The Devil's in the Details (18 page)

If cats have eyebrows, then Mrs. Parnell's cat raised hers when I limped through the door, as if to say, “It's you again, how boring.” Gussie on the other hand, spun in a frenzy. I think he believes that seconds after I turn the key in the lock, there will be a walk.

“Not this time, Gussie,” I said, checking my phone messages. Nothing. Not even “Unknown Name”, “Unknown Number” or “Number Blocked”. Not a single click. Talk about no social life.

Gussie continued to spin, on his third twirl knocking the cat off the chair with his tail.

“Sorry, no walk now.”

My first mistake: entering the apartment. My second mistake: uttering the W word. Even with a negative. Gussie yelped with joy.

“Be quiet.” This must have sounded like “walk”, because it earned me a few more barks. In turn that led to Mr. Crab Head banging on the wall. Which set Gussie off again.

The banging turned to pounding. Gussie barked louder. More pounding.

I hated that man.

“Good dog,” I said. “You'll have a nice ramble when I get back the next time.”

My head was spinning more. My knees throbbed, and every scrape and bruise had its own little brand of pain. I decided the various aches and ouchies were probably making my head feel worse.

I picked up the flowered box of photos, slipped into my new jean jacket with the butterfly embroidery on the back, grabbed my backpack, swilled a painkiller and slipped out the door.

Gussie howled.

Even though it was a busy weekend, Youssef seemed pleased to get the extra fare.

“Tried to, but I just can't live without that dessert after all,” I said to Norine when I waltzed through the door at Maisie's. “Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate.”

Before she could seat me at some other server's table, I hustled across the restaurant to the table I'd been at before. Someone else was already sitting there, so I took the next one, hoping it was still in Jasmine's section.

Norine followed me, glossy lips compressed, body language screaming “Ready for battle”.

I whipped the napkin out of my glass with a flourish and fiddled with the fork. I turned to the people dining to my right.

“Wonderful atmosphere here, isn't it? And the desserts! Don't leave without one. You'll only end up coming back. I did.”

They stared, their forks suspended in mid-air. But this was Ottawa, so in the end they had to nod politely.

Norine knew when she was beaten. I could tell by the look on her face that she didn't intend to lose to me again. We'll see about that, I thought. Jasmine, on the other hand, produced her wide smile. Some tips have that effect on people.

I ordered the white and dark chocolate cheesecake with raspberry cognac coulis and caramelized pecans, because after all, it was Labour Day weekend, and I had a head injury, and no one I didn't care that much about had called me.

The dessert certainly felt like it had health benefits. Well worth the inflated price. I'd blown a wad of cash on a guy named Youssef that day, and I still needed to hang on to more cab fare, so I had to accompany Jasmine to the desk to use my cash card. Everything had started to hurt again, and my slight dizziness had been replaced by intermittent flashing.

“When you get a chance,” I said, as I keyed in my
PIN
, “I need you to look at some old photos. You might recognize some of the people.”

“I'd be glad to.” She glanced in Norine's direction. “But I don't think I can do it here. She looks like she could put a stake through your heart.”

“Does she?” I said, happily. Jasmine did not succeed in stifling a smile. “What time do you get off?” I asked.

“Usually by ten-thirty, it's pretty well empty here. I'm out around eleven, as a rule. Look out, she's on her way over.”

“I can wait for you.”

“I wouldn't do it here, if I were you,” she said. “Norine will just keep me late doing set-up for tomorrow. She's made spite into an art form.”

“We're ahead of her. I'll meet you somewhere else.” She hesitated. “I'll be fast, honest.”

“With two jobs, I need my rest. Could we meet tomorrow instead?”

“I know this sounds strange, but it's a serious matter, and I am desperate.” I fished around in my full backpack and finally pulled out a business card, only slightly crumpled. I scribbled my cell number on the back. “I only need about fifteen minutes. You pick the spot. I'll be happy to pay you for your time.”

“All fifteen minutes of it?” she smiled. The girl obviously knew her way around a toothbrush. “Double time and a half.”

“You got it.”

“How about I meet you at Legal Beagle? You know it?”

“I've seen it. Catch you there between ten-thirty and eleven.” I could tell by the look on her face that a stormy encounter with Norine was on the horizon. I took the offensive and strode from the desk to head off Norine.

“Wonderful desserts. Well worth the return trip. I'll tell my friends.”

She managed a smile that could chill soup. “Thank you.”

