A search of the Petit basement uncovered coping, hack, and carpenter's saws. I had analyzed the cut marks on Marie-Reine's bones to determine if a tool similar to one of hubby's had made them. Bingo on the hacksaw. Rejean Petit was now on trial for the murder of his wife.

Two hours and three coffees later, I gathered my photos and papers and rechecked the subpoena.

De comparaitre personnel ement devant la Cour du Quebec, chamber criminel e etpenal, au Palais de Justice de Montreal, a 09:00 heures, le 3

decembre--

Hot diggety. Personal y invited to testify. As personal as a summons to a tax audit. No RSVP necessary.

I noted the courtroom.

Zipping into boots and parka, I grabbed gloves, hat, and scarf, set the security alarm, and headed down to the garage. Birdie had yet to uncurl. Apparently my cat had enjoyed a predawn breakfast.

My old Mazda started on the first try. Good omen.

At the top of the ramp, I braked too quickly and swam crosswise into the lane like a kid on a Slip 'n Slide. Bad omen.

« 10 »

Rush hour. The streets were clogged, every vehicle spinning up slush. The early morning sun turned my salt-spattered windshield opaque. Though I applied my wipers and sprayers repeatedly, for stretches I found myself driving blind. Within blocks, I regretted not taking a taxi.

In the late sixteenth century a group of Laurentian Iroquois lived in a vil age they cal ed Hochelaga, situated between a smal mountain and a major river, just below the last stretch of serious rapids. In 1642, French missionaries and adventurers dropped in and stayed. The French cal ed their outpost Vil e-Mane.

Over the years, the residents of Vil e-Mane prospered and built and paved. The vil age took on the name of the mountain behind it, Mont Real. The river was christened the St. Lawrence.

Hel o, Europeans. Good-bye, First Nations.

Today the former Hochelaga-Vil e-Marie turf is known as VieuxMuiitreal.

Tourists love it.

Stretching uphil from the river, Old Montreal oozes quaint.

Gaslights. Horse-drawn carriages. Sidewalk vendors. Outdoor cafes. The solid stone buildings that were once home to colonists, stables, workshops, and warehouses now house museums, boutiques, gal eries, and restaurants. The streets are narrow and cobbled.

And offer not a chance of parking.

Wishing, once again, I'd taken a taxi, I left the car in a pay lot, then hurried up boulevard St-Laurent to the Palais de Justice, located at 1

rue Notre-Dame est, on the northern perimeter of the historic district.

Salt crunched underfoot. Breath froze on my scarf. Pigeons remained huddled when I passed, preferring col ective body warmth to the safety of flight.

As I walked, I thought of the pizza basement skeletons. Would the bones real y prove to be those of dead girls? I hoped not, but deep down I already knew.

I also thought of Marie-Reine Petit, and felt sorrow for a life cut short by unspeakable malice. I wondered about the Petit children.