Deja Dead Page 0,110

next day I got up early and left. Didn’t even say good-bye.”

We were quiet a moment.

“That’s what I did and there’s no way out. I don’t get another shot.” He raised his eyes and stared into the turquoise of the tanks. “I resented her working when I couldn’t, so I froze her out. Now I live with it.”

Before I could think of a response he turned to me, his face taut, his voice harder than it had been.

“I went to see my brother-in-law. He had some job leads for me. I was there all morning, then I fou— Then I came back here around noon. She was already dead. They checked all that out.”

“Monsieur Champoux, I’m not suggesting y—”

“I don’t see that this is going anywhere. We’re just rehashing old words.”

He rose. I was being dismissed.

“I’m sorry to bring up painful memories.”

He regarded me without comment, then moved toward the hall. I followed.

“Thanks for your time, Monsieur Champoux.” I handed him my card. “If there’s anything you think of later, please give me a call.”

He nodded. His face had the numbed look of a person swept into a calamity who can’t forget that his last words and last acts toward the wife he loved were petty and far from a proper good-bye. Is there ever a proper good-bye?

As I left I could feel his eyes on my back. Through the heat I felt cold inside. I hurried to my car.

The interview with Champoux left me shaken. As I drove toward home, I asked myself a thousand questions.

What right had I to dredge up this man’s pain?

I pictured Champoux’s eyes.

Such sorrow. Brought on by my forced reminders?

No. I wasn’t the architect of his house of regret. Champoux was a man living with remorse of his own construction.

Remorse for what? For harming his wife?

No. That was not his character.

Remorse for ignoring her. For leaving her thinking she was not important. Simple as that. On the eve of her death, he rejected conversation, turned his back and went to sleep. He didn’t say good-bye in the morning. Now he never would.

I turned north onto St. Marc, passing into the shadow of the overpass. Would my inquiries do anything but drag memories to the surface where they would again cause pain?

Could I really help where an army of professionals had failed, or was I just on a personal quest to show up Claudel?

“No!”

I banged the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.

No, dammit, I thought to myself. That is not my goal. No one but me is convinced that there is a single killer and that he will kill again. If I am to prevent more deaths, I have to dig up more facts.

I emerged from shadow into sunlight. Instead of turning east, toward home, I crossed Ste. Catherine, doubled back on Rue du Fort, and merged onto the 20 West. Locals called it the 2 and 20, but I’d yet to find anyone who could explain or locate the 2.

I edged out of the city, drumming my impatience on the steering wheel. It was three-thirty and traffic was already backed up at the Turcot Interchange. Bad timing.

Forty-five minutes later I found Geneviève Trottier weeding tomatoes behind the faded green house she had shared with her daughter. She looked up when I pulled onto the drive, and watched me cross the lawn.

“Oui?” Friendly, sitting back on her heels, squinting up at me.

She wore bright yellow shorts and a halter too big for her small breasts. Sweat glistened on her body and curled her hair tightly around her face. She was younger than I’d expected.

When I explained who I was and why I was there, the friendliness turned somber. She hesitated, put down her trowel, then rose, brushing dirt from her hands. The smell of tomatoes hung heavy around us.

“We’d better go inside,” she said, dropping her eyes. Like Champoux she didn’t question my right to ask.

She started across the yard and I followed, hating the conversation about to ensue. The knotted halter hung loose across the knobs on her spine. Blades of grass stuck to the backs of her legs and rode the tops of her feet.

Her kitchen gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, its porcelain and wood surfaces testimony to years of care. Potted kalanchoe lined the windows, framed by yellow gingham. Yellow knobs dotted the cabinets and drawers.

“I’ve made some lemonade,” she said, her hands already moving to the task. Comfort in the familiar.

“Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”

I sat at