Monday Mourning (13 page)

Anne focused on her crepes until their completion. Then, “What was on the ground floor when this Knife guy owned the building?”

“That information wasn’t available.”

“Who bought the property?”

I checked my printout.

“In 1980 the building was purchased by Richard Cyr. According to records, Cyr still owns it.”

“What does Cyr have on the ground floor?”

“There are four separate businesses.”

“Including a pizza parlor.”

“Yes.”

“Where does Monsieur Cyr live?”

Back to the printout.

“Notre-Dame-de-Grâce.”

“How far is that from Montreal?”

“It’s a neighborhood just west of Centre-ville.”

Anne’s wineglass froze in midair. As in my kitchen that morning, the other hand came up, palm skyward.

“There you go.”

“That’s three, Annie.”

Exasperated look.

“Your next step. Give Cyr a call. Better yet. If he’s that close, how ’bout a surprise drop-in? The Cagney and Lacey thing’s been kind of a bust for me so far. Let’s solve this case.”

My eyes swung to the phone by my plate. The little screen offered nothing but my name and the time.

It was obvious neither Claudel nor Charbonneau was answering my page.

I raised my Coke. Anne raised her wine.

“Archaeological research,” I said, clinking my glass to hers.

“With one slight modification.” Anne drained her chardonnay. “We’re digging
for
dirt instead of in it.”

Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, or NDG, is a quiet residential neighborhood two circles out from Centre-ville. Not the Westmount of the well-heeled English, or the Outremont of their hotsy-totsy French counterparts, but nice. Middle-class. A good place to raise kids and collies.

Richard Cyr lived in a redbrick duplex on Coronation, within spitting distance of the Loyola Campus of Concordia University. It took twenty minutes to get there, another five to size the place up.

Faded metal awning over a small front porch. Postage-stamp yards in front and back. Driveway leading nowhere. Blue Ford Falcon.

“Monsieur Cyr doesn’t step and fetch to the call of the shovel,” Anne noted.

In winter, Montreal homeowners either clear their own walks or hire a company or neighborhood kid for the task. Cyr did neither. The afternoon’s snowfall was blanketing a sidewalk already two inches deep in packed snow and ice from earlier accumulations.

Anne and I had to watch our footing as we made our way to the steps and up onto the porch. When I pressed the bell, an elaborate chime sounded somewhere deep in the house.

A full minute later, no one had answered.

I rang again.

Nothing but chimes.

“Cyr must be physically impaired and the tightest miser on the planet,” Anne observed, almost losing her footing.

“Maybe he spends his money on other things.”

“There’s a happy thought. This peckerhead’s on his yacht in Barbados while we’re trying not to kill ourselves navigating his front steps.”

“Car’s here,” I observed.

Anne turned to look. “Guess he doesn’t drop the bucks on glitzy wheels.”

I was raising my hand for another go at the chimes, when the inner door opened. A man peered out through the aluminum and glass storm door.

The man did not look happy, but his expression was not what alarmed us.

Anne and I started easing back off the porch.

T
HE MAN WATCHING US WAS SHORT AND WIRY, WITH YELLOWED
white hair and an elaborate gray mustache. He wore grease-smeared glasses and gold chains around his neck.

Nothing else. Just glasses and chains.

The man’s scowl turned to self-satisfaction at the sight of Anne and me backpedaling unsteadily across his porch. Then the expression went fierce again.

“Je suis Catholique!”

My boots slithered and angled on the uneven ice.

Cyr grabbed his penis and waggled it at us.

Beside me, Anne grabbed the railing and made a one-eighty toward the steps.

“Catholique!”
the man shouted.

Catholic?

I stopped. I’d seen Harry use the same ploy. Dressed.

“We’re not missionaries, Monsieur Cyr.”

The scowl wavered, then reaffixed itself.

“And I’m not Pee-wee Herman.” The name sounded strange in joual French.

I reached into my purse.

Cyr made a feint at the door. “Get lost!”

I pulled out one of my cards.

“And don’t leave none of your damn pamphlets,
tabernouche!!”

“We’re not with any church.”

Realizing what was happening, Anne used the handrail to turn herself back toward the house.

Cyr repeated his penile threat, this time in Anne’s direction.

“Oh, horror,” Anne said, sotto voce. “Assault with a dead weapon.”

