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

by Mary Jane Maffini

  My cappuccino arrived with a bonus. Chelsea said somewhat breathlessly, “You’re in luck. Jasmine’s in at five-thirty. That’s not a bad time to talk. The restaurant doesn’t get overwhelming until later. You won’t have much luck if you come when we’re full. The owner’s here and, well, you’ll see.”

  I could see my day going even further down the toilet. “Could you give me Jasmine’s address? That would save me a lot of time.” I tried to smile harmlessly, but she wasn’t buying it.

  “No chance. I’m pushing our policy by giving you her name and schedule.”

  “Right.”

  “See you tonight,” she said, with a sly wink.

  At least I’d be getting regular meals.

  Since I was on foot and well-fed, I had nothing better to do than push my way through the crowds of tourists and walk west. It made sense to take a stroll behind the Supreme Court and check out the unlikely place Laura had died. I made my way through the Market, turned on to Sussex and hiked along Wellington Street past the Parliament Buildings until I reached the parking lot that separates the Department of Justice from the West Block. Usually, I enjoy looking up at the historic stone buildings with their copper roofs. I think of them as Canadian Baronial in style, although my father once told me the correct term is Gothic Revival. No joke. You’ve got to be grateful for turrets and gargoyles in this day and age.

  This time I had other things besides architecture on my mind. I zigzagged through the terraced levels of the exterior parking lots, clearly marked “No Public Parking Any Time”, until I reached the last set of wooden stairs. They connected to the bike path that runs along the foot of the escarpment that the Parliament Buildings, Department of Justice and Supreme Court are built on. Everything ached as I lumbered down the steps. It was a relief to connect with the nice flat bike path.

  The route is spectacular, no matter how many times you’ve been along it. To the East, the Interprovincial Bridge. Across the Ottawa River on the Quebec side, the magical dune-like structure of the Museum of Civilization and the more pragmatic E. B. Eddy Plant. On the Ottawa bank, the vast glass walls of the National Gallery glittered in the afternoon sun. Silver ripples on the river. A pair of matching balloons floated by, reflecting green and purple stripes in the river. The path was thick with people, probably a mix of locals and tourists, distinguishable by their cameras.

  I turned west toward the Supreme Court of Canada Building. I rounded the corner, and the river spread out before me. As pretty as it was, the dramatic solid rock cliff that reached up to the Supreme Court overwhelmed it. I stood there staring up, over a hundred feet. I could see barbed wire and stone walls far above.

  I retraced my steps and made my way back up to the small street parallel to Wellington. As far as I could tell, it existed for the convenience of the toylike green Parliamentary vehicles.

  A few minutes later, I was behind the Supreme Court in the parking area I assumed was reserved for the Justices. This lot had a surprise feature: a lookout with benches. It was a nice place for lunching or clearing your head. To the left, a broad stone staircase swept down to another level with deciduous trees, well-kept grass, more benches. A 180° view of the river. A high iron gate blocked off one side, barbed wire on the right side, blocking the foolhardy from the drop. Straight ahead, a metal fence about four feet high. A torn piece of yellow tape that said “Police Line Do Not Cross” fluttered in the breeze. A fresh strip of “Caution Tape” had been added. I imagined the tape was intended to keep anyone from getting too close to the fence. Like that made a difference to anyone who was foolish enough to go over that fence. I slipped under the tape.

  On the far side of the fence, there was a few feet of grass, then nothing. I spotted two dark parallel marks, where something had skidded. Was this the spot where Laura had gone over?

  Laura had been fairly sporty and on the tall side of medium. She could have gotten over the fence with a bit of effort. But the risk was obvious. Was she trying to escape from someone? The pathologist had spoken of witnesses. Someone would have heard if she’d called for help.

  None of it made sense.

  For the first time, I began to feel angry. What the hell had Laura Brown been playing at? And why had she chosen to involve me?

  Fourteen

  Angry or not, I still had to deal with the problem. I damn well wanted to talk to those witnesses. I turned around, ducked back under the tape, sat on the nearest bench and tried Yee and Zaccotto again.

