The Devil's in the Details (9 page)

Gussie leapt onto the sofa and snuggled in. The cat wasn't going to get all the action.

“Too bad P.J.'s not talking to us,” I said. “Otherwise we could find out how he feels about these assignments.”

They both had drifted back to sleep. They weren't pleased when I woke them up to go back to bed.

Half an hour later, I was no closer to dreamland. The cat story hadn't helped.

I lay back and summed up what I knew.

Laura might have slipped into a diabetic coma. But if she was diabetic, why did I have no recollection of seeing insulin in her fridge or anywhere else, including the fanny pack?

Maybe I was being silly. Maybe she was now on some other form of treatment. A transplant or a patch or something.

I could ask her doctor about this, but there had been no indication of who her physician was and how to find out. Not a prescription, not a note. Not an agenda with appointments listed.

Her doctor would be on record at MedicAlert, but even if I got the name in the morning, what were the chances that the doctor would be around that weekend? By Tuesday, I'd be a wreck.

I was beginning to conclude that someone had scooped out every identifying feature of Laura's existence. Had that someone taken Laura's insulin too? Why? Or did I just not know enough to recognize it? The most important question was, if someone had taken the insulin, was it before or after Laura died?

I could see where the answer might make a big difference.

Gussie and the little calico cat didn't like it much when I tossed and turned. And I was definitely outnumbered.

Finally, I got out of bed and slipped into jeans and a light fleece jacket. There was only one way to find out.

It was just short of four-thirty on Saturday morning when I slid Mrs. Parnell's Volvo into the driveway on Third Avenue and let myself into Laura Brown's house again. I keyed in my code, 1986, and held my breath.

No alarm sounded. But the red light hadn't been flashing. I guessed that I hadn't quite got the hang of the instructions from the security company. I hate gadgets.

The house was deliciously cool. Laura Brown had liked her luxuries.

As so-called next-of-kin, should I have been turning off the air conditioner? I left the lights off. There was enough brightness from the street lamp to see. The kitchen end of the house was softly visible. Someone at the neighbours' house must have had trouble sleeping. Their lights were on.

I headed right for the fridge. It seemed just as I had left it. I moved the container of milk. Nothing. I moved the container of
OJ
and checked. More nothing.

Very peculiar. It gave me an idea. I decided to call another person who I knew for sure would be up and around, erstwhile reporter, P.J. Lynch. Just because someone's really mad at you doesn't mean you no longer remember their cellphone number.

“P.J.,” I said cheerfully.

“Who is this?” he said.

“It's me.”

“Goodbye, Camilla.”

“Your choice. But I got a story for you.”

“I've heard that before.”

“And didn't you end up with stories?”

“Yeah. And getting arrested and you not being much help.”

“Put the past behind you and move on.”

P. J. sighed.

“Fine,” I said. “If you're not interested. Bye.”

“Okay, Tiger, what's the scoop?”

I was heartened by that. P.J. hadn't called me Tiger for a while. Maybe he was getting over my perceived betrayal.

“Well, it's about a woman who . . . hang on a second, will you? I heard something odd. I just want to check it out.

“Don't put me on hold. I'm in the middle of a story.”

“Who are you kidding? Your deadline's long gone. We both know you're sitting there watching infomercials. Don't be so impatient. I'm not putting you on hold. I'm just walking to check something. I've got the phone in my hand.” I figured it was just my imagination acting up in a strange house. The air conditioning was still humming, probably that. But what if someone's favourite feline was stuck there in the garage? With Laura gone, it would be dead before anyone found it. I didn't plan to come back soon.

“Call me when you're finished. I'm really busy,” P.J. bleated from the cellphone.

“Don't you give a hoot about the welfare of animals?”

“What are you talking about?

“Cats trapped in vacant houses. Ring a bell?”

“That's cruel, even for you, Tiger.”

“What do you mean, cruel? I'm serious. It's not why I called, but just keep your shirt on until I check out this noise. Then I'll give you the scoop on the woman without a history.”

I knew he wouldn't hang up after that. I clutched the phone and moved toward the stairs to the basement. I opened the door and peered down into the darkness.

I didn't plan to go downstairs and check. I've seen way too many teen horror movies for that.

“Here, kitty kitty,” I said.

“What?” P.J. squawked from the phone.

No kitties emerged.

The nice thing about an alarm system is that you know you are alone in a house. The not-so-nice thing is you might not be correct. I felt rather than saw the movement from the dining room. I had no time to turn around fully before the impact of the blow between my shoulder blades pushed me forward. The phone shot out of my hand and bounced down the stairs. I grabbed for the walls, trying for anything to stop my fall. I connected with the vacuum hose, which slid off the hook and rattled down the stairs. I howled as I tumbled through the dark after it.

