Monday Mourning

Ryan nodded toward the row houses. “That’s Sébastopol Row, built in the 1850s by the Grand Trunk Railway.”

“Apparently Big Railroad didn’t pony up for aesthetics.”

Ryan pulled the napkin from his pocket, checked the address, then advanced so he could see the digits on the first row house.

The dog stopped barking, rose with forepaws on the fence, and watched our progress.

“What’s the number?”

Ryan told me.

“Must be farther down.”

As Ryan crept forward, I read off the addresses. The numbers on the row houses didn’t go high enough, but that on the first cement structure indicated we’d gone too far.

“Maybe it’s farther off the pavement, back in that vacant area,” I suggested.

Ryan reversed up the block and parked opposite the last of the row houses. A silhouette was faintly visible through bare trees and heavy pines.

“Ready?” Ryan scooped his gloves from the backseat.

“Ready.”

I pulled on my mittens and got out. At the thunk-thunk of our doors, the dog reengaged.

Ryan proceeded up an ice-crusted walkway six feet beyond the outer wall of the last row house. Needled boughs and bare branches blocked the sky, creating a gloomy tunnel effect.

The air smelled of pine, coal smoke, and something organic.

“What’s that odor?” I hissed.

“Horse manure.” Ryan was also whispering. “Old Yeller is guarding a calèche horse stable.”

“The horses that pull the carriages in Old Montreal?”

“The very ones.”

I took another whiff.

Maybe. But there was something else there.

Ryan and I picked our way carefully along the uneven walk, breaths billowing, collars up to ward off the cold.

Ten yards off de Sébastopol the path took a sharp left, and Ryan and I found ourselves facing a weathered brick building. We both stopped and read the rusted numbers above the door.

“Bingo,” Ryan said.

The building’s entrance was recessed, the door rough and aged, but ornately carved. The windows were opaque, some black, others white with frost and windblown snow.

Dead vines spiderwebbed across the roof and walls, and one wooden sill angled down from its frame. The pines were thicker here, keeping the house and its small yard in even deeper shadow.

Irrationally, small hairs rose on the back of my neck.

Drawing a deep breath, I worked myself just calm enough.

Ryan stepped up to the door. I followed.

The bell was dull brass, the old-fashioned kind that sounded when the knob was turned clockwise. Ryan reached out and gave it a twist.

Deep in the house, a bell shrilled.

Ryan waited a full minute, then rang again.

Seconds later, locks rattled, then the door creaked open four inches.

Ryan extended his badge to the crack.

“Mr. Menard?” he asked in English.

The crack didn’t widen. The person peering through it was hidden from me.

“Stephen Menard?” Ryan repeated.

“Qu’est-ce que voulez-vous?” What do you want? Heavily accented. American.

“Police, Mr. Menard. We’d like to talk to you,” Ryan persisted in English.

“Laissez-moi tranquille.” Leave me alone.

The door moved toward its frame. Ryan palmed it back with jackrabbit quickness.

“Are you Stephen Menard?”

“Je m’appelle Stéphane Ménard.” Menard pronounced the name in the French manner. “Qui êtes-vous?” Who are you?

“Detective Andrew Ryan.” Ryan flicked a hand in my direction. “Dr. Temperance Brennan. We need to speak with you.”

“Allez-vous en.” The voice sounded dry and almost frail. I still couldn’t make out its owner.

“We’re not going to go away, Mr. Menard. Cooperate and our questions should take only a few minutes of your time.”

Menard didn’t reply.

“Or we could do this at headquarters.” Ryan’s tone was tempered steel.

“Tabernac!”

The door closed. A chain rattled, then the door reopened.

Ryan entered and I followed. The floor was linoleum, the walls a color way too dark for the windowless room. The air smelled of mothballs, old wallpaper, and musty fabric.

The tiny foyer was lit by one small china lamp. Menard stood shadowed by the door, one hand on the knob, the other pressing a brass letter opener flat to his chest.

When Menard closed the door and turned to us, I got my first look at him.

Stephen Menard had to be six foot four. With his freckled face and bald, toad-shaped head, he was one of the most peculiar men I’d ever laid eyes on. He could have been a worn forty or a well-preserved sixty.

“Qu’est-ce que voulez-vous?” Menard asked again. What do you want?

“May we sit down?” Ryan unzipped his jacket.

A shrug. “N’importe.” Whatever.

Menard led us into a parlor as dim as the foyer. Heavy red drapes, mahogany secretary, coffee and end tables. Dark floral wallpaper. Deep cranberry upholstered pieces.

Laying the letter opener on the secretary, Menard dropped onto the sofa and crossed his legs. I removed my jacket and took the armchair to his right.