[C. MacP #4] The Devil's in the Details

by Mary Jane Maffini

  BEEP

  “Camilla? Alvin again. Use your imagination! 150 hot air balloons rising together and floating across the river and over the city. It’s going to be awesome. Like a dream. We’re still holding on to a place for you. The balloon is a spectacular shade of candy-apple red. We need to confirm that you’re coming.”

  BEEP

  “Ms. MacPhee? Violet Parnell here. Would you be kind enough to come to my apartment, on the double? It’s a matter of some urgency.”

  BEEP

  “It’s Alvin. Holy shit, get over to Violet’s place. Fast.”

  I shouted into Mrs. Parnell’s voice mail. “Mrs. P.? Is something wrong? Alvin? Are you there? What’s happening? I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  After I left the message at Mrs. Parnell’s, I tried her cellphone. Nada. I tried Alvin’s. Ditto. The apartment super didn’t pick up. His voice mailbox was full. I tried calling a cab. The dispatcher snickered. Fifty minutes to an hour wait. Holiday weekend.

  Bad scenarios played in my head. Mrs. Parnell was coming up to her eightieth birthday and had been using a walker for a couple of years for balance. She’s had a few shocks to her system and at least one trip to the ICU since she got to know me. Even though I knew she had the smarts to dial 911, I figured I’d better hustle. It’s a fifty-minute hike from downtown to our apartment building near the Champlain Bridge. That’s at the best of times, which this wasn’t.

  I hustled up toward Wellington, keeping an eye out for a cab. No joy. I figured it would be faster to walk. Of course, that was before I discovered my regular walking route home, the path along the Ottawa River, had been disrupted by some emergency behind the Parliament Buildings. Mounties redirected foot traffic on the path, and I had to push though a flock of confused tourists. The detour cost me an extra fifteen minutes.

  I was in a lather by the time I reached our building. Mrs. Parnell’s apartment is the second unit down from mine. I shot out of the elevator on the sixteenth floor and headed straight to her open door. I took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from my forehead, strode into her living room and swore.

  Mrs. Parnell was positioned in front of her oversized black leather club chair, holding a tumbler of Harvey’s Bristol Cream in her left hand and with her right, tracing a pattern in the air. As far as I could make out, she was in the middle of a dramatic re-enactment involving a crippled Allied reconnaissance plane and a nest of German snipers somewhere in the mountains of Northern Italy in late 1944. The smoke from her smouldering Benson & Hedges was part of the story. Lester and Pierre, Mrs. Parnell’s evil little lovebirds, shrieked in the background. Her custom-made titanium walker lay idle on the far side of the room.

  Alvin Ferguson perched on the matching leather sofa, leaning forward, listening. His entire bony body was caught up in the drama, eyes wide behind his cat’s-eye glasses. His beaky nose tracked the spiral of the imaginary plane, his ponytail flipped as he followed the arc of the snipers’ bullets. The sun glinting off his nine visible earrings added to the magic of the moment.

  “Against all the odds,” Mrs. Parnell said, “with only his pistol, the major fought his way through and single-handedly wiped out the entire nest of snipers. Of course, there was no dealing with him afterwards. Still, he reminds me a bit of you in a pinch, dear boy.”

  “Lord thundering Jesus, Violet, that’s one wicked story,” Alvin said.

  Mrs. Parnell nodded modestly.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Ms. MacPhee! We thought you’d never get here.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the emergency?”

  “Emergency?”

  “Yes. You both know goddam well you left me a message.”

  “I don’t believe we actually said it was an emergency,” Mrs. Parnell said after a long sip of Harvey’s.

  “You used the word urgency.”

  “Urgency, yes, but we had no desire to alarm you.”

  “No? Mind telling me why you didn’t answer your phone?”

  Mrs. Parnell turned to Alvin. “Did you hear the telephone, dear boy?”

  Alvin shook his head.

  I said, “Since you are sitting less than two feet from it, I find that hard to believe.”

  Mrs. Parnell made a conciliatory gesture with her sherry glass. “Perhaps you called while we were on the balcony observing some of our fellow balloonists.”

