Death Du Jour

I lay still for a while, exploring for damage to my face and listening for signs of my sister. Tender areas on the face. No noise from the sister.

At seven-forty I hauled myself out of bed and grabbed my ratty old robe and slippers. The guest room door was open, the bed made. Had Harry been home last night?

I found a Post-it on the refrigerator explaining the absence of two cartons of yogurt and saying she’d be back after seven. O.K. She’d come in, but had she slept here?

“Who cares,” I said, reaching for the coffee beans.

Just then the phone rang.

I slammed down the canister and padded to the living room phone.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Mom. Rough night?”

“Sorry, honey. What’s up?”

“Are you going to be in Charlotte the week after next?”

“I get in Monday and I’ll be there until early April, when I go to the Physical Anthropology meetings in Oakland. Why?”

“Well, I thought I’d come home for a few days. This beach trip isn’t working out.”

“Great. I mean, great that we can spend some time together. Sorry your trip went bust.” I didn’t ask why. “Will you be staying with me or with Dad?”

“Yes.”

“O.K. O.K. Classes going all right?”

“Yeah. I’m really enjoying the abnormal psych. The prof is so cool. And criminology’s pretty good, too. We never have to turn anything in on time.”

“Hm. How’s Aubrey?”

“Who?”

“Guess that answers my question. How’s the zit?”

“Gone.”

“Why are you up so early on a Saturday?”

“I’ve got to write a paper for my crim class. I’m going to do something on profiling, maybe bring in stuff from abnormal psych.”

“I thought you never had to hand anything in on time.”

“It was due two weeks ago.”

“Oh.”

“Can you help me think of a project for my anthro class?”

“Sure.”

“Nothing too elaborate. It’s supposed to be something I can do in one day.”

I heard a beep.

“I’ve got another call, Katy. I’ll think about the project. Let me know when you’re arriving in Charlotte.”

“Will do.”

I clicked over and was amazed to hear Claudel’s voice.

“Claudel ici.”

As usual there was no greeting, and he did not apologize for phoning me on Saturday morning. He dove straight to the point.

“Has Anna Goyette returned home?”

My chest went hollow. Claudel had never called me at home. Anna must be dead.

I swallowed and answered. “I don’t think so.”

“She is nineteen.”

“Yes.”

I saw Sister Julienne’s face. I couldn’t bear to think of telling her.

“. . . caracteristiques physiques?”

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

Claudel repeated the question. I had no idea if Anna had any unusual physical features.

“I don’t know. I’d have to ask the family.”

“When was she last seen?”