The Devil's in the Details (8 page)

Maybe that should have been up, up and awake.

I jerked back to consciousness at three in the morning, dislodging Mrs. Parnell's cat and giving Gussie a serious fright.

“Don't bark,” I whispered.

Gussie hadn't yet fully grasped the concept of “don't.”

Ten seconds later, I recognized the familiar thump on the wall.

“Shhh. Quiet, and I'll give you a treat,” I whispered.

Gussie does understand the word “treat”. I could tell by the tone of his next bark.

Again the thump on the wall. I thought about thumping back, but reason prevailed. I got up, found a couple of milkbones and returned to bed. I lay there, listening to Gussie crunch, then snore, and the cat purr. I would have preferred to be crunching, purring or even snoring myself but, in addition to the missing handbags, something else was bothering me. There must have been hundreds of students who'd come into contact with Laura Brown when we were at Carleton. Why couldn't I think of any names?

That's when the light went on.

Of course. The girl who knew everybody. Miss Congeniality. The one and only Elaine Ekstein.

I figured Elaine might be awake too. She was always puttering around all hours of the night, painting lampshades, stringing sequins, decoupaging cigar boxes. That's one of the nice things about obsessives: they don't relax even when they're not working.

Plus, even when she has the odd weekend off from her job as executive director of Women Against Violence Everywhere (
WAVE
), Elaine is unable to refuse help to anyone who asks. I didn't think twice about dialling her number.

Turned out I was wrong about the awake part. I let her phone ring four times, and when she didn't answer, I hung up. I remembered how hard it was to wake her up when she does go to sleep. That was dumb. Since I really needed to leave her a message, I dialled again. Elaine fumbled the phone on the third ring.

“It's me,” I said. “Just need a bit of information.”

“Holy moly, what time is it?”

“Latish.”

“It's three-thirty in the morning. What's wrong? Are you in the hospital?”

“No.”

“Jail?”

“Sorry, Elaine, were you sleeping?”

“Sheesh.” It's not like Elaine to sound grumpy. Wacky yes. Grumpy, no. I guess I'd just caught her at a weak moment.

“Well, I didn't realize it was quite so late.”

“Can you call me back in the morning?”

“Listen, you make your living rescuing people in distress, battered women, abused children, anyone with a problem. Are you telling me you only take calls during business hours?”

“Don't be ridiculous. But there's a big difference between outside of business hours and three-thirty in the morning. Whatever you want, it can wait. And I mean wait until after ten in the morning.” She hung up. That was not at all like her. I figured that, in her sleepy state, she'd dropped the phone.

Since it really couldn't wait, I called back. How many times had I bailed her out when one of her clients needed a quick off-the-record legal opinion? I'd like to say Elaine's not quite so impulsive when she gets arrested herself, but in truth, she's always pretty much the same. If you're in a real pickle, she's there for you. She obviously didn't realize that this constituted a pickle.

Yet.

She answered on the fifth ring.

“Elaine. Quick question.”

Long sigh.

“You remember Laura Brown from Carleton?”

“If I answer your inexplicable question, will you promise not to wake me up again?”

“Sure.” Unless, of course, it was necessary.

“Yes, I remember Laura Brown. What about her?”

“She's dead.”

“Did you say dead?”

“I did.”

“Oh no, Camilla, that's awful.”

“Yup.”

“You're sure it's the same Laura Brown we knew at Carleton?”

“I'm sure.”

“What happened to her? Car accident or something?”

“No. Do you remember how you met?”

“Gosh, I don't know. We were probably in a class together. Or maybe the pub. Is that important? Had she been ill?” Elaine isn't one simply to accept information.

“No, apparently she fell.”

“Fell?”

“Off that escarpment behind the Supreme Court of Canada.”

“Holy moly.”

“The police are saying it was an accident.”

Like me, Elaine is no fan of the police. “Mmm. The police. Listen, I didn't know you were friends with Laura. Mind telling me why it's so important to you at three-thirty in the morning?”

“Long story, but I'm the next-of-kin.”

“Oh, you are not next-of-kin.”

“Am.”

“You've never even mentioned seeing Laura Brown since Carleton.”

I decided not to mention the will at this point. “Trust me. And I'm just as surprised as you are. It's unsettling, and I would like to get the whole thing over with. I need to check out a couple of facts for my peace of mind. Then we can both go back to sleep.”

“Well, I can't go back to sleep now. I'm wide awake.”

“Okay, so who else might have known her?”

“You can't really expect me to remember that right off the bat.”

“Why not? You never forget anything or anyone.”

“Let me think. She must have known a lot of people, but she kept to herself. Remember?”

“Exactly. I also remember her walking around with one other woman, but I can't remember her name. I'm grasping at straws here, but I really need to find someone who might know how to reach Laura's relatives.”

“Check the house.”

“Done. I combed through the whole place thoroughly and didn't find a single thing.”

“That's so weird.”

“Tell me about it. Do you remember where she came from? I remember she said it was a small town some place here in Ontario. I thought it began with a C.”

“Really? I always had the impression she was American.”

“American? No, I'm sure she told me Ontario.”

“My mistake. Calaboogie?”

