“Your sister didn’t feel up to going?”
When Fisher nodded an upper chin plunged into the fat of its lower counterpart.
“Louise insisted she’d be fine. Said if she needed anything, she’d call Claudia. That’s my daughter.” Fisher’s throat seemed to clench. “Oh God. Does Claudia know?”
“Yes, ma’am. Claudia’s been very worried about you.”
“We should have told her.
“When did you get back from Charlevoix?” Ryan asked.
“Not long before you arrived. I thought Louise was over to the church. They do bingo on Thursday nights. I was tired from the drive, so I was about to leave her a note and turn in.”
Fisher was wadding and unwadding the saturated tissue.
“Louise’s bed is unmade. That’s not like her.”
The corpulent bosom heaved again.
“Let me get you some water.”
As I filled a glass from the kitchen tap, Ryan and Fisher talked on in the living room. Now and then the cockatiel chirped or sang a fragment of song.
Before returning, I made a quick pass by Louise Parent’s room. The scene differed little from the SIJ photos. The bed was now stripped, exposing a stain on the mattress where Parent’s bladder had voided at death. A single pillow lay by the headboard.
I returned to the living room and handed Fisher the water.
Ryan caught my eye and gave a subtle head shake, indicating Fisher was too distraught for meaningful questioning.
“I’m going to call your daughter now,” Ryan said.
Fisher made disjointed slurping sounds as she drank.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.”
“When can I see Louise?”
Ryan looked at me.
“A viewing can be arranged, if that’s what you’d like.”
“What a terrible Christmas.” Fisher’s lips trembled. Tears glistened on each of her cheeks.
I squeezed the woman’s hand. “It’s so very hard when we lose someone we love.”
“I’ll have to plan the funeral.”
“I’m sure Claudia will be a great help.”
“I know just what Louise would want.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“We told each other everything.”
That’s good, I thought.
Claudia arrived within minutes.
Before leaving, I had one last question.
“Mrs. Fisher, did your sister sleep on a feather pillow?”
“Never. Louise was allergic.”
“Do you use a feather pillow?”
“Goose down.” Fisher’s face clouded. “Why? Was my pillow on Louise’s bed?”
My eyes met Ryan’s.
“Seems like a nice lady,” I said, as Ryan shifted into drive.
“More important, a living lady.”
“No wonder no one spotted her car.”
“Not likely, parked behind some pissant B and B in Pointe-aux-Pics.”
We drove in silence, bare branches cutting odd patterns in the streetlight bouncing off the windshield. Within minutes Ryan pulled onto the Pont Victoria. The wheels made the sound of a thumb rubbing the rim of a very large glass. Below us, the St. Lawrence looked black and still.
“Parent was murdered,” I said grimly.
“It’s looking that way.”
“With Fisher’s pillow.”
