Monday Mourning

When I saw her in that dungeon, I wanted to cry.”

“We all fell for it. Did you get the bouquet?”

I turned and looked at my dining room table. The “bouquet” was the size of Laramie, Wyoming.

“It’s beautiful. I’m having Hydro-Quebec run an extra water-line.”

I felt my reserves dwindling. Ryan heard the fatigue in my voice."

"“Claudel and Charbonneau have a lot to tell you when you’re feeling up to it. For now, eat something, kill the phone, and hit the rack, hot stuff.”

I did. And slept until midafternoon.

Waking was like crossing an event horizon.

I felt zestful. Invigorated. Charged with water-walking, omnipotent vitality.

Until I looked in the mirror.

My face was scraped and blotchy. My hair was singed. What remained of my brows and lashes were crinkly little sprigs.

Showering helped little, makeup even less.

I imagined Katy’s reaction on Friday. I pictured Claudel with his razor-sharp styling and advert-perfect creases.

“Bloody hell.”

Rebandaging my hands, I headed to CUM headquarters.

“Sergeant-détective Charbonneau ou Claudel, s’il vous plaît,” I requested of the lobby receptionist.

“Busy night,” the receptionist said in English, poker-faced.

“A real pip.”

I pictured myself panty-mooning the sky. Great. Word was out. My PC-challenged male colleagues would have a field day.

Charbonneau came down to escort me through security. He asked how I was, then he led me to the squad room, eyes straight ahead.

I entered to whistling and applause.

Sergeant-détective Alain Tibo dug a bag from his desk, popped to his feet, and crossed to me.

He looked the type that would play the bulldog in a Disney flick.

“This ain’t Dixie, Doc. It gets real cold in Quebec.” I knew Tibo’s sense of humor. If the squad needed a clown, he’d be elected. “We chipped in and got you some proper gear.”

Tibo offered the bag with solemn ceremony.

The sweatshirt was blue, the wording bright red.

There’s no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothing.

—Old Scottish fisherman’s proverb

Below the proverb, a woman built a snowman in a blizzard of flakes.

Her hair was orange, her skin pink. The snowman wore a hat. The woman wore nothing but stilettos, bra, and panties.

Rolling my eyes, I jammed the shirt back into the bag. Charbonneau and I crossed to Claudel, weaving through desks and dodging wastebaskets and outthrust feet.

“Claudel bills you for the overcoat,” said a voice behind us. “Slide it by the captain as a business chit.