Monday Mourning

“Something’s on your mind.”

I said nothing.

“It’s obvious you’re upset.”

I said nothing, louder this time.

“I suspect you’re unhappy with me.” Though he smiled, there was tension in his jaw and around his eyes.

“I know you consider yourself a hot property, Ryan, but I have other things to think about besides you.”

And your niece. I felt like one raw nerve.

“Do you want to talk?” Ryan asked.

“I want to drive,” I said, not trusting my voice with anything more.

We did.

In brittle silence.

Claudia Bastillo answered the bell at the Candiac house.

Rose Fisher was sitting alone, staring at the venetian blinds. She wore a green rayon dress dotted with poppies. The orange hair was pushed up in back with a plastic clip-comb. If possible, the makeup was more extravagant than on the previous evening.

’Tit Ange was on a roll with “Frère Jacques.”

Fisher didn’t stir when we entered the living room. Hearing her daughter’s voice, she turned and looked at us, puzzled, as if trying to figure out who we might be.

“It’s the cop. And the coroner.”

With that less than accurate introduction, Bastillo withdrew.

Ryan and I assumed our positions flanking Fisher. “The cop” gestured to “the coroner” to proceed.

“I hope you’re feeling better today, ma’am.”

Fisher nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Mrs. Fisher, I’m wondering about some calls your sister placed to me at my lab.”

The garish eyes dropped.

“When?”

“Last week.”

“About what?” Fisher’s focus remained downwardly fixed.

“Mrs. Parent—”

“Louise never married.”

“Miss Parent spoke of a building on rue Ste-Catherine.”

The sausage fingers closed and opened.

“She said she was bothered by events that had taken place there.”

Fisher’s fidgeting intensified.

“Your sister stated that she felt morally obligated to share certain information with the authorities.”

“She called you?” Fisher looked up, eyes wide in the artlessly recreated face.

“Twice.

“I didn’t think she’d actually do it.”

“What did your sister want to discuss with me?”"

"At that moment Bastillo arrived and took the chair opposite the couch. The cockatiel shifted from chirping to shrilling short, strident notes.

“’Tit Ange!” Bastillo barked.

The cockatiel did another series of power shrills.

“Cut it out!”

The cockatiel said “pretty bird” in English and French, then began investigating the contents of its seed basin.