Monday Mourning

by Kathy Reichs

  “Bingo,” Ryan said.

  The building’s entrance was recessed, the door rough and aged, but ornately carved. The windows were opaque, some black, others white with frost and windblown snow.

  Dead vines spiderwebbed across the roof and walls, and one wooden sill angled down from its frame. The pines were thicker here, keeping the house and its small yard in even deeper shadow.

  Irrationally, small hairs rose on the back of my neck.

  Drawing a deep breath, I worked myself just calm enough.

  Ryan stepped up to the door. I followed.

  The bell was dull brass, the old-fashioned kind that sounded when the knob was turned clockwise. Ryan reached out and gave it a twist.

  Deep in the house, a bell shrilled.

  Ryan waited a full minute, then rang again.

  Seconds later, locks rattled, then the door creaked open four inches.

  Ryan extended his badge to the crack.

  “Mr. Menard?” he asked in English.

  The crack didn’t widen. The person peering through it was hidden from me.

  “Stephen Menard?” Ryan repeated.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” What do you want? Heavily accented. American.

  “Police, Mr. Menard. We’d like to talk to you,” Ryan persisted in English.

  “Laissez-moi tranquille.” Leave me alone.

  The door moved toward its frame. Ryan palmed it back with jackrabbit quickness.

  “Are you Stephen Menard?”

  “Je m’appelle Stéphane Ménard.” Menard pronounced the name in the French manner. “Qui êtes-vous?” Who are you?

  “Detective Andrew Ryan.” Ryan flicked a hand in my direction. “Dr. Temperance Brennan. We need to speak with you.”

  “Allez-vous en.” The voice sounded dry and almost frail. I still couldn’t make out its owner.

  “We’re not going to go away, Mr. Menard. Cooperate and our questions should take only a few minutes of your time.”

  Menard didn’t reply.

  “Or we could do this at headquarters.” Ryan’s tone was tempered steel.

  “Tabarnac!”

  The door closed. A chain rattled, then the door reopened.

  Ryan entered and I followed. The floor was linoleum, the walls a color way too dark for the windowless room. The air smelled of mothballs, old wallpaper, and musty fabric.

  The tiny foyer was lit by one small china lamp. Menard stood shadowed by the door, one hand on the knob, the other pressing a brass letter opener flat to his chest.

  When Menard closed the door and turned to us, I got my first look at him.

  Stephen Menard had to be six foot four. With his freckled face and bald, toad-shaped head, he was one of the most peculiar men I’d ever laid eyes on. He could have been a worn forty or a well-preserved sixty.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” Menard asked again. What do you want?

  “May we sit down?” Ryan unzipped his jacket.

  A shrug. “Qu’importe.” Whatever.

  Menard led us into a parlor as dim as the foyer. Heavy red drapes, mahogany secretary, coffee and end tables. Dark floral wallpaper. Deep cranberry upholstered pieces.

  Laying the letter opener on the secretary, Menard dropped onto the sofa and crossed his legs. I removed my jacket and took the armchair to his right.

  Ryan circled the room, turning on the overhead chandelier and a pair of crystal and brass lamps flanking the couch. The improved lighting allowed a better evaluation of the man of the house.

  Stephen Menard was not just bald, he was totally hairless. No whiskers. No eyelashes. No body or head hair. The trait made him look smooth and oddly pale. I wondered if Menard’s lack of hair was a genetic condition, or some bizarre fashion statement intentionally created.

  Ryan lifted a Windsor chair from beside the secretary and parked it in front of Menard with body language clearly not intended to calm. Sitting, he placed elbows on knees, and leaned forward to within a yard of Menard’s face.

  Our reluctant host wore slippers, jeans, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed above the elbows. Drawing back from Ryan, Menard tugged the sleeves to his wrists, shoved them back up, adjusted his glasses, and waited.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Menard. You’ve caught our interest.”

  “Je suis—”

  “My understanding is that you’re American, so English shouldn’t be any problem for you, right?”

  Menard’s chin tucked in a bit, but he said nothing.

  “Richard Cyr tells us you ran a pawnshop out of his property on rue Ste-Catherine a few years back.”

  Menard’s lips went needle thin, and a wrinkle formed above the place his brows should have been.

  “You got a problem with my asking about that?”

  Menard ran a hand across his jaw, readjusted his glasses.

  “Pretty successful operation. Lasted, what? Nine years? You’re a young man. What made you decide to call the pawn business quits?”

  “I was not a mere pawnbroker. I traded in collectibles.”

  “Please explain that to me.”

  “I helped collectors locate hard-to-find items. Stamps. Coins. Toy soldiers.”

  I’d seen Ryan interrogate suspects in the past. He was good with silence. The person being interrogated would complete an answer, but instead of putting another question Ryan would look up expectantly and wait. He did so now.

  Menard swallowed.

  Ryan waited.

  “It was a legitimate business,” Menard mumbled.

  Somewhere in the house I thought I heard a door open and close.

  “Things grew complicated. Business was dropping off. The lease came up. I decided not to renew.”

  “Complicated how?”

  “Just complicated. Look, I’m a Canadian citizen. I have rights.”

