Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  “Well?”

  “Well what, Ryan?”

  “Out-of-town company?”

  “A good detective always notices the obvious.”

  “Harriet Lamour,” said my sister, sticking out her hand. “I’m Tempe’s younger sister.” As usual, she emphasized the birth order.

  “Reckon you’re not from around these parts,” Ryan drawled. The fringe went to town as they shook hands.

  “Lamour?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Houston. That’s in Texas. Ever been there?”

  “Lamour?” I repeated. “What happened to Crone?”

  “Once or twice. Mighty pretty country.” Ryan was still doing Brett Maverick.

  “Or Dawood?”

  That got her attention.

  “Now why would I ever go back to using that retard’s name? Do you remember Esteban? The only human being ever fired for being too dumb to stock the 7-Eleven?”

  Esteban Dawood had been her third husband. I couldn’t summon an image of his face.

  “Are you and Striker divorced already?”

  “No. But I have dumped his ass and scrapped that ridiculous name. Crone? What was I thinking? Who’d ever choose a handle like Crone? What kinda name is that for your descendants? Missus Crone? Cousin Crone? Great-granddaddy Crone?”

  Ryan joined in. “Not bad if you’re a lone Crone.”

  Harry giggled. “Yeah, but I don’t ever want to be an old Crone.”

  “That’s it. We’re outta here.” I reached for my jacket.

  “Bergeron says we’ve got a positive,” said Ryan.

  I stopped and looked at him. His face had gone serious.

  “Simonnet?”

  He nodded.

  “Anything on the bodies from upstairs?”

  “Bergeron thinks they’re probably European, too. Or at least they got drilled and filled over there. Something about their dental work. We had Interpol run a search in Belgium, because of the Simonnet link, but they came up empty. The old lady had no family, so that’s a dead end. The RCMP got no hits in Canada. Same for NCIC. No matches in the States.”

  “Rohypnol’s pretty hard to get here, and those two were loaded. A European connection might explain that.”

  “Might.”

  “LaManche says the bodies in the outbuilding were negative for drugs and alcohol. Simonnet was too badly burned to test.”

  Ryan knew this. I was thinking aloud.

  “Jesus, Ryan, it’s been a week and we still have no idea who these people are.”

  “Yip.” He smiled at Harry, who was listening closely. Their flirting was starting to annoy me.

  “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 Hells 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?”

  “Actu
ally, 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 Neiman 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.

  TWO HOURS LATER HARRY SHOOK ME AWAKE. SHE HAD finished bathing, blow drying, and whatever else the repair process required. We bundled up and headed out, winding our way to rue Ste-Catherine. The snow had stopped, but a layer blanketed everything, slightly muffling the city clamor. Signs, trees, mailboxes, and parked cars wore fluffy caps of white.

  The restaurant was not crowded and we were seated immediately. When we’d ordered, I asked about her workshop.

  “It’s awesome. I’ve learned whole new ways of thinking and being. I don’t mean some kinda Eastern mysticism cow flop. And I’m not talking about potions or crystals or that astral projection shit. I mean I am learning how to take control of my life.”

  “How?”

  “How?”

  “How.”

  “I’m learning self-identity, I’m undergoing empowerment through spiritual awakening. I’m gaining internal peace through holistic health and healing.”

  “Spiritual awakening?”

  “Now don’t get me wrong, Tempe. This isn’t some rebirthing thing like the damn evangelists preach down home. There’s none of that repenting, and making a joyful noise unto the Lord, and the righteous walking through flames and all.”

  “How is it different?”

  “That all has to do with damnation, and guilt, and accepting your lot as a sinner, and turning yourself over to the Lord so He’ll take care of you. I didn’t buy that agenda from the nuns, and thirty-eight years of living haven’t changed my mind.”

  Harry and I had spent our early days in Catholic schools.

  “This has to do with me taking care of myself.” She stabbed a manicured finger at her chest.

  “How?”

  “Tempe, are you trying to ridicule me?”

  “No. I’d like to know how one does this.”

  “It’s a matter of interpreting your own mind and body, then purifying yourself.”

  “Harry, you’re just giving me jargon. How do you do this?”

  “Well, you eat right and you breathe right and—did you notice that I passed up the beer? That’s part of purifying.”

  “Did you pay a lot of money for this seminar?”

  “I told you. They waived my fees and they flat out gave me the plane ticket.”

  “What about in Houston?”

  “Well, yeah, of course I paid some fees. They have to charge something. These are very prominent people.”

