Monday Mourning

“That may be why your friend wasn’t down there,” Claudel said. “Pomerleau probably planned to drag Madame Turnip to the cellar, then changed her mind, fearing the fire wouldn’t penetrate that far.”

“Or maybe she just grew tired and dumped her.” I felt my hands curl into fists.

“You were correct about the buttons.” Claudel looked me dead in the eye. “Undoubtedly Catts dropped them while in the pizza parlor basement. They were unrelated to the bodies.”

I felt no satisfaction at being right, just a deep aching sorrow.

And weariness. My strength was unraveling like the top of an old sock.

I relaxed my hands and laced my fingers. There was one last answer I needed.

“When did you learn I’d gone to de Sébastopol?”

“I retrieved your message on the drive back from Vermont,” Charbonneau said. “We’d learned from the photo that Menard was dead and that Catts had killed him. We knew that Pomerleau and McGee were in the wind. We knew Catts was dead. Luc and I went directly to headquarters and found a report stating that Pomerleau’s prints were on the gun Catts used to blow out his lights.”

“And no prints from Catts,” I guessed.

“Nada. And Doc LaManche said Catts’s hands were residue-free. We remembered what you’d told us about brainwashing, put two and two together, and hauled ass for de Sébastopol, gambling that we’d get there before you found Pomerleau and came to grief.”

“Thank you.”

“The line of duty, ma’am.” Charbonneau grinned.

I turned to Claudel.

“Thank you, Detective. And I truly am sorry about your coat.”

Claudel nodded. “You showed great resourcefulness and courage.”

“Thanks again. To both of you.” We all rose and I started for the door.

“Dr. Brennan.”

I turned back to Claudel.

“I have never been an admirer.” The corners of Claudel’s mouth quivered toward something verging on a grin. “But you have given me a new appreciation for leopard skin.”

39

I BARELY WOKE WHEN RYAN PHONED WEDNESDAY NIGHT. MUMBLING a number of “Mm”s, and “Uh-huh”s, I dropped back into oblivion.

The next thing I knew sun was streaming through my window, the clock said ten-thirty, and Birdie’s face was inches from mine.

And my doorbell was chirping.

Grabbing my bathrobe, I stumbled to the security panel. The monitor showed Ryan wearing a Santa hat with Le Père Noël embroidered on the fur.

I did a two-handed hair-tuck, smiling like Claudel’s happy-face Skivvies.

Onscreen, the outer door opened and a young woman entered the foyer. Black corkscrew curls. Tall. Earrings the size of croquet hoops.

Ryan hugged the woman to his side. She tugged off his Santa hat.

My hand froze halfway to the buzzer. My smile crumbled.

The prom queen.

An iceberg congealed in my chest.

The prom queen turned. Café-au-lait skin. An expression that suggested she’d rather be elsewhere. Tikrit. Kabul. Anywhere but that foyer.

Ryan smiled and squeezed her again. The woman wriggled free and handed him his hat.

Lord God in heaven! Was the egotistical sonovabitch planning to make introductions?

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. Ratty pink terry cloth. Parboiled face. Hair looking like something that fed on plankton.

“OK, buster.” I jabbed the button. “Bring her on.”

Ryan was alone when I opened the door. The hall behind him was empty.

He’d hidden his teenybopper. Fine. Better.

“Yes?” Glacial.

Grinning, Ryan looked me up and down.

“Entertaining DiCaprio?”

I didn’t smile.

Ryan studied my face.

“It’s funny about eyebrows. You never really notice them until they go awry.”

Ryan reached out to touch my forehead. I pulled back.

“Or go away.”

“You’re here to critique my brows?”

“What brows?”

Not even the hint of a smile.

Ryan crossed his arms. “I’d like to talk.”

“It’s not a good time.”

“You look beautiful.”

I bit back a retort that included the word “bimbo.”

“Sultry.”

My AWOL brows crimped.

“Smoldering.”

The crimp dived into a full-blown frown.

“If I promise no more fire jokes, can I come back in ten? More than enough time to get yourself beautiful.”

I started to refuse.

“Please?” Lapis-lazuli sincerity.

My libido sat up. I sent it flying into tomorrow.

“Sure, Ryan. Why not?”

Coffee. Jeans and sweater. Teeth. Fresh bandages.

Hair? Makeup?

Screw it.

Fifteen minutes later the bell chirped again.

When I opened the door, she was with him.

I stiffened.

Ryan’s eyes locked onto mine. “I’d like you to meet Lily.”

“Ryan,” I said. “Don’t.”

“My daughter.”

My lips parted as my mind processed the meaning of those words.

“Lily, this is Tempe.”

Lily shifted her feet.

“Hi.” Mumbled.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lily.”

Daughter? Ohmygod.

I looked a question at Ryan.

“Lily lives in Halifax.”

I turned back to Lily.

“Nova Scotia?” Moron! Of course, Nova Scotia.

“Yes.” Lily took in my frizzled hair and blisters, but said nothing.

“Lily’s been in Montreal since the third,” Ryan said.

The day I testified at the Pétit trial.

“Lily and I have been getting to know each other over the past few months.”

Lily shrugged one shoulder, adjusted the strap of her purse.

“I feel the women in my life should also get to know each other.”

The women in his life?