Monday Mourning

Again the debate. Confrontation? Avoidance?

I decided on vague. Give Ryan the opening. Let him tackle or dodge.

“Do you ever ask yourself questions, Ryan?”

“Sure. What ever happened to Alice Cooper?”

“Important questions?”

“What was Alice Cooper?”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m serious, too.” Ryan’s voice was calm and quiet. “Do you want to ride along?”

The hell with relationships. The hell with Ryan. Cauterize the pain. Do your job.

Stripping off my lab coat, I jammed my keys into my purse and jerked my coat from its hook.

“Let’s go.”

Ryan and I crawled through rush-hour traffic, the atmosphere in the car as relaxed as a coiled snake. Conversation was nonexistent.

Familiar images galloped through my brain. Ryan at the beach. Ryan and me in Guatemala. Ryan in my bed.

Ryan and his prom queen.

At one point Ryan’s hand brushed my knee. A missile rocketed straight to my libido.

Closing my eyes, I made a conscious effort to take control. Deep breathing.

By the time we arrived in Candiac, my neck muscles were taut as guitar strings.

Blinds were drawn across every window in Rose Fisher’s house. Soft yellow light oozed through one set.

“Hm.” Ryan slid to the curb and killed the engine.

“What?”

“I don’t remember leaving a light on.”

“Is the place still sealed?”

“No point. Crime scene finished processing days ago. Took the tape down.” Ryan opened the driver’s side door. “Stay here.”

I gave Ryan a few seconds, then followed him up the front walk and onto the porch. The wreath still wished everyone Joyeuse Fêtes!

Ryan rang the bell.

Inside, chimes sounded faintly.

Wind flapped my scarf.

Ryan rang again.

Seconds ticked by. Another gust. One tear cut loose. I pulled my hat lower.

Ryan was sorting through keys when a light went on in the living room. Locks rattled, then the knob turned. The door opened a crack, and a face peered out.

It was the last face I expected to see.

23

“WHO 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.