Monday Mourning

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.”

“Legault felt they were nineteenth century?”

“Yes.”

“She’s right.”

My heart plummeted.

Mousseau crossed to me, held up her palm, and manipulated two buttons with the tip of her pen.

“These are sterling silver, produced by a jeweler and watchmaker named R. L. Christie.”

“Where?”

“Edinburgh, Scotland.”

“When?”

“Sometime between 1890 and 1900.”

“You’re certain?”

“I was pretty sure I recognized Christie’s work, but I looked them up just to be sure.”

I nodded, too deflated to think of something to say.

“But this”—Mousseau flipped the third button with her pen—“is a copy, and a poor copy at that.”

I stared at her blankly.

Mousseau handed me the lens. “Compare this one,” she indicated one of the Christie buttons, “to this one.” The pen moved to the forgery.

Under magnification, details of the Christie woman’s face were clear. Eyes. Nose. Curls. In contrast, the silhouette on the fake was a featureless outline.

Mousseau flipped the buttons. “Notice the initials etched beside the eyelet.”

Even to an amateur, the difference was obvious. Christie had engraved his letters with smooth, flowing motions. On the forgery, the S had been gouged as a series of intersecting cuts.

I was perplexed and somewhat taken aback.

But not as taken aback as I would be come Monday morning.

16

MY CONDO IS A GROUND-FLOOR UNIT IN A FOUR-STORY LOW-RISE wrapping a central courtyard. Two bedrooms. Two baths. Living and dining rooms. Narrow-gauge kitchen. Foyer.

From the long hall running between the front entrance and the dining room, just opposite the kitchen, French doors open onto a patio bordering the central courtyard. From the living room, another set of French doors gives access to a tiny patch of lawn.

In summer, I plant herbs along the edge of the grass. In winter, I watch snow build on the redwood fence, and on the boughs of the pine within its confines. Five square yards. Acreage extraordinaire in a downtown flat.

That night, the dark little yard triggered feelings of exposure and vulnerability. No matter that the patrol car Ryan had requested was passing frequently. His makeshift patch on the door was a constant reminder of my unbidden caller and the point of entry he had chosen. What other choices had been available to him? I had to admit that having Anne there was a comfort.

After a quick meal of carry-out Thai, Anne and I cleaned. Anger wormed inside me as I swept and vacuumed.

Again, I fell asleep with my thoughts brawling.

Had some coked-out ragnose violated my refuge? That seemed most likely. Someone desperate for cash for a fix who turned destructive when he didn’t find it. No B and E felon would have been that messy. But what about a scare scenario? Some greaseball ordered to divert me from long-hidden mob secrets leaving a “we know where you live” message. Or was it some malevolent sociopath with an issue specifically related to me?

What did the buttons mean?

Why hadn’t Claudel or Charbonneau returned my calls?

Where was Ryan? Why hadn’t he phoned?

Did I give a rat’s ass? Of course I did.

Saturday morning Anne made a trip to Le Faubourg while I dealt with the glass repairman. By noon a new pane was in, the refrigerator was stocked, and the place was reasonably clean.

For reasons my subconscious chooses not share with me, there are certain items I am incapable of discarding. Prescription medicines. National Geographic s. American Academy of Forensic Sciences directories. Phone books.

Hey, you never know.

After tomato, cheese, and mayo sandwiches with Anne, I collected every phone book in the house and stacked them beside my computer. Then I pulled out Cyr’s list. Where to begin locating tenants? Work backward or forward?

I started with Cyr’s earliest renters.

From 1976 until 1982 a luggage shop had occupied the space currently in use by Matoub’s pizzeria. The proprietor had been a woman named Sylvie Vasco.

The number on Cyr’s list was answered by a college student living in the McGill ghetto. He had no idea what I was talking about.

Neither the computer nor any directory listed a Sylvie, but together they coughed up seven S. Vascos. One number had been disconnected. Two went unanswered. My fourth call got me a lawyer’s office. My last three were picked up by women. None was named Sylvie or knew of a Vasco named Sylvie or Sylvia.

Circling the two unanswered numbers, I moved on.