Kathy Reichs: Monday Mourning

I was ready. Belly-sucking size-four Christmas-red jeans. Hair tucked behind my ears and disheveled Meg Ryan style in back. Fluffed bangs. Orchid and lavender lids. Katy’s idea. Hazel eyes—lavender shadow. Dazzling!

Ryan arrived at seven-thirty with a six-pack of Moosehead, a baguette, and a small white box from a patisserie. His face was flushed from the cold, and fresh snow sparkled on his hair and shoulders.

Bending, he kissed me on the mouth then wrapped me in his arms.

“You look good.” Ryan pressed me to him. I smelled Irish Spring and aftershave mingled with leather.

“Thanks.”

Releasing me, Ryan slipped off his bomber jacket and tossed it on the sofa.

Birdie rocketed to the rug and shot down the hall.

“Sorry. Didn’t see the little guy.”

“He’ll cope.”

“You look really good.” Ryan caressed my cheek with his knuckles.

My stomach did jumping jacks.

“You’re not half bad, yourself, Detective.”

It’s true. Ryan is tall and lanky, with sandy hair, and impossibly blue eyes. Tonight he was wearing jeans and a Galway sweater.

I come from generations of Irish farmers and fishermen. Blame DNA. Blue eyes and cable knit knock me out.

“What’s in the box?” I asked.

“Surprise for the chef.”

Ryan detached a beer and placed the rest in the fridge.

“Something smells good.” He lifted the cover on the salsa bowl.

“Melon salsa. Crenshaws are tough to find in December.” I left it at that.

“Buy you a beer or mixed drink, cupcake?” Ryan flashed his brows and flicked an imaginary cigar.

“My usual.”

I checked the rice. Ryan dug a Diet Coke from the fridge. His lips twitched at the corners as he offered the can.

“Who’s calling most?”

“Sorry?” I was lost.

“Agents or talent scouts?”

My hand froze in midair. I knew what was coming.

“Where?”

“Le Journal de Montréal.”

“Today?”

Ryan nodded. “Above the fold.”

“Front page?” I was dismayed.

“Fourteen back. Color photo. You’ll love the angle.”

“Pictures?”

An image flashed across my mind. A skinny black man in a knee-length sweater. A trapdoor. A camera.

The little turd at the pizza parlor had sold his snapshots.

When working a case, I am adamant in my refusal to give media interviews. Many journalists think me rude. Others have described me in more colorful terms. I don’t care. Over the years I have learned that statements inevitably lead to misquotes. And misquotes invariably lead to problems.

And I never look good in the pics.

“Can I open that for you?” Ryan retrieved the Coke, pulled the tab, and handed it back.

“No doubt you’ve brought a copy,” I said, setting the can on the counter and yanking the oven door.

“For the safety of diners, viewing will take place when all cutlery’s cleared.”

During dinner I told Ryan about my day in court.

“The reviews are good,” he said.

Ryan has a spy network that makes the CIA look like a Cub Scout pack. He usually knows of my movements before I tell him. It annoys the hell out of me.

And Ryan’s amusement over the Journal piece was lowering my threshold for irritation.

Get over it, Brennan. Don’t take yourself so seriously.

“Really?” I smiled.

“Critics gave you four stars.”

Only four?

“I see.”

“Word is, Pétit’s going down.”

I said nothing.

“Tell me about this pizza parlor case.” Ryan switched gears.

“Isn’t the whole affair laid out in Le Journal ?” I helped myself to more salad.

“Coverage is a bit vague. May I have that?”

I handed him the bowl.

We ate arugula for a full three minutes. Ryan broke the silence.

“Are you going to tell me about your bones?”

My eyes met his. The interest looked sincere.

I relented, but kept my account brief. When I’d finished, Ryan rose and retrieved a section of newspaper from his jacket.

Both shots had been taken from above and to my right. In the first, I was talking to Claudel, eyes angry, gloved finger jabbing the air. The caption might have read “Attack of the Shrew.”

The second captured the shrew on all fours, ass pointing skyward.

“Any idea how the Journal got these?” Ryan asked.

“The owner’s slimeball assistant.”

“Claudel caught the case?”

“Yes.” I picked bread crumbs from the tabletop.

Ryan reached out and placed his hand on mine. “Claudel’s come around a lot.”

I didn’t reply.

Ryan was about to speak again when his cell phone twittered.

Giving my hand a squeeze, he pulled the unit from his belt and checked the caller ID. His eyes flicked up in frustration. Or irritation. Or something I couldn’t read.

“I’ve got to take this,” he said.

Pushing back from the table, he moved off down the hall.

As I cleared dishes I could hear the rhythm of the conversation. The words were muffled, but the cadence suggested agitation.

In moments, he was back.

“Sorry, babe. I’ve got to go.”

“You’re leaving?” I was stunned.

“It’s a thankless business.”

“We haven’t eaten your pastry.”

The Irish blues would not meet mine.

“I’m sorry.”

A peck on the cheek.

The chef was alone with her uneaten surprise.

4

I AWOKE FEELING DOWN AND NOT KNOWING WHY.

Because I was alone? Because my only bed partner was a big white cat? I hadn’t planned my life that way. Pete and I had intended to grow old together. To sail married into the afterlife.

Then my forever-hubby shared Mr. Happy with a real estate agent.

And I enjoyed my own little fling with the bottle.

Whatever, as Katy would say. Life marches.

Outside, the weather was gray, blustery, and uninviting. The clock said seven-ten. Birdie was nowhere to be seen.

Pulling off my nightshirt, I took a hot shower, then blow-dried my hair. Birdie strolled in as I was brushing my teeth. I greeted him, then smiled into the mirror, considering whether it was a mascara day.

Then I remembered.

Ryan’s hasty retreat. The look in his eyes.

Jamming my toothbrush back into its charger, I wandered to the bedroom and stared at the frosted window. Crystalline spirals and snowflake geometrics. So delicate. So fragile.

Like the fantasy I’d constructed of a life with Ryan?

I wondered again what was going on.

And why I was acting the featured ditz in a Doris Day comedy.

“Screw this, Doris,” I said aloud.

Birdie looked up, but kept his thoughts to himself.

“And screw you, Andrew Ryan.”

Returning to the bathroom, I layered on the Revlon.

The Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale occupies the top two floors of the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome, a T-shaped building in the Hochelaga-Maissoneuve district, just east of Centre-ville. The Bureau du Coroner is on the eleventh floor, the morgue is in the basement. The remaining space belongs to the SQ.

At eight-fifteen the twelfth floor was filling with white-coated men and women. Several greeted me as I swiped my security pass, first at the lobby entrance, then at the glass doors separating the medicolegal wing from the rest of the T. I returned their “bonjour” s and continued to my office, not in the mood to chat. I was still upset from last night’s encounter with Ryan. Make that nonencounter.

As at most medical examiner and coroner facilities, each workday at the LSJML begins with a meeting of the professional staff. I’d barely removed my outerwear when the phone rang. Pierre LaManche. It had been a busy night. The chief was anxious to begin.