Grave Secrets

The welcome screen flashed, and a melodious voice announced waiting mail.

“Damn, I’m good.”

“You didn’t know the cat’s name.”

Ryan clicked an icon, and Chantale’s mailbox appeared on the screen. She had two unread e-mails. We scanned them silently. Each was from a school friend in Guatemala City.

Ryan shifted to Sent Mail. Chantale had e-mailed metalass@hotmail.com seven times since her release on Friday. Each communiqué spoke of her unhappiness, and begged for help. She’d also appealed to Dirtdoggy, Rambeau, Bedhead, Sexychaton, and Criperçant.

Chantale’s Old Mail contained two entries, one dated yesterday, the other today at 3 P.M. Both were from Metalass. Ryan opened the earlier message.

FUCKIN A I’M GLAD YOU’RE BACK. DIRT AND RAMBEAU ARE UNDERGROUND. THE HEAD’S GONE WEST. PHONE. YOU’VE GOTTA FRIEND.

“Terrific,” said Ryan, clicking on the second e-mail. “The guy’s a closet James Taylor fan.”

CHANGE OF PLANS. TIM’S. GUY. EIGHT. IF HEAT, GO TO CLEM’S.

“Do you think Clem, Tim, and Guy could be the cyber punks she e-mailed?”

Ryan was lost in thought.

I picked up Chantale’s phone and hit redial.

Nothing.

I looked at the orangutan, wanted to shake it into divulging where its mistress had gone.

Ryan shut down the computer and stood.

“Idea?” I asked.

“A dandy. Let’s boogie.”

20

“WHAT'S THE PLAN?” I ASKED AS RYAN TURNED ONTO SHERBROOKE.

“Cannelloni at La Transition.”

I just looked at him.

“And bread pudding. They make kick-ass bread pudding.”

“I thought we were trying to find Chantale.”

“Then doughnuts.”

“Doughnuts?”

“I like the ones with sprinkles.”

Before I could answer, he turned onto Grosvenor, parked, circled the car, and opened my door. When I joined him on the sidewalk, he took my elbow and began steering me toward a corner restaurant.

The secrecy was beginning to grate. I balked.

“What’s going on?”

“Trust me.”

“I don’t want to spoil your Spy Versus Spy moment, Ryan, but we need to find Chantale.”

“We will.”

“With doughnuts and cannelloni?”

“Will you just trust me?”

“What’s the problem?” I yanked my arm free. “Can’t share classified police information?”

A woman with Coke-bottle glasses approached with a terrier that looked more rat than dog. Hearing my tone, she reeled in the leash, lowered her gaze, and quickened her pace.

“You’re frightening the locals. Come inside and I’ll explain.”

My eyes narrowed, but I followed. At the door I had a sudden flashback to my dinner with Galiano at the Gucumatz. If the maître d’ seated us in an alcove, I was out of there.

The restaurant was Fusion Mediterranean. Dim lights, forest-green paneling, navy and cranberry linen. A young woman led us to a table by the side windows, flashing Ryan a broad smile in the process.

Ryan grinned back, and we both sat.

“Ever hear of Patrick Feeney?”

“We don’t exchange Christmas cards.”

“Jesus, you can be a pain in the ass.”

“I work on it.”

Ryan sighed to indicate his enduring patience.

“Ever hear of Chez Tante Clémence?”

“It’s a shelter for street kids.”

Another young woman provided menus and more beaming teeth, filled water glasses, asked about drinks. Ryan and I both requested Perrier.

Ryan ignored his menu.

“The cannelloni is excellent.”

“So I’ve heard.”

When the waitress returned, I chose linguine pesto Genovese. Ryan stayed true to his vision. We both ordered small Caesars.

There was little conversation as we ate bread, then salad. I stared out the window, watching the day yield to night.

Children had disappeared from the sidewalks and yards along Grosvenor, called in to supper or homework. Porch and interior lights were glowing yellow in the duplexes lining both sides of the street.

Along Sherbrooke, banks and businesses were closing, stores emptying. Neon signs were blinking on, though most night establishments had yet to come to life.

Pedestrians were quickening their steps, sensing the chill promised by the deepening twilight. I wondered about Chantale Specter. To what destination might she be hurrying in the embryonic dusk?

After the food arrived, and we’d peppered and cheesed, Ryan spoke again.

“Aunt Clémence’s is run by a defrocked priest named Patrick Feeney. Feeney allows no drugs or alcohol on the premises, otherwise kids are free to come and go. He provides meals and a place to sleep. If a kid wants to talk, Feeney listens. If they ask for counseling, he steers them to it. No sermons. No curfews. No locked doors.”

“Sounds pretty liberal for the Catholic Church.”

“I said defrocked priest. Feeney was booted from the clergy years ago.”

“Why?”

“As I remember it, the padre had a girlfriend, the Church said choose. Feeney decided to skip the ecclesiastical rehab and set off on his own.”

“Who picks up the tab?”

“Clém’s gets some money from the city, but most funding comes from charity events and private donations. Feeney relies a lot on volunteers.”

It clicked.

“You think Clem is Aunt Clémence.”

“I told you I was good at this stuff.”

Another ping.

“And Tim is the Tim Hortons doughnut shop on Guy.”

“You’re not bad, yourself, Brennan.”