  “I’m just asking a few questions, Mr. Menard.”

  Eye contact had become noticeably difficult for Menard. His gaze kept shifting from his hands to Ryan, then darting back down.

  Ryan allowed another long pause. Then, “Why the switch from archaeology?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What happened out in Chico?”

  An idea hared through my mind. I didn’t chase it.

  “You got a warrant?” Menard asked, again adjusting the glasses.

  “No, sir,” Ryan said.

  Menard’s gaze drifted to a point over Ryan’s left shoulder. We both turned.

  A woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and thin, with ivory skin and a long black braid. I guessed her age as mid to late twenties.

  The crow’s-feet cornering Menard’s eyes constricted.

  The woman tensed so visibly she seemed to flinch. Then her arms wrapped her waist, and she scurried out of sight.

  Menard pushed to his feet.

  “I’m not answering any more questions. Either arrest me, or leave my home.”

  Ryan took his time rising.

  “Is there a reason we should be arresting you, Mr. Menard?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.”

  Ryan zipped his jacket. I slipped into mine and started toward the foyer. Pausing near the secretary, I noticed the letter opener.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ryan put his face to Menard’s.

  “We’ll play it your way for now, sir. But if you’re withholding information from me, I’ll make certain you come to regret that.”

  This time Menard met Ryan’s gaze. The two stood eyeball-to-eyeball.

  Turning my back to the face-off, I quietly scooped the letter opener into my purse.

  27

  “THOUGHTS?” RYAN WAS TURNING OFF THE FAR end of de Sébastopol.

  “If they ever bring back the Inquisition, you’ll be their first hire.”

  “I view that as a compliment. What’s your take on Menard?”

  “Guy gave me the creeps. Do you think the hairlessness is a medical condition?”


  Ryan shook his head no. “I could see nicks on his scalp.”

  “Why would a man shave and pluck every hair?”

  “Telly Savalas fan?”

  “His whole body?”

  “Cut cost on shampoo?”

  “Ryan.”

  “Training to swim in the next Olympics?”

  That one got no reply.

  “I don’t know. Zonked-out stylist? Lice? Some kind of hair phobia?”

  “Did you notice how strangely that woman acted?”

  “Didn’t jump in to offer us tea.”

  “She seemed terrified.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe the lady disapproves of uninvited guests.”

  “Claudel said there’s no record of anyone else living at that address. Who do you suppose she is?”

  “I intend to find out.”

  I told him about the letter opener.

  “Illegal seizure.”

  “Yep,” I agreed.

  “A judge would exclude any information gained from it.”

  “Yep,” I agreed again. “But a print might ID the woman.”

  “Might.”

  “Look. It was an impulse. The opener was lying there. I figured the woman might have handled it. I borrowed the thing.”

  “Uh. Huh.”

  “I’ll return it.”

  “I never doubted that.”

  The sun was arcing down, turning the windshield opaque with salty slush thrown up by the cars ahead. We fell silent as Ryan concentrated on driving.

  “Could explain the antique buttons,” I said, as we crossed the Lachine Canal and wound onto de la Montagne.

  “Could.”

  I had a sudden thought.

  “The forgery,” I said, turning to Ryan.

  “You think Menard was helping customers round out their collections by doing a little manufacturing on his own?”

  “Maybe that’s what he thinks we’re investigating. Maybe that’s why he was so nervous.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Ryan said.

  I had another thought.

  “Or maybe Menard stumbled onto the skeletons but kept it to himself, thinking he might sell the bones to a collector someday. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to trade in human skeletal parts in Canada.”

  “Another possibility.”

  I settled back. “My gut tells me it’s more than that.”

  “If the guy’s got baggage, I’ll find it.”

  “Menard was definitely not glad to see us.”

  “Exuded all the warmth of an autopsy room. Which reminds me. Where would you like to go?”

  “The lab.”

  I dialed my condo to check on Anne’s schedule but got no answer. I left a message for her to call me.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I was at my desk.

  Ryan had promised to take the letter opener to SIJ. Either he or a tech would call if they were able to pull up latents.

  For as long as I’ve known her, Anne has steadfastly insisted she dislikes Indian cuisine. I called again to propose dinner at La Maison du Cari, certain their lamb korma would change her mind.

  Still no answer. Second message.

  Two printouts lay on my blotter. The longer was Claudel’s list of girls who’d gone missing in Quebec. The shorter was Charbonneau’s list of those who’d disappeared in north-central California.

  I started with the former.

  One by one I worked my way through the names, excluding any girl whose profile was inconsistent with the pizza basement skeletons. A serious headache was kicking in by the time I came to Manon Violette.

  Manon Violette had a rotated upper right canine and no restorations.

  I sat forward, feeling a sudden rush of excitement.

  The girl in Dr. Energy’s crate had a rotated upper right canine and no restorations.

  Barely breathing, I read the details.

  Manon Violette had disappeared nine years earlier after leaving her home in Longueuil to take a bus to Centre-ville.

  Violette was white.

  Violette was fifteen years old.

  The next entry punched me in the sternum.

  Manon Violette stood only fifty-eight inches tall.

  Damn!

