Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

“Oh, God, are we glad to see you.” I overacted. “We were sketching Odocoileus virginianus and lost track of time. Everyone left early because of the ice, and I guess they forgot about us. We got locked in.” I gave a silly-me smile. “I was about to call security.”

“You can’t be in here now. The museum’s closed,” he rasped.

Obviously my performance had been wasted.

“Of course. We really need to be on our way. Her husband will be crazy wondering where she is.” I gestured at Anna, who was nodding like a box turtle.

The guard shifted watery eyes from Anna to me, then tipped his head toward the stairs.

“Let’s go, then.”

We wasted no time.

Outside, rain was still falling. The drops were thicker now, like the Slushes my sister and I had bought from summer vendors. Her face rose from a niche in my mind. Where are you, Harry?

At Birks Hall Anna gave me a funny look.

“ Odocoileus virginianus ?”

“It popped into my head.”

“There is no white-tailed deer in the museum.”

Did the corners of her mouth pucker, or was it merely the cold? I shrugged.

Reluctantly, Anna gave me her home number and address. We parted, and I assured her that Ryan would call soon. As I hurried down University something made me turn back. Anna stood in the archway of the Gothic old building, motionless, like her Cenozoic comrades.

When I got home I dialed Ryan’s pager. Minutes later the phone rang. I told him that Anna had surfaced and outlined our conversation. He promised to inform the coroner so a search could begin for Amalie Provencher’s medical and dental records. He rang off quickly, intending to contact Anna before she left Jeannotte’s office. He would phone later to fill me in on what he’d learned during the day.

I ate a supper of salad niçoise and croissants, took a long bath, and slipped into an old sweat suit. I still felt chilled, and decided to light a fire. I’d used the last of my starter logs so I wadded newspaper into balls and overlaid them with kindling. Ice was ticking against the windows as I lit the pile and watched it catch.

Eight-forty. I got the Bélanger journals and turned on “Seinfeld,” hoping the rhythm of the dialogue and laughter would have a soothing effect. Left on their own I knew my thoughts would run like cats in the night, rooting and snarling, and raising my anxiety to a level where sleep would be impossible.

No go. Jerry and Kramer did their best, but I couldn’t concentrate.

My eyes drifted to the fire. The flames had dwindled to a few sparse tongues curving around the bottom log. I went to the hearth, separated a section of paper, tore and balled up several pages, and stuffed them into the embers.

I was poking the logs when recall kicked in.

Newspapers!

I’d forgotten about the microfilm!

I went to the bedroom, pulled out the pages I’d copied at McGill, and took them back to the sofa. It took only a moment to locate the article in La Presse .

The story was as brief as I remembered it. April 20, 1845. Eugénie Nicolet was sailing for France. She would sing in Paris and Brussels, summer in the south of France, and return to Montreal in July. The members of her entourage were listed, as were her upcoming concert dates. There was also a brief summary of her career, and comments as to how she would be missed.

My coins had taken me through April 26. I skimmed everything I’d printed, but Eugénie’s name did not reappear. Then I went back through, strip-searching every story and announcement.

The article appeared on April 22.

Someone else would appear in Paris. This gentleman’s talent lay not in music, but in oratory. He was on a speaking tour, denouncing the selling of human beings and encouraging commerce with West Africa. Born in the Gold Coast, he’d been educated in Germany and held a professorship in philosophy at the University of Halle. He’d just completed a series of lectures at the McGill School of Divinity.

I backpedaled through history. Eighteen forty-five. Slavery was in full swing in the United States, but had been banned in France and England. Canada was still a British colony. Church and missionary groups were begging Africans to stop exporting their brothers and sisters, and encouraging Europeans to engage in legal commerce with West Africa as an alternative. What did they call it? The “legitimate trade.”

I read the passenger’s name with growing excitement.

And the name of the vessel.

Eugénie Nicolet and Abo Gabassa had made the crossing on the same ship.

I got up to poke the fire.

Was that it? Had I stumbled on the secret hidden for a century and a half? Eugénie Nicolet and Abo Gabassa? An affair?

I slipped on shoes, went to the French doors, flipped the handle, and pushed. The door was frozen shut. I leaned hard with my hip and the seal cracked.

My woodpile was frozen, and it took me some time to hack a log free with a garden trowel. When I finally got back inside I was shivering and covered with tiny pellets. A sound stopped me dead as I crossed to the hearth.

My doorbell doesn’t ring, it twitters. It did so now, then stopped abruptly, as if someone had given up.

I dropped the log, raced to the security box, and hit the video button. On the screen I saw a familiar figure disappearing through the front door.

I grabbed my keys, ran to the lobby, and opened the door to the vestibule. The outer door was settling into place. I depressed the tongue and pulled it wide.

Daisy Jeannotte lay sprawled across my steps.

31

BEFORE I COULD REACH HER, SHE MOVED. SLOWLY, SHE DREW IN her hands, rolled, and pushed to a sitting position, her back to me.

“Are you hurt?” My throat was so dry my words came out high and stretched.

She flinched at the sound of my voice, then turned.

“The ice is treacherous. I slipped, but I’m quite fine.”

I reached out and she allowed me to help her up. She was trembling, and didn’t look fine at all.

“Please, come inside and I’ll make some tea.”

“No. I can’t stay. There’s someone waiting for me. I shouldn’t be out on such a dreadful night but I had to speak to you.”

“Please come in where it’s warmer.”

“No. Thank you.” Her tone was as cold as the air.

She retied her scarf, then looked directly into my eyes. Behind her, bullets of ice sliced through a cone of streetlight. The tree limbs looked shiny black through the sodium vapor.

“Dr. Brennan, you must leave my students alone. I’ve tried to be helpful to you, but I do believe you are abusing my kindness. You cannot pursue these young people in this manner. And to give my number to the police for the purpose of harassing my assistant is simply unthinkable.”

A gloved hand wiped her eye, leaving a dark smear trailing across her cheek.

Anger flared like a kitchen match. My arms were wrapped around my midriff, and through the flannel I felt my nails dig into my flesh.

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not pursuing Anna.” I spat the word back at her. “This isn’t some goddam research project! People are dead! Ten for certain, God knows how many others.”

Pellets bounced off my forehead and arms. I didn’t feel them. Her words enraged me, and I vented all the anguish and frustration that had built in me over the past few weeks.

“Jennifer Cannon and Amalie Provencher were McGill students. They were murdered, Dr. Jeannotte. But not just murdered. No. That wasn’t enough for these people. These maniacs threw them to animals, then watched their flesh torn and their skulls pierced right into their brains.”

I ranted on, no longer in control of my voice. I noticed a passing couple quicken their pace, despite the glassy sidewalk.