Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

“No. I think she’s sick. That’s why I’m working. I’m not scheduled on Fridays, but Anna couldn’t, so Dr. Jeannotte asked me to fill in today.”

“She’s sick?”

“Yeah, I guess. Actually, I don’t know. All I know is she’s out again. It’s O.K. I can use the money.”

“Again?”

“Well, yeah. She misses quite a bit. I usually fill in. The extra money’s nice, but it isn’t helping my thesis get written.” She gave a short laugh, but I could detect annoyance in her voice.

“Does Anna have health problems?”

Sandy tilted her head and looked at me. “Why are you so interested in Anna?”

“I’m not really. I’m here to pick up some research that Dr. Jeannotte has for me. But I am a friend of Anna’s aunt, and I know that her family is worried because they haven’t seen her since yesterday morning.”

She shook her head and reached for another journal. “They ought to worry about Anna. She is one weird cookie.”

“Weird?”

She shelved the journal then turned to face me. Her eyes rested on mine for a long time, assessing.

“You’re a friend of the family?”

“Yes.” Sort of.

“You’re not an investigator or reporter or something?”

“I’m an anthropologist.” True, though not fully accurate. But an image of Margaret Mead or Jane Goodall might be more reassuring. “I’m only asking because Anna’s aunt called me this morning. Then when it developed that we were talking about the same person . . .”

Sandy crossed the office and checked the corridor, then leaned against the wall just inside the door. It was obvious that her height did not embarrass her. She held her head high and moved with long, languid strides.

“I don’t want to say anything that will cost Anna her job. Or me mine. Please don’t tell anyone where this came from, particularly Dr. Jeannotte. She would not like me talking about one of her students.”

“You have my word.”

She took a deep breath. “I think Anna’s really messed up and needs help. And it’s not just because I have to cover for her. Anna and I were friends, or at least we hung out a lot last year. Then she changed. Zoned out. I’ve been thinking of calling her mother for a while now. Someone should know.”

She swallowed and shifted weight.

“Anna spends half her time over at the counseling center because she’s so unhappy. She goes missing for days on end, and when she is around she doesn’t seem to have any life, just hangs here all the time. And she always looks edgy, like she’s ready to jump off a bridge.”

She stopped, her eyes riveted on mine, deciding. Then,

“A friend told me Anna is involved in something.”

“Yes?”

“I have absolutely no idea if this is true, or if I should even say it. It’s not my style to pass on gossip, but if Anna is in trouble, I’d never forgive myself for keeping quiet.”

I waited.

“And if it is true she could be at risk.”

“What is it you think Anna is involved in?”

“This sounds so bizarre.” She shook her head and the earrings tapped her jaw. “I mean, you hear about these things, but it’s never someone you know.”

She swallowed again and glanced over her shoulder out the door.

“My friend told me that Anna joined a cult. A group of Satan worshipers. I don’t know if . . .”

On hearing the creak of floorboards, Sandy crossed to the far end of the office and picked up several journals. She was busy shelving when Daisy Jeannotte appeared in the doorway.

9

“I AM SO SORRY,” DAISY SAID, SMILING WARMLY. “I SEEM TO ALWAYS be keeping you waiting. Have you and Sandy introduced yourselves?” Her hair was in the same impeccable bun.

“Yes, we have. We’ve been talking about the joys of shelving.”

“I do ask them to do a lot of that. Copying and shelving. Very tedious, I know. But a great deal of real research is just plain tedious. My students and helpers are very patient with me.”

She turned her smile on Sandy, who gave her own brief version and returned to the journals. I was struck by how differently Jeannotte interacted with this student compared with what I’d seen with Anna.

“Now, then, let me show you what I’ve found. I think you’ll like it.” She gestured toward the sofa.

When we’d settled she lifted a stack of materials from a small brass table to her right, and looked down at a two-page printout. Her part was a stark white line bisecting the crown of her head.

“These are titles of books about Quebec during the nineteenth century. I’m sure you’ll find mention of the Nicolet family in many of them.”

She gave it to me and I glanced down the list, but my mind was not on Élisabeth Nicolet.

“And this book is about the smallpox epidemic of 1885. It may contain some mention of Élisabeth or her work. If nothing else, it will give you a sense of the times and the enormity of suffering in Montreal in those days.”

The volume was new and in perfect condition, as though no one had ever read it. I flipped a few pages, seeing nothing. What had Sandy been about to say?

“But I think you’re especially going to like these.” She handed me what looked like three old ledgers, then leaned back, the smile still on her lips, but watching me intently.

The covers were gray, with deep burgundy binding and trim. Gingerly, I opened the top one and turned several pages. It smelled musty, like something kept for years in a basement or attic. It was not a ledger, but a diary, handwritten in a bold, clear script. I glanced at the first entry: January 1, 1844. I flipped to the last: December 23, 1846.

“They are written by Louis-Philippe Bélanger, Élisabeth’s uncle. It is known that he was a prodigious journal keeper, so, on a hunch, I checked with our rare documents section. Sure enough, McGill owns part of the collection. I don’t know where the rest of the journals are, or if they’ve even survived, but I could try to find out. I had to pledge my soul to get these.” She laughed. “I borrowed the ones that date to the period of Élisabeth’s birth and early infancy.”

“This is too good to be true,” I said, momentarily forgetting Anna Goyette. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you will take exceedingly good care of them.”

“May I actually take them with me?”

“Yes. I trust you. I’m sure you appreciate their value and will treat them accordingly.”

“Daisy, I’m overwhelmed. This is more than I’d hoped for.”

She raised a hand in a gesture of dismissal, then refolded it quietly in her lap. For a moment neither of us spoke. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and into the journals. Then I remembered Sister Julienne’s niece. And Sandy’s words.

“Daisy, I wonder if I could ask you something about Anna Goyette.”

“Yes.” She was still smiling, but her eyes grew wary.

“As you know I’ve been working with Sister Julienne, who is Anna’s aunt.”

“I didn’t know they were kin.”

“Yes. Sister Julienne called to tell me that Anna hasn’t been home since yesterday morning, and her mother is very worried.”

Throughout our conversation I’d been aware of Sandy’s movements as she sorted journals and placed them on shelves. The far end of the office now grew very still. Jeannotte noticed, too.

“Sandy, you must be quite tired. You go on now and take a little break.”

“I’m fi—”

“Now, please.”

Sandy’s eyes met mine as she slipped past us and out the office door. Her expression was unreadable.

“Anna is a very bright young woman,” Jeannotte continued. “A bit skittish, but a good intellect. I’m sure she’s fine.” Very firm.

“Her aunt says it isn’t typical for Anna to take off like this.”