  Just then our food arrived. I’d ordered lamb khorma. Harry had vegetable curry and rice.

  “See?” She pointed to her dish. “No more dead carcasses for me. I am getting clear.”

  “Where did you find this course?”

  “At the North Harris County Community College.”

  That sounded legit.

  “When do you start here?”

  “Tomorrow. The seminar goes for five days. I’ll tell you all about, it, really I will. I’ll come home every night and fill you in on exactly what we did. It’s O.K. if I stay with you, isn’t it?”

  “Of course. I truly am glad to see you, Harry. And I’m very curious about what you’re doing. But I’m leaving for Charlotte on Monday.” I rummaged in the back pocket of my purse for the emergency keys I keep there, and handed them to her. “You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you need the place.”

  “No wild parties,” she said, leaning forward and pointing a stern finger at me. “I have a lady watching the house.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I answered. The fictitious house watcher was perhaps our oldest family joke.

  She gave me a brilliant Harry smile and slid the keys into her jeans pocket.

  “Thanks. Now, enough about me, let me tell you what Kit’s up to.”

  For the next half-hour we talked about my nephew’s latest scheme. Christopher “Kit” Howard had resulted from her second marriage. He’d just turned eighteen, and come into a sizable sum of money from his father. Kit had bought, and was renovating, a forty-eight-foot sailboat. Harry was unsure as to why.

  “Tell me again how Howie got his name?” I knew the story, but loved to hear her tell it.

  “Howie’s mama took off right after he was born, and his daddy had left well before then. She left Howie on the steps of an orphanage in Basic, Texas, with a note pinned to his blanket. It said she’d be back, and that the baby’s name was Howard. The folks at the orphanage weren’t sure if Mama meant his first name or his family name, so they took no chances. They baptized him Howard Howard.”

  “What’s Howie doing now?”

  “Still bringing in gushers and chasing every skirt in West Texas. But he’s generous to me and Kit.”

  When we’d finished, the waiter cleared the dishes and I ordered coffee. Harry passed, because stimulants interfered with her purification process.

  We sat in silence awhile, then,

  “So where’s this cowboy want you to meet him?”

  I stopped stirring, and my mind scanned for a connection. Cowboy?

  “The cop with the great ass.”

  “Ryan. He’s going to a place called Hurley’s. Today is St. Pat—”

  “Hell, yes.” Her face went serious. “I feel
we owe it to our heritage to join in the recognition of a truly great patron saint, in whatever small way we can.”

  “Harry, I’ve had a long—”

  “Tempe, but for St. Pat snakes would have eaten our ancestors and we would never have been.”

  “I’m not suggesting—”

  “And right now, at a time when the Irish people are in such turmoil—”

  “That’s not the point and you know it.”

  “How far is Hurley’s from here?”

  “A few blocks.”

  “No-brainer.” She spread her hands, palms up. “We go over, we listen to a few songs, we leave. We’re not committing to a night at the opera.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “No. I promise. As soon as you’re ready, we’re outta there. Hey, I’ve got an early morning, too.”

  That argument did not impress me. Harry is one of those people who can go days with no sleep.

  “Tempe. You’ve got to make some effort at a social life.”

  That argument did.

  “All right. But—”

  “Hee. Haw. May the saints preserve ye, ye rascal.”

  As she waved for the check, I was already feeling the knot below my sternum. There was a time I loved Irish pubs. Pubs of any kind. I didn’t want to open that scrapbook, and had no intention of making new entries.

  Lighten up, Brennan. What are you afraid of? You’ve been to Hurley’s and you didn’t drown yourself in beer. True. So why the trepidation?

  * * *

  Harry chatted amiably as we walked back up Ste-Catherine to Crescent. At nine-thirty the sidewalk crowd was already thick, the couples and cruisers mingling with the last of the shoppers and sightseers. Everyone wore heavy coats with hats and mufflers. People looked thick and bulky, like shrubbery wrapped and tied for winter.

  The portion of Crescent above Ste-Catherine is the Anglo “Street of Dreams,” lined on both sides with singles bars and trendy restaurants. The Hard Rock Café. Thursdays. Sir Winston Churchill’s. In summer, the balconies are filled with spectators sipping drinks and watching the dance of romance below. In winter, the action moves inside.

  Few but the Hurley’s regulars frequent Crescent below Ste-Catherine. Except on St. Patrick’s Day. When we arrived, the line from the entrance stretched up the steps and halfway to the corner.