interview and police report I had. Then I did it again. I went over and over the words, hoping to find some little thing I?d missed. The third time through I did.
I was reading Ryan?s interview with Grace Damas?s father when I noticed it. Like a sneeze that?s been building, taunting but refusing to break, the message finally burst into my conscious thought.
A boucherie. Grace Damas had worked at a boucherie. The killer used a chef?s saw, knew something about anatomy. Tanguay dissected animals. Maybe there was a link. I looked for the name of the boucherie but couldn?t find it.
I dialed the number in the file. A man answered.
?Mr. Damas??
?Yes.? Accented English.
?I?m Dr. Brennan. I?m working on the investigation of your wife?s death. I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions.?
?Yes.?
?At the time she disappeared, was your wife working outside the home??
Pause. Then, ?Yes.?
I could hear a television in the background.
?May I ask where, please??
?A bakery on Fairmont. Le Bon Croissant. It was just part time. She never worked full time, with the kids and all.?
I thought that over. So much for my link.
?How long had she worked there, Mr. Damas?? I hid my disappointment.
?Just a few months, I think. Grace never lasted anywheres very long.?
?Where did she work before that?? I dogged on.
?A boucherie.?
?Which one?? I held my breath.
?La Boucherie St. Dominique. Belongs to a man in our parish. It?s over on St. Dominique, just off St. Laurent, ya know??
Yes. I pictured the rain against its windows.
?When did she work there?? I kept my voice calm.
?Almost a year, I guess. Most of ?91, seems like. I can check. Think it?s important? They never asked nothing about the dates before.?
?I?m not sure. Mr. Damas, did your wife ever speak of someone named Tanguay??
?Who?? Harsh.
?Tanguay.?
An announcer?s voice promised he?d be right back after the commercial break. My head throbbed and a dry scratching was beginning in my throat.
?No.?
The vehemence startled me.
?Thank you. You?ve been very helpful. I?ll let you know if there are any new developments.?
I hung up and phoned Ryan. He?d left for the day. I tried his home number. No answer. I knew what I had to do. I made one call, picked up a key, and headed out.
La Boucherie St. Dominique was busier than the day I?d first noticed it. The same signs occupied its windows, but tonight the store was lit and open for business. There wasn?t much. An old woman moved slowly down the glass case, her face flaccid in the fluorescent glare. I watched her double back and point to a rabbit. The stiff little carcass reminded me of Tanguay?s sad collection. And Alsa.
I waited until the woman left, then approached the man behind the counter. His face was rectangular, the bones large, the features coarse. The arms that hung from his T-shirt looked surprisingly thin and sinewy in contrast. Dark splotches marred the white of his apron, like dried petals on a linen tablecloth.
?
?
?Slow tonight??
?It?s slow every night.? English, accented like Damas?s.
I could hear someone rattling utensils in a back room.
?I?m working on the Grace Damas murder investigation.? I pulled out my ID and flashed it. ?I need to ask you a few questions.?
The man stared at me. In the back, a faucet went on, off.
?Are you the owner??
Nod.
?Mr.??
?Plevritis.?
?Mr. Plevritis, Grace Damas worked here for a short time, did she not??
?Who??
?Grace Damas. Fellow parishioner at St. Demetrius? ?
The scrawny arms folded across his chest. Nod.
?When was that??
?About three, four years ago. I don?t know exactly. They come and go.?
?Did she quit??
?Without notice.?
?Why was that??
?Hell if I know. Everyone was doing it about then.?
?Did she seem unhappy, upset, nervous??
?What do I look like, Sigmund Freud??
?Did she have any friends here, anyone she was particularly close to??
His eyes lighted on mine and a smile teased the corners of his mouth. ?Close?? he asked, his voice oily as Valvoline. I returned his gaze, unsmiling.
The smile disappeared and his eyes left mine to wander the room.
?It?s just me and my brother here. There?s no one to get close with.? He drew the word out, like an adolescent with a dirty joke.
?Did she have any peculiar visitors, anyone who might have been hassling her??
?Look, I gave her a job. I told her what to do and she did it. I didn?t keep track of her social life.?
?I thought perhaps you might have noticed-?
?Grace was a good worker. I was mad as hell when she quit. Everyone splitting at the same time really left me with my nuts in a vise, so I was pissed. I admit it. But I don?t hold a grudge. Later, when I heard she was missing, at church, ya know, I thought she?d taken off. Didn?t really seem like her, but her old man can be pretty heavy sometimes. I?m sorry she got killed. But I really hardly remember her.?
?What do you mean ?heavy???
A blank expression crossed his face, like a sluice gate dropping. He lowered his eyes and scratched with his thumbnail at something on the counter. ?You?ll have to talk to Nikos about that. That?s family.?
I could see what Ryan meant. Now what? Visual aids. I reached in my purse and pulled out the picture of St. Jacques.
?Ever see this guy??
Plevritis leaned forward to take it. ?Who is he??
?Neighbor of yours.?
He studied the face. ?Not exactly a prizewinning photo.?
?It was taken by a video camera.?
?So was the Zapruder film, but at least you could see something.?
I wondered at his reference but said nothing. Spare me another conspiracy buff. Then I saw something cross his face, a subtle squint that puckered then flattened his lower lids.
