Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 29

The m.u.f.fled response rose and fell in agitation.

Keeping his eyes averted, my nephew left the table and moved down the hall out of earshot.

I speared a green bean, chewed, swallowed. Mechanically, I repeated the action, but my appet.i.te had evaporated. After five forkfuls he was back.

The look on his face brought a feeling like physical pain to my chest. I wanted to put my arms around him, to brush back his hair and comfort him the way I had when he was a little boy. But whatever had happened was not a skinned knee, and I couldn't do that now. Even if he allowed it, I knew the gesture would only discomfort him. I sensed his distress, but was helpless to ease it.

He gave me a big smile, shrugged palms and shoulders, then sat and dived into his fish.

I stared at the top of his head. Finally, he looked up.

"This is great." He swallowed and reached for his iced tea. "Yes, that was one of them. And no, I'm not going."

I was suddenly ravenous.

The next call came as we were finishing cleanup. Kit answered, but I could hear nothing over the chugging and sloshing of the dishwasher. In a few minutes he reappeared at the kitchen door.

"It's Lyle. I guess I told him I like swap meets, so he's inviting us to an estate sale tomorrow."

"An estate sale?"

"Well, it's a flea market in some place called Hudson. He thought if I called it an estate sale you might be more inclined to go."

The doublespeak had little impact on my response. While I would have enjoyed a trek to Hudson, it was not worth the price of an afternoon with Crease.

"You go ahead, Kit. It's really very pretty out there. Horse country. I should stay and finish some things I've been putting off."

"Like what?"

"Actually, I think I'm having my hair cut tomorrow."

"Uh-huh."

He returned to the living room and I finished wiping the counters. I couldn't believe I was feeling relief that my nephew would be with Lyle Crease. The guy was as smarmy as a snake-oil salesman from Matamoros.

And what was Crease's interest in a nineteen-year-old kid? I had no doubt that Kit could handle the little twerp, but I vowed to call Isabelle and ask a few questions.

Easy does it, I told myself. Brush your hair and go see the fiddlers.

Hurley's is the closest thing to an Irish pub that Montreal has to offer. Though I don't imbibe, my Gaelic genes still enjoy the atmosphere.

The place was as big a hit with Kit as it had been with his mother. But then, it's hard to be gloomy with a fiddle and mandolin belting out reels, and dancers jigging up and down like Nijinsky with a neurological disorder. We stayed until well past midnight.

When Lyle Crease showed up the next morning I was idly flipping through the photos Kit and I had left on the table the night before.

"How's it going?" Crease asked, as I let him into the entrance hall. He wore khakis, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a windbreaker with CTV News News printed on the left breast. His hair looked like molded plastic. printed on the left breast. His hair looked like molded plastic.

"Good. And yourself?" We spoke English.

"Can't complain."

"Kit said he'd be just a minute. He overslept a bit."

"No problem." Crease chuckled, then gave me a knowing grin.

I did not return it.

"Can I offer you some coffee?"

"Oh no, thanks. I've already had three cups this morning." He showed miles of capped teeth. "It's a gorgeous day out there. Sure you won't change your mind?"

"No, no. I have things I have to do. But thanks. Really."

"Maybe next time."

When Moses does another bush, I thought.

We stood for a moment, unsure where to go from there. Crease's eyes roamed the hall, then came to rest on a framed photo of Katy.

"Your daughter?"

"Yes."

He walked over and picked it up.

"She's lovely. Is she a student?"

"Yes."

He replaced the portrait and his eyes moved on to the dining room.

"That's quite a bouquet. You must have a serious admirer."

Nice try.

"May I?"

I nodded, though Crease was as welcome in my home as the Exorcist Exorcist demon. He crossed to the flowers and sniffed. demon. He crossed to the flowers and sniffed.

"I love daisies." His eyes drifted to Kate's photos. "I see you're doing some research."

"Would you like to sit down?" I indicated the living room sofa.

