Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

“You haven’t found any leads in the house?”

“You may have heard about a little altercation on the West Island Tuesday? The Rock Machine blew the lights out on two Hell’s Angels. The Angels returned fire and left one of the Machine dead and three others bleeding bad. So I’ve been otherwise engaged.”

“Patrice Simonnet took a bullet in the head.”

“The biker boys also took out a twelve-year-old kid who happened to be on his way to hockey practice.”

“Oh, God. Look, I’m not suggesting you’re dragging your feet, but surely someone must miss these people. We’re talking about a whole damn family. Plus two others. There must be something in that house that provides a clue.”

“Recovery took forty-seven cartons of crap out of there. We’re sifting through it, but so far zippo. No letters. No checks. No photos. No shopping lists. No address books. The utility and phone bills are paid by Simonnet. Heating oil is delivered once a year, she pays in advance. We can’t find anyone who’s been into the place since Simonnet’s been renting.”

“What about property taxes?”

“Guillion. Pays by an official check drawn on Citicorp in New York.”

“Were any weapons recovered?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Pretty much rules out suicide.”

“Yeah. And it isn’t likely Granny slashed the family.”

“Did you run a history on the address?”

“It was negative. The police were never called there.”

“Have you gotten the phone records?”

“They’re coming.”

“What about the cars? Weren’t they registered?”

“Both to Guillion. At the St-Jovite address. He also pays the insurance by official check.”

“Does Simonette have a driver’s license?”

“Yeah, Belgian. Clean record.”

“Health insurance card?”

“No.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing comes up.”

“Who serviced the cars?”

“Apparently Simonnet took them to a station in town. The description matches. She paid cash.”

“And the house? A woman that age couldn’t do her own repairs.”

“Obviously there were other people living there. The neighbors say the couple with the babies had been around for several months. They’d seen other cars pull in, sometimes in large numbers.”

“Maybe she took in boarders?”

We both turned to Harry.

“You know. Maybe she rented out rooms.”

Ryan and I let her go on.

“You could check the newspapers for ads. Or church bulletins.”

“She doesn’t seem to have been a churchgoer.”

“Maybe she ran a drug ring. With this dude Guillion. That’s why she got killed. That’s why there are no records or anything.” Her eyes were round with excitement. She was getting into it. “Maybe she was hiding out there.”

“Who is this Guillion?” I asked.

“He’s got no police record here or there. The Belgian cops are checking him out. The guy kept to himself, so nobody knows much about him.”

“Like the old lady.”

Ryan and I stared at her. Good point, Harry.

A phone shrilled, indicating the lines had been switched to the night service. Ryan glanced at his watch.

“Well, I hope I’ll see y’all this evening.” Maverick was back.

“Probably not. I’ve got to get through this Nicolet report.”

Harry opened her mouth, but seeing my look, closed it.

“Thanks anyway, Ryan.”

“ Enchanté ,” he said to Harry, then turned and headed up the hall.

“That’s one good-looking cowboy.”

“Don’t train your scope on him, Harry. His little black book has more entries than the Omaha white pages. ”

“Just lookin’, darlin’. That’s still free.”

* * *

Though it was only five, we walked out into deep dusk. Headlights and streetlamps shone through falling snow. I unlocked and started the car, then spent several minutes cleaning the windows and windshield while Harry scanned the radio choices. When I got in, my usual Vermont Public Radio had been replaced by a local rock station.

“That is so cool.” Harry voiced her approval of Mitsou.

“She’s a québécoise,” I said, shifting between drive and reverse to rock the Mazda out of the snow rut. “Been big here for years.”

“I mean, rock and roll in French. That is too cool.”

“Yeah.” The front wheels caught pavement, and I joined the flow of traffic.

Harry listened to the lyrics as we wound our way west toward Centre-Ville.

“Is she singing about a cowboy? Mon cowboy?”

“Yes,” I said, turning onto Viger. “I think she likes the guy.”

We lost Mitsou when we entered the Ville-Marie Tunnel.

Ten minutes later I unlocked the door to my condo. I showed Harry the extra bedroom and went to the kitchen to check my food stock. Since I’d planned to hit the Atwater Market over the weekend, there wasn’t much. When Harry joined me I was rummaging in the tiny closet I call a pantry.

“I’m taking you out to dinner, Tempe.”

“You are?”

“Actually, Inner Life Empowerment is taking you to dinner. I told you. They’re paying all my expenses. Well, at least up to twenty dollars for dinner tonight. Howie’s Diners Club card will pick up the rest.”

Howie was her second husband, and probably the source of whatever had been in the Nieman Marcus bags.

“Why is Inner Life whatever paying for this trip?”

“Because I did so well. Actually, it’s a special deal.” She gave an exaggerated wink, opening her mouth and scrunching the right side of her face. “They don’t usually do that, but they really want me to go on with this.”

“Well, if you’re sure. What do you feel like?”

“Action!”

“I meant food.”

“Anything but barbecue.”

I thought a minute. “Indian?”

“Shawnee or Paiute?”

Harry hooted. She always loved her own jokes.

“The Etoile des Indes is just a few blocks from here. They make a great khorma.”

“Yippee. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten an Indian. And I know I’ve never eaten a French Indian. Anyway, I don’t think you can eat karma.”

I could only shake my head.

“I look like forty miles of bad road,” said Harry, singling out several long strands for inspection. “I’m going to do a few repairs.”

I went to my bedroom, changed into jeans, then got pen and paper and propped myself against the pillows on my bed. I opened the first ledger and noted the date of the earliest entry: January 1, 1844. Selecting one of the library books, I flipped to the section on Élisabeth Nicolet and checked the day of her birth. January 18, 1846. Her uncle had begun this volume two years before she was born.

Though Louis-Philippe Bélanger wrote with a strong hand, time had faded his entries. The ink was a dull brown, and at places the words were too blurry to read. In addition, the French was antiquated and replete with unfamiliar terms. After thirty minutes my head was pounding and I’d taken few notes.

I lay back and closed my eyes. I could still hear water running in the bathroom. I was tired and discouraged and pessimistic. I’d never get through this in two days. I’d do better to spend a few hours at the copy machine, then work through the ledgers at my leisure. Jeannotte hadn’t said anything about not copying the material. And it was probably safer for the originals, I reasoned.

And I didn’t have to find the answer right away. After all, my report didn’t require an explanation. I saw what I saw in the bones. I would report my findings, and let the good sisters come to me with theorizations. Or questions.

Perhaps they wouldn’t understand. Perhaps they wouldn’t believe me. They probably wouldn’t welcome the news. Or would they? Would it affect their application to the Vatican? I couldn’t help that. I was certain I was right about Élisabeth. I just couldn’t imagine what it meant.