“Fiber guys should be able to match the feathers.”
“Some coldhearted bastard slipped into the house, took a pillow from Fisher’s bed, and used it to smother Parent.”
“While she was dead to the world on Ambien.”
“How could someone break in without leaving a trace of evidence?”
“I intend to discuss that with Fisher.”
“And Bastillo.”
“And Bastillo.”
“Do you suppose Fisher knew about Parent’s phone calls to me?”
“Another topic for discussion.”
That was it for conversation.
Fine.
I didn’t want to think about Rose Fisher. Louise Parent. Ryan. Anne. My lost girls.
Leaning my head against the seat, I closed my eyes and occupied my mind making up phrases to describe the silence in the car.
The silence of a walled tomb. An abandoned library in a Vatican basement. A black hole at the terminus of a spiral galaxy. A startled cockatiel.
Ryan dropped me at my car.
“You on for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Rose Fisher?”
“What time?”
“I’ll phone after I’ve checked with Bastillo.”
By the time I drove from the lab to Centre-ville, it was seven thirty-five. Anne was dozing, floral glasses on her nose, a paperback on her chest. Birdie was beside her.
Anne had made pot roast. We chatted as she thickened gravy and I tossed a salad.
During dinner, Anne described her book, the subject of which was death. She was finding the author’s perspective enlightening. I found her choice of topic unsettling.
“Why the morbid interest in death?”
“You sound like Annie Hall.”
“You’re acting like Woody Allen.”
Anne thought a moment.
“To move forward it is often necessary to change.”
“Move toward what and change how?”
“In substance.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Cycles.”
As I pondered that enigmatic comment, the phone rang. It was Katy.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart. Where are you?”
“Charlottesville, but I’m heading home tomorrow.”
“Exams went well?”
“Of course. I’m checking to make sure you’ll be in Charlotte on the twenty-second.”
The twenty-second?
“Hannah’s shower? You promised you’d help me?”
What demented moron would plan a wedding at Christmas?
“Of course I’ll be there.”
“I’m counting on your years and
“Cute.”
“I sent you a couple of e-mails. Ho! Ho! Ho! ’Tis the season, and all that. I especially crave that sweater from Anthropologie. And the tranquillity fountain would help me chill.”
“What do you need to chill about?”
“Help me study, I mean.”
