Monday Mourning

I thought about that while Anne entered, erased, then reentered thirty-four down in her puzzle. She had a point. What could it hurt to check out old deeds, tax records, and building permits? If Claudel was right, I’d be working with the archaeologists anyway. Besides, he was going to be tied up with this sting Ryan had mentioned. Also, when Claudel was free again and heard I was looking into things, though furious, he might feel obligated to do more investigating himself, just to guard against my finding things that he had not.

At that moment, the doorbell chirped. When I answered, SIJ announced its presence. I buzzed the team in, pointed out the damaged French door, Anne’s room, and Katy’s painting, and asked if they’d mind starting in the living room.

While the techs shot photos and dusted for prints, Anne and I retreated to our respective quarters to dress and brush and apply whatever makeup each deemed essential. During my toilette, I considered options.

It was Friday. Public offices were closed on weekends. If I examined the third skeleton today, I wouldn’t have access to the courthouse or City Hall until Monday.

I could work at the lab anytime, over the weekend if absolutely necessary. I couldn’t research records anytime.

Decision.

Once again, full analysis of the third skeleton was being deferred.

After replenishing Birdie’s food and water, I checked with the SIJ techs. So far, zip.

I was reaching for the phone when Anne swept into my bedroom. She wore boots and the jacket she’d declined the evening before. The angora scarf was in place, the hat and mittens clutched in one hand.

“Setting off?” I asked.

“We’re setting off,” Anne said.

“What about the museum?”

“Art is eternal. It will be there tomorrow. Today I sleuth. See? Already my life is multidimensional. You and I. Cagney and Lacey. It’ll be a gas.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Cagney and Lacey were trained detectives with badges and guns. We’ll be more like Miss Marple and one of her friends from the garden club. But, OK, let’s give it a go. The crime scene techs will let themselves out. I’ll check my messages and we’re on our way.”

I dialed the lab, punched in my mailbox number and access code. One message. Nine forty-three the previous evening.

The woman’s words started a holocaust of possibilities whirling through my head, each uglier than the next.

12

FRANTICALLY, I JABBED AT A PEN ON MY DRESSER. ANNE DARTED and handed it to me.

“Dr. Brennan. I feel I must give this one last try or I will not be able to live with myself.”

I logged details of the voice. Old. Female.

“I called the day before yesterday about the story in Le Journal.”

A pause. As before, I heard chirping in the background, vaguely familiar chirping.

“I believe I know who is dead and why.” Shot through with desolation and doubt.

“Come on,” I urged under my breath. “Who are you?”

“You have my name.”

“No. I don’t!”

Anne’s head snapped up in surprise at my outcry.

“You may reach me at 514-937—”

“Atta girl!”

Anne watched as I scribbled the number, clicked off, and dialed.

Somewhere on the island a phone rang ten, eleven, twelve times.

I cut the connection and repunched the digits.

A dozen more unanswered rings.

“Damn!”

I clicked off and tossed the handset onto the bed, my whole body taut with frustration. I rose and paced the room, then snatched up the handset and dialed again.

No answer.

“Pick up your goddamn phone!”

What to do? Call Claudel or Charbonneau and give him the number? Call Ryan? All three of them were probably fully occupied with this massive joint operation they were on and didn’t have time for phone numbers.

Disconnecting, I grabbed my keys, raced to the basement, and retrieved my laptop from the trunk of my car. When I returned to the bedroom Anne was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, one foot flicking up and down. She watched without comment as I booted the computer, and typed the phone number into a browser.

No results. The browser suggested I check my spelling or try different words. “How do you spell a number, you ignorant twit?”

I tried another browser. Then another.

No matches. Same useful tips.

“What good are you!”

Snatching the handset again, I punched another number, requested an individual, and made an inquiry.

No. Wednesday’s call to the lab had not yet been traced. Why not? These things take time. Well, then, write down this number and see if you get a match.

I sailed the handset back onto the bed, crossed to the dresser, dug for gloves, and slammed the drawer.

While jamming my right hand into one glove, I let go of the other. I bent to pick it up, dropped it again, kicked it to the wall, retrieved it, and yanked it onto my left hand.

When I turned Anne was gazing up at me, arms still folded, an amused expression on her face.

“Is this our resident forensic specialist demonstrating the art of a tantrum?” Anne asked in a Mr. Rogers voice.

“You think that was a tantrum? Piss me off and I’ll show you a gorilla.”