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

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.
    â€œP.J.,” I said cheerfully.
    â€œWho is this?” he said.
    â€œIt’s me.”
    â€œGoodbye, Camilla.”
    â€œYour choice. But I got a story for you.”
    â€œI’ve heard that before.”
    â€œAnd didn’t you end up with stories?”
    â€œYeah. And getting arrested and you not being much help.”
    â€œPut the past behind you and move on.”
    P. J. sighed.
    â€œFine,” I said. “If you’re not interested. Bye.”
    â€œOkay, 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.
    â€œWell, it’s about a woman who . . . hang on a second, will you? I heard something odd. I just want to check it out.
    â€œDon’t put me on hold. I’m in the middle of a story.”
    â€œWho 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