Monday Mourning

“A viewing can be arranged, if that’s what you’d like.”

“What a terrible Christmas.” Fisher’s lips trembled. Tears glistened on each of her cheeks.

I squeezed the woman’s hand. “It’s so very hard when we lose someone we love.”

“I’ll have to plan the funeral.”

“I’m sure Claudia will be a great help.”

“I know just what Louise would want.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“We told each other everything.”

That’s good, I thought.

Claudia arrived within minutes.

Before leaving, I had one last question.

“Mrs. Fisher, did your sister sleep on a feather pillow?”

“Never. Louise was allergic.”

“Do you use a feather pillow?”

“Goose down.” Fisher’s face clouded. “Why? Was my pillow on Louise’s bed?”

My eyes met Ryan’s.

“Seems like a nice lady,” I said, as Ryan shifted into drive.

“More important, a living lady.”

“No wonder no one spotted her car.”

“Not likely, parked behind some pissant B and B in Pointe-aux-Pics.”

We drove in silence, bare branches cutting odd patterns in the streetlight bouncing off the windshield. Within minutes Ryan pulled onto the Pont Victoria. The wheels made the sound of a thumb rubbing the rim of a very large glass. Below us, the St. Lawrence looked black and still.

“Parent was murdered,” I said grimly.

“It’s looking that way.”

“With Fisher’s pillow.”

“Fiber guys should be able to match the feathers.”

“Some coldhearted bastard slipped into the house, took a pillow from Fisher’s bed, and used it to smother Parent.”

“While she was dead to the world on Ambien.”

“How could someone break in without leaving a trace of evidence?”

“I intend to discuss that with Fisher.”

“And Bastillo.”

“And Bastillo.”

“Do you suppose Fisher knew about Parent’s phone calls to me?”

“Another topic for discussion.”

That was it for conversation.

Fine.

I didn’t want to think about Rose Fisher. Louise Parent. Ryan. Anne. My lost girls.

Leaning my head against the seat, I closed my eyes and occupied my mind making up phrases to describe the silence in the car."

"The silence of a walled tomb. An abandoned library in a Vatican basement. A black hole at the terminus of a spiral galaxy. A startled cockatiel.

Ryan dropped me at my car.

“You on for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Rose Fisher?”

“What time?”

“I’ll phone after I’ve checked with Bastillo.”

By the time I drove from the lab to Centre-ville, it was seven thirty-five. Anne was dozing, floral glasses on her nose, a paperback on her chest. Birdie was beside her.

Anne had made pot roast. We chatted as she thickened gravy and I tossed a salad.

During dinner, Anne described her book, the subject of which was death. She was finding the author’s perspective enlightening. I found her choice of topic unsettling.

“Why the morbid interest in death?”

“You sound like Annie Hall.”

“You’re acting like Woody Allen.”

Anne thought a moment.

“To move forward it is often necessary to change.”

“Move toward what and change how?”

“In substance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cycles.”

As I pondered that enigmatic comment, the phone rang. It was Katy.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Where are you?”

“Charlottesville, but I’m heading home tomorrow.”

“Exams went well?”

“Of course. I’m checking to make sure you’ll be in Charlotte on the twenty-second.”

The twenty-second?

“Hannah’s shower? You promised you’d help me?”

What demented moron would plan a wedding at Christmas?

“Of course I’ll be there.”

“I’m counting on your years and years of experience.”

“Cute.”

“I sent you a couple of e-mails. Ho! Ho! Ho! ’Tis the season, and all that. I especially crave that sweater from Anthropologie. And the tranquillity fountain would help me chill.”

“What do you need to chill about?”

“Help me study, I mean.”

“Um. Hm.”

“Love you, ma mère. Gotta go.” Katy’s voice sounded strung with mistletoe and holly.

“What are you so bubbly about?”

“’Tis the season.”

“Ho. Ho. Ho.”

“Hold on to that thought.”

When we’d disconnected I went looking for Anne. She’d already retired. No further explanation of fulfillment or substance. I had the sense she’d used the phone call as an escape opportunity.

I undressed, washed my face, brushed and flossed, all the time worrying over my promise to Katy. I’d been so wrapped up in Louise Parent and my pizza basement girls I’d virtually forgotten Christmas. And totally forgotten Hannah’s shower.

Could I resolve the case in a week, or would I be forced to put my lost girls on hold for the holidays?

Back in my room, I reached to set the alarm, stopped. Had Ryan given me a pickup time? I remembered asking, but couldn’t recall his reply.

Ten-thirty. He’d probably be at home.

I hit Ryan’s button on my speed dial.