Part 40 (1/2)
”Somewhere in the South, I think. You should like that.”
”When did he come to Canada?”
”Oh my goodness, I have no idea.”
”Where does he live?”
”Off the island, I think. Or maybe downtown.”
”Does he have family here?”
”Sorry.”
”How well do you know Lyle Crease?”
”I am not his confidante, Tempe.” Her tone was becoming defensive.
”But you tried to pair me up with him!” I tried to keep my voice neutral but the irritation curled around the edges.
”You needn't put it like that. The gentleman asked to meet you, and I saw no reason to refuse. It's not as though your love life has been bountiful this year.”
”Hold it. Back up. It was Crease's idea that we meet?”
”Yes.” Guarded.
”When was this?”
”I don't know, Tempe. I ran into him at L'Express L'Express, you know, that bistro on rue St-Denis th-”
”Yes.”
”Lyle saw your picture in the paper and was absolutely smitten. Or so he said, though not in those exact words. Anyway, we were talking, and one thing led to another, and before I could help myself I'd invited him to dinner.”
Tick. Tick.
”And really, he wasn't so bad. In fact, he was quite charming.”
”Um.” So was Ted Bundy.
For a few moments no one spoke.
”Are you angry with me, Tempe?”
”No, I'm not angry.”
”I'll see what I can find out. I'll phone Veronique an-”
”No. Never mind. It's not important.”
The last thing I needed was an alert to Lyle Crease.
”I was just curious. Have a good trip, Isabelle.”
”Merci. Where do you suppose that overnighter has gone?”
”Try your storage locker.”
”Bonne idee. Bonsoir, Tempe.”
When we disconnected, I realized I hadn't asked where she was going.
An hour later the mental commingling began. As I lay in bed, trying to block out Kit's music, images, facts, and questions floated to the surface then sank into the deep, like tropical fish in a subliminal tank.
Image. Lyle Crease pouring wine.
Fact. Crease had finagled the introduction. He was at St-Basile-le-Grand and knew about the skeletons, and had seen the article in the Gazette Gazette, before Isabelle's dinner party.
Questions. Why did he want to meet me? Was his request linked to the discovery of the burials? Was he simply looking for an inside scoop, or did he have other reasons for wanting information?
Image. A young Lyle Crease on a chopped hog.
Fact. Crease had ties to the Southern states.
Questions. What was Crease doing with the homeboys? Had he stolen the Silvestre funeral photo from me? If so, why? Could his past somehow endanger him now? Whom did he fear?
Image. A hyena redneck lumbering up my block.
Fact. Besides initial fear, the man had triggered something in my psyche.
Questions. Had Kit been lying when I asked about visitors? Why? Who was the goon in the baseball cap? Why did the man provoke such a strong reaction in me?
Image. LaManche on tubes and life support.
Fact. The pathologist was in his sixties and had never taken time for exercise or a proper diet.
Questions. Would he survive? Would he ever return to work?
Image. Ryan slouching on a barroom stool.
Fact. He was undercover, and hadn't gone over.
Questions. Had his actions on my behalf jeopardized his cover? Was he in danger? Had I contributed to that?
These musings mingled with more mundane considerations. How to relocate Kit to Houston. Birdie's overdue vaccinations. The cavity. Hair growth.
But underlying all my thoughts was the nagging signal from my subconscious, unrelenting, yet out of reach. The redneck in the baseball cap. I tossed and turned, frustrated that my psyche was beaming a message I could not decipher.