The grimy lenses froze on my companion. A smile did a slow crawl across the wrinkled lips.

Cyr waggled again.

Anne replied with the old standard. “What do you think, Tempe? Looks like a penis, only smaller.”

Cyr waggled.

Anne opened her mouth to counter.

I truncated the exchange. “Monsieur Cyr, I’m part of an investigation concerning property you own and I need to ask some questions about your building.”

Cyr reoriented to me, fingers of one hand still wrapping his merchandise.

“You girls ain’t storm trooping to save my damn soul?”

“Sir, we’re here to discuss the property you own.”

“You with the city?”

I hesitated. “Yes.” After all, I was with the province, and Cyr hadn’t asked to see identification.

“Some pissant tenant lodge a complaint?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“She with the city?” Cyr tipped his head at Anne.

“She’s with me.”

“She’s a looker, that one.”

“Yes. Sir, we really need to ask you some questions.”

Cyr opened the storm door. Anne and I picked our way forward and stepped inside. When Cyr closed the inner door, the small foyer dimmed. The air felt hot and dry and smelled of smoke and decades of unventilated cooking.

“You’re a looker, all right.” Cyr winked up at Anne, who stood a good foot taller than he. He seemed to have forgotten that he was naked.

“You want to throw a blanket on ole Hopalong?” Anne suggested.

“I thought you was Watchtower,” said Cyr in English. “Those folks ain’t got the common sense God gave a parsnip. But they leave you alone if you’re naked.” It came out
nek-kid.
“Or tell ’em you’re Catholic.” It came out
cat-lick.

Anne pointed at Cyr’s genitalia.

Cyr led us through leaded glass doors and gestured to a living room on the right.

“Gimme a minute.”

Cyr began climbing a central stairway, placing one foot on a riser, then joining it with the other, one blue-veined hand gripping the banister. His body looked frog-belly white against the dark wood paneling covering the stairwell, and his ascending derriere was hairy black.

Plastic crackled as Anne and I settled on opposite ends of a rose brocade sofa. I unzipped and removed my parka. Anne remained fully clothed.

“I never saw this on
Cagney and Lacey.
”

I grinned in response. My eyes took a visual tour. Opposite the sofa, a La-Z-Boy and a plastic-coated armchair. Stage right, a fireplace, the bricks painted brown. Stage left, a small organ, a large TV with a shabby armchair pulled close to the screen. No plastic.

Everywhere, velvety quiet.

I wondered if the old man had added the vinyl slipcovers, or simply left them in place when the furniture was delivered.

I doubted there was a Mrs. Cyr. There were no figurines, photographs, or souvenirs of holidays past. Ashtrays overflowed. Stacks of
Playboy
and
National Geographic
filled the fireplace enclosure.

I noticed Anne was also checking the place out.

“This could all be yours,” I said in a low voice. “I think Cyr’s in love.”

“I think ole Hopalong is harmless,” Anne whispered back.

“You said you craved life in the fast lane.”

“The little guy
is
a biscuit.”

I wondered if she meant ole Hopalong or Cyr, but didn’t ask.

Moments later we heard footfalls.

Cyr reappeared wearing sneakers, a green plaid shirt, and gray wool pants hiked up to his nipples.

“You girls want a drink?”

We both declined.

“Nice nip on a snowy day?”

“No thank you.”

“Speak up if you change your minds.”

Cyr shuffled to the recliner and lowered himself, a tsunami of Old Spice following in his wake.

“You’ve got a damn fine head of hair, young lady.” Cyr spoke to Anne.

“Thank you,” Anne said.

It was true. By some bizarre fluke of genetics Anne’s hair is blonde
and
thick
and
willing to grow as long as she’ll let it. Right now she wasn’t letting it, but the fact remains, it will. While I try never to hold such perfection against her, there have been times this has proven difficult. Today was not one of them.

“You’re a tall one.” Cyr breathed nasally, firing out words between short puffs. “You married?”

“Yes.”

“Let me know if things bottom out.” Cyr turned to me. “I’m a sucker for blondes.”

I wanted to get matters on a more official footing.

“Mr. Cyr—”

“How’s my English?”

“Excellent.” Though heavily accented, it
was
good.

Cyr cocked his chin at the fireplace.