“No.”

“Clayton?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Crow Lake?”

“Sorry.”

“Okay, I'll try to figure out some names. But now, maybe I'll just go back to sleep.”

“Thanks, Elaine. I'll talk to you in the morning. I know, not before ten.”

“I'd say any time, but I'm afraid you'd take me up on it.”

“Hey! What are friends for?” I said.

Maybe Elaine went back to sleep, but I couldn't. For some
reason, I was hungry. I couldn't really remember the last time I'd had anything aside from coffee and Harvey's Bristol Cream.

I headed for the fridge, although there's never all that much to eat in mine. Not like Laura's. I thought back to the orange juice, the milk, the chicken and vegetables.

I stood staring at a container of margarine and two open cans of pet food lit by my fridge light. There were still a couple of bottles of Moosehead left over from Ray Deveau's last visit. I picked up a small cappuccino yogurt with a best before date of June 1.

I could feel Gussie's hot breath on the back of my knees and the swish of Mrs. Parnell's cat's tail on my ankles.

“Go back to bed,” I said. I found the box of Godiva chocolates and took them out to the balcony. It was nippy enough to need a blanket. I watched the crescent moon hang over the glittering river. I enjoyed the fact that no one was bugging me. Gussie and the cat snuggled up, but that didn't count as bugging.

“There's always something to be thankful for,” my father used to say. I was thankful for pets and for chocolate. Laura probably hadn't been able to indulge much in that.

Wait a minute.

That was it. If Laura Brown had been diabetic, where was her insulin?

The trouble with having a brainwave is you need to confer about it. I don't know much about diabetics and their requirements. The only person who might know was Elaine Ekstein. Since she was already slightly pissed off at me, I figured I couldn't make things worse. I called.

“Elaine. Does your brother take insulin?”

I didn't hear anything like an answer. After a while I said, “Hello?”

“What?”

“Eddie, your brother, doesn't he take insulin?”

“Oh, that's why you woke me up again. I understand now why you couldn't wait until the morning. Yes, he does, thanks for asking. Goodnight. The phone will be off the hook from now on, Camilla. I hope you don't find that too terribly inconvenient.”

“Come on. Where does he keep his insulin? Isn't it in little vials? Doesn't he need to take it everyday?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Apparently Laura Brown was diabetic.”

“I didn't know that, and I don't see what it has to do with anything.”

“She had a MedicAlert bracelet.”

“Oh. Did the diabetes have anything to do with her fall? Did she lapse into a coma or something?”

“Maybe. The police suggested it. Anyway, so if you don't mind answering a question or two . . .”

“What choice do I have?”

“Where does Eddie keep his insulin?”

“In the fridge.”

“Would he have a supply of it at any time?”

“Always. Naturally.”

“What do you mean, naturally?”

“He's hardly going to take a chance with insulin, is he?”

“Right. But he must run out sometimes. Get too busy at the office and forget to pick up a new supply.”

“I can't imagine a diabetic who'd let themselves run out of insulin. You'd have to have a death wish.”

“Okay, Elaine. I'll let you go now.”

“Sure, now that I'm up. Why are you asking these peculiar questions? Didn't Laura have any insulin?”

“I don't remember seeing any in her fridge. But maybe I'm wrong.”

“I hope you are wrong, because if you're not, there's something fishy.”

Of course, I already knew that. Okay, it was time to face facts. In the wee hours, I couldn't do much to find out what was going on. Particularly troubling, since I now had this insulin thing to fret over.

“Thanks, Elaine,” I said. “Let's try to get some sleep now.”

My own attempt to get back to sleep was less than successful. I tried my usual approach when I can't sleep because my head
is whirling with a problem. I got up and read the newspapers. I had enough of them. Even the apartment building newsletter and the
West End News
were there to take my mind off things.

I skimmed the
Ottawa Citizen
and the
Globe and Mail
. When I really need to relax, I focus on the items that have nothing to do with social issues. I read stuff I don't care about. I read the fashion section, the homes section, even the cooking section. I read a detailed piece on installing your own insulation, and another one on dealing with mold in basements. Soon, I felt a pleasant grogginess stealing over me.

Unfortunately, just as my eyes started to get heavy, I noticed an item by my sometime friend, P.J. Lynch. Apparently, in one of the late summer tragedies, a number of cats in the nation's capital had been taking refuge in their neighbours' garages or basements. There was no harm done unless the neighbours headed off for holidays. Several beloved family pets had ended up dead of heat or starvation in empty houses. P.J. had done heartbreaking justice to the story.

I picked up Mrs. Parnell's calico cat and gave her a little stroke. “Now do you see why you have to stay in the apartment?”

The thump of Gussie's tail meant more strokes were called for. I gave Gussie a couple of reassuring pats.

“You too, Gussie.”

Mrs. Parnell's cat, sensing that Gussie was getting ahead in the attention game, slid up my chest and rubbed her head under my chin.

“You're right,” I said. “It is a good thing that P.J. Lynch, star police reporter and occasional political pundit, is looking after your interests and keeping an eye on issues of importance to the feline community. Smaller minds, however, might suggest P.J.'s star has fallen at the
Citizen
.”