The Devil's in the Details (19 page)

Chelsea snarled, “Jasmine has to refill the fucking salt shakers.”

The bartender gasped. “You have
so
got to get a new job.”

“I am out of there,” Chelsea said.

“Well, you could do a lot better,” he said. “Talk to management here.”

“I might,” Chelsea said.

“I'll have that San Pellegrino in the meantime,” I said.

Chelsea said, “I think it was deliberate. She figured out
Jasmine was planning to meet with you, and she wanted to mess that up.”

“Why?”

“She doesn't need a reason. She's a fifth dan black belt in bitchery.”

“Hmmm,” I said, wondering if I could use that line some time. “Too bad I caused Jasmine trouble.”

“Not your fault. But next time I meet someone, it's gotta be in Hull. I really need a smoke.”

“We could grab a cab and head over if you want,” I said. “I'm in no rush.”

“It's okay. I just dropped in to give you the message. I got people to see.”

“Right.”

“Jasmine told me to give you her phone number and said she'd be happy to meet you. But please don't contact her at work.”

“Sure,” I said.

Chelsea handed me a folded piece of paper. “That's it, really.”

I glanced at the slip of paper. I hated to drop it into the chaotic backpack.

“Wait a minute.” I put the photo box on the table. “Since you're here, maybe you can do something for me.”

“Hope it won't take long.”

I fished out my best shot. “Have a quick look. Here's a side view of Laura. Does she look familiar?” I slipped my last thirty dollars on the bar. It would mean a trip to an ATM for cab fare; but so what.

Chelsea flicked a glance at the cash. It seemed to help her decision.

“Not a great photo. What was she doing, hiding from the
camera? When was this taken?”

“A long time ago. And yes, I think she didn't want the camera to catch her.”

“No wonder. Yuck. Where did people get those ugly sweaters?”

Fine words, considering the bustier and fishnets.

“You get a sense of her overall look, although she'd gained a bit of weight recently.”

“I think I've seen her.”

“Can you look through the rest of these photos?”

Chelsea gave a whoosh of exasperation. My bribe had worn off pretty fast.

I said. “Maybe I should get a refund on that thirty.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Come on, Chelsea. Just glance at these pictures and tell me if you recognize anyone from Maisie's.”

At that point, the bartender arrived back with Chelsea's second vodka shooter. Plus a beer on the house for her and a San Pellegrino for me. Not on the house.

I signalled for the bill. I wanted to indicate a sense of urgency to the bartender. I didn't need to sit in on Chelsea's career planning. “Is there anyone you recognize?”

“Hard to say, with everyone looking so weird. The glasses are hysterical. Hadn't people heard of contacts?”

“Let's just go through one by one,” I said. “I know you're in a hurry.”

“You got that right.”

“So if we can just clip along.”

“I'm late for a date now because of meeting you for Jasmine.”

“Can you call your date? Let him know you'll be delayed a couple of minutes?” I assumed it was a he.

“I guess I could leave a message.”

“Excellent. So, no one in this batch?”

She shook her head. She didn't try to call anyone.

The second photo got a negative shake too. And so did the third. She wasn't sure about the next one. There was something familiar about two of the people, but that was all.

I squinted at the figures. The combination of the dark bar and the flashing neon and the post-concussion activity in my head made it hard to see clearly. I scrawled a note on the back of the photo. Elaine would have their life histories.

“But I see a lot of people, you know?” Chelsea said.

“I'm sure you do.”

“And it's not like work is my entire existence.”

“You obviously have a lively social life,” I said.

“And intellectual life,” she added.

“Of course. It goes without saying.” It had never crossed my mind that Chelsea might have an intellectual life.

I decided to finish the photo project before the vodka shooters and beer chaser hit her like a typhoon.

I watched Chelsea flip through the shots in a desultory fashion. I was about to abandon hope when she gave a little start. Her foxy face lit up. “What's this worth to you?”