  My messages suggested strongly that they return my calls at their first opportunity. I requested the contact information for the witnesses to Laura’s death.

  Five minutes later, I got up and started walking, passing by a clump of tourists with digital and video cameras. Maybe it was foggy thinking as a result of my head injury, but only after I’d spotted the twentieth video camera did I remember Elaine Ekstein.

  Elaine had everyone she’d ever met on video.

  I wasn’t going to take a chance on her phone being off the hook. Although it was a bit of a hike, I walked straight to Elaine’s, which is on Spruce Street, convenient to both Little Italy and Chinatown and their excellent restaurants. Elaine loves ethnic. She has the second and third floors of a crumbling wooden house with a history. She also has more security than the Pope. Not surprising, since she’s had more than one death threat due to her work at Women Against Violence Everywhere. Elaine’s home wasn’t far behind the WAVE office in the security department.

  “Elaine!” I shouted as she unhooked two chains and unclicked a pair of deadbolts. I knew she had a motion sensitive light on her balcony and motion detectors on her living level.

  “Why are you shouting, Camilla?”

  “Because I just realized something.”

  “And why are you leaning at that odd angle?”

  “Just a concussion. Someone tried to kill me by tossing me down a set of stairs. But, hey, I’m getting better.” As I moved past her, she closed the door and reset the alarm.

  “Holy moly. Is that why P.J. kept calling last night? I finally had to answer his stupid questions just to get some peace. I thought he was drunk. You were attacked? Does this have anything to do with Laura?”

  “Yes.”

  I followed Elaine up the stairs to her second floor living room.

  My bruised knees did not care for yet another set of stairs. Once I got my mitts on her videos, I planned to associate only with people with elevators. No exceptions.

  Elaine sported tangerine capris and a lemon-coloured sleeveless blouse. Her red curls were held into an unstable ponytail by a pair of scrunchies, orange and yellow. She wore size ten flipflops with large daisies. Only Elaine could manage that look. I felt very, very beige.

  She reached over to the radio, set as always on Radio Two. She turned down the volume of the opera just enough for us to talk.

  She said, “I couldn’t stop thinking about Laura after you called last night. What a tragic death. Even if I didn’t like her much.”

  “What? You didn’t like Laura?”

  “Not really.”

  “I liked her, and I’m not nearly as accepting as you are.”

  “I never warmed to her. I found her dogmatic and inflexible.”

  That was a jawdropper, considering the source. On key subjects, Elaine elevated inflexibility to a religion. I kept that to myself.

  Elaine said, “Actually, I’m surprised you liked her.”

  “Well, I’m surprised you didn’t. Anyway, it’s a creepy situation. I think the person who attacked me was involved in Laura’s death.”

  Elaine said, “Oh, come on. This is Ottawa. We don’t have killers running loose. Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?”

  After dogmatism and inflexibility, drama was Elaine’s best thing.

  “I don’t believe Laura’s death was an accident.”

  “Maybe you’re imagining things because of your concussion. I’ve had clients with brain damage, and they’re often fuzzy on fact
s.”

  “I’m not fuzzy on these facts, Elaine. And I’m not in the habit of imagining murders.”

  “Seriously, you don’t look good, Camilla. You’re pasty, like old dough or something. Better sit down,” she said.

  I let the pasty old dough thing slide and looked around for somewhere to sit. Easier said than done in Elaine’s house. Every surface was covered with piles of paper, CDs, magazines, files, craft projects, you name it. For no reason I could imagine, the coffee table was covered entirely in hats. Plus there were hundreds of plants, green and luxurious and just a tad overwhelming.

  I’m no Suzy Homemaker, but Elaine has every scrap of paper, book, magazine, record, article of clothing, receipt, pair of shoes and tacky gift she’s ever received. I liked that about her. I enjoyed visiting. You could relax once you found a place to sit. And this time, I was betting on her packrat habit to pay off.

  I scooped a teetering stack of Christmas cooking magazines off the sofa and crumpled onto it.

