Monday Mourning

Ryan was waiting in the outer lobby, face ruddy from the cold. Brown-tinted shades. Bomber jacket.

Libido liftoff.

Though the previous night’s call still held a stranglehold on my emotions, apparently lust had pulled a Houdini.

“Did I wake you, cupcake?” Big Ryan grin.

“You did not wake me.” I tried to keep the hostility from my voice.

“Are we testy this morning?”

“Are we smoking this morning?”

“Minor setback.” Ryan jammed his cigarette into an urn of sand beside the door.

Outside, the cold hit me like an icy explosion. Sun roared down from a clear blue sky.

Ryan’s car was idling at the curb.

I got in and buckled my seat belt.

Ryan got in, turned to me, and raised the shades up onto his head. A dark crescent hung below each azure eye.

“Something’s on your mind.”

I said nothing.

“It’s obvious you’re upset.”

I said nothing, louder this time.

“I suspect you’re unhappy with me.” Though he smiled, there was tension in his jaw and around his eyes.

“I know you consider yourself a hot property, Ryan, but I have other things to think about besides you.”

And your niece. I felt like one raw nerve.

“Do you want to talk?” Ryan asked.

“I want to drive,” I said, not trusting my voice with anything more.

We did.

In brittle silence.

Claudia Bastillo answered the bell at the Candiac house. Slapping on a fraudulent smile, I greeted her warmly.

Rose Fisher was sitting alone, staring at the venetian blinds. She wore a green rayon dress dotted with poppies. The orange hair was pushed up in back with a plastic clip-comb. If possible, the makeup was more extravagant than on the previous evening.

’Tit Ange was on a roll with “Frère Jacques.”

Fisher didn’t stir when we entered the living room. Hearing her daughter’s voice, she turned and looked at us, puzzled, as if trying to figure out who we might be.

“It’s the cop. And the coroner.”

With that less than accurate introduction, Bastillo withdrew.

Ryan and I assumed our positions flanking Fisher. “The cop” gestured to “the coroner” to proceed.

“I hope you’re feeling better today, ma’am.”

Fisher nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Mrs. Fisher, I’m wondering about some calls your sister placed to me at my lab.”

The garish eyes dropped.

“When?”

“Last week.”

“About what?” Fisher’s focus remained downwardly fixed.

“Mrs. Parent—”

“Louise never married.”

“Miss Parent spoke of a building on rue Ste-Catherine.”

The sausage fingers closed and opened.

“She said she was bothered by events that had taken place there.”

Fisher’s fidgeting intensified.

“Your sister stated that she felt morally obligated to share certain information with the authorities.”

“She called you?” Fisher looked up, eyes wide in the artlessly recreated face.

“Twice. Do you know why?”

“I didn’t think she’d actually do it.”

“What did your sister want to discuss with me?”"

"At that moment Bastillo arrived and took the chair opposite the couch. The cockatiel shifted from chirping to shrilling short, strident notes.

“’Tit Ange!” Bastillo barked.

The cockatiel did another series of power shrills.

“Cut it out!”

The cockatiel said “pretty bird” in English and French, then began investigating the contents of its seed basin.

“He’s mimicking the smoke detector,” Bastilllo explained. “Little cretin picked it up when he was alone one weekend and the batteries failed.”

“He’s very talented,” I said. “And bilingual.”

“He’s a pip.” Bastillo was clearly not fond of the bird.

“Trilingual.”

We all looked at Fisher.

“English, French, and Cockatiel. Louise used to laugh about that.” Fisher’s voice made abrupt stops and starts as her chest clutched. “She was a translator, you know.”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”

Fisher nodded and the chins joined hands.

“Translated books from French to English. And the other way round.”

“That’s very difficult work,” I said, then turned to Bastillo.

“We were asking your mother about calls your aunt placed to my lab shortly before she died.”

“There’s a connection?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Are you suggesting my aunt’s death may not have been natural?”

“We want to investigate every possibility,” Ryan said.

“Do you suspect us?” Shrill as the bird.

“Of course not.” Ryan’s voice was reassurance itself. “We’d simply like to know what was on your aunt’s mind.”

Ryan addressed Fisher.

“Do you know what Miss Parent intended to tell Dr. Brennan?”

When Fisher nodded, lattice bands of sunlight slid over her cheek.

’Tit Ange whistled a line from Camelot.

Rose Fisher drew a deep breath.

“Louise lived on Ste-Catherine for almost seventeen years. When my husband passed away in ninety-four, I persuaded her to move in with me.