Monday Mourning (11 page)

Thoughts winged and collided in my head.

I heard soft crunching, like whispered footsteps in sand. A weight hit the bed, then Birdie curled by my knee.

I reached down and stroked him.

“I love you, Bird boy.”

Birdie stretched full length against my leg.

“As for you, you loathsome son of a bitch. Yes, you’ve gotten to me, but one day we may have a reckoning.”

I was talking aloud over the gentle purring.

I awoke with a sense that something was wrong. Not full memory, just a nagging from the lower centers.

Then recollection.

I opened my eyes. Sunlight sparkled from flecks on the carpet and dresser top.

Birdie was gone. Through my partially open door I could hear a radio.

I found Anne drinking coffee in the kitchen, working a crossword and humming David Bowie.

Hearing me, she sang out aloud.

“Ch- ch- ch — changes!”

“Is that a suggestion?” I asked.

Anne glanced at my hair over the pink and green floral frames of her reading glasses, one of a dozen pairs she purchases each year at Steinmart.

“That do’s gotta go.”

“You’re not exactly the Suave girl, yourself.”

Anne’s hair was twisted upward and clipped with a barrette. A spray winged from her head like the crown on Katy’s cockatiel.

“I considered more tidying, but wasn’t sure how much I should touch.” Anne stood, dug a mug from a cabinet, filled, and handed it to me.

“Thanks.”

“What’s on the rail for the lizard?”

Anne had many expressions deriving from her Mississippi childhood. This was one I hadn’t heard before.

“Translation?”

“What are your plans for today?”

“I have a date with the last of those pizza basement skeletons. Yours?”

“Contemporary Art Museum. That’s the Place-des-Arts metro stop, right?”

“Correct.”

I poured cream into my coffee, then dropped two halves of an English muffin into the toaster.

“Did you know that twenty-five hundred morons bared their fat asses in the rain for a Spencer Tunick photo in that plaza?”

“How do you know they were all rump heavy?”

“Ever been to a nude beach?”

Anne had a point. Those who shouldn’t are often those who most willingly flaunt it.

“Then St-Denise for lunch and shopping,” she went on.

“Alone?” I asked, remembering the hunk in 3C.

“Yes, Mom. Alone.”

“Annie, do you suppose that man could have broken in here?”

“Why in the world would he do that? He probably doesn’t know you, and that is no way to impress me. Why would he do something so totally crazy?”

“Someone did.”

“I don’t think it could be him, really I don’t. The guy looked perfectly normal. But…” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Tempe. It was stupid.”

I was spreading blackberry jam when Anne spoke again.

“What’s a seven-letter word for ‘insensitive’?”

“Hurtful.”

“Beginning with C.”

“Claudel.”

Anne’s eyes rolled up over the flowery frames.

“I think I’ll go with ‘callous,’” she said.

Anne refocused on her puzzle. I settled opposite her and listened to the news. A fire in St-Léonard. Another Habs loss. More snow on the way.

I’d just finished my muffin when Anne tossed down her glasses and pen.

“Is this Claudel a good detective?”

I sheeshed air through my lips.

“I take that as a negative.”

“Claudel’s thorough, but narrow-minded, opinionated, and stubborn. He also sees no need for forensic anthropologists in general, and female ones in particular. He views every suggestion as interfering.”

“Let me guess. And he’s not making much of an effort on your skeleton case?”

“He’s not even humoring me. And he considers it to be his skeleton case, not mine.”

“You’ve had that problem with him before, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. Often-wrong-but-never-in-doubt Claudel.”

“So he’s not your favorite?”

“Claudel’s not a laugh riot. His questions are curt to the point of rudeness, and he rarely explains why particular facts are of interest to him, or why my opinions are not.”

“What would it take to get him to listen?”

“I could sing the Hallelujah Chorus naked.” I got up and popped a second muffin into the toaster.

“You still have the bod, but you never had the voice. I was thinking along more professional lines,” Anne said.

“The point of controversy is postmortem interval. Claudel believes the bones are old. I don’t. I’ve sent off samples for Carbon 14 testing, but I won’t get results for at least a week.”

