your boots and Chap-Stick and ice hotels. Give me shorts and sandals and a thirty-blocker.
My cat, Birdie, shares this view. When I sat up he rose, arched, then tunneled back under the covers. Smiling, I watched his body compact into a tight round lump. Birdie. My sole and loyal roommate.
“I’m with you, Bird,” I said, offing the clock radio.
The lump curled tighter.
I looked at the digits. Five-thirty.
I looked at the window. Pitch-black.
I bolted for the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later I was at my kitchen table, coffee at my elbow, Petit file spread before me.
Marie-Reine Petit was a forty-two-year-old mother of three who worked at a
A search of the Petit basement uncovered coping, hack, and carpenter’s saws. I had analyzed the cut marks on Marie-Reine’s bones to determine if a tool similar to one of hubby’s had made them. Bingo on the hacksaw. Rejean Petit was now on trial for the murder of his wife.
Two hours and three coffees later, I gathered my photos and papers and rechecked the subpoena.
Hot diggety.
I noted the courtroom.
Zipping into boots and parka, I grabbed gloves, hat, and scarf, set the security alarm, and headed down to the garage. Birdie had yet to uncurl. Apparently my cat had enjoyed a predawn breakfast.
My old Mazda started on the first try. Good omen.
At the top of the ramp, I braked too quickly and swam crosswise into the lane like a kid on a Slip ’n Slide. Bad omen.
Rush hour. The streets were clogged, every vehicle spinning up slush. The early morning sun turned my salt- spattered windshield opaque. Though I applied my wipers and sprayers repeatedly, for stretches I found myself driving blind. Within blocks, I regretted not taking a taxi.
In the late sixteenth century a group of Laurentian Iroquois lived in a village they called Hochelaga, situated between a small mountain and a major river, just below the last stretch of serious rapids. In 1642, French missionaries and adventurers dropped in and stayed. The French called their outpost Ville-Marie.
Over the years, the residents of Ville-Marie prospered and built and paved. The village took on the name of the mountain behind it, Mont Real. The river was christened the St. Lawrence.
Hello, Europeans. Good-bye, First Nations.
Today the former Hochelaga–Ville-Marie turf is known as Vieux-Montreal. Tourists love it.
Stretching uphill from the river, Old Montreal oozes quaint. Gaslights. Horse-drawn carriages. Sidewalk vendors. Outdoor cafes. The solid stone buildings that were once home to colonists, stables, workshops, and warehouses now house museums, boutiques, galleries, and restaurants. The streets are narrow and cobbled.
And offer not a chance of parking.
Wishing, once again, I’d taken a taxi, I left the car in a pay lot, then hurried up boulevard St-Laurent to the Palais de Justice, located at 1 rue Notre-Dame est, on the northern perimeter of the historic district. Salt crunched underfoot. Breath froze on my scarf. Pigeons remained huddled when I passed, preferring collective body warmth to the safety of flight.
As I walked, I thought of the pizza basement skeletons. Would the bones really prove to be those of dead girls? I hoped not, but deep down I already knew.
I also thought of Marie-Reine Petit, and felt sorrow for a life cut short by unspeakable malice. I wondered about the Petit children. Father jailed for murdering mother. Could these kids ever recover, or were they irreparably damaged by the horror that had been thrust upon them?
Passing, I glanced at the McDonald’s franchise across St-Laurent from the Palais de Justice. The owners had made a stab at colonial. They’d lost the arches and thrown up blue awnings. It didn’t really work, but they had tried.
The designers of Montreal’s main courthouse didn’t bother with architectural harmony. The lower stories consist of an oblong box covered with vertical black bars overhanging a smaller, glass-fronted box beneath. The upper stories shoot skyward as a featureless monolith. The building blends with the neighborhood like a Hummer parked in an Amish colony.
I entered the Palais to a packed house. Old ladies in ankle-length furs. Gangsta teens in clothes big enough to accommodate armies. Men in suits. Black-robed attorneys and judges. Some waited. Others hurried. There seemed no in-between.
Winding among large planters and uprights bearing starburst lights, I crossed to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Coffee smells drifted from the Cafe Vienne. Already wired, I considered but passed up a fourth cup.
Upstairs, the scene was similar, though tipped in favor of the waiting game. People sat on perforated red metal benches, leaned against walls, or stood conversing in hushed voices. A few conferred with counsel in small interrogation rooms lining the corridor. None looked happy.
