Monday Mourning

to feel invincible. Besides, where else could he bury bodies? He couldn’t dig graves in the Corneaus’ front yard.”

“And the cellar was otherwise committed,” I said bitterly.

There was a moment of silence as we thought about that. I broke it.

“Who do you suppose Louise Parent saw?”

“Perhaps Pomerleau. Perhaps one of the others. Catts may have kept girls under the pawnshop while preparing his little welcome wagon over in the Point,” Charbonneau said.

“Pomerleau admitted that she’d killed Parent,” I said.

“No doubt she was in it up to her eyeballs. SIJ found Rose Fisher’s address in the de Sebastopol basement. But the Parent murder may have gone down at Catts’s instigation. He probably told Pomerleau that the old lady had spotted him with captives at the pawnshop. They must have been keeping track of Parent, and when the bodies were discovered they figured they needed to move before she did.” Charbonneau shook his head. “Ironic, isn’t it? They tried to hide everything in the de Sebastopol basement, and that’s the only thing that survived the fire.”

“That may be why your friend wasn’t down there,” Claudel said. “Pomerleau probably planned to drag Madame Turnip to the cellar, then changed her mind, fearing the fire wouldn’t penetrate that far.”

“Or maybe she just grew tired and dumped her.” I felt my hands curl into fists.

“You were correct about the buttons.” Claudel looked me dead in the eye. “Undoubtedly Catts dropped them while in the pizza parlor basement. They were unrelated to the bodies.”

I felt no satisfaction at being right, just a deep aching sorrow.

And weariness. My strength was unraveling like the top of an old sock.

I relaxed my hands and laced my fingers. There was one last answer I needed.

“When did you learn I’d gone to de Sebastopol?”

“I retrieved your message on the drive back from Vermont,” Charbonneau said. “We’d learned from the photo that Menard was dead and that Catts had killed him. We knew that Pomerleau and McGee were in the wind. We knew Catts was dead. Luc and I went directly to headquarters and found a report stating that Pomerleau’s prints were on the gun Catts used to blow out his lights.”

“And no prints from Catts,” I guessed.

“Nada. And Doc LaManche said Catts’s hands were residue-free. We remembered what you’d told us about brainwashing, put two and two together, and hauled ass for de Sebastopol, gambling that we’d get there before you found Pomerleau and came to grief.”

“Thank you.”

“The line of duty, ma’am.” Charbonneau grinned.

I turned to Claudel.

“Thank you, Detective. And I truly am sorry about your coat.”

Claudel nodded. “You showed great resourcefulness and courage.”

“Thanks again. To both of you.” We all rose and I started for the door.

“Dr. Brennan.”

I turned back to Claudel.

“I have never been an admirer.” The corners of Claudel’s mouth quivered toward something verging on a grin. “But you have given me a new appreciation for leopard skin.”

39

I BARELY WOKE WHEN RYAN PHONED WEDNESDAY NIGHT. MUMBLING a number of “Mm”s, and “Uh-huh”s, I dropped back into oblivion.

The next thing I knew sun was streaming through my window, the clock said ten-thirty, and Birdie’s face was inches from mine.

And my doorbell was chirping.

Grabbing my bathrobe, I stumbled to the security panel. The monitor showed Ryan wearing a Santa hat with Le Pere Noel embroidered on the fur.

I did a two-handed hair-tuck, smiling like Claudel’s happy-face Skivvies.

Onscreen, the outer door opened and a young woman entered the foyer. Black corkscrew curls. Tall. Earrings the size of croquet hoops.

Ryan hugged the woman to his side. She tugged off his Santa hat.

My hand froze halfway to the buzzer. My smile crumbled.

The prom queen.

An iceberg congealed in my chest.

The prom queen turned. Cafe-au-lait skin. An expression that suggested she’d rather be elsewhere. Tikrit. Kabul. Anywhere but that foyer.

Ryan smiled and squeezed her again. The woman wriggled free and handed him his hat.