HO ARE YOU?” THE WORDS SOUNDED WET AND SLUSHY, LIKE someone speaking with a mouth full of peas.

Ryan held out his badge.

“Polishe?” Fearful.

“May we come in, Mrs. Fisher?”

“Where’sh Louishe? Where’sh my shishter?”

Dear God. She didn’t know.

“We’d like to talk to you about that.” Ryan’s voice was calm and reassuring.

The crack widened. I saw a pumpkin face, oddly concave around the mouth.

“Wait.”

The door closed.

The raw wind whipped my collar and scarf. I lowered my head, stomped my feet.

I felt leaden. Ryan and I would be the bearers of bad news. Our words would change Rose Fisher’s life forever. I hated what I was about to see. It was not ordinarily part of my job, and I was thankful for that, but when involved, I hated it.

Minutes later the door reopened, and Ryan and I stepped into the house. The warmth made the skin on my face feel soft and loose.

Rose Fisher was not plump. She was enormous. A bad dye job and perm gave her swollen face a clownish look. An overabundance of cosmetics didn’t help.

“Where is my sister?” The fear lingered, but the slush was gone. Though wrinkled and coated with lipstick, Fisher’s mouth now looked normal.

The leaden feeling intensified. Sweet Jesus. The woman had inserted dentures and applied makeup. For strangers.

Ryan laid a hand on Fisher’s shoulder. “May we sit down?”

A pudgy hand flew to the fire engine mouth. “Oh my God. Something’s happened to Louise.” Mascaraed eyes darted from Ryan to me. “You’ve come to tell me something’s happened to Louise. Where is she?”

Ryan guided Fisher to the living room sofa and sat beside her. From the corner, a gray and yellow cockatiel with bright orange cheeks chirped, then whistled six notes of “Edelweiss.”

Positioning myself to Fisher’s left, I took one chubby hand in mine.

Ryan tipped his chin, indicating I should take the lead.

The cockatiel said, “Bonjour.” Repeated itself. Chirped.

“Mrs. Fisher, we do have bad news.”

Fisher’s eyes closed. Her fingers tightened into a death grip.

“I’m so sorry, but your sister has died.”

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Fisher began throwing her head back and forth, eyes squeezed so tightly they disappeared into the fat surrounding the orbits. With each oscillation a high, thin note rose from her throat, then choked off behind the carefully placed dentures.

I placed an arm around the woman’s shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated.

Fisher continued her keening, mascara and eye shadow flowing to mix with the orange-rose blusher.

The cockatiel went silent.

Ryan patted Fisher’s right shoulder. His eyes met mine. They mirrored the sadness I was feeling.

The cockatiel regarded its mistress, crown raised, head frozen at a forty-degree angle.

Seconds ticked by on a sideboard clock. The cockatiel tried a few notes of “Alouette,” gave up.

Fisher wailed and bobbed.

One minute. Two.

Ryan slipped from the room, returned with a box of tissues.

Three.

Gradually, the terrible sobbing diminished.

“I love you.” Chirp. “Je t’aime.”

The porcine eyes opened and Fisher’s head swiveled toward the bird.

“I love you, too, ’Tit Ange.”

Little Angel cocked his head, but said nothing.

“My sister adores that silly bird.” Almost inaudible. “Adored.”

Ryan offered tissues. Fisher took several, and turned to me, her face a rainbow Popsicle left to melt in the mud.

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan. I work with the coroner.”

Beneath the clown makeup, Fisher’s face went white.

“It was some kind of allergic reaction, right?”

“Cause of death isn’t totally clear at this point.”

Fisher wiped at the chaos on her face.

“I should never have left Louise alone when she was feeling poorly.”

Fisher slumped back.

“Your sister was unwell?” Ryan asked gently.

“Allergies. Wheezy, itchy eyes, runny nose.” The massive body collapsed into itself. “I never dreamed—”

Fisher’s chest heaved with another involuntary spasm. I plucked tissues and handed them to her.

“I know this is terribly difficult,” I said in the most soothing voice I could muster. “And I’m so sorry to have to ask you these questions. But a great many people have been trying to find you this week. Would you mind telling Detective Ryan and me where you’ve been?”

“Louise and I signed up for a ceramics workshop in Pointe-aux-Pics. We thought it would be fun to learn how to make pottery—”

Heave. Heave.

“—stay in a B and B, do our Christmas shopping in the Charlevoix region.”

