The Devil's in the Details (6 page)

The rest of the bathroom was equally unremarkable. A damp towel hung slightly askew on the towel rack. The sink was clean but not sparkling, same for the tub and shower. A couple of strawberry-scented bath-bombs waited on the side of the tub. An electric toothbrush sat on the vanity. A hair dryer with a big diffuser hung from a hook. Could have been anyone's bathroom.

I'd learned nothing about Laura's friends and family when I headed back to the kitchen.

I forced myself to open the stainless steel door of the fridge. As I expected, I found food—a half-filled bag of skim milk, a container of orange juice, a chunk of cheese repackaged in a Ziploc bag, some leftover roast chicken. All neatly arranged. A large supply of condiments, including three kinds of Dijon mustard, and two jars of fiery salsa, plus salmon fillets, asparagus, a salad that looked like arugula, a tub of mascarpone cheese and an array of other cheeses. And honey. No chocolate anywhere.

Lots of ice cubes in the freezer.

The pantry held canned soups, jars of red peppers, a few dietetic jams and no sweets whatsoever, except for a large package of Splenda.

She had a serious collection of cookbooks, including several on cooking for one. Two Lucy Waverman cookbooks that I recognized from my sister's kitchen sat next to
Bon Appetit Weekend Entertaining
. A couple of pieces of paper marked recipes. I opened them to see if anything interesting fell out. Nothing did.

A list on the counter said:

Salmon Fillets

Asparagus

Arugula

Chunk Parmigiano Reggiano

Balsamic Vinegar

Mascarpone

Figs

Every item on the list had a check mark next to it. Laura already had a nice selection of moderate to high-priced wines, nothing flashy. Heavy on the Australian Shiraz, but with some Italian and French pinot noir too. A bottle of Fat Bastard stood on the glass bistro table, with a stainless steel bartender style corkscrew lying next to it.

Looked to me like Laura had picked up the ingredients for a special dinner. But for whom? She obviously hadn't had it at the time of her death, because the ingredients were all still in the fridge.

With luck, if I persevered and learned the name of her guest, I might find out something more about her. I just hoped it wasn't some new acquaintance.

The basement was down a fairly steep set of plain wooden stairs. On the side ledge, Laura had organized her cleaning supplies, easy access, yet out of sight. The vacuum hose was wound around a hook on a pegboard and hung alongside a broom, mop and a long-handled feather duster. Neat but not prissy.

A quick peek in the basement storage area revealed cross-country skis, solid but not top of the line. No skates. A rack with a bicycle. One swimming noodle. A pair of flippers. A pair of well broken-in hiking boots. A tennis racquet and a squash racquet.

She had obviously liked sports. But she must have biked with someone, skied with someone, hiked with someone. Who would have only one swimming noodle?

The basement storage connected to a neat, empty garage.

I headed back upstairs.

The magazines were ordinary enough.
Maclean's, Canadian House and Home, Style at Home, Walrus
. The previous week's
New York Times Magazine
.

I found no clue about where Laura worked. Everything about her lifestyle indicated she was some kind of professional. But everyone has something from their place of business. A Health Insurance form. A T-shirt. A mug. Or some kind of a file. I chugged back to the second floor to recheck her T-shirts. None of them had logos.

Back downstairs to hunt for mugs.

At least I was getting some exercise.

The dining area had a fashionable dark wood streamlined table and a Zen-looking sideboard. The table was set for two with fashionable pale green china and sleek silverware on cream linen placemats with contrasting napkins. A trio of creamy orchids sat in the middle as a centrepiece. Slender wine
and water glasses flanked each place-setting, confirming my special dinner theory.

Back in the kitchen, the cupboards held dishes for four, in a pumpkin colour, with matching cups and mugs. I peered in the depths of the cupboard. Not a single mug with a letter or graphic on it. I pulled one of the bistro chairs over and climbed up on it. I squinted at the far corners of the top cabinets, the place I always hide junk, such as undesirable Christmas presents. The corner looked empty. I stuck my hand in anyway. I netted two mugs. One said Ottawa printed over an image of the Canadian flag. The other said Toronto, printed over an image of the CN tower.

