Monday Mourning Part 43

"Don't patronize me, Ryan." I picked up my pen, tossed it back on the blotter. "Mister X. Monsieur X. Monsieur X. How'd she end up with the guy?" How'd she end up with the guy?"

I s.n.a.t.c.hed up the pen and pointed it at Ryan.

"And why can't we find out who this toad is? And where's the real Stephen Menard? And when did the ident.i.ty switch take place?"

"Would you like some dinner?"

"What?"

"Dinner."

"Why?"

"I have some things I want to tell you."

"Right. You and Claudel keep a hotline to my phone for all breaking news. Where the h.e.l.l is Claudel, anyway?"

Ryan started to speak. I cut him off.

"I'm sick to death of Claudel and his f.u.c.k-you-if-you-don't-like-it att.i.tude. Charbonneau's the only one who treats me with any respect."

"Claudel's got his own way of doing things."

"So do echinoderms."

"You're judging Claudel harshly. What are echinoderms?"

That tripped the switch.

"I'm judging judging him him harshly? From the outset I've had to fight that narcissistic little prig to get him to take me seriously. To get harshly? From the outset I've had to fight that narcissistic little prig to get him to take me seriously. To get anyone anyone to take me seriously." to take me seriously."

I considered crushing the pen.

"The bones are too old. Carbon 14 is too expensive. The girls were hookers. Louise Parent died in her sleep. Old ladies do that. They're known for doing it."

"I was referring to drooling."

"See!" I jabbed the pen at Ryan. "Your flip att.i.tude doesn't help."

"Tempe-" Ryan reached out to touch me. I drew back.

"Of course. I forgot. You love me. But you love a lot of things. Goat cheese. Parakeets. The Weeki-Wachee Mermaids."

Ryan's mouth opened to say something. I cut him off.

"Right. You love me. You just can't find time to be with me."

I stormed on, all the pent-up frustration rolling in one powerful surge.

"Now, suddenly you're free for dinner! On Sat.u.r.day night! What a lucky girl I am!"

The words spewed like water through a sluice gate.

"What about duty? What about your"-I hooked my index fingers to bracket the word-"niece?"

The pen ricocheted off the blotter and winged toward Ryan. Throwing up a hand, he deflected it.

I shot to my feet.

"Oh G.o.d, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you."

Dropping into my chair, I put my face in my palms. My cheeks felt warm and damp.

"Christ. What's wrong with me?"

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Palming away wetness, I did an ear-tuck with my hair and raised my head.

Ryan was gazing down at me, the travel-poster eyes filled with concern.

Or pity?

Or what?

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not sure where all that came from."

"Everyone's under pressure."

"Everyone's not turning into Il Duce."

I was aware of LaManche before actually seeing him. Movement in my peripheral vision. The smell of pipe tobacco and drugstore cologne.

Throat clearing.

Ryan and I turned. LaManche was in my doorway.

"I thought you both might like to know. The coroner has officially ruled Louise Parent's death a homicide."

"She was smothered?" I asked.

"I believe so."

"Have you gotten the tox results?" Ryan asked.

"Traces of sleeping medication, Ambien, were detected in the blood and urine. Levels were consistent with the ingestion of ten milligrams several hours before death."

"What about timing?" Ryan asked.

"Did you establish whether Parent ate that soup for lunch or for dinner?"

"Phone records indicate calls were made from the Fisher home at three fifty-five, four-fourteen, and five-nineteen P.M. P.M. that Friday. The first was to Parent's priest, the second to a pharmacy two blocks away. The third was to a cell phone. We're working on that." that Friday. The first was to Parent's priest, the second to a pharmacy two blocks away. The third was to a cell phone. We're working on that."

I shot Ryan a look. No one had told me that.

"So Parent's last meal must have been dinner."

"The soup would have been evacuated from the stomach after three hours, the Ambien after two," LaManche said. "The sleeping aid would have been dissolved in the tea."

"According to the niece, Parent usually ate around seven. a.s.suming she did so on Friday, that brings us up to ten P.M. P.M.," Ryan calculated. "a.s.suming she took the Ambien at bedtime, that brings us up to eleven or midnight. So death must have occurred in the early hours of Sat.u.r.day morning."

"That is consistent with the state of decomposition," LaManche said.

"My offer's still on the table," Ryan said, when LaManche had gone.

"When did you learn about the phone calls?" I asked.

"Today. It's one of the things I was going to tell you. Hurley's?"

I looked at Ryan a long, long time, then wrenched my lips into a smile.

"With one condition."

Ryan spread his palms.

"The check's mine."

"Hee-haw!" Ryan said.

Hurley's Irish Pub is on rue Crescent just below rue Ste-Catherine. Driving there, I debated my choices: Park at home and risk hypothermia walking. Die of old age searching for a place to leave the car.

I opted for parking over thermal equilibrium. Scurrying along Ste-Catherine, I questioned the wisdom of that decision.

Ryan was seated in the snug when I arrived, a half-drunk pint on the table in front of him. I ordered lamb stew and a Perrier with lemon. He ordered chicken St-Ambroise.

While awaiting our food, Ryan and I circled each other warily. We both tried jokes. Most fell flat.

Around us swirled the usual Sat.u.r.day night throng of drinkers. Some looked happy. Others desperate. Others merely blank. I couldn't imagine their myriad problems and relationships.

Beside us, a young couple sat pressed together closer than socks from a dryer. He wore red felt reindeer antlers. She wore a Christmas sweater.

As I stared, reindeer antlers nuzzled Christmas sweater's neck. She laughed.

They looked so happy, so comfortable with each other.

Christmas sweater's eyes met mine. I looked away quickly, to a sign above Ryan's head.

Bienvenue. Welcome. Failte. Someone had draped a pine garland across the top edge. Someone had draped a pine garland across the top edge.

A girl wormed past our table, moving with the exaggerated care one uses to mask inebriation. She had pale skin and a long black braid.

I thought of Anique Pomerleau. Where had she been for almost fifteen years? Why was she now with the man who was using Menard's name?

The waitress brought our dinners. Ryan ordered another pint. I ordered another Perrier.

As we ate, the conversation turned to work. Safe ground.

"Claudel's gone to Vermont."

My brows shot up. "To research the real Menard?"

Ryan nodded.

"Whose idea?"

"Claudel is a good cop."

"Who thinks I'm a moron."

"I don't hang with morons."

You don't hang with me. I didn't say it.

"Do you suppose this Menard impostor killed Louise Parent?" I asked.

"It's a possibility."

"Pretty good possibility, don't you think? Parent calls me about Menard. Within days, some guy tunes her up with a pillow."

Ryan didn't comment.

"But how could this Menard impostor have known that Parent called me?"

"How could anyone have known?"

I had no answer for that.

"Have you talked to the neighbor with the SUV?"

"He's clean."

"I keep thinking about Parent's final night. Her last feelings and thoughts. Do you suppose she knew?"

"There were no signs of a struggle. She was lubed on Ambien."

"Some cold-blooded psycho found a way into that house in the middle of the night and smothered Parent with her sister's pillow. Do you suppose she sensed pressure against her face? Smelled the fabric softener? Tasted the feathers? Felt terror at some level?"

"Don't do this to yourself, Tempe."