First I called Ryan. Then Hubert.
Each listened as I described the oddly deformed finger bones. Neither cared much about the camptodactyly. Both cared greatly about the ID.
Christelle Villejoin.
While I’d examined the phalanges, Joe had maintained a frosty distance. My assistant’s fragile ego had obviously been bruised. Tough titties. Mine had also taken a hit. I knew I should have made a conciliatory gesture. Instead, I ignored the pouting.
But, as I’d worked, I’d been forced to make a not so proud admission to myself. I’d been as welcoming to Joe as I had been to Briel. Despite two years’ proximity, I knew little about him.
Quick inventory. Joe was not yet forty. He lived alone, somewhere in the burbs, often biked to work. Disliked pickles. Drank Pepsi. Gelled and bleached his hair. Worried about being too thin.
Beyond those few inconsequential facts, I was blank on my tech’s personal life. Was he divorced? Gay? Vegan? Sagittarian? I vowed to make more of an effort.
After reporting to Hubert, I went to apologize and appease. The histology, pathology, and anthropology labs were empty. Assuming Joe had gone downstairs for lunch, I did the same.
My assistant wasn’t in the cafeteria.
But Ryan was.
Not in the mood for clever repartee, I dropped my eyes, hoping Ryan wouldn’t spot me. Birdie’s trick. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Stupid.
“Expecting George Clooney?” Ryan’s form loomed above the table.
“Tiger Woods.”
“What’s the matter, buttercup?” Ryan deposited his tray and sat. “The other kids shunning you?”
I jabbed at my salad.
“Come on. Why the gloom-and-doom face?”
Christ. Where to start?
I told him about Santangelo’s resignation.
“Can’t blame a gal for moving on.”
“No. But her leaving is …” What? “… symptomatic.”
“Symptomatic?” Skeptical.
“Morale seems to have tanked in
“Tanked?”
“What? Am I talking to a parrot?”
“Parrot?”
I rolled my eyes. Couldn’t help it.
“Tell me, jelly bean.”
“How’s this for a morning? An asshole at my condo is trying to get me evicted because I own a cat. I have a new pen pal who thinks I’m the spawn of the devil. I had a bastard of an argument with Hubert. I ripped Joe a new anatomical part.”
“Sparky-larky still on a rip?” We’d discussed my lunatic neighbor on more than one occasion.
I nodded.
“What’s that guy do for a living?” Ryan downed a hunk of lasagna.
“I think Winston said he’s with Montreal Public Works.”
“Who’s the pen pal?”
I shook my head, indicating I didn’t want to pursue the subject.
“Think it could be greetings from the same creep who called Edward Allen Jurmain?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“I doubt it,” I said.
Though few in number, I’d received hostile letters in the past. Typically, such mail was harmless venting by discontented next of kin or disgruntled convicted persons.
Full stop.
Might the letter have come from Sparky? I dismissed the thought. Anonymous intimidation wasn’t really his style.
Poop in a package?
OK. Maybe.
“Why the blowup with lardass?” Ryan had moved on to the third on my list of complaints.
I described my trifecta in Hubert’s office. The reexcavation at Oka. Briel’s being allowed to examine the Lac Saint-Jean bones. Jurmain’s nameless informant.
Ryan looked thoughtful. Or maybe he was trying to ID the brown goop oozing from the layers of his pasta.
“Lac Saint-Jean. Hm.”
“Hm?”
“Maybe nothing. I’ll do some checking, give you a call this afternoon.”
“Any movement on Villejoin or Keiser?” I changed the subject.
“Not really. Claudel checked the airlines, VIA rail, local bus and taxi companies, Montreal travel agencies. If Keiser left town voluntarily, she either drove or went via hyperspace.”
“Thumbed a ride on the Heart of Gold.” I spoke without thinking.
“Blasted off with the Infinite Improbability Drive,” he said.
Ryan and I were both fans of
Old habits die hard.
Ryan was smiling full on, eyes and all. Eyes like Bahamian waters. Eyes you could get lost in. Eyes I
But not again.
I looked away. “What else?”
“Claudel floated a nationwide APB on Keiser’s vehicle. He checked local hospitals, and queried amnesia admissions across Canada. Or whatever term the psychobabblers use these days. Came up empty. Now he’s looking at Keiser’s neighbors, finding out how long each has lived in the building, previous addresses, that sort of thing.”
“Keiser had an active social life.”
Ryan chuckled. “Claudel told you?”
“Told me what?”
“The merry widow thought of herself as a child of the sixties. And a player.”
“With men?”
Ryan nodded.
“She had boyfriends?”
“So she led the neighbors to believe.” Ryan’s smile could only be described as a smirk.
“Why is that funny? Because Keiser was elderly?”
Ryan formed a set of Vs with his fingers. Peace.
“Charbonneau’s yet to locate a single old beau. He’s working through the book club and knitting circle ladies. So far he’s scored a lot of tea and cookies and one interesting tidbit. Keiser liked to spend time with nature.”
“Meaning?”
