The Devil's in the Details (5 page)

Not a problem, apparently. They promised to follow up on that.

As Zaccotto and Yee sped off in their cruiser, I headed for the Volvo. The sight of it, still unscathed, was at least a relief. I climbed in and turned on my cellphone.

It rang immediately.

I was actually hoping it would be a “blocked number” call, but no such luck. Instead it was Alvin, calling from the balloon.

I held the phone away from my ear, but not far enough to drown out his words.

When the tirade died down, I said, “Are you finished, Alvin? Because contrary to your suggestion, I had a good reason for missing the launch, and it was not just to make people miserable. I was identifying a friend at the morgue.

“Come on, Alvin, I am not making that up. Why are you acting like such a jerk lately?

“No, I don't believe I am the most self-centred person ever born. Nor is it true I don't have a friend left in the entire world because no one can count on me. Is Mrs. Parnell there? I'd like to talk to her, if you're quite finished raving.

“Well, the same to you, Alvin.”

I turned off the cellphone after that.

Even if Ray Deveau did manage to call, who had time to talk? I needed to track down a goddam candy-apple red balloon.

There wasn't a single balloon in the evening sky at eight-thirty when I finally gave up. I couldn't figure out where Alvin and Mrs. Parnell had drifted. They could have been miles down the Rideau River or half-way up the Ottawa. Or in the Gatineau Hills. Even back in Mrs. Parnell's living room swilling sherry.

Plus, I still wasn't any closer to understanding the Laura Brown situation.

Life was definitely not a bowl of cherries. On the other hand,
since I did have Mrs. Parnell's Volvo at my disposal, since I was tense and jumpy after my visit to the morgue, and since I had pretty well lost my appetite, I figured I might as well check out Laura's place. It was bound to shed some light on her life. Something would point to her parents or friends. I could hand over the fanny pack, the
ID
and keys along with the responsibility of being next-of-kin.

Laura Brown had lived in the Glebe. No surprise there. She would have fit perfectly in this affluent, tree-lined neighbourhood, home to professionals, coffee shops and quirky boutiques. The area was still sprinkled with enough students, artists and musicians to keep it interesting and funky. And it was close enough to walk to Parliament Hill but far enough not to notice.

Laura's address was a few blocks from Bank Street on Third Avenue. I found a small, attractive infill single with the distinctive touches of a local architect. I glanced around the street, hoping to find someone to talk to.

It was before nine on a Friday night. In the Glebe, I would have expected lots of neighbours puttering in gardens, strolling slowly along the sidewalk, chatting in small groups. But I saw no one.

The key opened the front door, no problem. The problem arrived with the shriek of the alarm. Within a minute, a telephone rang nearby. Lucky for me, the phone was close to the foyer. Thank God, someone was calling Laura.

“Yes?” I was slightly out of breath as I shot into the living room to pick up the receiver.

“Pronto Security. We have a report of an alarm going off in your residence.”

“Thank you. Can you turn it off?”

“Are you the homeowner?”

I said. “Not exactly.”

“Do you know your code?”

“Can't say that I do.”

“Do you have an access card?”

“An access card?”

“Are you listed as having access to the house?”

I raised my voice. “Probably not. It's hard to hear with the noise.”

“Where is the homeowner?”

“She's dead.”

“Dead? Are you the police?”

“No. Turn off the alarm.”

“Do you know her mother's maiden name?”

“Of course not. Please turn this thing off.”

“Sorry, can't do that.”

“Look, I'm a lawyer.” Well, I'm still a lawyer when it suits me, which it did at that moment. “Laura Brown has died, and I can't waste time.”

“Nice try,” he said. “Are the police there yet, or do you want to make a run for it?”

“I think that's them now.”

I stepped back out to the front porch, carrying the portable receiver. The alarm was a loud one, very effective, the type that gets folks in an upscale area engaged. The previously invisible neighbours were already gathering. A cluster of people were actually advancing toward the house.

“I didn't see a sign that said premises protected by anybody,” I said, peevishly.

“That's the idea,” the dispatcher said. “The element of surprise.”

“Well, I'm surprised. Hang on,” I said and waited for a chance to explain to the police how I was the next-of-kin but didn't know about the alarm, the alarm code, the homeowner's mother's maiden name or anything else.

As the first squad cars converged on the house, roof lights flashing, I stepped toward them. Two young officers, a male and a female, got out, leaving the doors open.

“Hi,” I said. “You're not going to believe this.”

I was right.

After a longish time, they reached Yee and Zaccotto on the radio and confirmed my right to enter Laura Brown's home.

My inner lawyer knew this was not as clear-cut as Yee and Zaccotto thought, but I kept that to myself.

The officers entered the house.

“Maybe you should talk to the security company,” I said, as yet another cruiser pulled onto the street. Neighbours continued to spill from their houses. We now had an audience three deep.

The female officer was young, black and brisk. She dealt with the security company, spelling out my name among other things.

“They need to know your birthday,” she said.

“August 10th,” I said. I'd turned thirty-six, and the less said about that the better.

“August 10th. Good. And your mother's maiden name?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Do I look like the kidding type?” she said.

“MacDonald,” I said. “M-A-C.”

“MacDonald,” she repeated. “M-A-C.”

Three seconds later, she punched in a code and finally, blessedly, the alarm stopped.

“Thank you,” I said.

“No problem. They had your details on file.”

“What?”

“They have you listed as an authorized person. But you should have had your access card on you. Could have saved all this trouble.”

“No one ever sent me an access card for the security system.” Of course, compared to not mentioning I was next-of-kin, it seemed a minor oversight.