“Come again?”

“Information is a commodity. You need it fast?”

“Perhaps you have forgotten I've just given you thirty dollars.”

“Well, I definitely recognize two people here from Maisie's. They were fairly regular customers. They used to have lunch with another woman. Auburn hair, tall, a bit overweight, big smile.”

Laura. Chelsea must have known who she was all along.

“I know someone else she used to have lunch with. But she's not in these pictures. And like I said, it's going to cost you.”

“Be serious.”

“You need it. I have it. What's it worth?”

“We are talking about people finding out that a close friend has died.”

“So in that case, say a hundred each.”

“I'm astounded.”

“Okay. No problem, got to go. I told you I was late.”

“I don't believe Jasmine would take this approach.”

“Why don't you wait for her then? You can get together by Monday or Tuesday.”

“I don't have that kind of money.”

“There's an
ATM
up the road.”

I stared at her. This little minx thought information about Laura and her friends was a commodity. I had to admit she had me in a corner. But my chequing account didn't have a spare three hundred just waiting for an extortion attempt.

“End of season sale,” I said. “Two hundred for the three names. Take it or leave it.” I was about to hop down off the bar stool and head for the cash machine when I remembered the bills I'd found in the file at Laura's. According to Laura's will, it was all mine anyway. And this was for Laura.

“All right.” I dug around the backpack and fished one of the hundreds from the envelope. “Let's get a face first before we get the other hundred.”

Chelsea shrugged. She stretched out a sharp green fingernail to point at Frances Foxall.

I swallowed. “When did you see her?”

“Back in the summer. Late June. July maybe.”

“Frances Foxall.”

“Want the other one?”

I nodded and extracted another hundred.

This time Chelsea pointed at Sylvie Dumais. “This one's name is Sylvie. I haven't seen her for a while.”

“There's a reason for that. She's dead.”

Chelsea shrugged. The second hundred vanished into some hidden pocket.

“You want that third name? It will cost you another hundred.”

“We had a deal.”

She licked her lips. “I don't recall agreeing to it.”

I hated to give in, but on the other hand, Laura's money was there, and no matter how much I felt like giving Chelsea a swift kick instead of a large bill, she had provided me the identity of two people who had been at Carleton with Laura, who had had lunch with her, and who were now dead. I needed that third name. I slapped the last hundred dollar bill on the bar. I kept my hand on it. “After this, do you have more information?”

“This is it.” She reached forward to pick up the bill.

“The name,” I said, keeping it firmly under my palm.

She shrugged. “Bianca.”

Not enough to let go of the cash. “I don't know a Bianca.”

“Your friend Laura did. She had lunch with her all the time. Including last week.”

“How do you know her name?”

“Bianca used to make the reservations when they had lunch together. You get to know the regulars at Maisie's.”

So sly little Chelsea had known who Laura was all along.

“Do you have a last name?”

“Just Bianca.”

“What about a phone number?”

“That will cost you another two hundred.”

“Be serious. I've given you more than enough for a single name.”

“Your problem. Another two hundred or forget it.”

“I don't have another two hundred.” If I'd feigned a lack of interest earlier, it might have put me in a better bargaining position. “Maybe I could pay you tomorrow.”

“Call me at Maisie's when you have the cash. I'm out of here.” Chelsea snatched the hundred. I sat with my mouth hanging open as she skittered out to the sidewalk.

I slipped Jasmine's number into my pants pocket and hopped off the bar stool, jarring my knees and creating a few new stars in my brain.

“Going somewhere?” The bartender plunked the check in front of me.

“Hang on until I speak to Chelsea.”

“I don't think so.”

“Right.” I reached into my backpack for my cash card and came up empty.

He raised an eyebrow.

I patted my pockets.

He curled his upper lip.

I said, “It's in here somewhere.”

He crossed his arms.

Pockets, no luck. It didn't help that my head was spinning.