  “Were you in the middle of your video phase our first year at Carleton?”

  “I see what you’re getting at.”

  “Were you?”

  “In other words, do I have Laura on videotape? No. I’m sure I got into videography a couple of years later.”

  “That’s too bad. I thought if we could see who she was with at a social event, I might find someone who could lead to her family. It’s a long shot. Aside from talking to the servers at Maisie’s Eatery, it’s all I could think of.”

  “I was in my photography phase at that time.”

  “That’s right. It wasn’t videos, it was photos you were shooting. Even better. You still have your pictures, of course.”

  “Do I have pictures? Ha.”

  “Let’s have a peek at them. I’m looking for a pretty girl named Sylvie. I don’t remember her last name.”

  “Dumais?”

  “Dumais. That’s it. That’s amazing, Elaine.”

  Elaine peered at me strangely.

  “What?” I said after a while.

  “Sylvie Dumais is dead.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “She drowned. Her kayak overturned on a lake in Algonguin Park.”

  “When?”

  “Just this past June. Another accident. Like Laura’s.”

  I said. “Let me recap: Laura’s death was suspicious. And I don’t think I fell down the stairs by accident.”

  “No need to snap. Let me get the photos. We’ll see what turns up.”

  Be careful what you wish for, I believe the saying goes. I followed Elaine up another flight of stairs. Her third floor study was full of photos. They were organized in dozens of fabric-covered boxes. Feminine and homey. Of course, it would have been easier if some of the boxes had been labelled.

  Nineteen containers later, I’d confirmed that chronological filing wasn’t Elaine’s strong point.

  “Never mind,” Elaine said. “It’s been fun catching up, hasn’t it?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Get a load of you when you were called to the bar. What a party that was. I had a week-long hangover.”

  “That was eight years after I took that course with Laura. Let’s focus on finding photos with her in them,” I said. “Early years, remember?”

  Elaine stood up and stretched. “Break time. Want some coffee?”

  I always want coffee. “Yes, but I don’t want to lose momentum.”

  I thought I saw her roll her eyes. She tucked a stack of photos on a chair and headed downstairs.

  Elaine is passionate about so much, including coffee. Hers is always excellent. No decaf chez Elaine. I kept sifting through the boxes of photos while the aroma of the fresh brew rose up the stairs.

  “Gotta be here somewhere,” Elaine said, returning with two WAVE mugs, full to the brim and steaming hot. “One of these days I’ll take a weekend and put them all in albums with nice commentaries. Oh, here’s one of Sylvie. You can just see her in the corner. Candid shot. She didn’t like to have her picture taken. Come to think of it, neither did Laura.”

  I remembered Elaine’s flash going off that entire year, every time you put a fork in your mouth, raised a glass or yawned. No wonder people resisted having their pictures taken.

  “It’s hard to believe we’ve known each other for eighteen years, isn’t it?” Elaine said, swishing through shots. “Hey, here’s Laura, turning away from the camera. Nice shot of her back. And there’s Frances Foxall. What an ego. But even she wouldn’t face me.”

  “I’m trying to reach Frances,” I said. “Where is everyone this weekend?”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “What? You found one of Laura’s face?”

  “No. I found Joe Westerlund. Holy moly, remember him?”

  “Remember him? He was my hero. I couldn’t forget Joe Westerlund.”

  “All the women liked Joe. Like a Viking god with a Ph.D.”

  “He was awesome, in the old sense. I loved every course I took from him.”

  “Me, too. And it wasn’t just a man/woman thing.” Two bright spots appeared on Elaine’s cheeks. “He made you think about social justice.”

  “You’re right. Joe had more impact on my personal philosophy than all the rest of the undergrad faculty.”

  “And he was easy on the eyes.”

  “Come on, Elaine. Joe was way more than just a pretty face.”

  “And body. We’re adults here. Allow me my vices. He was yummy. Lust lust lust.”

  “You know what? Joe Westerlund taught the class that Laura and I did together.”

