The Devil's in the Details (16 page)

Alexa's always suggesting meditation to calm down. I tried a few of her suggestions. I closed my eyes and thought of a distant beach. Blue soothing water, the sparkle of sun on the waves, the warm touch of sand on bare feet.

I woke up with a start. The sky seemed darker than it should have, but I checked my watch, and it was only four-thirty. Fall certainly comes early, I thought. I had to get hustling to make it to Hull for the launch. I picked up my cellphone to give Elaine a call and tell her I'd bring the Pathfinder back after the launching.

I held the phone away when I heard her voice. What a pair of lungs. What was her problem?

Spinning head and shaky hands notwithstanding, I got the Pathfinder on the road, heading down the Vanier Parkway to the Queensway, the fastest way back to face the raging redhead. I asked myself why everyone I knew was always so bellicose.

Elaine was still in outrage mode when she unlocked, unbolted and unchained her door. She said, “That was inconsiderate. For all I knew, you'd been killed in an accident.”

“Hate to disappoint you. I didn't have an accident. Not even a near miss.”

Elaine is not one to let go of an issue. “You never mentioned you needed the Pathfinder for hours.”

“Okay, I'm sorry. But may I remind you, you practically booted me out before your appointment. If I'd had half a chance, I would have filled you in on my plans. Gladly.”

“Fine, forget about it.”

I could tell she didn't mean it. “I was shaken up after I saw Joe Westerlund.”

“What do you mean?”

She went white as I described the ravages of Joe's illness. “
ALS
. I can't believe it.”

“It's totally unfair. Can we go upstairs?”

She turned and led the way. “So sad. A wonderful person like that.”

“Wouldn't matter who it was, it's still awful,” I said.

“But if it was some miserable rat, that wouldn't be so tragic.”

“Even then. That reminds me, I dropped in on Leonard Mombourquette. I was hoping he'd cooperate, but he's obsessed with the
SIU
investigation.”

Elaine stopped at the top of the stairs. “You're calling someone else obsessed?” she said. “I feel sorry for Leonard. He's cute. I hope things work out in his favour.”

The world is full of surprises.

“What's the matter now, Camilla?”

“Leonard Mombourquette? Cute? Have you forgotten that time you were arrested?”

“That wasn't personal. Just part of his job. Don't stand there gawking. Do you want to see the photos I found?”

That Elaine can always reel you in.

I said as I was being reeled, “Did you find some of Laura?”

“Plunk yourself down and have a look.” She positioned herself on the sofa and picked up a batch of photos.

I sat beside her. She passed the pictures to me, one by one, sorting as she went. A few were doubles, I guess. She slipped those onto a nearby chair, next to the other pile.

“These pictures were taken during an end-of-term party, and then I shot these here during the winter term of first year.”

I said. “You did well.”

“Not as many as I wanted. It's a start, though.”

I frowned as I worked my way through them. “You still can't see Laura's face in any of them.”

“I know. Terrific shots of the back of her head, though. She always had great hair.”

“What were you so excited about showing me?”

“Even though Laura doesn't show up, I found lots of other people.”

“This is great. Look, I hope you don't mind if I take the Pathfinder again, because I have a real short time to get over to the balloon festival. I'll be back by ten at the latest.”

“Sorry, Camilla, I have an appointment.”

“Again? Is this because I was late?”

“No, really. I do.”

“What's with all the appointments on the long weekend?”

“Holy moly. When did you sign on as my mother?”

“Fine, how about you give me this pile of photos, and I'll try to figure out who people are?” Before she could object, I dropped the photos into one of the small cloth-covered boxes stacked nearby. “Don't worry, I'll return them. Your pretty box too. And can you drop me off at home, so I can take the dog out? I'll get a cab over to the launch site. I have to be there by five to be sure to get some good shots. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Did you say by five?”

“I suppose five-thirty would be okay. Why?”

“Among other reasons, because that was hours ago.”

“Don't be crazy,” I said.

“Check your watch.”

I checked my watch. “Four-twenty. Told you. Oh, shit. My watch must have been damaged last night. That's about the time I fell.”

“Even so, didn't you notice that it's practically dark?”

“That was a good watch, too. What time is it?”

“How does 7:28 sound?”

It wouldn't take a neurologist to tell me I wasn't thinking too clearly if I could make that kind of mistake.

