Free The Devil's in the Details by Mary Jane Maffini

everyday?”
    â€œAre you crazy?”
    â€œApparently Laura Brown was diabetic.”
    â€œI didn’t know that, and I don’t see what it has to do with anything.”
    â€œShe had a MedicAlert bracelet.”
    â€œOh. Did the diabetes have anything to do with her fall? Did she lapse into a coma or something?”
    â€œMaybe. The police suggested it. Anyway, so if you don’t mind answering a question or two . . .”
    â€œWhat choice do I have?”
    â€œWhere does Eddie keep his insulin?”
    â€œIn the fridge.”
    â€œWould he have a supply of it at any time?”
    â€œAlways. Naturally.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, naturally?”
    â€œHe’s hardly going to take a chance with insulin, is he?”
    â€œRight. But he must run out sometimes. Get too busy at the office and forget to pick up a new supply.”
    â€œI can’t imagine a diabetic who’d let themselves run out of insulin. You’d have to have a death wish.”
    â€œOkay, Elaine. I’ll let you go now.”
    â€œSure, now that I’m up. Why are you asking these peculiar questions? Didn’t Laura have any insulin?”
    â€œI don’t remember seeing any in her fridge. But maybe I’m wrong.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThanks, 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 headis 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œToo 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