Part 7 (2/2)
”Thank you, Sister. I'll do that.”
”There's a professor at McGill who's done research in our archives. My niece knows her. She studies religious movements, but she's also interested in Quebec history. I can't remember if she's an anthropologist, or a historian, or what. She might be able to help.” She hesitated. ”Of course, her references would be different from ours.”
I was certain of that, but said nothing.
”Do you remember her name?”
There was a long pause. I could hear others on the line, far away, like voices carrying across a lake. Someone laughed.
”It's been a long time. I'm sorry. I could ask my niece if you wish.”
”Thank you, Sister. I'll follow up your lead.”
”Dr. Brennan, when do you think you'll finish with the bones?”
”Soon. Unless something comes up, I should be able to complete my report on Friday. I'll write up my a.s.sessments of age, s.e.x, and race, and any other observations I've made, and comment on how my findings compare to the facts known about elisabeth. You can include whatever you feel is appropriate with your application to the Vatican.”
”And you will call?”
”Of course. As soon as I'm done.” Actually, I was done, and I had little doubt what my report would say. Why didn't I just tell them now?
We exchanged good-byes, then I disconnected, waited for the tone, and dialed again. A phone rang across town.
”Mitch Denton.”
”Hi, Mitch. Tempe Brennan. Are you still head honcho at your place?”
Mitch was the anthropology chair who'd hired me to teach part- time when I first came to Montreal. We'd been friends ever since. His specialty was the French Paleolithic.
”Still stuck. Want to do a course for us this summer?”
”No, thanks. I've got a question for you.”
”Shoot.”
”Do you remember the historic case I told you about? The one I'm doing for the archdiocese?”
”The saint wanna-be?”
”Right.”
”Sure. Beats the h.e.l.l out of most of the stuff you work on. Did you find her?”
”Yes. But I've noticed something a bit odd, and I'd like to learn more about her.”
”Odd?”
”Unexpected. Listen, one of the nuns told me someone at McGill does research involving religion and Quebec history. Does that ring a bell?”
”Dong! That would be our own Daisy Jean.”
”Daisy Jean?”
”Dr. Jeannotte to you. Professor of Religious Studies and students' best friend.”
”Back up, Mitch.”
”Her name is Daisy Jeannotte. Officially she's on the Faculty of Religious Studies, but she also teaches some history courses. 'Religious Movements in Quebec.' 'Ancient and Modern Belief Systems.' That sort of thing.”
”Daisy Jean?” I repeated the question.
”Just an in-house endearment. It's not for direct address.”
”Why?”
”She can be a bit . . . odd, to use your expression.”
”Odd?”
”Unexpected. She's from Dixie, you know.”
I ignored that. Mitch was a transplanted Vermonter. He never let up on my Southern homeland.
”Why do you say she's the students' best friend?”
”Daisy spends all her free time with students. She takes them on outings, advises them, travels with them, has them to the house for dinner. There's a constant line of needy souls outside her door seeking solace and counseling.”
”Sounds admirable.”
He started to say something, caught himself. ”I suppose.”
”Would Dr. Jeannotte know anything about elisabeth Nicolet or her family?”
”If anyone can help you it will be Daisy Jean.”
He gave me her number and we promised to get together soon.
A secretary told me Dr. Jeannotte would be holding office hours between one and three, so I decided to drop in after lunch.
It takes a.n.a.lytical skills worthy of a degree in civil engineering to understand when and where one is allowed to leave a car in Montreal. McGill University lies in the heart of Centre-Ville, so even if one is able to comprehend where parking is permitted, it is almost impossible to find a s.p.a.ce. I found a spot on Stanley that I interpreted to be legal from nine to five, between April 1 and December 31, except from 1 to 2 P.M P.M. on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It did not require a neighborhood permit.
After five reversals of direction and much manipulation of the steering wheel, I managed to wedge the Mazda between a Toyota pickup and an Oldsmobile Cutla.s.s. Not a bad job on a steep grade. When I got out I was sweating despite the cold. I checked the b.u.mpers. I had at least twenty-four inches to spare. Total.
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