Monday Mourning

Slowly, I dropped my eyes.

The baggie contained three round items.

“Feel free to remove them.”

Unzipping the baggie, I dropped the objects onto my palm. Each was a flat metal disk measuring slightly over an inch in diameter. Though corroded, I could see that each disk had a female silhouette engraved on the front, an eyelet on the back. The initials ST were etched beside each eyelet.

I looked a question at Claudel.

“With some persuasion, the Prince of Pizza admitted to liberating certain items while crating the bones.

”

“Buttons?”

Claudel nodded.

“They were buried with the skeleton?”

“The gentleman is a little vague on provenance. But yes, they are buttons. And it’s obvious they are old.”

“How can you be certain they’re old?”

“I can’t. Dr. Antoinette Legault at the McCord could.”

The McCord Museum of Canadian History houses over a million artifacts, with more than sixteen thousand of those belonging to the clothing and apparel collection.

“Legault is a button expert?”

Claudel ignored my question.

“The buttons were manufactured in the nineteenth century.”

Before I could reply, Claudel’s cell phone warbled. Without excusing himself, he rose and stepped into the hall.

My eyes went back to the buttons. Did they mean the skeletons had been in the ground a century or more?

In less than a minute, Claudel was back.

“Something important has come up.”

I was being dismissed.

I have a temper. I admit that. Sometimes I lose it. Claudel’s condescension was prodding me toward one of those times.

I had rushed through a preliminary evaluation to accommodate his schedule on the assumption that this investigation was of immediate priority, and now he was brushing me aside after a cursory inquiry.

“Meaning this case is not important?”

Claudel lowered his chin and looked at me, a picture of infinitely strained patience.

“I am a police officer, not a historian.”

“And I am a scientist, not a conjecturer.”

“These artifacts”—he flapped a hand at the buttons—“belong to another century.

”

“Three dead girls now belong to this one.” I rose abruptly.

Claudel’s body stiffened. His eyes crimped.

“A prostitute has just arrived at l’hôpital Notre-Dame with a fractured skull and a knife in her gut. Her colleague is less fortunate. She is dead. My partner and I are going to arrest a certain pimp to improve other ladies’ odds of surviving.”

Claudel jabbed a finger in my direction.

“That, madame, is important.”"

"With that he strode out the door.