“Your sister didn’t feel up to going?”

When Fisher nodded an upper chin plunged into the fat of its lower counterpart.

“Louise insisted she’d be fine. Said if she needed anything, she’d call Claudia. That’s my daughter.” Fisher’s throat seemed to clench. “Oh God. Does Claudia know?”

“Yes, ma’am. Claudia’s been very worried about you.”

“We should have told her. I should have told her. When Louise decided to stay behind, it didn’t seem necessary. Claudia’s always fussing at me about driving during the winter. Treats me like I’m a doddering old fool. Wants me to stay home all the time.”

“When did you get back from Charlevoix?” Ryan asked.

“Not long before you arrived. I thought Louise was over to the church. They do bingo on Thursday nights. I was tired from the drive, so I was about to leave her a note and turn in.”

Fisher was wadding and unwadding the saturated tissue.

“Louise’s bed is unmade. That’s not like her.”

The corpulent bosom heaved again.

“Let me get you some water.”

As I filled a glass from the kitchen tap, Ryan and Fisher talked on in the living room. Now and then the cockatiel chirped or sang a fragment of song.

Before returning, I made a quick pass by Louise Parent’s room. The scene differed little from the SIJ photos. The bed was now stripped, exposing a stain on the mattress where Parent’s bladder had voided at death. A single pillow lay by the headboard.

I returned to the living room and handed Fisher the water.

Ryan caught my eye and gave a subtle head shake, indicating Fisher was too distraught for meaningful questioning.

“I’m going to call your daughter now,” Ryan said.

Fisher made disjointed slurping sounds as she drank.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.”

“When can I see Louise?”

Ryan looked at me.

“A viewing can be arranged, if that’s what you’d like.”

“What a terrible Christmas.” Fisher’s lips trembled. Tears glistened on each of her cheeks.

I squeezed the woman’s hand. “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. I found her choice of topic unsettling.

“Why the morbid interest in death?”

“You sound like Annie Hall.”

“You’re acting like Woody Allen.”

Anne thought a moment.

“To move forward it is often necessary to change.”

“Move toward what and change how?”

“In substance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cycles.”

As I pondered that enigmatic comment, the phone rang. It was Katy.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Where are you?”

“Charlottesville, but I’m heading home tomorrow.”

“Exams went well?”

“Of course. I’m checking to make sure you’ll be in Charlotte on the twenty-second.”

The twenty-second?

“Hannah’s shower? You promised you’d help me?”

What demented moron would plan a wedding at Christmas?

“Of course I’ll be there.”

“I’m counting on your years and years of experience.”

“Cute.”

“I sent you a couple of e-mails. Ho! Ho! Ho! ’Tis the season, and all that. I especially crave that sweater from Anthropologie. And the tranquillity fountain would help me chill.”

“What do you need to chill about?”

“Help me study, I mean.”

“Um. Hm.”

“Love you, ma mère. Gotta go.” Katy’s voice sounded strung with mistletoe and holly.

“What are you so bubbly about?”

“’Tis the season.”

“Ho. Ho. Ho.”

“Hold on to that thought.”

When we’d disconnected I went looking for Anne. She’d already retired. No further explanation of fulfillment or substance. I had the sense she’d used the phone call as an escape opportunity.

I undressed, washed my face, brushed and flossed, all the time worrying over my promise to Katy. I’d been so wrapped up in Louise Parent and my pizza basement girls I’d virtually forgotten Christmas. And totally forgotten Hannah’s shower.

Could I resolve the case in a week, or would I be forced to put my lost girls on hold for the holidays?

Back in my room, I reached to set the alarm, stopped. Had Ryan given me a pickup time? I remembered asking, but couldn’t recall his reply.

Ten-thirty. He’d probably be at home.

I hit Ryan’s button on my speed dial. The phone was answered after two rings.

“Yes?” The voice was female.

Something hot-wired through my stomach and lungs.

“Andrew Ryan, please.”

“Who’s calling?” Young and female.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“You.” Young and female and edged like a saw. “Why don’t you leave him alone?”

“Excuse me?”

“Quit screwing with his head.”

“Is this Danielle?”

Long silence.

My mind raced. Was that the right name?

“Is this Detective Ryan’s niece?”

The woman snorted. “Niece? That’s what he told you? And you believed him? You’re dumber than I thought.”

The truth dropped into place like a guillotine blade.

“Just leave him alone.”

I was listening to a dial tone.