Monday Mourning

“It’s so very hard when we lose someone we love.”

“I’ll have to plan the funeral.”

“I’m sure Claudia will be a great help.”

“I know just what Louise would want.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“We told each other everything.”

That’s good, I thought.

Claudia arrived within minutes.

Before leaving, I had one last question.

“Mrs. Fisher, did your sister sleep on a feather pillow?”

“Never. Louise was allergic.”

“Do you use a feather pillow?”

“Goose down.” Fisher’s face clouded. “Why? Was my pillow on Louise’s bed?”

My eyes met Ryan’s.

“Seems like a nice lady,” I said, as Ryan shifted into drive.

“More important, a living lady.”

“No wonder no one spotted her car.”

“Not likely, parked behind some pissant B and B in Pointe-aux-Pics.”

We drove in silence, bare branches cutting odd patterns in the streetlight bouncing off the windshield. Within minutes Ryan pulled onto the Pont Victoria. The wheels made the sound of a thumb rubbing the rim of a very large glass. Below us, the St. Lawrence looked black and still.

“Parent was murdered,” I said grimly.

“It’s looking that way.”

“With Fisher’s pillow.”

“Fiber guys should be able to match the feathers.”

“Some coldhearted bastard slipped into the house, took a pillow from Fisher’s bed, and used it to smother Parent.”

“While she was dead to the world on Ambien.”

“How could someone break in without leaving a trace of evidence?”

“I intend to discuss that with Fisher.”

“And Bastillo.”

“And Bastillo.”

“Do you suppose Fisher knew about Parent’s phone calls to me?”

“Another topic for discussion.

That was it for conversation.

Fine.

I didn’t want to think about Rose Fisher. Louise Parent. Ryan. Anne. My lost girls.

Leaning my head against the seat, I closed my eyes and occupied my mind making up phrases to describe the silence in the car."

"The silence of a walled tomb. An abandoned library in a Vatican basement. A black hole at the terminus of a spiral galaxy. A startled cockatiel.

Ryan dropped me at my car.

“You on for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Rose Fisher?”

“What time?”

“I’ll phone after I’ve checked with Bastillo.

By the time I drove from the lab to Centre-ville, it was seven thirty-five. Anne was dozing, floral glasses on her nose, a paperback on her chest. Birdie was beside her.

Anne had made pot roast. We chatted as she thickened gravy and I tossed a salad.

During dinner, Anne described her book, the subject of which was death. She was finding the author’s perspective enlightening.