I stayed around home just long enough to do my urgent park duty with Gussie and to provide Mrs. Parnell's cat with an evening meal suited to her high station in life. I wasn't prepared to admit it, but I liked looking after the animals. There's something soothing and relaxing about dogs and cats.

As a rule, Mrs. Parnell is happy to make a visit to my apartment, no key apparently required, and feed the animals when I'm tied up at the office. Throughout the summer, when I couldn't get home, she'd teetered around the park using her walker to give Gussie an outing. So in a moment of warm camaraderie, I had agreed to pop some fresh seeds into the cage for Lester and Pierre any evening when Mrs. Parnell wasn't home.

But before I fed the always ungrateful lovebirds, I wanted to check my phone messages. But perhaps I should refer to that activity as “Return to Voice Mail Hell.”

BEEP

Alvin here. Got a list of towns in Ontario that begin with C. I printed it out and we'll have it for you at the launch site this afternoon. I think you could have got pretty much the same thing from a road atlas, but what the hell. Anything for our friend, Camilla.

BEEP

This is a message for Camilla MacPhee from Constable Jason Yee. Can you call me as soon as possible. I believe you have my cellphone number. Thank you.

BEEP

Camilla, this is your sister Edwina. Why aren't you answering? I'd better not hear you're wandering around town with a concussion, causing trouble for your family. I will assume you're in the bathroom, which you will notice is now spotless. Keep it that way. You have five minutes to return this call.

BEEP

Hello? I hope I've reached Camilla MacPhee. My name is Robert Watson. I'm Frances Foxall's husband. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Would you be kind enough to call me back? Thank you.

BEEP

This is Conn. I hear you're hounding Leonard Mombourquette. You know damn well he's going through a rough patch now. He's on sick leave, he can't even sleep. It is unconscionable for you to be badgering him. Just stay away from him. What is the matter with you?

BEEP

Camilla? This is Alvin . . .

There was nothing mysterious about the second message from Alvin. He was unequivocal. I'm surprised I didn't have blisters on my earlobes after listening. Still, I had a couple of things to attend to before I called back and explained why I'd missed the Saturday evening launch. I saw no point in encouraging either my sister or Conn McCracken. But some of the calls were worth following up on.

First, I tried to reach Constable Yee on his cellphone. It immediately went to his voice mail. Either he was on the phone or out of range. I left a message suggesting that he leave the specific answers I wanted on my voice mail and, further, if he had new information or questions for me, that he leave a detailed message. I reminded him I wanted the names of the witnesses who saw Laura fall.

Next, I located the piece of paper on which I'd written Frances Foxall's number. I didn't like the feeling in the pit of my stomach as I dialled. A man answered on the fourth ring. I asked for Robert Watson.

His hesitant tone went well with the soft voice. “This is he.”

“Camilla MacPhee here. You returned my earlier call.”

“Yes. You were calling Frances. I guess you didn't know.”

“Know what?”

“Were you friends?”

I felt my head spin a bit. “We knew each other at university.”

“Oh. That was a long time ago. So had you not heard?”

“We haven't really been in touch. I was calling because a mutual acquaintance was killed yesterday, and I wanted to let Frances know personally.” Not a complete fabrication.

“I see. How dreadful. Well, unfortunately, there's no easy way to say this. Frances died this summer.”

“Died? Oh my god. I'm so sorry.”

He had a definite catch in his voice. “Thank you. It was unexpected. An accident.”

“A fall?” I blurted.

“In a way. You may know we've had a hobby farm, south of Ottawa, for the past ten years. Frances did a lot of riding. She was thrown from her favourite mount.”

The pause that followed was so protracted I thought for a moment he'd hung up.

“Mr. Watson?” I said.

“She broke her neck,” he said, his voice cracking.

“That is tragic. When did it happen?”

“Six weeks ago. July 13th. That's the worst part. It was her birthday.”

I scrambled for the right words. I had not liked Frances Foxall, but this sad-voiced man didn't need to know that. “Frances was a remarkable woman. This must be extremely difficult for you.”

“Yes,” he said. “Frances would have been pleased to speak to you. And I appreciate your call.”

I sat on my sofa and stared at nothing. Another person from the same Carleton cohort was dead. With Laura Brown and Sylvie Dumais, that made three. Three women who'd known each other and died accidentally within a few months. No goddam way was that a coincidence.