Monday Mourning

“You’re not exactly the Suave girl, yourself.”

Anne’s hair was twisted upward and clipped with a barrette. A spray winged from her head like the crown on Katy’s cockatiel.

“I considered more tidying, but wasn’t sure how much I should touch.” Anne stood, dug a mug from a cabinet, filled, and handed it to me.

“Thanks.”

“What’s on the rail for the lizard?”

Anne had many expressions deriving from her Mississippi childhood. This was one I hadn’t heard before.

“Translation?”

“What are your plans for today?”

“I have a date with the last of those pizza basement skeletons. Yours?”

“Contemporary Art Museum. That’s the Place-des-Arts metro stop, right?”

“Correct.”

I poured cream into my coffee, then dropped two halves of an English muffin into the toaster.

“Did you know that twenty-five hundred morons bared their fat asses in the rain for a Spencer Tunick photo in that plaza?”

“How do you know they were all rump heavy?”

“Ever been to a nude beach?”

Anne had a point. Those who shouldn’t are often those who most willingly flaunt it.

“Then St-Denise for lunch and shopping,” she went on.

“Alone?” I asked, remembering the hunk in 3C.

“Yes, Mom. Alone.”

“Annie, do you suppose that man could have broken in here?”

“Why in the world would he do that? He probably doesn’t know you, and that is no way to impress me. Why would he do something so totally crazy?”

“Someone did.”

“I don’t think it could be him, really I don’t. The guy looked perfectly normal. But…” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Tempe. It was stupid.”

I was spreading blackberry jam when Anne spoke again.

“What’s a seven-letter word for ‘insensitive’?”

“Hurtful.”

“Beginning with C.”

“Claudel.”

Anne’s eyes rolled up over the flowery frames.

“I think I’ll go with ‘callous,’” she said.

Anne refocused on her puzzle. I settled opposite her and listened to the news. A fire in St-Léonard. Another Habs loss. More snow on the way.

I’d just finished my muffin when Anne tossed down her glasses and pen.

“Is this Claudel a good detective?”

I sheeshed air through my lips.

“I take that as a negative.”

“Claudel’s thorough, but narrow-minded, opinionated, and stubborn. He also sees no need for forensic anthropologists in general, and female ones in particular. He views every suggestion as interfering.”

“Let me guess. And he’s not making much of an effort on your skeleton case?”

“He’s not even humoring me. And he considers it to be his skeleton case, not mine.”

“You’ve had that problem with him before, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. Often-wrong-but-never-in-doubt Claudel.”

“So he’s not your favorite?”

“Claudel’s not a laugh riot. His questions are curt to the point of rudeness, and he rarely explains why particular facts are of interest to him, or why my opinions are not.”

“What would it take to get him to listen?”

“I could sing the Hallelujah Chorus naked.” I got up and popped a second muffin into the toaster.

“You still have the bod, but you never had the voice. I was thinking along more professional lines,” Anne said.

“The point of controversy is postmortem interval. Claudel believes the bones are old. I don’t. I’ve sent off samples for Carbon 14 testing, but I won’t get results for at least a week.”

“What else might get his attention?”

“Six or seven dead preschoolers.”

“You’re starting to piss me off, Tempe. I’m asking a serious question.” Anne held out her empty mug. “What would inspire Claudel to show more interest in your bones?”

“Proof that the deaths were recent.”

I poured two refills and gave her one.

“There you go.” Anne proffered her coffee-free hand, palm up.

“Claudel believes such proof is lacking.”

“Don’t wait for the Carbon 14. Change his mind.”

“He refuses to explore the possibility.”

“So give him more to chew on.”

“What am I supposed to do? Hire thugs and have him beaten until he agrees?”

“Agrees to what?”

“To investigate.”

“Meaning?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” I sat back down with my second muffin.

“What is it you would like Claudel to do?”

I gave that a few moments’ thought.

“Canvas the neighborhood. Learn more about the building. Research previous residents. Find out who owned the place. Who lived there. How long the first floor has been commercial. What businesses have occupied the premises. What building permits were issued and to whom.”

“There you go.” Again, the upraised palm.

“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“Don’t force me to three.”

“Where do I go?”

“To the solution to your problem.”

It was too early. I wasn’t making the bridges.

“Which is?”

“Do it yourself.”

“Claudel would go ballistic.”

“How could he? He says the bones are old. He sees no reason to explore further. You’re doing additional research.”

“It’s not my job.”

“Apparently Claudel thinks it’s not his either.”

“Claudel has no interest in my suggestions, but if I do anything that even loosely resembles detective work, he gets overtly hostile.”

“Look. You don’t have to make a TV series out of it. Just poke down the burrow and see what crawls out.”