“I can't imagine what happened to my card,” I said. That must have been a familiar tune, because the bartender had slipped around the bar and neatly blocked my exit. I patted my pockets again. Thinking back to the last time I'd had the card.

Maisie's.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember if I'd picked it up after I'd paid for my dessert. No. The card must still be back on the
cash at Maisie's. And Maisie's was probably closed.

I could still see Chelsea through the window of Legal Beagle. She was engaged in an animated conversation on her cellphone. She gestured toward Legal Beagle. Most likely making her excuses to the boyfriend and placing the blame on me. If I'd had any money left, I'd have bet she didn't mention her recent windfall.

If I could get to Chelsea fast enough, maybe I could “borrow” a bit of Laura's cash back, write her an
IOU
and repay her the next day, considering most of the tab was for her vodka shooters. Dealing with Chelsea would be easier than making an arrangement with this particular bartender. My luck held. Someone called to him, and he turned his head long enough for me to sidle away from the bar.

By the time I reached the sidewalk, Chelsea was gone. I peered up and down the street. No green tips anywhere.

Maisie's was my only choice. I hightailed it up the road, turning to see if the bartender was in pursuit. I hoped to find someone still at Maisie's, collect the card, get to an ATM, return and pay my tab, before the bartender called the cops.

The telephone poles were doubling and threatening to triple. The street lights shimmered. They were all kind of pretty in an unnerving way.

I made my way with caution, occasionally putting my hand on a wall to steady myself. I suppose passers-by thought I was just another drunk, but that was the least of my problems.

I clutched the box of photos under my arm. I sat on the curb for a while, watching out of the corner of my eye for unsavoury late-night types who might see me as prey. People left me alone. Looking drunk probably helped. I struggled up the stairs to Maisie's without falling over. I banged on the locked door. No answer. I pressed my nose to the glass.

I shouted. “Please open up. I forgot my cash card.”

No one came. Something told me those shadows in the back of the restaurant were people who could damn well hear me but wouldn't come to the door. But that could have been the concussion talking.

I raised my voice. “I know goddam well you are in there.”

Nothing.

“As long as you have my card, I'll keep hammering.”

Ten minutes later, I added sore knuckles to my list of ailments. This no longer seemed to be the best use of my time.

“I'll be back,” I yelled. “You can't steal cards and get away with it.” Fine words from someone who'd skipped out on a bar bill.

I slunk down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. At least in the crisp late night air, I could think better. I was way too dizzy for a forty-five minute walk. But I did have people to rely on.

Mrs. Parnell is reliable, willing and never sleeps. But she didn't answer her phone or her cell. Ditto Alvin. Probably off kicking up their heels to celebrate their flight. My sisters would send their husbands in a heartbeat, but I didn't want to wait an hour for them to get into town. Or get dragged back to the cottage.

P. J. must have been prowling the city looking for doomed cats or something. I left him a message with my whereabouts in the hope he'd get the call soon. But I could hear sirens wailing towards Hull, so that was bad news. P.J. would probably be checking out whatever had stimulated the sirens.

I could have called the cops, since the Maisie's people had my card illegally, but I knew damn well they wouldn't take it seriously.

Elaine didn't answer her phone. I left a message saying
where I was and what had happened.

I even thought about calling Youssef, but cabs require cash.

So I was stuck.

In the end, I called Leonard Mombourquette. I had nothing to lose.

Maybe Mombourquette was tending to his tiny, perfect garden in the moonlight. He didn't pick up.

It was getting harder to stand up straight, so I plunked myself on the curb again. I left a detailed message for Mombourquette. I may have exaggerated the seriousness of my predicament. But only slightly.

I was sure he wouldn't want my death on his conscience, in addition to his other troubles.

There are worse things than sitting on a curb for twenty minutes while everyone parties around you on what is supposed to be the best weekend of the year. But at that moment, I couldn't actually think of any of them.