighted as I watched. Blue jays hovered and screamed, and a couple of pigeons pecked at the grass underneath the largest feeder. From a nearby tree, a black squirrel kept an eye on things. I stood, wondering if Kate were going to call Joe from some remote part of the house. It was only when I turned away from the window that I saw the man in the hospital bed. A few seconds passed before I recognized him. I could only hope he didn't hear my gasp. The majestic Joe Westerlund had shrivelled to a shadow man. I remembered him being well over six feet. This man was skeletal, bent and twisted.

He made an effort to speak. I tried to understand. I thought perhaps Kate might translate the sounds.

She said, “Here's a nice surprise, Joe. One of your students to see you.”

The man in the bed made a questioning gurgle.

Tears stung my eyes, something that doesn't happen often. “It's Camilla MacPhee.” I moved closer. “You may remember me from Carleton back in the eighties.”

More garbled sounds. I decided they meant yes.

“You were my favourite prof in eight years of university. I just wanted to thank you for the principles you instilled in us.”

What could do this to a person? A stroke? His handsome face was now shrunken and gaunt, mouth distorted. The powerful hands were clawed. I couldn't tell if he was glad to see me, or even if he understood what I'd said. Was that intelligence behind the faded blue eyes or just wishful thinking?

“I hoped you would remember my friend, Laura Brown.”

He understood that, all right. His head lashed from side to
side, limbs jerked with agitation, the unintelligible grunts grew louder. One clawed hand knocked over the glass of water on the table by the side of the bed.

Was he saying, no no no?

Kate moved forward and put her hands on his shoulders. “It's okay, Joe. Nothing to worry about. I'll get you some more water,” she said, picking up the glass. With her other hand, she took my arm and propelled me from the room. She had the kind of grip that leaves bruises. Joe continued to make horrible, agitated noises as Kate closed the door behind us and pushed me toward the front of the house. “You've upset him. I shouldn't have let you in. I thought it would be good for him to see a student.”