“Keep it sharp reading.”

“Aren’t you annoyed by all those naked women breaking up the text?” Anne asked, undermining my efforts at official inquiry.

Cyr made a wheezing noise I took to be a chuckle. “She’s a pistol, that one, yes?”

“Annie Oakley herself.” I rose and handed Cyr my printout.

“Records indicate you own this property.”

Cyr raised the printout to within inches of his face, and read in silence for almost a minute.

“Oui.”
The inhaled joual
oui.
“She’s mine.”

“You’ve owned it since 1980?”

“Four-karat pain in the ass.” Cyr thrust the paper back at me.

I took the printout and resumed my seat.

“You purchased the property from Nicolò Cataneo?”

“I did.”

“Do you know why Mr. Cataneo sold it?”

“Didn’t ask. Property was listed for sale.”

“Isn’t that a standard question when making such a large investment?”

“To Nicolò Cataneo?”

Cyr had a point.

“May I ask what was on the ground floor at the time of your purchase?”

Cyr answered without hesitation.

“Bakery. Le Boulangerie Lugano. Cleared out before I took possession.”

“What replaced the bakery?”

“I subdivided. Put four businesses in the same space. More cost-effective.”

“One of those businesses is a pizza parlor?”

“Le Pizza Paradis Express.”

“How long has that been there?”

“Since 2001.” Cyr puffed air out through his lips. “Better it should be called ‘rat hairs and cockroaches by the slice.’ Damn ethnics wouldn’t know hygiene if it punched ’em in the face.” Like a former prime minister, Cyr pronounced the word
et-nicks.
“But I got no gripe with Matoub. Pays his rent right on time.”

“Said Matoub is the current tenant?” I’d learned that from Claudel on the day of the recovery.

Cyr twisted a finger in his ear and inspected it absently.

“Do you remember any tenants previous to Mr. Matoub?” I went on.

“Course I remember the previous tenants. Remember every damn one of ’em. I look like I’m short-listed for assisted living?”

Expectations often grow from stereotypes, and, though loath to admit it, I’m as guilty as the next. Because Cyr was old, I’d assumed his memory would be less than spot-on. I was quickly revising that view. Though eccentric, ole Hopalong was nobody’s fool.

“No, sir—”

“Had more tenants than Blondie’s got hairs on that pretty head.”

Cyr gave Anne an eyebrow flash.

Anne tipped her pretty head and Groucho-ed back.

“Before the pizza parlor, place was a nail salon,” Cyr said to me. “Vietnamese named Truong had a half dozen little ladies painting nails in there. Didn’t make a go, I guess. Only lasted a year or two.”

“And before that?”

“Liked the nail ladies. Looked like little china dolls. Covered their teeth when they laughed.”

“Before the nail salon?”

“Before the nail salon place was a pawnshop. Guy named Ménard.” Cyr pointed one gnarled finger. “Stéphane. Sébastien. Sylvain. Something like that. Bought and sold junk. Must have been pretty good at it, ’cause he hung in nine years. Eighty-nine to ninety-eight.”

I did some quick math. “Did the place sit empty awhile between the pawnshop and the nail salon?”

“Couple of months.”

“And before the pawnshop?”

“Let’s see. Eighty to eighty-nine there was a luggage store, a butcher shop, and some kind of travel agency. I’d have to go to my records for names and dates.”

“Please do that, sir.”

Cyr’s eyes narrowed behind their greasy lenses. “Would you mind
my
asking why
you’re
asking all this, young lady?”

I was expecting the question, was surprised Cyr hadn’t posed it sooner. What to tell him? What to hold back?

“Something has been found in the basement of your building which is being investigated.”

If I wanted a reaction, I didn’t get one, nor did he ask who was investigating.

“May I ask about access to the pizza parlor basement?” I went on.

“Used to have a stairway leading up to a street-level door. Lost that entrance with the renovation.”

“Is access possible from elsewhere in the building?”

Cyr shook his head. “Basement hasn’t been used in years. The only way down is through a trapdoor in the crapper.” He turned to Anne. “Pardon my rowdy tongue.”

“A perfectly acceptable historic reference.”

“Eh?”

“Thomas Crapper.”

Blank stares from Cyr and me.

“Inventor of the silent, valveless water-waste preventer.”