The Devil's in the Details (21 page)

The doctor was checking the record. “Weren't you here this past June?”

“July,” I said.

“And I remember something about the winter. Hypothermia?”

“Yes.”

“And a broken leg, if I am not mistaken.”

“Not such a big deal, really.”

“And then twenty-four hours ago. Fall down a flight of stairs. Possible concussion.” He gave Mombourquette a speculative glance. “I'd like to speak to your wife alone. Would you mind waiting outside, sir?”

Mombourquette squeaked, “What do mean, wife?”

The doctor shrugged. “Fine. Significant other. Partner. Girlfriend. Doesn't matter. Please wait outside.”

“We're not together,” Mombourquette said, bristling.

“Whatever you do, don't corner him, Doctor,” I said.

Dr. Hasheem meant business. “Outside.”

I managed not to laugh, but only because it would have hurt. “He's not responsible for any of my injuries.”

“He'll wait outside anyway.”

I said, “I'll let you know when the cat's away, Lennie.”

There was no humour in Dr. Hasheem's face as he held the door open. Mombourquette slithered through and vanished.

It took a while to convince Dr. Hasheem that Mombourquette was just an innocent bystander. Five minutes later, the doctor let him back in the room.

I continued to check out symptoms. “So, forgetting things. Even important things? That's a sign?”

“Sure is.”

“Nothing to worry about then?”

“Depends.”

Dr. Hasheem wrapped up the exam and sat on the little stool. “You have a Grade Three concussion. We're going to have to keep an eye on you for a while. Did you say you live alone?”

“Happily.”

“I think we're going to admit you. We're waiting for a bed.”

“No, no. I can't be admitted. I have animals to look after.”

“Animals to take care of. Well, that's not actually our
guiding principle for treatment.” If I'd closed my eyes, I would have imagined Rick Mercer talking. I kept them open. Life was weird enough already.

“I feel much better already. Probably just being reassured.”

“We are talking about a brain injury, and we don't want to take any chances. Someone needs to monitor you.”

“Not a problem. Leonard will be glad to do it. Won't you?”

Dr. Hasheem managed to overlook Mombourquette's squeak. He said, “You may find she seems restless, agitated or irritable.”

Mombourquette said, “What else is new?”

Dr. Hasheem blinked. “Watch out for vomiting, one pupil larger than the other.”

“I don't think . . .” Mombourquette interrupted.

But Dr. Hasheem was in charge. “And slurred speech,” he added.

Uh-oh.

“Right,” Mombourquette said.

“Convulsions and seizures, it should go without saying.”

“It should,” I said, clearly and crisply.

“No booze,” he added.

“No problem,” I said.

“And make sure she's not alone for the next day or so.”

“What?” Leonard said.

“Make sure she's not alone. Is that hard to understand?”

“Well, there's a big difference between monitoring someone and not leaving them alone.”

“How else are you going to watch for deterioration in her condition? You don't want her slipping into a coma, do you?”

Mombourquette showed his incisors.

Dr. Hasheem snapped the file shut. “Get her back in here right away if you see any of the those signs I mentioned. You'll
need to wake her up every couple of hours to check.”

Mombourquette said, “But we don't even like each other.”

“Don't be petty, Leonard.”

“She'd be better off in the hospital. Camilla, did you ask the doctor if your concussion would cause you to shout out nonsense at the top of your lungs?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. According to reports you were in the market, rolling in the street and shouting ‘Constantinople. That's the answer.' ”

“Did not. Oh, wait a minute. That rings a bell.”

“You have to admit that's more than a little bit strange, Doctor,” Mombourquette said.

“Right. I'd forgotten about Constantinople. I was walking through the Market earlier in the evening, and I saw this restaurant called Instambouli, or something like it, with a little graphic of minarets. It's coming back now. Is that typical of a head injury, Dr. Hasheem?”

Dr. Hasheem was already halfway out the door. “Shouting out the names of historic cities? First I've ever heard about it.” He closed the door behind him.

I said, “Don't worry, Leonard. I have plenty of friends. You just need to get me home. Let's make tracks. Health resources are stretched to the limit, as you know.”

“You mean take you home and hang around all night. You heard the doctor, someone's got to wake you up every couple of hours.”

“No problem. I'm sure my sisters will understand if I die. Alone. And in terror. I'll leave a note.”

Mombourquette turned pale. “Don't bring your sisters into this. You're not going to die, for God's sake.”

“I might.”

“Fine. I'll take you to your sisters now.”

I called his bluff. “Excellent. They're at the cottage, an hour north of here, maybe a bit longer, because it's slow going on the back roads at night.”

A nurse stuck her head in the door and said, “Can you move along? We need this examination room.”

Mombourquette narrowed his beady eyes at me.

I said, “What'll it be, Leonard? Your place or mine?”

The first light of dawn was turning the sky pink when we settled into my apartment on Sunday morning. Mombourquette seemed skittish sitting on my sofa. Perhaps because Mrs. Parnell's cat was watching him intently. Gussie ogled the cat with much the same expression.

