Monday Mourning читать онлайн

I was reaching for the phone when Anne swept into my bedroom. She wore boots and the jacket she’d declined the evening before. The angora scarf was in place, the hat and mittens clutched in one hand.

“Setting off?” I asked.

“We’re setting off,” Anne said.

“What about the museum?”

“Art is eternal. It will be there tomorrow. Today I sleuth. See? Already my life is multidimensional. You and I. Cagney and Lacey. It’ll be a gas.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Cagney and Lacey were trained detectives with badges and guns.

We’ll be more like Miss Marple and one of her friends from the garden club. But, OK, let’s give it a go. The crime scene techs will let themselves out. I’ll check my messages and we’re on our way.”

I dialed the lab, punched in my mailbox number and access code. One message. Nine forty-three the previous evening.

The woman’s words started a holocaust of possibilities whirling through my head, each uglier than the next.

12

FRANTICALLY, I JABBED AT A PEN ON MY DRESSER.

ANNE DARTED and handed it to me.

“Dr. Brennan. I feel I must give this one last try or I will not be able to live with myself.”

I logged details of the voice. Old. Female.

“I called the day before yesterday about the story in Le Journal.”

A pause. As before, I heard chirping in the background, vaguely familiar chirping.

“I believe I know who is dead and why.” Shot through with desolation and doubt.

“Come on,” I urged under my breath. “Who are you?”

“You have my name.”

“No. I don’t!”

Anne’s head snapped up in surprise at my outcry.

“You may reach me at 514-937—”

“Atta girl!”

Anne watched as I scribbled the number, clicked off, and dialed.

Somewhere on the island a phone rang ten, eleven, twelve times.

I cut the connection and repunched the digits.

A dozen more unanswered rings.

“Damn!”

I clicked off and tossed the handset onto the bed, my whole body taut with frustration. I rose and paced the room, then snatched up the handset and dialed again.

No answer.

“Pick up your goddamn phone!”

What to do? Call Claudel or Charbonneau and give him the number? Call Ryan? All three of them were probably fully occupied with this massive joint operation they were on and didn’t have time for phone numbers.

Disconnecting, I grabbed my keys, raced to the basement, and retrieved my laptop from the trunk of my car. When I returned to the bedroom Anne was sitting on the bed, arms crossed, one foot flicking up and down.