Monday Mourning

” Anne stepped back, overwhelmed by the tiny cyclone working her limb.

The two women looked like members of different species. Anne was tall and blonde. Mousseau stood four foot eleven and had curly black hair. Anne was swathed in pink angora. The archaeologist wore a khaki boy’s shirt, black jeans, and lumberjack boots. An enormous wad of keys dangled from one belt loop.

“Thanks for agreeing to see us so late on a snowy Friday,” I said.

“Is it snowing?” Mousseau released Anne and swiveled to me, bouncing like someone jiggered on speed.

I’d met Monique Mousseau a decade back, soon after my first sortie to Montreal. I’d worked with her often over the years, and understood that her energy did not come from a chemical high. The woman’s extraordinary vigor came from love of life and vocation. Give Mousseau a trowel and she’d dig up New England.

“Gangbusters,” I said.

“How wonderful. I’ve been underground so long today I’ve lost touch with the outside world. How does it look?”

“Very white.”

Mousseau’s laugh echoed louder than a sound someone her size should.

I described the skeletons and the basement.

“Fascinating.” Every utterance owned an exclamation point. “Let’s take a look.”

I dug out and handed her the Ziploc.

Mousseau slid the Harry Potters onto her nose and examined the buttons, turning the baggie over and over in her hands. A full minute passed. Then another.

Mousseau’s face took on a puzzled expression.

Anne and I looked at each other.

Mousseau raised round lenses toward me.

“May I remove them?”

“Of course.”

Unzipping the baggie, Mousseau shook the buttons onto her palm, crossed to the cart, and studied each with the magnifying glass. Using a fingertip, she rolled the buttons, observed, righted them, and observed some more. With each move the perplexed expression deepened."

"Anne and I exchanged another glance.

Mousseau’s examination seemed to go on forever. Then, “Will you excuse me one moment?”

I nodded.

Mousseau hurried off, leaving two of the three buttons on her cart.

Around us, an eerie silence. Outside, the occasional honking of a horn.

The waiting played hell with my nerves. Why the confusion? What was Mousseau seeing?

A lifetime later the archaeologist returned, picked up the abandoned buttons, and resumed her inspection. Finally, she looked up, eyes enormous behind their lenses.

“Antoinette Legault looked at these?”

“A detective showed them to her at the McCord.