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 bonked 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.”