Let your bookcases and your shelves be your gardens and your pleasure-grounds. Pluck the fruit that grows therein, gather the roses, the spices, and the myrrh.
Judah Ibn Tibbon
ePub
A4Chapter 28
C
LUNK.I raised my lids.
The window shade was a muted gray rectangle outlined by strips of sluggish daylight. Again. War of the Toxic Ham Salad: Day Three.
Birdie was atop the bureau on the far side of the room. Below him, a framed photo of Katy lay angled to a baseboard.
Though better than yesterday, my body still felt like it had gone through a crusher.
I sat up. Groaned.
Bird looked an accusation in my direction.
Can cats do that?
Thursday was a blur. I could remember trying to change the sheets. To feed the cat. To shower. To eat crackers. My innards would have nothing to do with digestion. After each attempt at activity, I’d fall back into bed.
Fitful while sleeping, I’d kicked the covers to the floor. Reengaging them, I assessed. Though the fever and nausea were gone, my rib and abdominal muscles ached, and a low throbbing lingered behind my eyeballs. My nightshirt was soaked.
I looked at the clock. Ten twenty.
Bird had a point.
“You hungry, buddy?”
Prim nonresponse.
Peeling off the wet jammies, I donned sweats, then dragged to the kitchen to feed the cat.
Back to the bathroom. Already my energy level was tanking.
I studied my image in the mirror while brushing my teeth. Eyes rabbit pink. Face oatmeal. Hair pasted to my scalp and forehead in swirly wet clumps.
How would Harry describe my appearance? Rode hard and put away wet.
“Apt.” My voice sounded croaky.
Lab today?
Maybe.
Shower?
Not yet.
Hair?
Later.
One system kicked in. Suddenly I was famished. Ten hours of vomiting will do that, I guess.
The refrigerator offered condiments, Diet Coke, moldy lettuce, and a trio of plastic containers whose contents would require a gas spec for ID.
I was contemplating a grocery run when I heard knocking at the front door.
Entrance to my building requires a key. Others must buzz. Only the caretaker or a resident should already be inside.
Sparky?
Merciful God. Not today.
I tiptoed down the hall and peeked through the peephole.
An impossibly blue eye stared back.
“I know you’re in there.” Muffled through the door.
“Go away.”
“I have news. Open up.”
Reluctantly, I did.
Ryan was bundled in hooded parka, muffler, and tuque pulled low to his brows. His nostrils were blanched, his cheeks flushed. He held a square white box in mittened hands.
“Klondike Pete called,” I said. “They want the outfit back.”
“It’s twenty-two below.” Shifting the bakery, Ryan palmed back his hood.
“You could not know I was here,” I said.
“Shadow in the peephole. The cat moves low to the ground. I’m a detective. I read clues.”
Ryan’s eyes roved my body. My hair. A grin played his lips.
“Don’t say it,” I warned.
“Say what?” All innocence.
“I’ve been under the weather.”
“Two-day blizzard?”
“You’re a laugh riot, Ryan. You should take yourself on the road. Like, right now?”
Ryan proffered the box. “I brought breakfast.”
I smelled pastry. Buttery eggs. Salty bacon.
“You’ll do coffee?” Ryan had his faults, but he made great coffee.
“Bien sûr. I am the brewer of coffee and the fixer of glass.”
“My hero.” Stepping back. “Winston already replaced the window.”
Ryan disappeared into the kitchen. I went to the bathroom to try to reason with my hair. Pointless. I finally yanked it into a knot on top of my head.
Lipstick and blush?
Screw it. I almost died of food poisoning.
Ryan had set two places at the dining room table. He sat at one, sipping coffee from my RCMP mug. The open box was one croissant down.
“Flu?” he asked when I reappeared.
“Deadly ham salad.”
“But you emerge the victor.”
“I do.” I opened a croissant, considered, then removed the bacon, not up to another porcine encounter. “Let me guess. Someone in Pointe-Calumet recognized Red O’Keefe’s picture?”
“No.”
“OK. What’s your news?”
“One Bud Keith was on the payroll of L’Auberge des Neiges at the time Rose Jurmain disappeared.”
“Holy shit.” Through a mouthful of egg and dough.
“The holiest.”
“Doing what?”
“Kitchen worker.”
“Bud Keith aka Red O’Keefe?”
“Our very own.”
“Was Keith–O’Keefe questioned?”
“Yep. Cops ran him, saw he had a record, a string of aliases. But Keith cooperated, and, more importantly, served up an airtight alibi for the time period in question. He was bear hunting with friends near La Tuque. Six guys put him there the date Jurmain disappeared. Cops saw no reason to follow up.”