“What else might get his attention?”

“Six or seven dead preschoolers.”

“You’re starting to piss me off, Tempe. I’m asking a serious question.” Anne held out her empty mug. “What would inspire Claudel to show more interest in your bones?”

“Proof that the deaths were recent.”

I poured two refills and gave her one.

“There you go.” Anne proffered her coffee-free hand, palm up.

“Claudel believes such proof is lacking.”

“Don’t wait for the Carbon 14. Change his mind.”

“He refuses to explore the possibility.”

“So give him more to chew on.”

“What am I supposed to do? Hire thugs and have him beaten until he agrees?”

“Agrees to what?”

“To investigate.”

“Meaning?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” I sat back down with my second muffin.

“What is it you would like Claudel to do?”

I gave that a few moments’ thought.

“Canvas the neighborhood. Learn more about the building. Research previous residents. Find out who owned the place. Who lived there. How long the first floor has been commercial. What businesses have occupied the premises. What building permits were issued and to whom.”

“There you go.” Again, the upraised palm.

“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“Don’t force me to three.”

“Where do I go?”

“To the solution to your problem.”

It was too early. I wasn’t making the bridges.

“Which is?”

“Do it yourself.”

“Claudel would go ballistic.”

“How could he? He says the bones are old. He sees no reason to explore further. You’re doing additional research.”

“It’s not my job.”

“Apparently Claudel thinks it’s not his either.”

“Claudel has no interest in my suggestions, but if I do anything that even loosely resembles detective work, he gets overtly hostile.”

“Look. You don’t have to make a TV series out of it. Just poke down the burrow and see what crawls out.”

I thought about that while Anne entered, erased, then reentered thirty-four down in her puzzle. She had a point. What could it hurt to check out old deeds, tax records, and building permits? If Claudel was right, I’d be working with the archaeologists anyway. Besides, he was going to be tied up with this sting Ryan had mentioned. Also, when Claudel was free again and heard I was looking into things, though furious, he might feel obligated to do more investigating himself, just to guard against my finding things that he had not.

At that moment, the doorbell chirped. When I answered, SIJ announced its presence. I buzzed the team in, pointed out the damaged French door, Anne’s room, and Katy’s painting, and asked if they’d mind starting in the living room.

While the techs shot photos and dusted for prints, Anne and I retreated to our respective quarters to dress and brush and apply whatever makeup each deemed essential. During my toilette, I considered options.

It was Friday. Public offices were closed on weekends. If I examined the third skeleton today, I wouldn’t have access to the courthouse or City Hall until Monday.

I could work at the lab anytime, over the weekend if absolutely necessary. I couldn’t research records anytime.

Decision.

Once again, full analysis of the third skeleton was being deferred.

After replenishing Birdie’s food and water, I checked with the SIJ techs. So far, zip.

I was reaching for the phone when Anne swept into my bedroom. She wore boots and the jacket she’d declined the evening before. The angora scarf was in place, the hat and mittens clutched in one hand.

“Setting off?” I asked.

“We’re setting off,” Anne said.

“What about the museum?”

“Art is eternal. It will be there tomorrow. Today I sleuth. See? Already my life is multidimensional. You and I. Cagney and Lacey. It’ll be a gas.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Cagney and Lacey were trained detectives with badges and guns. We’ll be more like Miss Marple and one of her friends from the garden club. But, OK, let’s give it a go. The crime scene techs will let themselves out. I’ll check my messages and we’re on our way.”

I dialed the lab, punched in my mailbox number and access code. One message. Nine forty-three the previous evening.

The woman’s words started a holocaust of possibilities whirling through my head, each uglier than the next.

F
RANTICALLY
, I
JABBED AT A PEN ON MY DRESSER
. A
NNE DARTED
and handed it to me.

“Dr. Brennan. I feel I must give this one last try or I will not be able to live with myself.”

I logged details of the voice. Old. Female.

“I called the day before yesterday about the story in
Le Journal.
”

A pause. As before, I heard chirping in the background, vaguely familiar chirping.

