Part 29 (2/2)
He gave a deep sigh. ”The whole world's going crazy.”
”Perhaps,” I noted, reaching out my hand for him to surrender the picture of the Silvestre funeral.
”Please,” I said, gesturing toward the sofa. ”Make yourself comfortable.”
Crease sat and crossed his legs.
”I understand Dorsey's been charged and moved to Riviere-des-Prairies?”
”So I've heard.”
”Think he did it?”
This guy never gave up.
”I'm really not involved in the investigation.”
”How about the Osprey girl. Anything breaking on that front?”
How about your face, I thought.
At that moment my nephew appeared, looking pure urban cowboy in his Levi's, boots, and ninety-gallon hat. I popped to my feet.
”I'm sure you two want to get there early before the good stuff's gone.”
”What good stuff?” asked Kit.
”The ba.s.s fis.h.i.+ng lures and Elvis T-s.h.i.+rts.”
”I'm actually looking for a plastic Madonna.”
”Try the cathedral.”
”The other Madonna.”
”Be careful,” I said, pointing a finger at him.
”Careful is my middle name. Christopher Careful Howard, C.C. to my close friends.” He tapped two fingers to the brim of his hat.
”Right.”
As Crease said good-bye he placed a hand on my shoulder, ran it down my arm, and squeezed just above my elbow.
”You take care,” he said with a meaningful look.
What I took was a long shower.
Later, scrubbed and smelling of sandalwood, I checked my e-mail. There was nothing earth-shattering. I offered suggestions for problems submitted by students, sent an opinion to a pathologist inquiring about an oddly shaped skull, and replied to my three nieces in Chicago. Daughters of Pete's sisters, the teenagers were avid computer buffs, and kept me informed of happenings within my estranged husband's extended Latvian family.
Finally, I thanked a colleague at the Armed Forces Inst.i.tute of Pathology who'd forwarded a particularly amusing photo. The case involved a pig and a high-rise building.
At one-thirty I logged off and tried Isabelle. Predictably, she was not in.
Looking for an excuse to be outside, I set out to buy jumbo shrimp at the poissonnerie poissonnerie. I'd gone less than a block when I was stopped dead, distracted by photos at Coiffure Simone Coiffure Simone.
I stared at the woman in the black and white. She looked good. Stylish, but neat. Professional, but jaunty.
Jesus, Brennan. You sound like copy for a shampoo ad. Next you'll be telling yourself you're worth it.
I had had told Kit I'd scheduled a haircut. told Kit I'd scheduled a haircut.
I studied the poster, estimating the amount of maintenance the style would require. I thought it could pa.s.s my ten-minute rule.
I started to move on, caught my reflection in the gla.s.s. What I saw was light-years from poster lady.
How long had it been since I'd tried a new do?
Years.
And the salon was offering a special Sunday discount.
Five dollars off. Right. You'll save about three-fifty U.S.
A new haircut could boost your spirits.
It could be a disaster.
Hair grows back.
That last came straight from my mother.
I pushed open the door and went in.
Hours later I was eating dinner with the Discovery channel. On the screen, male kangaroos kickboxed over control of the mob. On the hearth, Birdie eyed me silently, curious, but keeping his distance.
”Hair grows back, Bird.”
I dipped a shrimp and popped it into my mouth, wis.h.i.+ng it would happen before Kit got home.
”And I could use your support,” I informed him.
If the new look was to have buoyed my spirits, the experiment had been a catastrophe. Since returning home I'd been thinking of ways to avoid public contact. Thanks to developments in telecommunication I had many options. I'd use telephone, fax, and e-mail. And lots of hats.
By ten I was feeling as low as I had on Friday evening. I was overworked, underappreciated, and my never-was lover turned out to prefer the robbers over the cops. My boss had collapsed, my nephew was out with the sleaze of the year, and I now looked like I'd been attacked by a Weed Eater.
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