The Devil's in the Details (15 page)

“What happened to him?” I said.

“
ALS
happened. It's killing him.”

“What is that?”

“He has lost the use of his muscles. He can't eat by himself, he can't turn a page, he can't really communicate.”

“My god.”

“Such a waste,” she said. “Such a waste of his wonderful mind. It's trapped in a ruined body.”

I seemed to spend all my time bringing nice people to tears. I touched her shoulder. “I am so sorry.”

“Everyone is.”

“But he's young.” My father was still walking three miles a day at eighty-one. I figured everyone had that ahead of them. Especially someone like Joe Westerlund.

“Fifty-nine. Up until a few months ago, he could get himself into the wheelchair. Now he has to be lifted in and out of bed.”

What do you say after you've said sorry? And what the hell good is sorry anyway? I said, “I remember you used to have these great parties in your other house. Huge rooms full of kids.”

She attempted a smile. “We had to sell that house once the
disease started to make headway. We needed a single storey. But even this is too much to manage now.”

I tried not to dwell on what Kate Westerlund's life had become.

“I had wanted to ask him about my friend, Laura Brown. She died recently, and I need to locate her family and close friends. I didn't realize her name would upset him.”

This time, Kate dropped the water glass. “Laura Brown is dead? What happened?”

This wasn't the moment to mention my suspicions about Laura's murder. Just her name could cause distress in this house. “She died in a fall yesterday. I should have realized that you would have known her too. I could have asked you about her and spared Joe that upset.”

“Of course, I know her. I kept in touch with a lot of Joe's students.”

“Why do you think Joe got agitated hearing her name?”

“I doubt it had to do with Laura herself. The medication has an effect on him. The disease has an impact on his emotions. He's unpredictable. He has bad days and good. This is a bad day. I'm glad you didn't tell him she was dead.”

“Me too. Did you know anything about her family?”

She shook her head.

“Sorry to have bothered you. I remember Joe as such a compassionate teacher. He influenced my notions of social justice,” I said.

“That's Joe. Passionate.”

“I ended up being a lawyer because of him.”

“A lawyer? Really? Law is not always on the same team as justice. Joe used to say that.”

“Well, I tried to be one of the white hats. That's why I'm searching for information about Laura.” Not that I was feeling defensive or anything.

“He'd like to hear that he was an influence for good.” Her manner toward me seemed to have warmed.

“Thanks. I'd better head out.”

She didn't argue. “Will there be a memorial service for her? I'd like to go.”

“That's part of why I need to find the family. I'll make sure you know what's planned as soon as things are settled.”

She stopped at the door. “What if you don't find them?”

“Then I'll arrange something. A memorial. I'll put a notice in the paper, I guess. Wait a minute. You said you knew her. Had you seen her lately?”

“Not for ages.”

“That's too bad.”

Kate said, “She should have had lots of friends. She was pleasant. Not really outgoing, but charming and warm. I remember her smile.”

“Yes. Do you know what she did for a living?”

“No, but she will have succeeded at whatever it was. She should have gone to grad school. She was Ph.D. material. Joe used to say she had the capacity to carve out a major place for herself in the academic world.”

“She was bright, hard-working and serious.”

“Impressive. Once, years ago, we had her to the house for dinner when we still lived in Centretown. He tried to convince her not to throw it all away. They got into a shouting match. Well, Joe did. It was a one-man shouting match. She said the academic world was not for her.”

“And she didn't lose her cool. That must have been hard with Joe.”

Kate Westerlund laughed suddenly. “She held her own with him. He could be overwhelming.”

“I remember.”

“She stuck to her guns, and we didn't really see her after that. I wish I'd kept in touch.”

“Can you think of anyone she could have stayed in touch with? Someone who might know her family?”

“I don't think she had any family. If she'd had family, I'm sure she would have mentioned Christmas or a birthday. Something.”

“What about her home town?”

Kate hesitated then shook her head.

I said, “Can you let me know if you think of something else? Here's my card. Home number and cell. Especially if you remember someone who might have known her.”

I hurried down the walkway. I was anxious to get away from the house and the stranger that Joe had become. At the same time, I felt unkind, unfeeling and inadequate. Something about Kate bothered me too, but I was in too much turmoil to think clearly about her.

My hands shook when I tried the ignition. Was it the reaction to seeing Joe? Or lack of sleep and the presence of painkillers? I closed my eyes, but that just made things worse.

I hoped I wasn't going to have to arrange a funeral when I didn't even seem to be able to turn a key.

The Pathfinder seemed hot and stuffy, even though the air was cool. I opened the windows. On the lawn, the birds were gone, and the grey squirrel had repositioned himself to take a run at the nearest birdfeeder. At the sound of the window opening, he turned to chatter at me. Do whatever it takes, he seemed to be saying.

Is it a sign of a worsening concussion when you start taking advice from squirrels? “You're just a rodent with a fabulous tail,” I said. “Even if you do have exceptional analytical skills.”

The squirrel went back to its business.

That reminded me of someone who might be able to help.

Sgt. Leonard Mombourquette. No bushy tail, but otherwise quite rodent-like himself. Even better, he was just a short drive away. I figured Leonard could find some useful information, even if he'd already said he didn't want to. He'd have access to all the police files and connections. I'd never
been inside his home, but I'd dropped Conn McCracken off once, so I knew where he lived. Like the MacPhees, Leonard Mombourquette is from Cape Breton, and as an added bonus, he was Ray Deveau's first cousin. Maybe he'd . . . No, I wasn't going down that route.