“How long did Keith/O’Keefe work at the inn?”
“Split after a two-month stint. Gave no notice and left no forwarding address. Manager says he was a good worker, but moody.”
“What does that mean?”
“He didn’t like the guy.”
“What does Claudel think?”
“He thinks it’s worth follow-up.”
“Is he making progress on Keiser?”
“He’s got the vic’s son, Otto, flying in from Alberta. Apparently Mona’s divorced, has three little kids and nowhere to leave them. Claudel wants to run sonny around the apartment and the cabin at Memphrémagog, see if maybe something clicks. I’ll probably join up for a look-see.”
“You never know,” I said.
“You never know.”
A detail had been nagging at me since I’d heard about Keiser’s visits to Eastman Spa.
“Something’s been bothering me.”
“You know I’m yours if you want me.”
“I’ll keep some bubbly on ice.”
“I’m all over that.”
“Marilyn Keiser made regular visits to Eastman. That’s big bucks. Yet she had only modest assets. How did she pay for her pricey spa habit?”
Ryan got it right away.
“You’re thinking home banking. She kept a cash stash, like the Villejoins.”
“Could that be the link?”
“I’ll pass the idea along to Claudel. Maybe he needs to go further back in Keiser’s financials, look for large unexplained withdrawls. Also check with Eastman, see how she paid.”
“How’d you guess I was here?” I reached for my second croissant.
“You weren’t at the lab yesterday or today. Where else would you be?”
“I do have a life.”
“Course you do.”
To switch topics, I described Briel’s television debut.
“What do you know about this Body Find outfit?” Ryan asked when I’d finished.
“Nothing,” I said. “Yet.”
“Want me to do some poking?”
“I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can.”
I told Ryan about the call from Chris Corcoran. The inmate at Stateville.
“The Chicago cops think the guy’s story is solid?”
“Apparently.”
“I hope it pans out. For Cukura Kundze’s sake.”
“And Lassie’s.”
Ryan tipped a wrist to check the time.
“You heading in this afternoon?”
“Probably not.” I surprised myself. Until that moment I’d been operating on the assumption that I’d go to the lab.
Ryan crossed to me, squatted, and placed a hand over mine. His face was so close I could feel his breath, smell the familiar Garnier shampoo.
“You deserve a couple of days off.” Gentle squeeze. “I’m going to build you a fire. Light it when you want.”
“Thanks.” Barely audible.
When Ryan left I gathered the breakfast debris, called the lab to tell them I wouldn’t be in until Monday, then took a long bubble bath. Lying in water as hot as I could bear, I pondered my decision to stay home. I never take an unscheduled break. Idleness makes me cranky.
Post-poisoning fatigue? Minus twenty-two temperature reading? Confidence that the Lac Saint-Jean vics would soon be IDed? Humiliation over Briel’s public disclosure of my screwup in the Villejoin case?
Whatever.
The hot water and full belly acted like an opiate, drugging me into a state of total lethargy.
Avoiding my sweat-stained bed, I got a quilt, lit Ryan’s fire, and stretched out on the couch. Birdie joined me.
I stroked his fur. He purred on my chest.
I closed my eyes, feeling drained of the ability to move. To read. To watch TV. To think.
oOo
I awoke to the sound of a ringing phone. Bird was gone. The windows were dark and the fire was nothing but embers.
Retrieving the handset, I clicked on.
“I didn’t see you today or yesterday.” Emily Santangelo.
“Food poisoning. I’ll spare you the details.”
“You OK now?”
“I’ll live.” My eyes drifted to the mantel clock. Four forty-five. “Beware vending machine sandwiches.”
“You actually ate one?”
“Not the crusts.”
Pause.
“Did you see Briel’s interview Wednesday night?”
“A thing of beauty.”
Longer pause.
“We need to talk.”
My instincts sat up. Emily Santangelo was a reserved, almost reclusive woman, not one for office gossip or girlie exchanges.
“Sure,” I said.
“You feel up to dinner, maybe something light? Chicken soup? I could bring it to you.”
“I’ll need to disinfect this place before anyone enters.” I was thinking flamethrower. “How about meeting at Pho Nguyen on Saint-Mathieu?”
“Vietnamese?”
“They make great soup.”
“That works. I can be there by six thirty.”
“I won’t look good.”
“I won’t call the press.”
There was a subtle muffling of ambient noise, as though Santangelo had cupped the mouthpiece.
“Something’s very wrong.” Almost a whisper.
“Wrong?” I asked.
“See you soon.”
The line went dead.
