The Devil's in the Details

by Mary Jane Maffini

  Unlike me. I was filthy. I felt like a human garbage can. I was sticky and reeked of sweat and dog. I was also exhausted and ravenous.

  Unfortunately, I was too dirty to touch food, too hungry to sleep, too wobbly to shower but groggy enough to drown in the tub. Plus I was too addled to figure out a solution to this set of problems.

  I sat on the sofa to think and dozed off immediately. When I jerked myself awake, I was still dirty and hungry. I located a source of Tylenol 3 in Donalda’s bathroom. I gobbled a bag of potato chips, and I ran the water in the tub. A bath would help get the kinks out. I’d be squeaky clean when I got arrested. I lowered my aching body and a large bar of Zest into the tub. I’d set the clock radio for ten minutes later. No point in having a great hideout and then drowning.

  Afterwards, I ferreted out some Old Spice deodorant and my brother-in-law’s terrycloth dressing gown. I smelled exactly like one of my old boyfriends before a big date. If there hadn’t been a price on my head, I would have been having a hell of a good time. But the police were looking for me, so I needed to think about what to do next.

  Luckily, my major legacy of legal aid work was the bag of tricks I’d unintentionally absorbed from clients. How to pass through security undetected. How to disguise yourself. How to steal cars. How to infiltrate locked houses when the owners are sleeping. Bunny Mayhew had been particularly innovative. I’d never needed any of that information, but now it was coming in handy.

  A lot of burglars take advantage of an empty house to eat. Once I was clean and rested, potato chips weren’t quite enough. I checked the kitchen fridge. I polished off a half-container of orange juice. That felt good. I found a small lasagna in the freezer. I made a salad and set up the TV tray in the basement while the lasagna heated in the microwave. I chose rocky road ice cream for dessert. Donalda would never miss this small amount of food from her vast reserves. I raided the cupboard for a package of double chocolate chip cookies and dropped them into my backpack as emergency rations for the road.

  I tidied up my traces. Donalda can sense a shift in the molecules. I settled in downstairs with my tray of food. I turned on the TV, hoping the flicker wouldn’t show through the shuttered windows.

  My thrilling escapades continued to highlight the news. Local lawyer goes on a murder spree and vanishes into the night. What’s not to love? A steely-eyed police spokesperson gave an update. Two women murdered and a third woman in critical condition with head injuries. I had been fingered by my regular paramedic in Bianca’s home.

  I made plans for an emergency departure in case. Time for a change. Each of my sisters keeps a closet with castoff clothing ready to be sent off to the Salvation Army. I checked out Donalda’s and selected a pair of navy blue cotton twill pants. They fit when I cut three inches off the length. I added a long-sleeved blue T-shirt and a pair of grey Keds, slightly too big but better than my broken sandals. I added a khaki fishing hat, a beige nylon windbreaker and a pair of my brother-in-law’s golfing gloves. I bet he didn’t know Donalda was giving that stuff away.

  In the basement, I laid out my new outfit. I stuffed what I’d been wearing under the sofa. I ran my underwear through the washer and dryer. I took the jacket and gloves and folded them, ready to slip into my backpack. Unfortunately, the backpack was stuffed, especially since I’d added the chocolate chip cookies. I emptied it and realized I’d been lugging Laura’s book around since I’d left for the park with Gussie. No wonder the damn pack was so heavy. I removed the book and slid it under the sofa with the clothes. It wasn’t a night for reading. I unlocked the closest window. I figured I could squeeze through in a pinch. With everything ready for takeoff, I curled up on the sofa to get some sleep.

  Oddly enough, I felt a bit wired. Maybe it was the chocolate in the ice cream. At the same time, I was rattled, bruised and confused. But I needed to figure out what was going on. Who was killing these people? Why was I being blamed? Who had Laura Brown really been? What did that have to do with her death?

  All that thinking gave me a headache. I set the alarm for four-thirty and turned off the lights. Ten minutes later, I turned them back on.

  Maybe I did need to read. I wanted something other than Field and Stream or House Beautiful. I pulled Laura’s book out from under the sofa. It wasn’t the sort of book that I imagined Laura reading, but then what had I known about her?