The only image in my mind was the concrete floor below. The impact when I hit the bottom put an end to that.

I opened my eyes to see a familiar paramedic. I didn't remember which of my many recent disasters he'd shown up for.

“Have we met before?” I said.

Apparently this wasn't all that intelligible.

“Try not to move until we check you out, ma'am.” I closed my eyes again. I liked the sound of his voice, soothing yet uplifting, like ice cream. Mint chocolate chip.

That voice was an appealing contrast to the sounds of my three sisters fussing in the background. What were they doing here? Where was here?

I said, “Is it a cliché to ask, where am I?”

“You're at the bottom of a staircase in the basement of someone else's house in the middle of the night giving everyone you know heart attacks, Missy. That's where you are.”

Ah, Edwina. Always one to stab a manicured nail into the real issue.

For some reason, there were two of her. And two of Alexa and Donalda. I didn't see any of my father. Two Mrs. Parnells stood close by, hunched near the wall and smoking a couple of Benson & Hedges. It was possible they stood next to some Alvins, but I couldn't be quite sure. It hurt to turn my head.

“Try not to move,” the mint chocolate chip voice said.

Meanwhile, Edwina was warming up for a rant.

“Save me,” I whispered to Mrs. Parnell. All I got was smoke rings. Quite a lot of them.

“Ladies,” the paramedic said, “you'll have to move off. We need quiet and light. And we don't want the patient upset. That goes for you too, gentlemen.”

I spotted two P.J.s lurking in the corner, next to the two gas furnaces. Four policemen were making notes in matching notebooks.

“I repeat, you'll have to clear the area.” The paramedic sounded like he meant business.

Edwina grumbled. “Of course, let's not upset her. She can scare us out of our wits, so we can drive an hour into town in the middle of the night, and that's all right.”

A slight scuffling ensued. Alexa said, “Come on. You can give her hell later.”

“Sure, rough me up when there are no witnesses,” I mumbled.

A cloud of sisters ascended the staircase, followed by a pair of P.J.s. The Alvins' ponytails flicked out of sight along with them.

The paramedic had less success with Mrs. Parnell.

“I am equal parts disabled and litigious,” she muttered darkly. “And I had more than enough trouble getting down here.”

“Let her stay,” I said. “Believe it or not, she's a force for good.” I did not add that she was only seriously disabled when it was in her interest.

The paramedic went back to tapping my toes and shining lights in my eyes.

“Will I make it?” I said, pleased to note my words were actually intelligible.

He stopped peering into my brain and smiled a chocolate sauce kind of smile. “We have to stop meeting this way.”

“No argument here,” I said.

Lucky me, the emergency room was quiet. My injuries were judged to be minor, but as we were dealing with a head trauma, I was X-rayed and examined without too much delay. “Let's see. Mild concussion, some bad bruising, cuts, possible sprained wrist. This isn't the first time I've seen you for a concussion, is it?” The emergency room physician also looked familiar. He stifled a yawn.

He was tall, dark and handsome and spoke with a Newfoundland accent.

I read his name tag. Dr. Abdullah Hasheem. I was glad he'd mentioned seeing me before. I had started to think all doctors looked alike.

“Mild concussion you said the last time. I haven't been here for ages.” That was the best I could come up with.

“Then you know the drill. Watch out for dizziness, enlarged pupils, sudden headaches, changes in vision. Mood swings. That kind of thing. Have a quiet weekend. Give your head time to get back to normal. No sports, no vigorous activity.”

“Not a problem.”

Magic words, I guess. I was pronounced too fit for the hospital and released faster than you can say toss her down the stairs.

Back in my apartment, Gussie and Mrs. Parnell's cat welcomed me with nervous sympathy and kisses. My sisters
bustled about, making tea. They don't do sympathy. No wonder the animals were on edge.

Having the girls on the premises was not good news. They'd interrupted their weekend, and I'd racked up yet another pile of psychological debts which I had no intention of repaying.

“Doesn't she ever clean this place?” That was Donalda from the kitchen. “Do you think there's any bleach, or is that too much to ask?” The swish of water followed, then the scent of citrus.

Edwina was whipping the sheets off my bed, although Alexa had already raced her to the washing machine with the contents of the hamper. Not one to admit defeat, Edwina snatched up the various piles of newspapers and made off with them down to the recycling room near the elevator. So what? With the shape my head was in, I couldn't read anyway. Plus, the only time my place ever got a really good cleaning was when I got injured. Maybe there was a better way to keep on top of the chores.

My head buzzed a bit as I turned to Mrs. Parnell. I was grateful her many interests did not include housework. “How did you find me, Mrs. P.?”

“You can thank our young Mr. Lynch.”

“P.J. called you? But I didn't tell him where I was. Oh, I get it. Did the alarm go off?”