Naturally, Frances Foxall wasn’t in the phone book. A lot of people still changed their names when they got married back in the eighties. That didn’t seem like a Frances Foxall thing to do. Come to think of it, getting married didn’t seem like a Frances thing to do. If Mrs. Parnell had been home, I could have asked her to check Canada411. She would have found not only a phone number but a full address with Postal Code.
Sometimes the old-fashioned ways pay off.
I dialled 4-1-1.
The automated system didn’t care for my vague request. A real operator turned up good old Frances in a small community south of Ottawa. Whole name, no initials.
Frances wasn’t home. Naturally. I was the only person in Canada hanging around the house on the Labour Day weekend. A man who sounded like he had a bad cold said to leave a message after the beep. I left my name, my cellphone number and a vague yet compelling reason to call. I chewed my nails and thought hard. Who were the women Laura had been lunching with? Why hadn’t she introduced them to me? Why hadn’t I been interested enough to look at them?
I had an idea how to find out. It was getting close to noon. I decided to head downtown for lunch and a side order of information.
Just to be safe, I called a cab.
Maisie’s Eatery sits on the fringe of the Market and, lucky me, that meant it was open all weekend. Although I’m pretty down-to-earth as a rule, I enjoy the atmosphere at Maisie’s: soothing white tablecloths, fresh flowers, pretty yet undemanding paintings on walls, plus the tempting aroma of fresh rolls. Except for the fact you had to climb a flight of stairs to get in, it was the perfect spot for lunch. I forced my bruised body up the steps, knowing what I’d find there would be worth it.
My first questions didn’t get me far with the young woman at the desk in the front of the restaurant. “Sorry, but your friend sounds like a lot of women who come in here.”
“She does? Oh. Can I have a look at your reservation list for July please? That could help me solve the problem.”
“Gosh. I don’t know. I’d have to check with Norine, the owner, and she’s not here right now.”
“I’d just take a quick peek. I wouldn’t take it away. Cross my heart.”
“Sorry. There might be privacy issues. I’d really have to get authorization.”
I loved that. Privacy issues in a restaurant. That’s the trouble with servers nowadays. Half the time they’re MBA students or actors or perhaps even out-of-work lawyers, and they know way more than you want them to.
This girl seemed nervous. Probably because the place was nearly packed, and she was taking time from her tables.
I said, “This is an easy question. My friend lunched here quite often during the work week. She always sat at that table in the sun. I just need to know if you know the name of any of her companions.”
She shook her head. “I just do weekends.”
“Anyone here today who works lunch weekdays?”
She glanced around. “Let me see. I guess Chelsea.” She pointed to a foxy-faced girl who had spiky hair with multicoloured tips. Chelsea was balancing three full plates on her way from the kitchen to the opposite end of the restaurant. She served her tables and chatted with people. I liked her wicked grin.
“Okay, I’ll talk to her.”
“She’s busy right now.”
“No problem. I’ll have a look at the menu while I’m waiting.”
“Sure. You want a table?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just stay here. I’ll let you know if I decide to eat.”
She smiled and skittered back to her customers. I kept an eye out for her as I leaned over the desk and flipped back through the reservation book. No point in alienating anyone, since I still hadn’t found what I wanted.
I couldn’t remember the dates when I’d seen Laura, except for one. I’d dropped in with a colleague after a hearing toward the end of July. I glanced at the reservations for the last week in July and didn’t find Laura Brown’s name. That was probably good. If her companion had made the reservation, that could be the break I needed. I noticed the reservations were usually first names and phone numbers. Good. I needed an opportunity to write down everyone who’d reserved for that time period. Without getting permission or getting caught. I was digging for my pen when Chelsea walked toward the desk. She nodded to me and said, “I’ll be right with you.” She led the newcomers to a table, handed out menus with a flourish and returned before I found my pen.
“Hi. I’m Chelsea. I understand you want to speak to me?” she said. Up close, she looked older and wiser than her foxy grin and spiky hair suggested.
I tried a new approach. “I’m looking for a friend. It’s a matter of life and death.” True enough, if somewhat misleading. “I saw her having lunch with another woman, sometime in late July. They sat there.” I pointed. “My friend is medium-tall, a little bit plump, dark auburn hair, mid-forties, attractive but not stunning. She was wearing a linen suit, professional looking.” I stopped. “She came here quite often.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “I remember meals, not faces or clothes.”
“I don’t know what she ate. She had an alligator handbag, if that helps.”
She gave a short bark of laughter. “It doesn’t. And to tell you the truth, I don’t even remember meals that long after I’ve served them. Well, sometimes I remember faces, but I’d have to see her. You don’t have a photo?”
“That’s part of the problem. There’s not a picture anywhere of her. She was diabetic, though. Maybe she needed special meals. Does that ring a bell?”
“Jasmine might know. She’s got a knack for remembering people. She often works that corner. And people are always telling her about their diets and their problems. She’s your best bet.”
“Can I talk to Jasmine?”
“She’s not on shift right now.”
“When will she be here?”
“Not sure. She works a couple of jobs. She’s putting herself through university. Hang on, I’ll check the schedule. It might take a couple of minutes, we’re really frantic, as you can see.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You having lunch?”
“Yes, I’d like that table.” I pointed to the window where I’d last seen Laura lunching.
“Sure. That’s one of mine today.”
I sat down at the table with relief, because I was feeling a bit woozy. It crossed my mind that I hadn’t eaten for a long time, despite my sisters’ best efforts. I loved the Maisie’s Eatery menu.
“I’ll order too,” I said. “Something with chicken. Pick the best one. And a cappuccino for dessert.”
“You want soup or salad?”
“Sure. Surprise me there, too.”
I waited and watched Chelsea whirl from table to table. I used the time to try to remember what Laura’s companions had looked like. Being in the same spot helped. One had dark hair, I knew that much, pulled back in a sleek ponytail. I wondered if she might have been Sylvie after eighteen years. I didn’t think so. The eyes had been too dark, the cheekbones too prominent. But then I wasn’t sure how accurate my impression had been.
Fifteen minutes later, I had my lunch, hot and sour soup, followed by chicken with coconut and fruit.
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?