I strolled toward Mombourquette's red front door a short time later. Unlike the Westerlunds', this one was in good order. If you don't want visitors, you shouldn't have a tiny, perfect house with a tiny, perfect garden and a tiny, perfect flagstone walk with some tiny, perfect herb growing in the cracks.

My sisters could have identified the herb with their eyes closed. It smelled wonderful when you walked on it. I tried not to walk on it, because the entire garden and walkway looked like a labour of love for someone, a dream location in the middle of an old neighbourhood. It was all soft shades of sage interspersed with pink and white.

Most of the gardens I'd passed had an end-of-summer parched look to them. Not this one. It was small-scale and subtle. Fragrant. Every plant seemed to be at exactly the right stage and in precisely the right place. I can scarcely tell the difference between real and artificial flowers, but I know a work of art when I see one.

The house and garden reminded me of the illustrations in a Beatrix Potter story. Small rodents in flowered dresses and mop caps might greet me, while others scrambled to prepare for a welcome guest. Instead, Mombourquette answered the door wearing grey cotton knit running shorts and a well-washed grey
T
-shirt. He wore charcoal and white flip-flops with a little swoosh on them. He hadn't shaved, giving him a growth, of soft grey bristles.

“What do you want?” he said, wrinkling his pointy nose.

Everything about him drooped. Where was the ill-tempered
little ratlike figure I had come to appreciate slightly?

“I'd like a bit of advice.”

“Forget it.” His voice sounded suffused with self-pity. I gathered I wouldn't be getting camomile tea and poppy seed cakes.

“Come on, Leonard. Don't be like that.”

“Oh, pardon me. Why don't I just await the results of the
SIU
investigation with a song in my heart?”

“Those sound like words to live by.” I meant to sound supportive. Perhaps the tone wasn't quite right.

“Goodbye, Camilla.”

I stuck my foot in the door. “I need help.”

“Not my problem. I've already told you.”

“What kind of attitude is that?”

“The attitude of someone who gets to live with the shit generated by you the last time you needed help.”

“That was unavoidable. You can hardly hold me responsible.” His whiskers twitched. “I'm sorry you have to go through this. Believe me.” He still didn't meet my eye. “Fine. I get the message.”

Mombourquette had the door half-shut, when I said, “One question. What do you call those little plants growing between the stones? They smell nice.” I didn't say that they smell particularly nice if you walk on them, because I knew that wasn't the way to Mombourquette's small grey heart.

“Thyme,” Mombourquette said. The door opened a bit more.

“Makes me sorry I live in an apartment.” His noncommittal grunt gave me hope. “Who created this wonderful garden?” I burbled.

Bingo.

Five minutes later, I was sipping ginger peach tea in the
living room. The house was what my sisters would call a loving reconstruction of a unique heritage property. I figured the black metal fireplace was over a hundred years old. Leonard favoured antiques. A carved maple sideboard, a camelback settee upholstered in faded blue brocade. A hutch with some chintz platters. We took our tea in blue and white china cups. We sat on chairs with needlepoint cushions. Leonard slid a plate of old-fashioned molasses cookies onto the polished maple table.

Tea and garden talk or not, Mombourquette was not my biggest fan. In fact, outside of arguments, emergencies and shooting incidents, we'd never really had a conversation. I realized it would be up to me.

“For what it's worth,” I said, “you did the only thing you could. You saved lives. That's the conclusion they are going to draw.”

“The
SIU
puts you through the grinder. It's one way to find out who your friends are.” Mombourquette sipped his tea morosely.

“Yeah, well. With a union like you cops have, who needs friends? Lot of legal muscle behind the police association.”

The sun glinted off his incisors. “It's bad enough we officers put our lives on the line to keep society safe, you don't think our union should stand behind us?”

Depends on what the officer has done, I thought, as a couple of high profile recent incidents came to mind. “Not saying that, Leonard. I'm glad you've got support. And, speaking of support, everyone in my family seems to hold me responsible for your situation.”

He nodded. Pleased, I suppose.

“So listen, here's the problem.” I sketched out the background from Laura's death, my newfound next-of-kin
role, the on-again, off-again insulin, the will, my tumble on the stairs, the fruitless search for Laura's home town, her relatives and the women she had lunch with. “You can see how important this is. I can't arrange the funeral yet. That's pretty awful. But you have access to all the police systems, you could get someone's
SIN
number and their place of birth, and last ten addresses and so on. Since you're on leave, I figured you could help.” I smiled brightly at him.

He did not return the smile. If he'd had a tail, it would have flicked dangerously. “You know something, Camilla?”

“What?”

“You frigging astound me.”

“That's a yes?”

Turned out it was a flaming and dramatic no. Close to nuclear no. It seems that if you are a police officer on extended medical leave, it's a really bad idea to go over to Central and ask for information. If the brass spot you out of bed, you'll get slapped with a desk job.

Well, who knew that?

Sometimes you have to walk away from a situation. This was definitely one of those times. I hightailed down the street and around the corner to the Pathfinder and huddled with the Tim Hortons cups. I could have used a coffee to wash the taste of herbal tea out of my mouth. I pulled away from the curb and around the corner and angled the Pathfinder in again, thinking I'd figure out where the closest Second Cup was. Anyway, you shouldn't drive when you're really mad. I tried breathing deeply to regain my composure. My head felt like the inside of a jet engine. Talk about the mouse that roared.