Monday Mourning

Why wasn’t the woman trying to reconnect? She had the number. Wait. Hadn’t she referred to an earlier call? Did she think I’d blown her off? That I’d hung up on her? Had she given up?"

"I opened the desk drawer. Rooted for a pen. Closed the drawer.

Hadn’t the caller mentioned something about leaving? Leaving home? The city? The province? For the day? For good?

I was dividing triangles into smaller triangles, berating myself for my carelessness, when my cell phone sounded. I flew to my purse and dug it out.

“Mrs. Gallant?”

“I’ve been called gallant, but never Mrs.”

Ryan.

“I thought you were someone else.”

I knew that was stupid as soon as I said it. Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent had phoned through the switchboard. She couldn’t possibly know my private number.

“It shatters me to hear such disappointment in your voice.”

Resuming my seat, I smiled the first smile of the day. “You’re dazzling, Ryan. My disappointment has to do with a case.”

“What case?”

“The pizza basement skeletons.

As we spoke I kept watch on the message light. One twinkle and I’d leap back into my voice mail.

“Did today bring the pleasure of Claudel’s company?”

“He was here.”

“Alone?”

“The rest of the Waffen SS couldn’t make it.”

“Claudel can be a little rigid.”

“Claudel is a Neanderthal. No. I sell the Paleolithic short. Neanderthals had fully sapient brains.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Claudel’s brain. He just tends to put a lot of weight on past experience and usual patterns.

“Two prostitutes were assaulted. One died. The other is hanging on at the Notre-Dame Hospital.”

“I heard about that,” Ryan said.

Of course. A twinge of irritation.

“I believe the ladies’ business manager was invited in for questioning.”

“You would know.”

Ryan either ignored or missed the annoyance in my voice.

“What does Claudel want to do with your bones?”

“Unfortunately, very little.”

“I know what I’d like to do with your bones.”

“That didn’t top your agenda last night,” Doris piped up before I could stop her.

Ryan did not reply.

“All three skeletons are the remains of young girls,” I segued back.

“Recent?”

“Claudel relieved the owner of some buttons he claimed to have found with one set of bones. An expert at the McCord assessed them as nineteenth century.”

“Let me guess. Claudel’s not interested in what he sees as prehistoric?”

“Odd, since his head’s been up his ass since the Neolithic.