  I’d estimated the Dr. Energy girl’s stature at sixty-two inches.

  Could I have been that far off?

  I fired into the lab and checked.

  Nope. Dr. Energy’s girl was tiny. But not that tiny. Even considering the error factor, 38426 was too tall.

  What about 38427? I’d estimated her age at fifteen to seventeen, her height at sixty-four to sixty-seven inches.

  I pulled out the skull and checked the teeth.

  An orthodontist’s dream. Perfect alignment. No rotations.

  Back to the list.

  An hour later I sat back, frustrated.

  I hated to admit it, but Claudel was right. There were no matches. If height fit, age didn’t. If age and height were consistent with one of the skeletons, racial background or some other trait excluded the candidate.

  None of the MPs from Quebec and only one from California had suffered a Colles’ fracture of the right radius.

  Claudel had referenced the girl from California in our earlier conversation. I read through her stats.

  In 1985, Leonard Alexander Robinson filed a missing person report with the Tehama County Sheriff’s Department. Robinson’s daughter, Angela, a white female, age fourteen years and nine months, left home on the night of October 21 and was never seen again. Friends said she’d intended to hitchhike to a party.

  Angela Robinson, “Angie,” had fallen from a swing at age eight, fracturing her right wrist.

  Angie stood five foot two.

  Back to the lab to double-check myself.

  Angie Robinson was too young to be the girl in the leather shroud.

  And too short.

  I was discouraged, and my headache could have pounded the golden spike in Ogden. What if Angie had lived for a time after her disappearance? She would have aged. Perhaps grown.

  Again, my subconscious seemed to be crooking a finger.

  What?

  The clock said five-ten. I decided to call it a day.

  Returning to my office, I again tried Anne.

  Still no answer.

  I was replacing the receiver, when someone tapped on my door.

  “Hey, Doc.” Charbonneau was in polyester from stem to stern. And cowboy boots.

  “Hi.”

  “I was on my way out, thought I’d pop up and give you the current lore.”

  With what remained of my brain, I tried to decipher that.

  “Lore?”

  Charbonneau took a pink wad from his mouth, studied it, rolled his eyes up, and tipped his head toward my wastebasket.

  I handed him a Post-it.

  Charbonneau wrapped the Bazooka and arced it into the bin.

  “Ryan told me about your drop-in at Menard’s crib on de Sébastopol. Sounds like the guy’s a real piece of work.”

  “Yeah.”

  I rubbed circles on my temples with the balls of my fingers.

  “Headache?”

  I nodded.

  “Try eating something real spicy. That works for me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not much news from my end. Menard’s got no jacket in California. One correction on his academic career, though. Squirrel wasn’t tossed. He actually registered for the second year at Chico.”

  “And?”

  “No show.”

  I stopped rubbing. “Menard paid tuition, enrolled in classes, then never showed up?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  Charbonneau shrugged. “Squirrel didn’t RSVP. Just never showed up.”

  “Did he terminate his lease? Close out his accounts?”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “Where was he until he landed in Vermont in January?”

  Charbonneau grinned. “I’m working
on that, too.”

  * * *

  The condo was dark when I arrived. Birdie was sleeping on the sofa back. He raised his head and blinked when I turned on a lamp.

  “Anne?” I called out.

  No answer.

  Birdie stretched, dropped to the floor, and went belly up.

  “Anne?” I called again as I rubbed Birdie’s tummy. Silence.

  “Where is she, Bird?”

  The cat rolled to all fours, stretched each back leg, then strolled to the kitchen. In seconds I heard the crunch of Science Diet nuggets.

  “Annie?”

  Her bedroom door was still closed. I knocked and went in.

  And my heart sank.

  Anne’s belongings were gone. A note lay on the desk.

  I stared at it a moment, then reached out and unfolded the paper.

  Dearest Tempe,

  I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness and patience. Not just this past week, but throughout the entire course of our wonderful, joyful, precious friendship. You have been my buttress, the wind beneath my wings. (Remember “our” movie?)

  We’re alike in so very many ways, Tempe. I’m not good at talking about my feelings. I’m not even good at thinking about my feelings. You were perfect for me.

  Now it’s time to wrap this up. Though I can never say it to you, know that I love you so very very much. Please don’t be angry with me for doing it this way.

  Anne

  A whole catalog of emotions gripped me.

  Love. I knew my friend and understood how hard those words had been for her.

  Guilt. Engrossed in my own problems, I’d not really focused on Anne’s. How could I have been so selfish?

  Anger. She’d just packed and split for home without telling me? How could she be so insensitive?

  Then fear barreled in like a locomotive.

  Had she gone home? Wrap what up? For doing what this way? What way?

  I remembered Anne’s book and our dinner conversation the night before. She hadn’t mentioned leaving.

  What had she said? Something about cycles and changing in substance. I’d blown her off.

  Sweet Jesus! Was she talking about death? Surely not. Depressed or not, Anne was not the suicidal type. But did we ever really know?

  Memory collage. Another friend who’d stayed in that room. Left. Turned up dead in a shallow grave. Could Anne have undertaken some risky odyssey?

  I tried calling her cell. No answer.

  I dialed Tom.

  “Hello.”