Okay, forget that.

I climbed down and decided to have a look at the phone. Laura had a couple of the high-end ones, the type that showed your last ninety-nine callers if you pressed the down arrow. Except for the security company call, only six calls were recorded. The date for three was July 14th. More than six weeks earlier. One on July 13th and two on the 15th. As far as I could tell, no one else had called Laura Brown.

The six calls had come from “Unknown name. Unknown number”. Was that the guest she'd invited? Someone from out of town? No way to know.

Of course, I realized the unknown name thing was no more mysterious than a cellphone not on the Bell system. Maybe someone choosing to block calls. Maybe a telemarketer. A glance at the times of the calls made me reconsider that. Telemarketers favour dinner hour. These calls had come during the day and evening.

I had nothing left to check but the garbage. Upstairs to the bathroom, the smart little mesh wastebasket was empty.

Fine.

While I was up there, I checked the small den on the same floor. Nothing.

Laura had a stacked washer and dryer. Front loading, Energy Star. I peered through the glass. Both machines were empty. The wastepaper basket held two dryer sheets.

On the main floor, the only garbage can was in the kitchen. It was empty too; a pristine white kitchen garbage bag lined the can. Nice fresh lemony smell too. No paper of any kind. No container or wrapper that gave out any information.

I tried the back entrance, where a large garbage can and both blue and black recycling containers stood. All empty. I lifted them, just in case something had slipped underneath.

Nothing had.

What were the chances that the garbage and recycling were collected on Friday morning in this neighbourhood, and Laura hadn't been home since?

I'd just have to find out.

Feeling rather foolish, I checked in each of the stainless canisters on the counter. The flour and sugar contained flour and sugar. The tea and coffee contained tea and coffee. I found that irritating.

As a last resort, I opened the drawer in the hall console. I picked up the telephone book and flipped to the Bs.

No listing for Brown, Laura, L. or L.L. at that address. Or any other address.

I took one last look around Laura Brown's lovely home. It stood in sharp contrast to the dwellings of most of my clients. As far as I could tell, Laura Brown had everything she could have wanted until she took that last walk.

I collected my new book, set the alarm with my access code and slunk off toward the Volvo.

I didn't get far.

It was nearly eleven and, although it was Friday night, the street was empty once again, except for Laura's neighbour to the left. He was standing alone, clearly visible in the glow of the street light. He was an attractive man, late forties, early fifties, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair, blue eyes behind pricey looking rimless glasses. He wore a short-sleeved taupe golf shirt, although the temperature had fallen, and there was enough of a nip in the air to make me wish I'd worn a sweater. He stood on the sidewalk, staring at his immaculate front garden, scratching his head. The head-scratching seemed to be brought on by a selection of mums in nursery pots.

His garden had the look of a professional design, profuse, yet precisely planned, with just the teensiest suggestion of goose-stepping storm troopers. I could hear a woman's voice from inside the three-storey brick house. “Stop obsessing, plant your wretched mums on Sunday. We have to get up early tomorrow, in case you've forgotten.”

“You know I like to do things right,” he said. I caught the implication that others came up short in the doing things right department. He didn't make that comment loud enough to be heard more than two feet away.

“Hello,” I said, fishing out my best smile.

“I'm trying for a lively, jaunty mood this fall,” he said. “I can't just have them stuck in straight lines. Can I?”

Like I cared. “Good point,” I said.

“Gardening's an art form, really. The harmony of the whole.” I assumed he was seeking support for his position.

“You bet,” I said.

“I don't want to be up all night,” the woman inside the house said. She had a voice that carried.

“My name is Camilla MacPhee,” I said. “Did you know your neighbour, Laura Brown, well?”

“Laura Brown?” he said.

“Yes, the woman in this house right there.” I pointed to the house he had just watched me leave.

