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No response. Of course not. Atroce was blasting full force from every speaker in the condo.
“Hello!” I shouted over the screaming instrumentals.
Nothing.
“Bird?”
More nothing from the cat.
Setting my purse on the sideboard, I followed my nose.
Ryan was in the kitchen, wearing an apron and stirring somethingin a pot on the Wolf cooktop. Birdie was at his feet, eyes intent on the chef’s every move. Neither acknowledged my entry.
I crossed to Ryan and placed a hand on his back. When he turned, startled, I gestured that he lower the volume of the music. Sort of music. I’m not a fan of death metal. Ryan and the cat love the stuff.
Ryan did as requested, returned, and wrapped me in a hug.
“Comment ça va, ma chère?” he purred into one of my ears.
Not awaiting an answer, he stepped back, nose pinched as though encountering a toxic odor. Which, undoubtedly, it was.
“Eau de dead flounder?” he asked.
“Hilarious.” I was too tired for a clever retort. “What’s for dinner?”
Ryan put on an exaggerated Parisian maître d’ snob accent: “After la madame enjoys a shower, her meal shall await.”
“Tell me it’s not seafood,” I said.
“It’s not seafood.”
Birdie looked disappointed.
Also among life’s pleasures is the combo of cascading hot water and scented bath products. Wishing to avoid anything even hinting of a maritime theme, I went with amber orange shampoo, body gel, and lotion. Perhaps inspired by whatever culinary marvel Ryan was concocting.
Fifteen minutes later I was back in the kitchen, smelling like something that grows only on trees in Seville. Ryan gestured me to the dining room. The glass table—one of the very few items to make the transition from my old place—was set for two. Place mats. Napkins in holders. Side salads. Candles. Cat seated at the far end.
With a theatrical flourish, Ryan centered a plate on each of the mats. “Voilà!Chicken à l’orange with jasmine rice!”
Birdie’s nose went into hyperdrive, but his four paws remained primly on the chair seat. House etiquette if he wished to be included at meals.
The food was delicious. The dessert, pistachio gelato, perhaps even better.
While eating, we kept the conversation light. No talk of violent death or putrefying corpses. Mainly we discussed options for an upcoming vacation. I wanted a destination featuring white sand andbeaucoup soleil. Ryan was thinking mountains, and trails, and hiking boots. We agreed on one thing. The time was growing close. We had to reach a decision.
After a hasty cleanup, we made espresso and moved to the two leather chairs positioned to maximize the panorama that had so beguiled us.
And still did.
A nightscape of shadowy hills and valleys, tail- and headlight-streaked roads, and dimly lit quartiers spread from rue Sherbrook at our feet to the distant St. Lawrence, now an ebony ribbon dotted at intervals with inverted pink vapor cones.
Birdie dozed on the ottoman by my feet, belly full of chicken scraps and ice cream. Neither he nor Ryan had queried my day. I appreciated that. But, inevitably, the shimmery black riverine swath triggered images of what awaited me at the morgue. Setting my tiny cup on its tiny saucer, I told Ryan about the body parts we’d found at Bickerdike Basin.
“You’ll head to the port again tomorrow?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. The team leader is a guy named Pen Olsen. Do you know him?”
“Olsen and I worked a few cases back in the day. He seemed like a bright guy.”
