The trouble with having a brainwave is you need to confer about it. I don’t know much about diabetics and their requirements. The only person who might know was Elaine Ekstein. Since she was already slightly pissed off at me, I figured I couldn’t make things worse. I called.
“Elaine. Does your brother take insulin?”
I didn’t hear anything like an answer. After a while I said, “Hello?”
“What?”
“Eddie, your brother, doesn’t he take insulin?”
“Oh, that’s why you woke me up again. I understand now why you couldn’t wait until the morning. Yes, he does, thanks for asking. Goodnight. The phone will be off the hook from now on, Camilla. I hope you don’t find that too terribly inconvenient.”
“Come on. Where does he keep his insulin? Isn’t it in little vials? Doesn’t he need to take it everyday?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Apparently Laura Brown was diabetic.”
“I didn’t know that, and I don’t see what it has to do with anything.”
“She had a MedicAlert bracelet.”
“Oh. Did the diabetes have anything to do with her fall? Did she lapse into a coma or something?”
“Maybe. The police suggested it. Anyway, so if you don’t mind answering a question or two . . .”
“What choice do I have?”
“Where does Eddie keep his insulin?”
“In the fridge.”
“Would he have a supply of it at any time?”
“Always. Naturally.”
“What do you mean, naturally?”
“He’s hardly going to take a chance with insulin, is he?”
“Right. But he must run out sometimes. Get too busy at the office and forget to pick up a new supply.”
“I can’t imagine a diabetic who’d let themselves run out of insulin. You’d have to have a death wish.”
“Okay, Elaine. I’ll let you go now.”
“Sure, now that I’m up. Why are you asking these peculiar questions? Didn’t Laura have any insulin?”
“I don’t remember seeing any in her fridge. But maybe I’m wrong.”
“I hope you are wrong, because if you’re not, there’s something fishy.”
Of course, I already knew that. Okay, it was time to face facts. In the wee hours, I couldn’t do much to find out what was going on. Particularly troubling, since I now had this insulin thing to fret over.
“Thanks, Elaine,” I said. “Let’s try to get some sleep now.”
My own attempt to get back to sleep was less than successful. I tried my usual approach when I can’t sleep because my head is whirling with a problem. I got up and read the newspapers. I had enough of them. Even the apartment building newsletter and the West End News were there to take my mind off things.
I skimmed the Ottawa Citizen and the Globe and Mail. When I really need to relax, I focus on the items that have nothing to do with social issues. I read stuff I don’t care about. I read the fashion section, the homes section, even the cooking section. I read a detailed piece on installing your own insulation, and another one on dealing with mold in basements. Soon, I felt a pleasant grogginess stealing over me.
Unfortunately, just as my eyes started to get heavy, I noticed an item by my sometime friend, P.J. Lynch. Apparently, in one of the late summer tragedies, a number of cats in the nation’s capital had been taking refuge in their neighbours’ garages or basements. There was no harm done unless the neighbours headed off for holidays. Several beloved family pets had ended up dead of heat or starvation in empty houses. P.J. had done heartbreaking justice to the story.
I picked up Mrs. Parnell’s calico cat and gave her a little stroke. “Now do you see why you have to stay in the apartment?”
The thump of Gussie’s tail meant more strokes were called for. I gave Gussie a couple of reassuring pats.
“You too, Gussie.”
Mrs. Parnell’s cat, sensing that Gussie was getting ahead in the attention game, slid up my chest and rubbed her head under my chin.
“You’re right,” I said. “It is a good thing that P.J. Lynch, star police reporter and occasional political pundit, is looking after your interests and keeping an eye on issues of importance to the feline community. Smaller minds, however, might suggest P.J.’s star has fallen at the Citizen.”
Gussie leapt onto the sofa and snuggled in. The cat wasn’t going to get all the action.
“Too bad P.J.’s not talking to us,” I said. “Otherwise we could find out how he feels about these assignments.”
They both had drifted back to sleep. They weren’t pleased when I woke them up to go back to bed.
Half an hour later, I was no closer to dreamland. The cat story hadn’t helped.
I lay back and summed up what I knew.
Laura might have slipped into a diabetic coma. But if she was diabetic, why did I have no recollection of seeing insulin in her fridge or anywhere else, including the fanny pack?
