It was nearly eleven and, although it was Friday night, the street was empty once again, except for Laura’s neighbour to the left. He was standing alone, clearly visible in the glow of the street light. He was an attractive man, late forties, early fifties, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair, blue eyes behind pricey looking rimless glasses. He wore a short-sleeved taupe golf shirt, although the temperature had fallen, and there was enough of a nip in the air to make me wish I’d worn a sweater. He stood on the sidewalk, staring at his immaculate front garden, scratching his head. The head-scratching seemed to be brought on by a selection of mums in nursery pots.
His garden had the look of a professional design, profuse, yet precisely planned, with just the teensiest suggestion of goose-stepping storm troopers. I could hear a woman’s voice from inside the three-storey brick house. “Stop obsessing, plant your wretched mums on Sunday. We have to get up early tomorrow, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“You know I like to do things right,” he said. I caught the implication that others came up short in the doing things right department. He didn’t make that comment loud enough to be heard more than two feet away.
“Hello,” I said, fishing out my best smile.
“I’m trying for a lively, jaunty mood this fall,” he said. “I can’t just have them stuck in straight lines. Can I?”
Like I cared. “Good point,” I said.
“Gardening’s an art form, really. The harmony of the whole.” I assumed he was seeking support for his position.
“You bet,” I said.
“I don’t want to be up all night,” the woman inside the house said. She had a voice that carried.
“My name is Camilla MacPhee,” I said. “Did you know your neighbour, Laura Brown, well?”
“Laura Brown?” he said.
“Yes, the woman in this house right there.” I pointed to the house he had just watched me leave.
He shook his head.
“She’s your next-door neighbour.”
“Brown,” he said. “Is that her name?”
“Has she been here long?”
He shrugged. “A couple of years, I guess. My wife might know.”
A silver-haired woman with amazing cheek bones stuck her head out the door. “Now,” she said. She looked like she meant business.
“The woman next door, dear, have you met her yet?” he asked.
“Why?” she said.
He turned to me. “What did you say her name was?”
“Laura Brown.” These people had a BMW parked in their driveway. You’d think they could have purchased a few brains.
“This . . . um . . . person was asking.” He turned back to the tricky matter of arranging the mums.
His wife stepped out onto the veranda.
“I am inquiring,” I said, pleasantly, “whether you had met Laura Brown, your next-door neighbour.”
“And you are?”
“Camilla MacPhee.” That didn’t seem to be enough. “I’m a lawyer,” I said, stepping up to the veranda and extending my hand. “Mrs . . . ?”
She didn’t volunteer her name. “May I ask what your interest is in my neighbour?”
“She’s had an accident.”
“Oh.” That took her by surprise. I wondered what she’d been expecting.
“Do you know her well?”
“Hardly at all. Sometimes make a remark about the weather, that kind of thing. I don’t think we’d ever introduced ourselves.”
“But you saw her?”
“Yes, I see her coming and going. Is she all right?”
“I’m afraid not. This seems like a friendly neighbourhood, and I’m hoping someone can help us find her relatives.”
“That sounds serious.”
“She was killed in a fall today.” I figured this woman could take it on the chin.
Her hand shot to her mouth. “That’s dreadful.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I don’t think I can help you much.”
“Did she know anyone else on the street, do you think?”
“She kept to herself. Wasn’t one to socialize. I don’t think she really was friendly with anyone, you know, beyond a smile and a hello.” She paused. “But, of course, I don’t know that for sure. You’d probably be better off to ask around. Although, it’s a bit late now.” She glanced at a small watch. I thought I spotted the flash of diamonds.
“Right. I’ll try tomorrow.”
“And it’s Labour Day weekend. Lots going on, people are at their cottages.”
“Did you ever see people coming and going? Friends? Boyfriends?”
“We have better things to do than spy on our neighbours.”
I said, “I’m sure you do, but the houses on this street are quite close. Did you notice if she had regular visitors?”
“I don’t believe I ever saw anyone come or go. Just her. Laura Brown, you said?”
“Do you have any idea where Laura worked?”
“None. As I said, we never spoke about anything. I used to see her walking back from downtown in the evenings. I assume she was returning from work, because she’d have on a nice suit and pair of running shoes. That’s such an awful look, don’t you think? It always sticks in my mind. And usually people who are dressed like that are coming back from offices. I can’t imagine what they’re thinking.”
As someone who regularly walked to work in business clothes and running shoes, I bit back my comment.
“What about seeing regular delivery people at her house? Anyone like that? Cars parked in front?”
She shook her head. “We’re not home all that much. We’re busy. Concerts and community commitments. And the garden, lest I forget.”
“Did you ever see her outside the neighbourhood? At a concert or anything?”
She paused, apparently thinking. “No. Not that I recall. It’s a shame, isn’t it? Such a nice-looking woman. Obviously doing well for herself, they don’t give these houses away. Or those cars.”
“What cars?” I said.
“Well, her car. She drove an Acura Integra. Brand new. Black.”
She flashed me a look calculated to reset my self-esteem to a lower level. “In her garage. Where else?”
There was no car parked in the garage now. I hadn’t noticed any car payments in the bank statement, but then I hadn’t been looking for them. There hadn’t been a car registration or insurance certificate in her fanny pack, but lots of people kept those in the glove compartment. But now I had something concrete to speak to the police about. Wherever Laura’s car was, it shouldn’t take them long to track it down.
I dug into my shoulder bag and fished out a business card. “If you remember seeing her or seeing anyone here, give me a call.”
“But surely you’ll be able to track down her family without too much trouble?”
“Not so far,” I said.
“There must be information in the house.”
“Nope. One more thing, what day is your garbage collected?”
“I don’t see what difference it makes, but they pick it up on Tuesday mornings. James. In the house. Now.”
By the time I made it back to the sidewalk, she had separated her reluctant husband from his mums, and they’d vanished through the door. And I had something else to think about.
Aside from the missing car, the fact that Laura had created no garbage for three days and the creepy lack of personal information, there was something else wrong in Laura’s house, something out of whack, but damned if I could figure out what it was.