  Alvin said, “Yeah. I bet that was it.”

  Mrs. Parnell has a panoramic view of the Ottawa River and the Quebec shore on the other side. Even so, I wasn’t falling for the balcony bullshit. Ditto for their innocent looks. “Let’s see if I have this straight: there’s no emergency. Nor was there an emergency at the time you called. Would that be correct?” I used my courtroom manner, usually reserved for cross-examining sleazy witnesses.

  Alvin may be the bane of my work existence, but at least he had the grace to look abashed. That didn’t last long.

  “Sorry, Camilla. It’s been hard to get your attention lately. You’ve been so preoccupied.”

  “Really. That’s because I am up to my ass in alligators. You will remember, Alvin, the name of our enterprise is Justice for Victims. The way to ensure our clients have a hope of seeing justice is to be there when they need us. In court, if they’re facing a vicious cross-examination, such as happened today when you were, I believe you said, under the weather.”

  “Sheesh, Camilla. You don’t have to get your knickers in a twist.”

  “Not only are my knickers in a serious twist, but I am damp and sweaty and mad as hell. That would be because I raced, yes, that’s right, raced, from downtown Ottawa, because I was under the mistaken impression you had an emergency.”

  Alvin, cool and collected in his summer leathers, was prepared to brazen it out.

  Mrs. Parnell, on the other hand, showed her diplomatic side. “It slipped my mind that your troublesome vehicle was in the shop again, Ms. MacPhee. I regret the oversight. We wished to convey that time was of the essence. Muster the troops. Even more urgent, since it took you so long to get here. Young Ferguson and I must be at the field by seventeen hundred hours.”

  “If this was a trick to get me to go on that lunatic balloon ride, you can forget it.”

  “You wound me, Ms. MacPhee. We would never resort to such underhanded behaviour, would we, dear boy? But we do want to discuss something. Please sit down.”

  “I don’t feel like sitting down. I feel like taking a shower.”

  Mrs. Parnell picked up the sherry glass again. “Join us in a toast. Here’s to adventure!”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “And comradeship,” she added. “One for all and all for one!.”

  “Depends,” I said.

  Alvin said, sitting back, “We respect the fact that you’re afraid to go up in the balloon.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “We pass this way but once, Ms. MacPhee. Our days are fleeting. Courage.”

  “Courage has nothing to do with it. The balloon experience just doesn’t interest me. And why do you need courage if it’s so safe?”

  “We all have our demons, Ms. MacPhee.”

  “I don’t have demons. And if I did, I wouldn’t be doing a goddam thing about them on the Labour Day weekend. I’m spending the next couple of days relaxing, getting the kinks out, and realizing I missed the best of the summer. So no relatives. No forced marches. No balloons.”

  “Understood. This won’t tie up much of your weekend, Ms. MacPhee.”

  “Look, if the two of you want to float hundreds of feet over bodies of water, clinging to a tiny wicker basket held up by an inflated piece of canvas and an open flame, you have my blessing.”

  “If you’d just listen, Camilla,” Alvin said.

  “I have been listening.” I sounded more peevish than usual, even to my own ears.

  “I understand your concern, Ms. MacPhee, but consider this. Three years ago, I rarely left this apartment. I was old and alone. I had come to beli
eve my days of adventure were finished. My friends and colleagues were dead, my old pins unsteady, the days were long and the nights endless. I was safe but of no use to anyone. Then I met you and Young Ferguson, and now life is full of adventure. I wouldn’t retreat to my miserable former existence for anything.”

  I smiled noncommittally.

  “Ms. MacPhee. This will be a magnificent moment for Young Ferguson and for me as well. I do not know if I will get another chance such as this. I feel rejuvenated being airborne again. Even if you keep your feet on the ground, your participation would contribute greatly to the esprit de corps.”

  “Violet has never let you down, Camilla,” Alvin said.

  “I know that.”

  “Even when she ended up in intensive care.”

  I hate it when they turn up the guilt burner.

  “I get the point.”