  Elaine was riffling through the photos, hunting for more shots of Joe Westerlund. “I always thought it was too bad he was married.”

  “A lot of girls wanted to have a shot at Joe.”

  “Except you, Camilla.”

  “He put his wife on a pedestal. Which was nice. Remember, he brought her to all the social events? Of course, it might have been to protect himself from the salivating females, no names mentioned. But looking back, she was so damned gorgeous and sophisticated.”

  “Speaking of pedestals. You were all wrapped up in Paul in those early days, I’m surprised you even noticed Joe.”

  I didn’t want to go down the conversational path to Paul. “Do you think Joe Westerlund still lives in Ottawa?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t seen him since my undergrad years. You could call the school and find out.”

  “They’re closed this weekend.”

  “Too bad.” She grinned evilly. “Want another look at him?”

  “Put a sock in it, Elaine. Joe was connected to his students. Laura was quite smart and capable. He’ll probably remember her. He might even know where she came from.”

  “Can’t hurt to ask.”

  “What was his wife’s name?”

  “I’ve blocked it out. Raging and deep-seated jealousy. When all else fails, try the phone book.”

  Elaine continued to scramble through photos, tossing some back into boxes, keeping some on her lap, sliding some into empty spots on chairs. “Boy, do I have some great blackmail material here. The hairdos alone should bring in a fortune. Look at your hairdo. Of course, at least you had a hairdo back then.”

  “Can you find a phone book in the middle of this stuff?”

  Elaine said, “Can you try to be less high and mighty when I’m doing you a favour?”

  “Me? I’m not making digs about your hair. And you’re not really doing me a favour, Elaine. You’re helping find Laura Brown’s family, which is the decent thing to do. So never mind putting it on my tab.”

  “Don’t be so fatuous.” She slapped the phone book down in front of me. In that orange and yellow Elaine way.

  Fatuous. Sheesh.

  I found Joe Westerlund right away, a listing on a quiet street I thought ran off the Vanier Parkway. I didn’t have to remember his wife’s name. Their answering machine took care of that. A woman’s voice said, “If you have a message for Joe or Kate,
leave it after the beep, along with your name, telephone number and the time of your call.”

  There’s something about leaving a message saying so-and-so’s dead, it’s four-thirty, that didn’t seem appropriate. People have been after me to work on my sensitivity. When I remember, I give it a try.

  “It could take days to get through these shots,” Elaine said when I hung up. “I can’t believe there’s not a single picture of Laura’s face in this pile.”

  “Keep hunting. We have to find out something about her. I have to arrange her funeral. People have to know.”

  “Maybe she didn’t have family,” Elaine said.

  I was about to say “can’t live with them, can’t live without them.” I bit my tongue in time. Elaine never mentioned her own mother and father, just her brother Eddy. I had no idea if her parents were dead or alive. But I was sure they weren’t part of Elaine’s life.

  “I’m hot on the trail,” Elaine said. “But I have someone coming to the house for an appointment, so I can’t do it now. I should try to clean up after you leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you are, Camilla. Just until after I talk to this person.” She stared at her oversized yellow watch. “It’s too late now to do anything about the chaos.”

  The apartment didn’t look any more chaotic than it had before the photo sorting, if she wanted the truth, which she probably didn’t. “I have people to see, so I can’t hang around here all day,” I said.

  “We’ll get back to the photos after my session is over.”

  “Perfect. I appreciate what you’re doing. Even if you spot someone who spent time with someone else who might have known Laura. If that makes sense, we’ll track them down. We have to do something.”

  With her head stuck in a box, Elaine said, “I’ll put everything that might be relevant aside, and you can go through it later. Except for the eighties hair and fashion blackmail material, of course. I’ll keep those. Oh, there’s another one. Where did you get those god-awful spangled sweaters, Camilla?”

  I felt like saying, the same place you got your leopard print stockings and platform shoes. But I bit my tongue. “I’m pretty banged up, so I don’t think I can manage the walk home. Not sure if I mentioned the Honda’s in the shop again. I’d better call a cab.”