  I was intrigued immediately, even if my concentration wasn’t at its best. Some people can do that: transmit their passion with wit and humanity and still make a decent sentence.

  On page eight, I noticed something wrong. Pages stuck together. I couldn’t imagine the fastidious Laura eating or drinking while reading a forty-dollar hardcover. I tried to pull the pages apart before I realized that a seam had been fashioned on the top, side and bottom.

  I was raised to revere books, so it took nerve to get a pair of scissors and cut off the glued edges, while trying not to damage any of the print. When the pages opened, a pair of newspaper clippings slipped out.

  Thirty-One

  I stared at the yellowing papers in my hand. Finding hidden clues was no more unlikely than anything else that had happened that weekend. But it felt so very Nancy Drew.

  The first clipping was a write-up from an unidentified paper detailing a robbery by a group called the Settlers. The Settlers seemed to be a quasi-wacko urban revolutionary brigade, modelled on The Weathermen or The Symbionese Liberation Movement. They had cut a swath through the American midwest back in the late seventies, robbing banks and bombing cars. They had shot a pregnant bank customer at point blank range and mowed down a teenaged boy in a gas station. Two police officers had been killed during one of their escapes. The body of a young girl, believed to be a Settler, had been found outside the town after the last hold-up. No identification had been found for her.

  The second one was an article about Kathleen Soliah facing trial after thirty years as a respectable member of the community. I’d read a lot about her case. What had these clippings meant to Laura? She’d obviously wanted to hide them. But why? These were newspaper articles, hardly secret. I’d seen the Soliah article myself. Had Laura been sending a message? Why would she think I’d find them? The whole idea was crazy. But Laura had planned to have me as her next-of-kin. Because I had been publicly involved in three high-profile investigations in two years? You couldn’t read the Ottawa papers and miss them.

  Yet she’d never mentioned those incidents when I’d run into her, unlike everyone else. I’d been grateful at the time, but now I asked myself if she’d figured if anything happened to her, I’d find the clippings and investigate. Maybe she’d left other cryptic messages.

  There had been nothing at all to do with the law or justice in Laura’s home, and yet there in plain view in her bedroom was this book that anyone who knew me even slightly would figure I would reach for. On the other hand, no one on a routine search would find the clippings.

  My eyes were getting heavy. I slipped the book back and turned out the light. I had just dozed off when I heard footsteps overhead. What were they doing there in the middle of the night?

  Donalda’s voice, Queen of the Realm. “How many times have I asked you not to leave glasses in the sink?”

  “I didn’t.” My brother-in-law pathetically protesting innocence.

  “Excuse me? Is this not a glass?”

  “Yes.”

  Off with his head. A low mumble from the accused.

  “Do I have to tolerate that tone as well?”

  Every now and then, I feel sorry for my brothers-in-law.

  “Fine,” Donalda commanded, “you sleep in the basement.”

  Damn. Donalda would turn me in to the police in a New York minute. She believes in the justice system. Plus I’d left a glass in the sink.

  I grabbed the pile of clothes and the backpack and rushed for the window. I tripped over the TV table. I could hear Joe slowly descending, too smart to look eager to spend the night with his fish.

  I bon
ked my head on the frame of the window going out and saw galaxies. I crawled across the grass in the backyard, still wearing Joe’s bathrobe, dragging the backpack and the pile of clothes. I slithered into the garden shed and lay there, gasping. It was all I could do to stand up. The shimmer was back in a big way.

  I slipped into the pants and the T-shirt. I plucked out the glasses frames and put them on. The fishing hat was a nice touch.

  I grabbed a fishing rod that I found hanging on the wall. Donalda’s ancient one-speed bike was propped in the corner.

  I got on the bike and wobbled off into the night.

  I biked along Alta Vista, down Pleasant Park to Riverside and then to the bike path. I figured that was one place the cops wouldn’t be looking for me. Donalda’s bike had no lights. With the cloud cover, there was barely enough moonlight to navigate. Not long after getting on the path, I spotted a thick clump of trees near the river’s edge. I saw no sign of homeless campers or partying teens. I tucked myself well out of view and hunkered down to assess my options.