I marched off with a jaunty step that belied the whirly stuff going on in my head.

Legal Beagle.

Cute.

I found myself at loose ends. Unfortunately, there wasn't much I could do. Couldn't annoy or be annoyed by my family, since they were at the cottage. Most of my friends had departed for the weekend. I'd already pissed off Elaine Ekstein, and anyway, she didn't answer her phone. I could hardly go back to Mombourquette's.

I certainly wasn't hungry.

I'd hit a wall with Laura Brown. And I had time to kill. I
wandered around the Byward Market, enjoying the evening scene. Restaurants were emptying, people were starting to trickle into bars. Foot traffic was heavy. Couples strolled by, holding hands, peering in the windows of shops and restaurants. I thought Elgin Street had a lot of restaurants, but new ones were springing up all over the place in the market. I wondered how long it would take to eat at every restaurant in the area, especially including all the fast food places. I love shawarmas. How many different types could I find there? It didn't take long to get tired of the food game. I strolled up and down the narrow streets, William and Byward, peering at the shrouded market garden stalls, dodging laughing pedestrians. The last weekend of summer, and everyone was having fun jaywalking.

Two girls roller-bladed by at breakneck speed, their matching blonde ponytails lit by the moon. Panhandlers stuck their hands out. I counted three buskers making music at different corners. The Roy Orbison lookalike was good, and the country guitar even better, but I was most impressed by a guy playing “Für Elise” on the accordion. I tossed a loonie into his cap on the sidewalk.

You feel safe in the Byward Market at night, whether you should or not. That's because there are always people everywhere. That set me thinking again. Having lots of people around hadn't helped keep Laura alive. Was I wrong? Had Laura's death really been just an accident? Tragic, but no more than being at the wrong place at the wrong time? Had my fall down her stairs been a bit of clumsiness on my part? Had I imagined the missing insulin?

Was I wasting my time and everyone else's trying to find out about her, when all I had to do was give the all clear for the burial, put the notice in the paper and see who showed up? Should I just stay home and rest until this head thing fixed itself?

Self-doubt is not my best thing.

I kept it at bay until it was time to meet Jasmine.

Legal Beagle was dark and swirling, black painted wood, matte finishes punctuated with the flash of stainless and the throb of neon. Pink, blue and purple neon accented signs, mirrors, doors. The bar was just starting to get moving. I felt like having a beer, but I ordered a San Pellegrino out of grudging respect for the drugs in my system.

“Quiet tonight,” I said to the bartender.

He glanced at the clock with its pink neon frame. “Still early.”

It was 10:30 on Saturday night on the weekend. I sat and sipped my designer water and tried not to feel peevish as the minutes ticked by. At 11:10, as my second bottle of San Pellegrino neared the end, I figured it was time to call it quits. Jasmine wasn't coming.

At 11:11, I got up to leave, just as the other server, Chelsea, flounced through the door. Her hair was gelled into spikes, all green tonight, and her colour was high, even flushed. She wore a leather bomber jacket over an orange bustier teamed with a black spandex mini-skirt. First time I'd ever seen hand-tooled cowboy boots paired up with fishnet stockings. And to think I'd felt self-conscious because there were butterflies embroidered on my jean jacket.

She ordered a Absolut Mandarin shooter before she said hello. Obviously an emergency.

“I'm sorry.” She hopped up on the bar stool, showing quite a lot of fishnet. “I thought you might have left.”

“Where's Jasmine?”

“You can't believe what that bitch Norine put her through,” Chelsea said breathlessly.

“I bet I can.”

“She's a real piece of work at her best. At her worst, which I think I've just seen, she's unbelievable.”

“She gives that impression even to the casual observer,” I said.

Chelsea's shooter arrived, along with a dose of sympathy from our waiter. “The hag still giving you a hard time?” he said.

“She's spreading it around.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She's got Jasmine doing stocktaking plus cash out and shut down. And she gave her setup for tomorrow.”

“That explains why she's not here. But I thought you weren't working tonight.”

“Jasmine sent me a message through one of the other girls. I said I'd catch you here. She'll call you tomorrow after work.”

I figured we needed to vent a bit, so I ordered my third San Pellegrino, or maybe it was my fourth. I'd be running to the bathroom all night, but so what. I didn't have anything better to do.

“When you have time,” I added, figuring the bartender was prepared to hear Chelsea's story and offer constructive advice.