Crease helped himself to a picture, replaced it, chose another.

"I understand you're involved in the Cherokee Desjardins investigation," he said without looking up.

"Only peripherally," I said, and moved quickly to stack the photos.

He gave a deep sigh. "The whole world's going crazy."

"Perhaps," I noted, reaching out my hand for him to surrender the picture of the Silvestre funeral.

"Please," I said, gesturing toward the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable."

Crease sat and crossed his legs.

"I understand Dorsey's been charged and moved to Riviere-des-Prairies?"

"So I've heard."

"Think he did it?"

This guy never gave up.

"I'm really not involved in the investigation."

"How about the Osprey girl. Anything breaking on that front?"

How about your face, I thought.

At that moment my nephew appeared, looking pure urban cowboy in his Levi's, boots, and ninety-gallon hat. I popped to my feet.

"I'm sure you two want to get there early before the good stuff's gone."

"What good stuff?" asked Kit.

"The ba.s.s fishing lures and Elvis T-shirts."

"I'm actually looking for a plastic Madonna."

"Try the cathedral."

"The other Madonna."

"Be careful," I said, pointing a finger at him.

"Careful is my middle name. Christopher Careful Howard, C.C. to my close friends." He tapped two fingers to the brim of his hat.

"Right."

As Crease said good-bye he placed a hand on my shoulder, ran it down my arm, and squeezed just above my elbow.

"You take care," he said with a meaningful look.

What I took was a long shower.

Later, scrubbed and smelling of sandalwood, I checked my e-mail. There was nothing earth-shattering. I offered suggestions for problems submitted by students, sent an opinion to a pathologist inquiring about an oddly shaped skull, and replied to my three nieces in Chicago. Daughters of Pete's sisters, the teenagers were avid computer buffs, and kept me informed of happenings within my estranged husband's extended Latvian family.

Finally, I thanked a colleague at the Armed Forces Inst.i.tute of Pathology who'd forwarded a particularly amusing photo. The case involved a pig and a high-rise building.

At one-thirty I logged off and tried Isabelle. Predictably, she was not in.

Looking for an excuse to be outside, I set out to buy jumbo shrimp at the poissonnerie poissonnerie. I'd gone less than a block when I was stopped dead, distracted by photos at Coiffure Simone Coiffure Simone.

I stared at the woman in the black and white. She looked good. Stylish, but neat. Professional, but jaunty.

Jesus, Brennan. You sound like copy for a shampoo ad. Next you'll be telling yourself you're worth it.

I had had told Kit I'd scheduled a haircut. told Kit I'd scheduled a haircut.

I studied the poster, estimating the amount of maintenance the style would require. I thought it could pa.s.s my ten-minute rule.

I started to move on, caught my reflection in the gla.s.s. What I saw was light-years from poster lady.

How long had it been since I'd tried a new do?

Years.

And the salon was offering a special Sunday discount.

Five dollars off. Right. You'll save about three-fifty U.S.

A new haircut could boost your spirits.

It could be a disaster.

Hair grows back.

That last came straight from my mother.

I pushed open the door and went in.

Hours later I was eating dinner with the Discovery channel. On the screen, male kangaroos kickboxed over control of the mob. On the hearth, Birdie eyed me silently, curious, but keeping his distance.

"Hair grows back, Bird."

I dipped a shrimp and popped it into my mouth, wishing it would happen before Kit got home.

"And I could use your support," I informed him.

If the new look was to have buoyed my spirits, the experiment had been a catastrophe. Since returning home I'd been thinking of ways to avoid public contact. Thanks to developments in telecommunication I had many options. I'd use telephone, fax, and e-mail. And lots of hats.

By ten I was feeling as low as I had on Friday evening. I was overworked, underappreciated, and my never-was lover turned out to prefer the robbers over the cops. My boss had collapsed, my nephew was out with the sleaze of the year, and I now looked like I'd been attacked by a Weed Eater.