Maybe I was being silly. Maybe she was now on some other form of treatment. A transplant or a patch or something.
I could ask her doctor about this, but there had been no indication of who her physician was and how to find out. Not a prescription, not a note. Not an agenda with appointments listed.
Her doctor would be on record at MedicAlert, but even if I got the name in the morning, what were the chances that the doctor would be around that weekend? By Tuesday, I’d be a wreck.
I was beginning to conclude that someone had scooped out every identifying feature of Laura’s existence. Had that someone taken Laura’s insulin too? Why? Or did I just not know enough to recognize it? The most important question was, if someone had taken the insulin, was it before or after Laura died?
I could see where the answer might make a big difference.
Gussie and the little calico cat didn’t like it much when I tossed and turned. And I was definitely outnumbered.
Finally, I got out of bed and slipped into jeans and a light fleece jacket. There was only one way to find out.
It was just short of four-thirty on Saturday morning when I slid Mrs. Parnell’s Volvo into the driveway on Third Avenue and let myself into Laura Brown’s house again. I keyed in my code, 1986, and held my breath.
No alarm sounded. But the red light hadn’t been flashing. I guessed that I hadn’t quite got the hang of the instructions from the security company. I hate gadgets.
The house was deliciously cool. Laura Brown had liked her luxuries.
As so-called next-of-kin, should I have been turning off the air conditioner? I left the lights off. There was enough brightness from the street lamp to see. The kitchen end of the house was softly visible. Someone at the neighbours’ house must have had trouble sleeping. Their lights were on.
I headed right for the fridge. It seemed just as I had left it. I moved the container of milk. Nothing. I moved the container of OJ and checked. More nothing.
Very peculiar. It gave me an idea. I decided to call another person who I knew for sure would be up and around, erstwhile reporter, P.J. Lynch. Just because someone’s really mad at you doesn’t mean you no longer remember their cellphone number.
“P.J.,” I said cheerfully.
“Who is this?” he said.
“It’s me.”
“Goodbye, Camilla.”
“Your choice. But I got a story for you.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“And didn’t you end up with stories?”
“Yeah. And getting arrested and you not being much help.”
“Put the past behind you and move on.”
P. J. sighed.
“Fine,” I said. “If you’re not interested. Bye.”
“Okay, Tiger, what’s the scoop?”
I was heartened by that. P.J. hadn’t called me Tiger for a while. Maybe he was getting over my perceived betrayal.
“Well, it’s about a woman who . . . hang on a second, will you? I heard something odd. I just want to check it out.
“Don’t put me on hold. I’m in the middle of a story.”
“Who are you kidding? Your deadline’s long gone. We both know you’re sitting there watching infomercials. Don’t be so impatient. I’m not putting you on hold. I’m just walking to check something. I’ve got the phone in my hand.” I figured it was just my imagination acting up in a strange house. The air conditioning was still humming, probably that. But what if someone’s favourite feline was stuck there in the garage? With Laura gone, it would be dead before anyone found it. I didn’t plan to come back soon.
“Call me when you’re finished. I’m really busy,” P.J. bleated from the cellphone.
“Don’t you give a hoot about the welfare of animals?”
“What are you talking about?
“Cats trapped in vacant houses. Ring a bell?”
“That’s cruel, even for you, Tiger.”
“What do you mean, cruel? I’m serious. It’s not why I called, but just keep your shirt on until I check out this noise. Then I’ll give you the scoop on the woman without a history.”
I knew he wouldn’t hang up after that. I clutched the phone and moved toward the stairs to the basement. I opened the door and peered down into the darkness.
I didn’t plan to go downstairs and check. I’ve seen way too many teen horror movies for that.
“Here, kitty kitty,” I said.
“What?” P.J. squawked from the phone.
No kitties emerged.
The nice thing about an alarm system is that you know you are alone in a house. The not-so-nice thing is you might not be correct. I felt rather than saw the movement from the dining room. I had no time to turn around fully before the impact of the blow between my shoulder blades pushed me forward. The phone shot out of my hand and bounced down the stairs. I grabbed for the walls, trying for anything to stop my fall. I connected with the vacuum hose, which slid off the hook and rattled down the stairs. I howled as I tumbled through the dark after it.
The only image in my mind was the concrete floor below. The impact when I hit the bottom put an end to that.