Mombourquette was having a rough time lately. I felt kind of sorry for him. He was bravely camping out where the cat might get him, just so I didn't lapse into a coma. It wasn't like we were friends or anything. He didn't even like me. But when no one else was available, he'd gone the distance. Even bailing me out in the Market could have meant big trouble for him. But Mombourquette was an old-fashioned cop who believed in doing the right thing. I admire that. I remembered how relieved I'd felt when he'd shown up. I felt a surge of gratitude.

“Thanks, Leonard,” I said.

He stared at me warily. “What?”

“I appreciate what you're doing. Keeping me out of jail and taking me to the hospital and all.” His mouth hung open. “I'm grateful. Did I already say that? Why do you have that expression on your face, Leonard?”

“I was just wondering if this uncharacteristic civility meant your condition was worsening.”

“I don't feel like fighting any more.”

“You're scaring me.”

“I'm restless. I need to take action. Oh, I know what I can do.”

“Please don't do anything.”

“I was just going to hunt for Jasmine's telephone number in my backpack.” I dumped the contents of my backpack on the coffee table. My vial of painkillers rolled off and landed on the floor. I picked them up. “Glad I didn't lose those. I don't know where that phone number could have gone. It was right in here. Hey, wait a minute. Where's the will?”

Mombourquette said, “I'm going to hate myself for asking, but what will?”

“Didn't I tell you about the will? Maybe I didn't. Okay. Laura Brown named me as the sole beneficiary in her will.”

“Huh.”

“I found the will in her house when I was searching for the names of her contacts, and I had it in my backpack. Now it's gone. So someone took my phone and the photos and the will and my favourite jacket. But they left my keys and my ID and my new book. You know what's weird? I can understand someone taking the phone and even the jean jacket, but why would anyone steal a will? And the box of old photos?”

“Tell you what,” Mombourquette said after a deep sigh. “If you're doing okay in a bit, I'll drive to the Market and see if your things turned up. According to the uniforms, you fell right into the road, maybe the will rolled into the gutter. Could be the photos blew away.”

“Crap. I wonder if the phone number blew away too. I'll have to catch Jasmine at the restaurant when I get my cash card.”

“Listen, Camilla. Not a good idea to go back to that restaurant. I'll get your card for you.”

“That's decent of you. Can you ask about Jasmine? Please don't keep sighing like that. It's important. There's something else about Maisie's, but I can't think what it is. My brain is so fuzzy.”

“Just try and recuperate. You'll remember soon enough,” Mombourquette said through a giant yawn.

I yawned too. More than once. But I really needed to tell Mombourquette something. What? Oh, yes. “That reminds me, Leonard. I remember why Constantinople is important. Before I forget again . . .”

But he was already snoring. Or maybe I was.

Someone shook my shoulders.

I gasped and opened my eyes. “Are both my pupils the same size?” Mombourquette nodded. “Good. What time is it?” I said.

Mombourquette checked his watch. “Seven.”

“Oh, no.”

I hobbled over to the window. Sure enough, the sky was full of bright balloons, floating dreamily along the Ottawa River and off toward the Gatineau hills. Poster perfect.

I'd missed another goddam launch. So much for being a person you could count on.

I couldn't even take it out on Mombourquette, since we were going through this nicey nicey phase.

I reached Mrs. P.'s voice mail and apologized at length. I knew she'd give me the benefit of the doubt, but I didn't want to contemplate Alvin's reaction. “Long story, Mrs. P. I'll explain later. I'll make up for it tonight. Should get some great shots.”

Mombourquette had dozed off again. He looked kind of cute in a soft, rodential way.

As long as things were going badly, I decided to let Elaine know about the missing photos. The sun was up, so she might be too. Apparently not. I held the phone away from my ear. Across the room, Mombourquette's eyes popped open at the sound of Elaine's voice. He scurried into the kitchen.

I said, “Not such a big deal, Elaine. We had great results. We just need to find some more photos from the same grouping. If . . . aw, don't be like that. Anyway, it's only if they don't turn up when Leonard checks out the Market later.”

“She'll get over it,” I said to Mombourquette in the kitchen after I'd hung up.

He said, “That is one scary female.”

“Oh, she's not so bad, once you get used to her,” I said.

“If you say so. Do you know there's nothing to eat in your house? That's not good for you. Your brain needs proper food.”

“I have coffee,” I said.

“There's no cream for it. Not even milk.”

I considered that: My nausea had subsided. Mombourquette had a point. “Food. Great idea. I don't usually eat at home. Let's go out for breakfast.”

“You should stay here. It's safer. You can't get into trouble.”

“I guess we could call for take-out. What do you want? Chinese? Italian? Greek? I've got all the menus.”

“I was thinking more like breakfast. Bran buds? Porridge? Muesli?”

“Muesli? What is muesli anyway?”

“You stay here and be good. I'll go find us some decent food.”

Be good. Not as easy as it sounds. Gussie had an idea involving the park. However, if you've been rolling in the gutter, scuffling with the police and then sleeping fully clothed sitting up on the sofa, next to a person you don't know all that well, you're just not ready to run into the neighbours. I was definitely well enough to take a shower.

“Soon, Gussie,” I said.

When Mombourquette left, I hopped out of my clothes. I wasn't sure whether to toss them in the empty hamper or drop them into the incinerator. The hamper won. My wardrobe's not that extensive. As I emptied my pockets, I found a crumpled piece of paper with Jasmine's telephone number.