“I believe I know who is dead and why.” Shot through with desolation and doubt.

“Come on,” I urged under my breath. “Who are you?”

“You have my name.”

“No. I don’t!”

Anne’s head snapped up in surprise at my outcry.

“You may reach me at 514-937—”

“Atta girl!”

Anne watched as I scribbled the number, clicked off, and dialed.

Somewhere on the island a phone rang ten, eleven, twelve times.

I cut the connection and repunched the digits.

A dozen more unanswered rings.

“Damn!”

I clicked off and tossed the handset onto the bed, my whole body taut with frustration. I rose and paced the room, then snatched up the handset and dialed again.

No answer.

“Pick up your goddamn phone!”

What to do? Call Claudel or Charbonneau and give him the number? Call Ryan? All three of them were probably fully occupied with this massive joint operation they were on and didn’t have time for phone numbers.

Disconnecting, I grabbed my keys, raced to the basement, and retrieved my laptop from the trunk of my car. When I returned to the bedroom Anne was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, one foot flicking up and down. She watched without comment as I booted the computer, and typed the phone number into a browser.

No results. The browser suggested I check my spelling or try different words. “How do you spell a number, you ignorant twit?”

I tried another browser. Then another.

No matches. Same useful tips.

“What good are you!”

Snatching the handset again, I punched another number, requested an individual, and made an inquiry.

No. Wednesday’s call to the lab had not yet been traced. Why not? These things take time. Well, then, write down this number and see if you get a match.

I sailed the handset back onto the bed, crossed to the dresser, dug for gloves, and slammed the drawer.

While jamming my right hand into one glove, I let go of the other. I bent to pick it up, dropped it again, kicked it to the wall, retrieved it, and yanked it onto my left hand.

When I turned Anne was gazing up at me, arms still folded, an amused expression on her face.

“Is this our resident forensic specialist demonstrating the art of a tantrum?” Anne asked in a Mr. Rogers voice.

“You think
that
was a tantrum? Piss me off and I’ll show you a gorilla.”

“I haven’t seen you stage a nutty like that since you caught Pete screwing the travel agent.”

“It was a Realtor.” I had to smile. “And
she
definitely had a fat ass.”

“Let me guess. We aren’t pleased with our phone message?”

“No. We aren’t.”

I summarized the tale of Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent’s calls.

“
That
brought out the Diva of Dachau?”

I didn’t respond.

“The nice lady is probably out buying her weekly Metamucil. She has called twice. She will call a third time.” Again, the patient schoolmarm. “If not, you have the number and you will reach her later. Or you must have resources downtown that can identify the listing that goes with that number. Hell, some everyman directory assistance systems will give you the name and address if you have a number.”

I could not mask my agitation.

“Anne, the woman said she knew who was dead and why. If she’s legit she can break this investigation wide open. Of course, she may not be legit. I’d like to talk to her before I set Claudel off on a false trail You’re right, I need to make some more efforts to talk to her myself. She called me, not the police.”

“I do have one other question.”

I raised my hands in a go-ahead gesture.

“How do you plan to button your jacket?”

I yanked off both gloves and pegged them at her.

For the second time that week I pulled into a pay lot in the old quarter. The sky was gunmetal, the air heavy with unborn snow.

“Bundle up,” I told Anne, zipping my parka.

“Where are we going?”

“Hôtel de Ville.”

“We’re booking a room?” Muffled through angora scarving.

“City Hall. It’s a four-block walk.”

Perched atop place Jacques-Cartier, Montreal’s City Hall is a Victorian extravagance in copper and stone. Built between 1872 and 1878, the place looks as though its designer didn’t quite know when to call it a day. Mansard roof?
Très Parisien.
Columns? Of course. Porticos?
Bien sûr.
Eaves, dormer windows, balconies, cupola, clock? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.

Though devastated by fire in 1922, Hôtel de Ville remained structurally sound, was rejuvenated, and today is a favorite with both natives and visitors, one of Montreal’s most charming landmarks.