Grave Secrets

“Mitochondrial DNA was used to determine that skeletons recently exhumed in Russia were those of Czar Nicholas and his family.”

“How?”

“Mitochondrial DNA is only passed on through maternal lines.”

“The whole shooting match comes from Mommy?”

“Sorry to break that to you, Ryan.”

“My gender knows grout.”

“The researchers compared DNA from the Russian bones to DNA obtained from living relatives, specifically Britain’s Prince Philip.”

“Queen Elizabeth’s hubby?”

“Prince Philip’s maternal grandmother was Czarina Alexandra’s sister, so Alexandra and her children, and Philip, inherited their mitochondrial DNA from the mother of both Alexandra and her sister.”

“Back to the cats.”

“Hair cells have no nuclei, so no genomic DNA. But mitochondrial DNA is present in hair shafts.”

“Gagné referred to epithelial cells.”

“Saliva, skin, buccal, vaginal. You might find saliva on cat hairs as a result of grooming—e-cells are also found in urine and feces. I appreciate Gagné’s pessimism about e-cells in this case.”

“Piss-poor chance of finding any.”

“According to Gagné, the mitochondrial sequences from the Specter cat were identical to those from the septic tank hair.”

“Meaning the Paraíso victim had contact with the Specter cat.”

“Yep.”

“And we know it wasn’t Chantale in that tank.”

“You’re right, Ryan. Cops are good at this.”

“The victim was someone who’d been to the Specter house, or at least been in contact with their cat.”

“Before last Christmas.”

He looked a question at me.

“That’s when Guimauve did a dead man’s float in the swimming pool.”

Ryan thought a moment, then, “I think little Chantale knows more then she’s letting on.”

“Someone does,” I agreed.

“Mrs. Specter?”

I shrugged.

Ryan and I locked eyes, each stuck on the same thought.

“I’ve never met the ambassador,” I said.

“Where is he?”

“Discussing soybean yields in Mexico City.”

“Odd, given his daughter’s recent bust.”

“Galiano said Specter delayed reporting Chantale’s disappearance. Once the cops were brought in, he wasn’t overly cooperative.”

“Kitty puts things in a whole new light.”

Lying just west of Centre-ville, Westmount flows down the mountain in a series of heavily shaded streets. Anathema to québécois separatists, the neighborhood is known for its high concentration of English speakers and its fierce federalist loyalty. Until the island of Montreal was reorganized, and many suburbs and outlying districts were incorporated under the Communauté Urbaine de Montréal umbrella, Westmount prided itself on its independence, low taxes, efficient management, and genteel good taste.

Westmount fought hard to prevent absorption into the new Super City. Upon losing, the citizenry drew their mink and cashmere coats about them, sniffed their affluent noses, and waited, confident that some resident lawyer would force a reversal on appeal.

They were still waiting.

Ryan exited the tunnel at Atwater, turned left on The Boulevard, turned right, and began climbing uphill. I watched the homes grow larger, imagined the expanding panorama of river and town as viewed from south-facing patios and sunrooms.

Westmount is like Hong Kong—the higher the elevation, the better the address. The Specter home was one of the largest in upper Westmount, a towering stone fortress, complete with turret, grille-work, and massive oak door. A cypress hedge prevented any view of the front of the property. That from the back must have been spectacular.

“Nice crib,” said Ryan, sliding to the curb.

“Mrs. Specter referred to it as a ‘little place.’”

“Arrogantly unpretentious. Very Westmount.”

“Mrs. Specter is from Charlevoix.”

Ryan thumbed the bell. Somewhere inside, chimes sounded.

“How much does an ambassador make?” he asked under his breath.

“Less than this, I’m sure. Ambassadors usually don’t take the job for the money. They contribute money to get it.”

We waited a full minute. Ryan rang again.

I was shocked when Mrs. Specter answered the door. Though she’d applied lipstick and rouge, her face was the color of hospital linen. The copper hair had been yanked to the top of her head, but rogue strands spiraled around her ears and down her neck.

“No, I’m sorry. Something has come up.” One hand floated to her chest. “I am unable to meet with you now.”

She started to close the door, but Ryan laid a palm on the outside.

“Please. I have had a migraine.”

“We don’t want to bother you, Mrs. Specter.” He beamed his choirboy smile. “We’re here to see Chantale.”

“I cannot have you pestering my daughter.” Her voice was jagged, her knuckles white on the doorknob.

“We will be very brief,” I said.

“Chantale is sleeping.”

“Please wake her.”

“She is not well.”

“Headache?” Ryan’s voice had taken on an edge.

“I suffer from migraines, myself,” I jumped in. “I know how you’re feeling. Please send Chantale down, then go back to bed.”

“No, thank you.”

The response made no sense. I took a close look. Mrs. Specter’s pupils were the size of cocktail tumblers. The ambassador’s wife had knocked back some serious painkillers.

“Is Mr. Specter—”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand.