“Miss Parent spoke of a building on rue Ste-Catherine.”
The sausage fingers closed and opened.
“She said she was bothered by events that had taken place there.”
Fisher’s fidgeting intensified.
“Your sister stated that she felt morally obligated to share certain information with the authorities.”
“She called you?” Fisher looked up, eyes wide in the artlessly recreated face.
“Twice. Do you know why?”
“I didn’t think she’d actually do it.”
“What did your sister want to discuss with me?”
At that moment Bastillo arrived and took the chair opposite the couch. The cockatiel shifted from chirping to shrilling short, strident notes.
“’Tit Ange!” Bastillo barked.
The cockatiel did another series of power shrills.
“Cut it out!”
The cockatiel said “pretty bird” in English and French, then began investigating the contents of its seed basin.
“He’s mimicking the smoke detector,” Bastilllo explained. “Little cretin picked it up when he was alone one weekend and the batteries failed.”
“He’s very talented,” I said. “And bilingual.”
“He’s a pip.” Bastillo was clearly not fond of the bird.
“Trilingual.”
We all looked at Fisher.
“English, French, and Cockatiel. Louise used to laugh about that.” Fisher’s voice made abrupt stops and starts as her chest clutched. “She was a translator, you know.”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”
Fisher nodded and the chins joined hands.
“Translated books from French to English. And the other way round.”
“That’s very difficult work,” I said, then turned to Bastillo.
“We were asking your mother about calls your aunt placed to my lab shortly before she died.”
“There’s a connection?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Are you suggesting my aunt’s death may not have been natural?”
“We want to investigate every possibility,” Ryan said.
“Do you suspect us?” Shrill as the bird.
“Of course not.” Ryan’s voice was reassurance itself. “We’d simply like to know what was on your aunt’s mind.”
Ryan addressed Fisher.
“Do you know what Miss Parent intended to tell Dr. Brennan?”
When Fisher nodded, lattice bands of sunlight slid over her cheek.
’Tit Ange whistled a line from
Rose Fisher drew a deep breath.
“Louise lived on Ste-Catherine for almost seventeen years. When my husband passed away in ninety-four, I persuaded her to move in with me. Her building was one of those big things, with businesses on the street level and people living on the floors above. Too noisy for me, but Louise liked it. She had a two-bedroom apartment overlooking the street, loved looking out the window as she worked at her desk. Called herself the neighborhood snoop.”
“What kind of businesses occupied the building?” I urged gently.
“There was a whole string. A luggage lady. A butcher. Then this guy opened a pawnshop.”
Fisher looked down.
“Louise didn’t like him.
“What was his name?”
“Started with an M. Maynard? Martin? Louise might have said he was American. I don’t remember. This was years ago.”
Stephane Menard. The guy on Cyr’s list. The guy who’d rented space in Cyr’s building from eighty-nine to ninety-eight.