  The river glittered in the sliver of moonlight, peaceful and soothing. There wasn’t much to do except think. If I’d had a flashlight, I could have rechecked Laura’s book, searching for other glued pages or items written in margins, anything to help me understand. But anyway, the book was back under the sofa.

  I spent my time planning what to do next before the sun came up and the path filled with runners, walkers, dogs and cops on bikes. It was important to avoid the obvious associates. My former criminal clients showed up at the homes of girlfriends, who immediately turned them in. Or decided to hide them but weren’t smart enough to pull it off. Or a buddy ratted them out for a sentencing break. Most of them racked up car thefts, break-ins, robberies, assaults on the run. Those charges stuck, even if the original offence didn’t.

  Except for the Pathfinder mistake, and running away, I’d avoided indictable offences. But unless I found the guilty party, I’d be serving time in a federal institution for women. I could plead diminished capacity and get myself into a mental institution. Tough choice. No chance of bail for a known flight risk.

  All to say, I didn’t have much to lose by being on the run. Well, maybe my license to practice law, but that was already in jeopardy. Multiple murder and aggravated assault were my key problems. Everything else was small potatoes.

  So.

  Rule One for all successful crooks was: Don’t get caught.

  Rule Two: If you do get caught, have a good lawyer ready.

  Rule Three: Pick a lawyer who’s wily as a snake, twice as mean, and media savvy.

  I decided to check my home phone messages using Mrs. Parnell’s cell. I should have done it at Donalda’s, but in my muddled state, it hadn’t occurred to me. And in retrospect, I wasn’t sure if the police could check what number you checked your messages from.

  I had lots of messages.

  P.J. said, “Don’t forget, I get the exclusive interview. Let’s do it while you’re on the run. Call me.”

  My sisters had left a flurry of “turn yourself in” messages. Alvin and Mrs. Parnell offered their support, assistance, tea and all the Harvey’s Bristol Cream I needed to help me regain my equilibrium.

  Three hang-ups

  Then Mombourquette.

  “Camilla? Leonard here. Pay close attention. You are in deep shit. Your so-called friend, Elaine Ekstein, is not doing you any favours. She is telling police all sorts of strange things. They’ve let her go. They think she may lead them to you. You cannot trust her. You need to turn yourself in. I want to help. Here’s my number, it’s easy to remember.”

  I tried to get my head around Mombourquette’s message. Elaine could be unpredictable when dealing with the police. That’s Elaine. Elaine had been my friend since university, and I do not turn against my friends.

  What had Elaine told the police? Had Mombourquette misconstrued it? I needed to think this through. If I viewed Laura as the centre, which made sense, Elaine fit into the puzzle somehow. If I could sort through the details, I could get a handle on it. And as my father used to tell me when I was stuck on math problems, the devil’s in the details. Concentrate on those. Okay, the details. Elaine had known Laura at Carleton. Even though she said she hadn’t liked her. Elaine had pictures of people from the Carleton days. She hadn’t volunteered that information, I had suggested it. She had trouble finding the right photos, I had fished them out. She had given me some but not all of the photos. She knew I was taking the pictures to try to get identification from the girls at Maisie’s. She knew I was in the Market when I was attacked. She knew Frances Foxall and Sylvie Dumais. She knew I was looking for the woman who had lunched with Laura and knew her name was Bianca. She hadn’t managed to prevent Norine from calling the police.

  Oops. Blinding flash. I had taken the wrong Pathfinder and left behind the replacement photos which I needed to show Jasmine. But I didn’t want to get distracted by that. I went back to stewing about Elaine. I wasn’t ready to discount my friend, but I couldn’t put myself at her mercy either. I decided to follow Rule Two and get myself a lawyer. I called Mombourquette.

  To my surprise, he picked up the phone. “Are you okay?”

  “Not bad for being on the run. Can you do something for me?”

  “Camilla. Turn yourself in before an officer spots you and decides you’re resisting arrest. Let the police help.”

