Monday Mourning Part 21

Seeing us, Mousseau reshelved an object, closed and locked the cabinet, dropped Harry Potter gla.s.ses to her chest, and hurried toward us.

"Bonjour, Tempe. Comment ca va?"

Mousseau kissed each of my cheeks, then stepped back and beamed up at me, hands still clasping my upper arms.

"You're good, my friend?"

"I'm good," I replied in English, then introduced Anne.

"A very great pleasure to meet you." Mousseau cranked Anne's arm as one would a pump handle.

"Likewise." Anne stepped back, overwhelmed by the tiny cyclone working her limb.

The two women looked like members of different species. Anne was tall and blonde. Mousseau stood four foot eleven and had curly black hair. Anne was swathed in pink angora. The archaeologist wore a khaki boy's shirt, black jeans, and lumberjack boots. An enormous wad of keys dangled from one belt loop.

"Thanks for agreeing to see us so late on a snowy Friday," I said.

"Is it snowing?" Mousseau released Anne and swiveled to me, bouncing like someone jiggered on speed.

I'd met Monique Mousseau a decade back, soon after my first sortie to Montreal. I'd worked with her often over the years, and understood that her energy did not come from a chemical high. The woman's extraordinary vigor came from love of life and vocation. Give Mousseau a trowel and she'd dig up New England.

"Gangbusters," I said.

"How wonderful. I've been underground so long today I've lost touch with the outside world. How does it look?"

"Very white."

Mousseau's laugh echoed louder than a sound someone her size should. "So. Tell me about these b.u.t.tons."

I described the skeletons and the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"Fascinating." Every utterance owned an exclamation point. "Let's take a look."

I dug out and handed her the Ziploc.

Mousseau slid the Harry Potters onto her nose and examined the b.u.t.tons, turning the baggie over and over in her hands. A full minute pa.s.sed. Then another.

Mousseau's face took on a puzzled expression.

Anne and I looked at each other.

Mousseau raised round lenses toward me.

"May I remove them?"

"Of course."

Unzipping the baggie, Mousseau shook the b.u.t.tons onto her palm, crossed to the cart, and studied each with the magnifying gla.s.s. Using a fingertip, she rolled the b.u.t.tons, observed, righted them, and observed some more. With each move the perplexed expression deepened.

Anne and I exchanged another glance.

Mousseau's examination seemed to go on forever. Then, "Will you excuse me one moment?"

I nodded.

Mousseau hurried off, leaving two of the three b.u.t.tons on her cart.

Around us, an eerie silence. Outside, the occasional honking of a horn.

The waiting played h.e.l.l with my nerves. Why the confusion? What was Mousseau seeing?

A lifetime later the archaeologist returned, picked up the abandoned b.u.t.tons, and resumed her inspection. Finally, she looked up, eyes enormous behind their lenses.

"Antoinette Legault looked at these?"

"A detective showed them to her at the McCord."

"Legault felt they were nineteenth century?"

"Yes."

"She's right."

My heart plummeted.

Mousseau crossed to me, held up her palm, and manipulated two b.u.t.tons with the tip of her pen.

"These are sterling silver, produced by a jeweler and watchmaker named R. L. Christie."

"Where?"

"Edinburgh, Scotland."

"When?"

"Sometime between 1890 and 1900."

"You're certain?"

"I was pretty sure I recognized Christie's work, but I looked them up just to be sure."

I nodded, too deflated to think of something to say.

"But this"-Mousseau flipped the third b.u.t.ton with her pen-"is a copy, and a poor copy at that."

I stared at her blankly.

Mousseau handed me the lens. "Compare this one," she indicated one of the Christie b.u.t.tons, "to this one." The pen moved to the forgery.

Under magnification, details of the Christie woman's face were clear. Eyes. Nose. Curls. In contrast, the silhouette on the fake was a featureless outline.

Mousseau flipped the b.u.t.tons. "Notice the initials etched beside the eyelet."

Even to an amateur, the difference was obvious. Christie had engraved his letters with smooth, flowing motions. On the forgery, the S had been gouged as a series of intersecting cuts.

I was perplexed and somewhat taken aback.

But not as taken aback as I would be come Monday morning.

16.