“Not our problem. Better arrange to get your card from them,” the cop said, handing me the receiver.

I gave my particulars to the dispatcher.

“That it?” he said.

“How about a new code? Can you give me one?”

“You just select a four digit number and key it in.”

“You don't give it to me?”

“No. You're the only one who knows it. That's why you have to remember it. Four numbers. Something you won't forget. Not 1111, and not your birthday either. Key it in now.”

“That's all?”

“You key it in once. You key it in again to make sure it's the same. I'll confirm. Then all you got to do is use it when you leave, then you key it in again when you come back. Easy.”

I picked 1986. The year I'd met Laura Brown. I was troubled. How and why had Laura gone to the trouble to find out my mother's maiden name?

“We'll send you an access card. Call the 1-800-number on the alarm box. Write it down and keep it with you.”

The cop waited until I finished.

“This call's going to cost you sixty bucks for a false alarm. You'll get a bill.”

That was truly the least of my problems.

Laura Brown's place was cosy and well-ordered. It was full of suede cushions, silky throws and the kind of upholstery you sink into with a book. Laura must have done that often. I found four historical novels scattered around, each with a bookmark, indicating she hadn't finished. A couple of recent CanLit bestsellers in hardcover editions were stacked on the coffee table.

Laura's colours: copper, warm yellow, woodsy brown, dominated the decor. Every room had potpourri with a pleasant green apple scent. I'd become more aware of these important details since my sister, Alexa, had started dragging me through model homes.

That's how I knew the kitchen was a showpiece. The Chinese red accent wall warmed the room, and black granite counters screamed big bucks. The stainless steel appliances might have been chic, but they still creeped me out. I kept my mind off the morgue and headed upstairs. In the linen closet, I found Egyptian cotton sheets, including some still in their packaging, next to stacks of white towels.

Laura's home had everything. Flat screen television, air-conditioning, central vac. Some lovely moody watercolours on the walls. Originals.

No sign of a home computer though, and I'd thought I was the last person without one. Even Alvin had his laptop. Mrs. Parnell had a computer system and two laptops.

Speaking of Mrs. P., she would have approved of the high-end sound system. She loves Bose. Laura's taste ran to light classical, jazz and easy listening. I found a half-finished knitting project in a covered basket near the sound system.

But I didn't find a single photo, not even one of herself. No diplomas. Not a letter or memento. Not a message held by a fridge magnet.

After a serious search, I found bank statements in a portable file box in the upstairs den closet. The monthly statements from her broker were included. She had one hell of a portfolio. I now had the name of her bank and her account numbers for chequing and savings. There was nothing much of interest in the statement. Debit purchases at clothing stores and restaurants, mostly Maisie's Eatery, the popular new spot where I'd run into her the last few times.

Most of her bills were on direct debit. Hydro, phone and gas records had been neatly placed in labelled household files. There was not one long distance call on any phone bill.

I went through the small file box hoping to find her passport and with it her place of birth. No deal.

I did find two envelopes. The first, marked “Emergency”, held three new-looking one hundred dollar bills. The second was in a legal-sized envelope from Barkhow, Delaney and Zolf. It held Laura Brown's will. Good news. If you don't mention your relatives and friends in your will, where do you mention them?

Laura's will was crisp and to the point.

She left all of her worldly belongings to Camilla MacPhee. Frederick Delaney was named as the executor. It goes without saying that the office of Barkhow, Delaney and Zolf was closed
for the weekend. I dialled the number anyway and left a message for Delaney, leaving my name, home and cell numbers.

That was all I needed. To be the sole heir of someone I hardly knew. To make matters worse, Laura had made no bequests, no mention of anyone else, and no charitable donations. Nothing.

I stuck the small envelope with the cash into my canvas backpack for safekeeping. I rolled the envelope containing the will to make it fit and shoved that in too.

Next stop was the master bedroom closet. A nice selection of flowing summer dresses in copper, yellow and apple green. A collection of linen separates that I could never afford. Two halter dresses. And the regular assortment of slacks, jeans, cotton sweaters, plus two pairs of Birkenstocks, the footwear of choice in the Glebe.

What had I expected? It was an elegant yet practical wardrobe for any fortyish successful woman. Nothing unusual. I kept going. The bed was made, although not to my sisters' standards. I dropped to all fours and peered under it. Waste of time.

I straightened up and asked myself why I spent so much time looking under other people's beds. My sisters were always saying I needed a hobby. I hoped this wasn't going to be it. I flicked on the clock radio and found it set to Oldies 1310. “Stand By Me” was playing.

Laura had been neat but not compulsive. Her home was comfortable and welcoming, even if something seemed missing. It was several grown-up housekeeping steps ahead of mine.

Laura's reading taste ran to popular magazines. She had baskets full of those and a shelf lined with mass market editions of historical novels. Her bedside table held a hardcover copy of
One Man's Justice
by Thomas R. Berger, and three more historical novels. I'd been meaning to pick up a copy of the Berger book, since I was an admirer of the man. I figured Laura wouldn't mind if I took it, being next-of-kin and all.

There's no way to check out someone's medicine cabinet without feeling sleazy. The cabinet yielded nothing of interest, unless you count high-end moisturizer and an apricot face masque. No over the counter medications. I was looking for prescriptions. Something with the name of her pharmacist and doctor. Anything that might get us a step closer to knowing something, anything about Laura Brown. There were no prescriptions. Not a single outdated antibiotic container, nothing for allergies or migraines. No birth control.