Page 52 of The Bone Code

Pit-of-my-stomach-type dread.

13

Friday, October 15–Monday, October 25

Winter blasts into Montreal like an icy five-kiloton bomb.

On Thursday, the mercury had risen to a mild fifty-six degrees.

On Friday, I awoke to temperatures in the teens and four inches of snow.

A true daughter of Dixie, I love sandals and sundresses, the smell of Hawaiian Tropic, the sound of palm fronds scraping against my screen. It can never be too balmy or too tropical for me.

And yet I work north of the forty-ninth parallel.

Each winter, I have a pep talk with myself.It will be cold. Very cold. There is no bad weather, only bad clothing. You will dress properly and be ready.

I never am.

Maybeles Quebecoisweren’t ready that year, either. Depressed by the rapidly decreasing hours of daylight? Dreading another long, dark season? Pissed that it was too damn early to be so damn cold? Whatever the impetus, the locals had gotten busy culling the herd.

Giving me plenty to do while awaiting DNA results.

A farmer in Saint-Felicien strangled his wife and buried her in hisbarn. Two days later, he hallucinated that she’d started nagging again. A sleepless week, then hubby dug her up and phoned his priest. The missus rolled through our doors not looking her best.

A pharmacist in Trois-Rivières overdosed on product he’d pilfered from his shelves. His girlfriend found him three days gone, slippered feet propped on a space heater, quilt covering his legs. The gentleman’s love of warmth hadn’t worked to his benefit.

A tweaker in Val d’Or crawled into a culvert and rammed a knitting needle into her temple. Not sure on the chronology of those actions. A maintenance crew found the body while investigating a blockage.

Fishermen netted a pair of legs in Lac Saint-Jean.

You get the picture. Every day, I had to navigate to the lab and back.

Full disclosure. Hanging out with a putrefied or dismembered corpse, no sweat. But driving on snow or ice scares the crap out of me. Not totally my fault. Mention a flake, and Charlotteans dive for cover until the world thaws.

That’s not how Montreal rolls. Following a blizzard, the main thoroughfares are plowed by the next morning’s rush hour, and it’s business as usual.

For others, at least. Me? I’d look down on the snow-covered cars lining rue Sherbrooke and weigh the merits of car versus Métro. Mass transit meant being squashed elbow to earlobe in a small, poorly ventilated space. Since the COVID-19 pandemic, not an option for me. Instead, I’d don heavy socks, boots, parka, mittens, and muffler and, ignoring Ryan’s jibes about Eskimos and the Pillsbury Doughboy, trudge down to the garage.

White-knuckling the wheel, sweaty but undaunted, I’d join the army of wooly-hatted commuters puffing exhaust from their tailpipes in icy little clouds. Since the small streets in Hochelaga-Maisonneuve were passable only via tire tracks snaking down their centers, I’d pay to park in the Wilfrid-Derome lot. Then, attentive to ice, I’d step outinto the frigid air and, head down, face wrapped in cashmere, scuttle to the building.

Weekends, I never left the condo.

The first Saturday morning, while I prepared cheesy scrambled eggs and bacon, one of my few culinary talents, Ryan ventured forth for a copy of theGazette. After breakfast, he built a fire, and we divided the paper. I started with news and art. He went for sports and finance.

I was on page four of the local section when a photo caught my eye. Grainy black-and-white, below the fold. The accompanying article was one column inch, ten lines. I read it quickly.

“Sonofabitch!” I exploded.

“Atta girl.” Not looking up.

“I don’t believe this.”

“More snow?”

“Remember that woman I told you about?”

“The one who sold you the bad Camembert?”