MY CONDO IS A GROUND-FLOOR UNIT IN A FOUR-STORY LOW-RISE wrapping a central courtyard. Two bedrooms. Two baths. Living and dining rooms. Narrow-gauge kitchen. Foyer. wrapping a central courtyard. Two bedrooms. Two baths. Living and dining rooms. Narrow-gauge kitchen. Foyer.

From the long hall running between the front entrance and the dining room, just opposite the kitchen, French doors open onto a patio bordering the central courtyard. From the living room, another set of French doors gives access to a tiny patch of lawn.

In summer, I plant herbs along the edge of the gra.s.s. In winter, I watch snow build on the redwood fence, and on the boughs of the pine within its confines. Five square yards. Acreage extraordinaire extraordinaire in a downtown flat. in a downtown flat.

That night, the dark little yard triggered feelings of exposure and vulnerability. No matter that the patrol car Ryan had requested was pa.s.sing frequently. His makeshift patch on the door was a constant reminder of my unbidden caller and the point of entry he had chosen. What other choices had been available to him? I had to admit that having Anne there was a comfort.

After a quick meal of carry-out Thai, Anne and I cleaned. Anger wormed inside me as I swept and vacuumed.

Again, I fell asleep with my thoughts brawling.

Had some c.o.ked-out ragnose violated my refuge? That seemed most likely. Someone desperate for cash for a fix who turned destructive when he didn't find it. No B and E felon would have been that messy. But what about a scare scenario? Some greaseball ordered to divert me from long-hidden mob secrets leaving a "we know where you live" message. Or was it some malevolent sociopath with an issue specifically related to me?

What did the b.u.t.tons mean?

Why hadn't Claudel or Charbonneau returned my calls?

Where was Ryan? Why hadn't he phoned?

Did I give a rat's a.s.s? Of course I did.

Sat.u.r.day morning Anne made a trip to Le Faubourg while I dealt with the gla.s.s repairman. By noon a new pane was in, the refrigerator was stocked, and the place was reasonably clean.

For reasons my subconscious chooses not share with me, there are certain items I am incapable of discarding. Prescription medicines. National Geographic National Geographic s. American Academy of Forensic Sciences directories. Phone books. s. American Academy of Forensic Sciences directories. Phone books.

Hey, you never know.

After tomato, cheese, and mayo sandwiches with Anne, I collected every phone book in the house and stacked them beside my computer. Then I pulled out Cyr's list. Where to begin locating tenants? Work backward or forward?

I started with Cyr's earliest renters.

From 1976 until 1982 a luggage shop had occupied the s.p.a.ce currently in use by Matoub's pizzeria. The proprietor had been a woman named Sylvie Vasco.

The number on Cyr's list was answered by a college student living in the McGill ghetto. He had no idea what I was talking about.

Neither the computer nor any directory listed a Sylvie, but together they coughed up seven S. Vascos. One number had been disconnected. Two went unanswered. My fourth call got me a lawyer's office. My last three were picked up by women. None was named Sylvie or knew of a Vasco named Sylvie or Sylvia.

Circling the two unanswered numbers, I moved on.

From 1982 until 1987 the pizza parlor s.p.a.ce had been occupied by a butcher shop named Boucherie Lehaim. Cyr had written the name Abraham Cohen, then made a notation "sp?"

The White Pages listed a zillion Cohens in and around Montreal. They too suggested alternate spellings, including Coen, Cohen, Cohn, Kohen, and Kohn.

Great.

The Yellow Pages listed a Boucherie Lehaim in Hampstead.

No one answered the Boucherie Boucherie's phone.

Back to Cyr's list.

Patrick Ockleman and Ilya Fabian had been Cyr's tenants from 1987 to 1988. The old man had penned the words "queer" and "travel" next to their names.

I found nothing in any directory for the name Ockleman.

Ilya Fabian was listed at an Amherst address in the Gay Village. The phone was answered on the first ring.

I introduced myself and asked if I was speaking with Ilya Fabian.

I was.

I asked if the gentleman was the same Ilya Fabian who had operated a travel agency on Ste-Catherine in the late eighties.

"Yes." Wary.

I asked if Ockleman and his partner had used or visited the bas.e.m.e.nt of the property during their tenancy.

"You said you're with the coroner?" Wariness now edged with distaste.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh my G.o.d. Was someone dead down there? Was there a body in that cellar?"

What to tell him?

"I'm investigating bones found buried below the floor."

"Oh my Gawd!"

"The material is probably quite old."