Death Du Jour Read Free

coffee. A slurper.
    “She was born in a small village in the Saguenay, says she joined the order when she was twelve.” Slurp. “Twelve. Records weren’t so good in those days in rural Quebec. Not so good.”
    I took a bite of sandwich then rewrapped my fingers around the coffee mug. Delicious warmth.
    “Father, are there any other records? Old letters, documents, anything we haven’t looked at?” I wriggled my toes. No sensation.
    He gestured to the papers littering the desk, shrugged. “This is everything Sister Julienne gave me. She is the convent archivist, you know.”
    “Yes.”
    Sister Julienne and I had spoken and corresponded at length. It was she who had initially contacted me about the project. I was intrigued from the outset. This case was very different from my usual forensic work involving the recently dead who end up with the coroner. The archdiocese wanted me to exhume and analyze the remains of a saint. Well, she wasn’t really a saint. But that was the point. Élisabeth Nicolet had been proposed for beatification.I was to find her grave and verify that the bones were hers. The saint part was up to the Vatican.
    Sister Julienne had assured me that there were good records. All graves in the old church were cataloged and mapped. The last burial had taken place in 1911. The church was abandoned and sealed in 1914 following a fire. A larger one was built to replace it, and the old building was never used again. Closed site. Good documentation. Piece of cake.
    So where was Élisabeth Nicolet?
    “It might not hurt to ask. Perhaps there’s something Sister Julienne didn’t give you because she thought it unimportant.”
    He started to say something, changed his mind. “I’m quite sure she’s given me everything, but I’ll ask. Sister Julienne has spent a great deal of time researching this. A great deal.”
    I watched him out the door, finished my croissant, then another. I crossed my legs, tucked my feet under me, and rubbed my toes. Good. Feeling was returning. Sipping my coffee, I lifted a letter from the desk.
    I’d read it before. August 4, 1885. Smallpox was out of control in Montreal. Élisabeth Nicolet had written to Bishop Édouard Fabre, pleading that he order vaccinations for parishioners who were well, and use of the civic hospital by those who were infected. The handwriting was precise, the French quaint and outdated.
    The Convent Notre-Dame de l’Immaculée-Conception was absolutely silent. My mind drifted. I thought of other exhumations. The policeman in St-Gabriel. In that cemetery the coffins had been stacked three deep. We’d finally found Monsieur Beaupré four graves from his recorded location, bottom position, not top. And there was the man in Winston-Salem who wasn’t in his own coffin. The occupantwas a woman in a long floral dress. That had left the cemetery with a double problem. Where was the deceased? And who was the body in the coffin? The family never was able to rebury Grandpa in Poland, and the lawyers were girding for war when I left.
    Far off, I heard a bell toll, then, in the corridor, shuffling. The old nun was heading my way.
    “ Serviettes, ” she screeched. I jumped, rocketing coffee onto my sleeve. How could so much volume come from so small a person?
    “ Merci .” I reached for the napkins.
    She ignored me, closed in, and began scrubbing my sleeve. A tiny hearing aid peeked from her right ear. I could feel her breath and see fine white hairs ringing her chin. She smelled of wool and rose water.
    “Eh, voilà . Wash it when you get home. Cold water.”
    “Yes, Sister.” Reflex.
    Her eyes fell on the letter in my hand. Fortunately, it was coffee-free. She bent close.
    “Élisabeth Nicolet was a great woman. A woman of God. Such purity. Such austerity.” Pureté . Austérité . Her French sounded as I imagined Élisabeth’s letters would if spoken.
    “Yes, Sister.” I was nine years old again.
    “She will be a saint.”
    “Yes, Sister. That’s