  “Right. Like they’re helping so far? I need to find this killer.”

  “Listen, every officer believes you killed two women and seriously injured another. They’re nervous. They think you’re armed.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Turn yourself in before you get shot.”

  Thirty-Two

  Armed? What could I be armed with? Talk sense, Leonard.”

  “They got a tip you’re carrying a weapon. Might have been Elaine.”

  “That’s just plain nuts. What kind of weapon am I supposed to have?”

  “A gun. So some nervous constable thinks he’s facing an armed murderer, shoots first and asks questions later. Think about that.”

  “Come on.”

  “Or, you get arrested, you kick up a bit of fuss. The officers use reasonable force to subdue you. Your head gets rattled a bit. On top of your concussions, the additional injury leads to brain damage. You want to spend the rest of your days in a rehab centre? You think you got troubles now.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly. So where are you? I’ll come and get you and make sure there’s medical personnel available as soon as you come in. Conn will show up too. Nothing will happen with us.”

  “If you want to do something for me, get Sheldon Romanek on the phone. I want him to represent me.”

  “Romanek? That shithead defence lawyer? I wouldn’t talk to that snake if you did have a gun, and you held it to my head.”

  “Don’t use clichés, Leonard. He’s a snake, but he’s the best snake.”

  “I’ve had cases thrown out because of him.”

  “I’m not asking you to date him.”

  “It’s not exactly office hours.”

  “That’s pretty lame, Leonard. Romanek has a criminal practice. His clients call when they get arrested. They don’t make appointments at convenient times. Please just make the call. I’d do it myself, but I don’t have his number.”

  “You think I have his number?”

  “You have a phone book. This cellphone is running out of juice.”

  “You can’t get legal aid. Who’ll pay his exorbitant fees?”

  “Well, not you, Leonard. So don’t worry.”

  There goes the RRSP, I figured.

  “Camilla, listen . . .”

  “And tell Romanek I won’t submit to a dehumanizing strip search.”

  “Be serious. You’re a lawyer, you know the rules.”

  “And I want it in writing. Take it or leave it. Damn. I’m losing power. Don’t let me down, Leonard.”

  I didn’t want to sq
uander my cellphone charge arguing with Mombourquette. Plus I had the Elaine problem. Was Mombourquette right? Was Elaine capable of telling the police I had a weapon?

  What did I really know about Elaine anyway? She’d moved from the States to go to Carleton. I’d never met any of her family, not even her diabetic brother, Eddy. Estranged from her parents, she’d said. Period.

  But Elaine had been my friend through every tough time that had happened to me for the past eighteen years. She’d been part of my elopement plan and a witness at my wedding. Still, I had to be cautious.

  I’d been so shocked, I’d forgotten to tell Mombourquette about the clippings. He could have followed up on the Settlers. And I hadn’t been able to reach Jasmine. I was counting on her to make connections between Laura and the women at the restaurant. Were there other contacts besides Bianca? Was someone else in danger? Was Jasmine?

  Without the photos, I had nothing to show Jasmine. Which brought me back to Elaine. She had gazillions of photos, if I could get my mitts on them. Tricky. The police would have her place staked out. That added an element of challenge.

  And police or no police, Elaine’s place was like a fortress. How could I get into her second floor apartment? Like they say, when in doubt, ask an expert. I knew just the one. The talented Bunny Mayhew, the best second-storey man ever. The good news: I had his telephone number.

  “Wow, Camilla, you are sure in the deep weeds.”

  “I noticed that myself, Bunny.”

  “Canada-wide warrant,” he said. I detected pride in his voice.

  “Can you help me?”

  “Name it.”

  “Okay. You can’t talk to the police or the media. And especially your friends.” I refrained from saying your shallow-end-of-the-gene-pool friends who always needed information to trade to the cops.

  “Hey, you’ve done a lot for me. I’ve never even served time. You always got me off, even when I was guilty.”

  True. If anyone had been primed for the slammer, it was Bunny Mayhew. I couldn’t take credit. Female jurors fell in love with him.