Monday Mourning

Ryan circled the room, turning on the overhead chandelier and a pair of crystal and brass lamps flanking the couch. The improved lighting allowed a better evaluation of the man of the house.

Stephen Menard was not just bald, he was totally hairless. No whiskers. No eyelashes. No body or head hair. The trait made him look smooth and oddly pale. I wondered if Menard’s lack of hair was a genetic condition, or some bizarre fashion statement intentionally created.

Ryan lifted a Windsor chair from beside the secretary and parked it in front of Menard with body language clearly not intended to calm. Sitting, he placed elbows on knees, and leaned forward to within a yard of Menard’s face.

Our reluctant host wore slippers, jeans, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed above the elbows. Drawing back from Ryan, Menard tugged the sleeves to his wrists, shoved them back up, adjusted his glasses, and waited.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Menard. You’ve caught our interest.”

“Je suis—”

“My understanding is that you’re American, so English shouldn’t be any problem for you, right?”

Menard’s chin tucked in a bit, but he said nothing.

“Richard Cyr tells us you ran a pawnshop out of his property on rue Ste-Catherine a few years back.”

Menard’s lips went needle thin, and a wrinkle formed above the place his brows should have been.

“You got a problem with my asking about that?”

Menard ran a hand across his jaw, readjusted his glasses.

“Pretty successful operation. Lasted, what? Nine years? You’re a young man. What made you decide to call the pawn business quits?”

“I was not a mere pawnbroker. I traded in collectibles.”

“Please explain that to me.”

“I helped collectors locate hard-to-find items. Stamps. Coins. Toy soldiers.”

I’d seen Ryan interrogate suspects in the past. He was good with silence. The person being interrogated would complete an answer, but instead of putting another question Ryan would look up expectantly and wait. He did so now.

Menard swallowed.

Ryan waited.

“It was a legitimate business,” Menard mumbled.

Somewhere in the house I thought I heard a door open and close.

“Things grew complicated. Business was dropping off. The lease came up. I decided not to renew.”

“Complicated how?”

“Just complicated. Look, I’m a Canadian citizen. I have rights.”

“I’m just asking a few questions, Mr. Menard.”

Eye contact had become noticeably difficult for Menard. His gaze kept shifting from his hands to Ryan, then darting back down.

Ryan allowed another long pause. Then, “Why the switch from archaeology?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What happened out in Chico?”

An idea hared through my mind. I didn’t chase it.

“You got a warrant?” Menard asked, again adjusting the glasses.

“No, sir,” Ryan said.

Menard’s gaze drifted to a point over Ryan’s left shoulder. We both turned.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and thin, with ivory skin and a long black braid. I guessed her age as mid to late twenties.

The crow’s-feet cornering Menard’s eyes constricted.

The woman tensed so visibly she seemed to flinch. Then her arms wrapped her waist, and she scurried out of sight.

Menard pushed to his feet.

“I’m not answering any more questions. Either arrest me, or leave my home.”

Ryan took his time rising.

“Is there a reason we should be arresting you, Mr. Menard?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

Ryan zipped his jacket. I slipped into mine and started toward the foyer. Pausing near the secretary, I noticed the letter opener.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ryan put his face to Menard’s.

“We’ll play it your way for now, sir. But if you’re withholding information from me, I’ll make certain you come to regret that.”

This time Menard met Ryan’s gaze. The two stood eyeball-to-eyeball.

Turning my back to the face-off, I quietly scooped the letter opener into my purse.

27

“THOUGHTS?” RYAN WAS TURNING OFF THE FAR END OF DE Sébastopol.

“If they ever bring back the Inquisition, you’ll be their first hire.”

“I view that as a compliment. What’s your take on Menard?”

“Guy gave me the creeps. Do you think the hairlessness is a medical condition?”

Ryan shook his head no. “I could see nicks on his scalp.”

“Why would a man shave and pluck every hair?”

“Telly Savalas fan?”

“His whole body?”

“Cut cost on shampoo?”

“Ryan.”

“Training to swim in the next Olympics?”

That one got no reply.

“I don’t know. Zonked-out stylist? Lice? Some kind of hair phobia?”

“Did you notice how strangely that woman acted?”

“Didn’t jump in to offer us tea.”

“She seemed terrified.”

Ryan shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe the lady disapproves of uninvited guests.”

“Claudel said there’s no record of anyone else living at that address. Who do you suppose she is?”

“I intend to find out.”

I told him about the letter opener.

“Illegal seizure.”

“Yep,” I agreed.

“A judge would exclude any information gained from it.”

“Yep,” I agreed again. “But a print might ID the woman.”

“Might.”

“Look. It was an impulse. The opener was lying there. I figured the woman might have handled it. I borrowed the thing.”

“Uh. Huh.”

“I’ll return it.”

“I never doubted that.”