  “Young Ferguson has always been there for you.” Mrs. P. inhaled deeply.

  “Frequently getting arrested while following your instructions,” Alvin said.

  “Yes, dear boy, that is true. Injured as well. And there was the loss of your home last summer.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “You can’t blame that on me. It wasn’t my family member whose life was in danger. I was the one helping out.

  “Not a question of blame, Ms. MacPhee. Merely making the point one can count on Young Ferguson, regardless.”

  I sank onto the other end of the leather sofa. Lester and Pierre ruffled their feathers and shrieked in triumph. “No balloons,” I said.

  “Accepted,” Mrs. Parnell said. “There is one other thing.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. “What?”

  Mrs. Parnell said, “We want you to be our official photographer. To record the adventure, from the ground. I’ll get the aerial shots.”

  A couple of photos didn’t sound too demanding, although there were a few stumbling blocks. “I don’t have a camera.”

  “You can use one of mine, Ms. MacPhee. I have an auto focus digital. Nikon. You’ll have no trouble with it.”

  “We’re asking you to take pictures, not donate a kidney,” Alvin said. “You don’t have to invent excuses.”

  Mrs. Parnell laid a hand on his bony shoulder. “She needs time to reflect.”

  “She needs a certain cop from Sydney to call her soon, so she can stop being miserable.”

  Unfair! First of all, Sgt. Ray Deveau, of the Cape Breton Regional Police, was on a three-week intensive course somewhere else in Nova Scotia, away from his base in Sydney and apparently out of phone communication. Second, I did not need Ray Deveau or anyone else to call me. Third, it was none of their beeswax.

  “Onward and upward, Ms. MacPhee?”

  “Onward anyway,” I said. “Then will you leave me in peace for the rest of the weekend?”

  Mrs. Parnell said. “We’d better synchronize our watches. The first mass launch is this evening.”

  “Wait a minute. I still have to shower and eat and walk the dog, which Alvin should really be looking after, and feed the cat, which I believe is yours, Mrs. Parnell.”

  “You know my new landlord won’t let me keep Gussie,” Alvin said.

  I figured Gussie’s habit of stealing food and non-food objects, such as carrots, candles, smoked salmon, chewing gum and the subsequent impact on the dog’s digestion had figured into the landlord’s decision.

  Mrs. Parnell seemed ready for any objection. “The initial launch is going to be spectacular. We’d like a record of that. And as you are aware, the feline terrifies poor Lester and Pierre.”

  I heard a small but evil shriek of agreement from the lovebirds’ cage.

  “Whatever. The weekend traffic to Gatineau is going to be hellish.”

  “We’ll head over now,” Mrs. Parnell said. “As long as you’re there by seventeen hundred and thirty hours.”

  Oops. “I don’t have a car.”

  “Take mine. I’ll go with Young Ferguson.”

  “Your new Volvo?” Mrs. Parnell’s 1974 LTD had been handed down to Alvin.

  “Of course.”

  “You know the kind of bad vehicle karma I have. Remember Stan’s Buick? I’d feel better if it was something that couldn’t get wrecked.”

  “I insist, I shall ride ahead with Young Ferguson.”

  “But why don’t I take the LTD?”

  Alvin’s head jerked. “That’s my car now. You can’t just commandeer it without consultation.”

  “Ms. MacPhee, I fail to see your concern.”

  Alvin said, “It’s not like any of this is going to kill you.”

  Three

  Like so many things in life, it was a matter of split-second timing. But I had it all worked out. Sure, there’d been setbacks. For instance, dodging my po-faced new neighbour and his endless complaints about noise from my apartment. Closing the door in his face had put an end to that.

  I had to check my phone messages. Might be something urgent. I had a couple of “blocked number” calls. They might be from Ray Deveau, not that it mattered. But wouldn’t Ray have left a message?

  Okay, forget him. I had to feed Mrs. Parnell’s little calico cat and Gussie, my purely temporary dog, then take Gussie for a bit of quick relief in the park.

