Monday Mourning

The bell was dull brass, the old-fashioned kind that sounded when the knob was turned clockwise. Ryan reached out and gave it a twist.

Deep in the house, a bell shrilled.

Ryan waited a full minute, then rang again.

Seconds later, locks rattled, then the door creaked open four inches.

Ryan extended his badge to the crack.

“Mr. Menard?” he asked in English.

The crack didn’t widen. The person peering through it was hidden from me.

“Stephen Menard?” Ryan repeated.

“Qu’est-ce que voulez-vous?” What do you want? Heavily accented.

“Police, Mr. Menard. We’d like to talk to you,” Ryan persisted in English.

“Laissez-moi tranquille.” Leave me alone.

The door moved toward its frame. Ryan palmed it back with jackrabbit quickness.

“Are you Stephen Menard?”

“Je m’appelle Stéphane Ménard.” Menard pronounced the name in the French manner. “Qui êtes-vous?” Who are you?

“Detective Andrew Ryan.” Ryan flicked a hand in my direction. “Dr. Temperance Brennan. We need to speak with you.”

“Allez-vous en.

“We’re not going to go away, Mr. Menard. Cooperate and our questions should take only a few minutes of your time.”

Menard didn’t reply.

“Or we could do this at headquarters.” Ryan’s tone was tempered steel.

“Tabernac!”

The door closed. A chain rattled, then the door reopened.

Ryan entered and I followed. The floor was linoleum, the walls a color way too dark for the windowless room. The air smelled of mothballs, old wallpaper, and musty fabric.

The tiny foyer was lit by one small china lamp. Menard stood shadowed by the door, one hand on the knob, the other pressing a brass letter opener flat to his chest.

When Menard closed the door and turned to us, I got my first look at him.

Stephen Menard had to be six foot four. With his freckled face and bald, toad-shaped head, he was one of the most peculiar men I’d ever laid eyes on. He could have been a worn forty or a well-preserved sixty.

“Qu’est-ce que voulez-vous?” Menard asked again. What do you want?

“May we sit down?” Ryan unzipped his jacket.

A shrug. “N’importe.” Whatever.

Menard led us into a parlor as dim as the foyer. Heavy red drapes, mahogany secretary, coffee and end tables. Dark floral wallpaper. Deep cranberry upholstered pieces.

Laying the letter opener on the secretary, Menard dropped onto the sofa and crossed his legs. I removed my jacket and took the armchair to his right.