Monday Mourning

“You’ve come to tell me something’s happened to Louise. Where is she?”

Ryan guided Fisher to the living room sofa and sat beside her. From the corner, a gray and yellow cockatiel with bright orange cheeks chirped, then whistled six notes of “Edelweiss.”

Positioning myself to Fisher’s left, I took one chubby hand in mine.

Ryan tipped his chin, indicating I should take the lead.

The cockatiel said, “Bonjour.” Repeated itself. Chirped.

“Mrs. Fisher, we do have bad news.”

Fisher’s eyes closed. Her fingers tightened into a death grip.

“I’m so sorry, but your sister has died.”

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Fisher began throwing her head back and forth, eyes squeezed so tightly they disappeared into the fat surrounding the orbits. With each oscillation a high, thin note rose from her throat, then choked off behind the carefully placed dentures.

I placed an arm around the woman’s shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated.

Fisher continued her keening, mascara and eye shadow flowing to mix with the orange-rose blusher.

The cockatiel went silent.

Ryan patted Fisher’s right shoulder. His eyes met mine. They mirrored the sadness I was feeling.

The cockatiel regarded its mistress, crown raised, head frozen at a forty-degree angle.

Seconds ticked by on a sideboard clock. The cockatiel tried a few notes of “Alouette,” gave up.

Fisher wailed and bobbed.

One minute. Two.

Ryan slipped from the room, returned with a box of tissues.

Three.

Gradually, the terrible sobbing diminished.

“I love you.” Chirp. “Je t’aime.”

The porcine eyes opened and Fisher’s head swiveled toward the bird.

“I love you, too, ’Tit Ange.”

Little Angel cocked his head, but said nothing."

"“My sister adores that silly bird.” Almost inaudible. “Adored.”

Ryan offered tissues. Fisher took several, and turned to me, her face a rainbow Popsicle left to melt in the mud.

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan. I work with the coroner.”

Beneath the clown makeup, Fisher’s face went white.

“It was some kind of allergic reaction, right?”

“Cause of death isn’t totally clear at this point.”

Fisher wiped at the chaos on her face.

“I should never have left Louise alone when she was feeling poorly.”

Fisher slumped back.

“Your sister was unwell?” Ryan asked gently.

“Allergies. Wheezy, itchy eyes, runny nose.” The massive body collapsed into itself. “I never dreamed—”

Fisher’s chest heaved with another involuntary spasm. I plucked tissues and handed them to her.

“I know this is terribly difficult,” I said in the most soothing voice I could muster. “And I’m so sorry to have to ask you these questions. But a great many people have been trying to find you this week. Would you mind telling Detective Ryan and me where you’ve been?”

“Louise and I signed up for a ceramics workshop in Pointe-aux-Pics. We thought it would be fun to learn how to make pottery—”

Heave. Heave.

“—stay in a B and B, do our Christmas shopping in the Charlevoix region.”

“Your sister didn’t feel up to going?”

When Fisher nodded an upper chin plunged into the fat of its lower counterpart.

“Louise insisted she’d be fine. Said if she needed anything, she’d call Claudia. That’s my daughter.” Fisher’s throat seemed to clench. “Oh God. Does Claudia know?”

“Yes, ma’am. Claudia’s been very worried about you.”

“We should have told her. I should have told her. When Louise decided to stay behind, it didn’t seem necessary. Claudia’s always fussing at me about driving during the winter. Treats me like I’m a doddering old fool. Wants me to stay home all the time.”

“When did you get back from Charlevoix?” Ryan asked.

“Not long before you arrived. I thought Louise was over to the church. They do bingo on Thursday nights. I was tired from the drive, so I was about to leave her a note and turn in.”

Fisher was wadding and unwadding the saturated tissue.

“Louise’s bed is unmade. That’s not like her.”

The corpulent bosom heaved again.

“Let me get you some water.”

As I filled a glass from the kitchen tap, Ryan and Fisher talked on in the living room. Now and then the cockatiel chirped or sang a fragment of song.

Before returning, I made a quick pass by Louise Parent’s room. The scene differed little from the SIJ photos. The bed was now stripped, exposing a stain on the mattress where Parent’s bladder had voided at death. A single pillow lay by the headboard.

I returned to the living room and handed Fisher the water.

Ryan caught my eye and gave a subtle head shake, indicating Fisher was too distraught for meaningful questioning.

“I’m going to call your daughter now,” Ryan said.

Fisher made disjointed slurping sounds as she drank.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.”

“When can I see Louise?”

Ryan looked at me.