  Next, a shower and change of clothes were called for. I had a small box of Godiva chocolates left over from my birthday. They’d make a nice dinner. After that, take the camera and drive like hell for the Quebec side of the Ottawa River and the Festival des Montgolfières, as the balloon festival is officially called. First, I’d have to figure out which of the five bridges would be the least congested. Then snag a parking spot, figure out the French signs, track down the goddam candy-apple red balloon, snap a few shots and head home.

  I hadn’t counted on a couple of strangers hammering on my door as I dished out the Miss Meow and Waltham’s Geriatric Canine mix. People don’t just bang on the doors of sixteenth floor apartments. They’re supposed to be buzzed into the building. Gussie howled at every knock. I was steamed as I squinted through the peephole.

  Two unfamiliar uniformed police officers stood in front of my door. I wouldn’t win a popularity contest with the Ottawa cops, so what was this about?

  It’s hard to see through the peephole, so I attached the chain and opened the door a crack. They seemed nervous and unhappy. In my experience, cops are almost always unhappy and almost never nervous, so maybe it was wishful thinking.

  Working as a victim’s advocate, you learn it’s best not to let strange men into your home when you’re alone. Mind you, they wore uniforms, and they appeared clean-cut and apparently well-intentioned. Judging by their precise haircuts, bullet-proof vests and crisp shoulders, they were cops all right. Never mind. I’d had plenty of fuel for my distrust of humanity. A lot of badass types look respectable enough to take home to meet the folks. And how hard could it be to get your mitts on a couple of uniforms?

  “Camilla MacPhee?” the shorter officer said.

  “Yes.”

  “We’d like to speak to you.”

  I admit I was curious. “Why?”

  Gussie barked all through the answer.

  “We’d like to come in, ma’am.” At least that’s what I think he said.

  “Quiet, Gussie. What?”

  The tall one raised his voice. “It’s better if we come in.”

  “I’d like to know why.”

  Traffic ticket? Fund-raising? I had no idea.

  The shorter one rubbed his upper lip. “We need to speak to you in person.”

  “Speak,” I said. That set Gussie off again. “Not you, Gussie.”

  “It will be better if you let us in, ma’am.”

  “All right. Show me your ID.”

  “Can’t hear you with the dog barking.”

  “Be quiet, Gussie. Show me your ID cards.”

  The tall one flushed. He’d have to control that if he planned to move up in the police force.

  “It’s really hard to hear you. Ca
n we please come in? It will make it easier.”

  The po-faced neighbour pounded on the wall. This gave Gussie a new focus.

  “Be quiet, Gussie. Your ID, please.”

  ID cards were pressed forward. Constable Mario Zaccotto and Constable Jason Yee. Looked official. Still, I could think of no reason for the police to seek me out. Whatever it was, given my history, I knew it would irritate the crap out of me. “Sorry, can you come back later? I’m in a rush.”

  “I’m afraid it’s important, ma’am.”

  I sighed. “Okay, give me five minutes. I need to get dressed.”

  You must comply reasonably with police requests if you want to hold on to your license to practice law. Anyway, I was mildly curious.

  My brother-in-law, Detective Sergeant Conn McCracken, answered his cell, even at the cottage. I was grateful he didn’t hang up, since he is still not speaking to me.

  “No lectures,” I said. “Just tell me why two uniforms are standing in front of my door. Constables Yee and Zaccotto respectively.”

  “How would I know? It’s officially the Labour Day weekend here at the lake.”

  “What a coincidence,” I said. “It is here too. That’s one reason I’m wondering about these guys. I figure it’s not about the dog tags.”

  “Why don’t you ask them?”

  “I’m ahead of you there, Conn. They’ll tell me why I need to let them in after I let them in. Is this some kind of harassment to do with Mombourquette?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about harassment. If it wasn’t for you and your crazy schemes, Lennie, who is one of the most dedicated officers, twenty-nine years on the force, coming up on retirement, wouldn’t be getting put through the SIU meat grinder.”

  “It wasn’t my fault, and you know it. Anyway, he did the right thing, and he had no choice.”

  McCracken said, “I’m hanging up now.”