He shook his head.

“She's your next-door neighbour.”

“Brown,” he said. “Is that her name?”

“Has she been here long?”

He shrugged. “A couple of years, I guess. My wife might know.”

A silver-haired woman with amazing cheek bones stuck her head out the door. “Now,” she said. She looked like she meant business.

“The woman next door, dear, have you met her yet?” he asked.

“Why?” she said.

He turned to me. “What did you say her name was?”

“Laura Brown.” These people had a
BMW
parked in their driveway. You'd think they could have purchased a few brains.

“This . . . um . . . person was asking.” He turned back to the tricky matter of arranging the mums.

His wife stepped out onto the veranda.

“I am inquiring,” I said, pleasantly, “whether you had met
Laura Brown, your next-door neighbour.”

“And you are?”

“Camilla MacPhee.” That didn't seem to be enough. “I'm a lawyer,” I said, stepping up to the veranda and extending my hand. “Mrs . . . ?”

She didn't volunteer her name. “May I ask what your interest is in my neighbour?”

“She's had an accident.”

“Oh.” That took her by surprise. I wondered what she'd been expecting.

“Do you know her well?”

“Hardly at all. Sometimes make a remark about the weather, that kind of thing. I don't think we'd ever introduced ourselves.”

“But you saw her?”

“Yes, I see her coming and going. Is she all right?”

“I'm afraid not. This seems like a friendly neighbourhood, and I'm hoping someone can help us find her relatives.”

“That sounds serious.”

“She was killed in a fall today.” I figured this woman could take it on the chin.

Her hand shot to her mouth. “That's dreadful.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don't think I can help you much.”

“Did she know anyone else on the street, do you think?”

“She kept to herself. Wasn't one to socialize. I don't think she really was friendly with anyone, you know, beyond a smile and a hello.” She paused. “But, of course, I don't know that for sure. You'd probably be better off to ask around. Although, it's a bit late now.” She glanced at a small watch. I thought I spotted the flash of diamonds.

“Right. I'll try tomorrow.”

“And it's Labour Day weekend. Lots going on, people are at their cottages.”

“Did you ever see people coming and going? Friends? Boyfriends?”

“We have better things to do than spy on our neighbours.”

I said, “I'm sure you do, but the houses on this street are quite close. Did you notice if she had regular visitors?”

“I don't believe I ever saw anyone come or go. Just her. Laura Brown, you said?”

“Do you have any idea where Laura worked?”

“None. As I said, we never spoke about anything. I used to see her walking back from downtown in the evenings. I assume she was returning from work, because she'd have on a nice suit and pair of running shoes. That's such an awful look, don't you think? It always sticks in my mind. And usually people who are dressed like that are coming back from offices. I can't imagine what they're thinking.”

As someone who regularly walked to work in business clothes and running shoes, I bit back my comment.

“What about seeing regular delivery people at her house? Anyone like that? Cars parked in front?”

She shook her head. “We're not home all that much. We're busy. Concerts and community commitments. And the garden, lest I forget.”

“Did you ever see her outside the neighbourhood? At a concert or anything?”

She paused, apparently thinking. “No. Not that I recall. It's a shame, isn't it? Such a nice-looking woman. Obviously doing well for herself, they don't give these houses away. Or those cars.”

“What cars?” I said.

“Well, her car. She drove an Acura Integra. Brand new. Black.”

“Where did she park it?”

She flashed me a look calculated to reset my self-esteem to a lower level. “In her garage. Where else?”

There was no car parked in the garage now. I hadn't noticed any car payments in the bank statement, but then I hadn't been looking for them. There hadn't been a car registration or insurance certificate in her fanny pack, but lots of people kept those in the glove compartment. But now I had something concrete to speak to the police about. Wherever Laura's car was, it shouldn't take them long to track it down.

I dug into my shoulder bag and fished out a business card. “If you remember seeing her or seeing anyone here, give me a call.”

“But surely you'll be able to track down her family without too much trouble?”