“Star-crossed love?”

“He moved to Altoona.”

Ryan opened the storm door and pounded.

The cart woman stopped, turned, and stared unabashedly over her triple-wrapped muffler.

To the right, a curtain moved. I touched Ryan’s arm and tipped my head. “Dora’s home.”

Ryan smiled brightly.

“Avram was a nice Jewish boy who went eight years between marriages. Maybe he and Mama were close.”

“Maybe he told her stuff.”

“Or Mama noticed things on her own.”

I thought of something.

“Old ladies like cookies.”

“They’re known for it.”

I reached into my purse and pulled out the shortbreads.

“Mama might warm to us, feel chatty.”

“Damn.” Ryan turned. “We’re good at this.”

Only, Dora didn’t answer the door. Miriam did. She wore black slacks, a black silk blouse, a black cardigan, and pearls.

As on our first meeting, I was struck by Miriam’s eyes. There were dark hollows beneath them now, but it didn’t matter. Those lavender irises were showstoppers.

Miriam was not unaware of the effect her eyes had on men. After flicking a glance at me, she shifted to Ryan and leaned forward slightly, one hand wrapping her waist, the other gathering the cardigan at her throat.

“Detective.” Soft. A little breathy.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ferris,” Ryan said. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you.”

Miriam’s skin was ghostly. She looked thinner than I remembered.

“There are a few points I’d like to clear up,” Ryan said.

Miriam’s focus shifted to a point between and beyond us. The old woman’s cart cranked up.

Miriam reengaged on Ryan, and her head tipped slightly.

“Can’t this wait?”

Ryan let the question hang in the triangle of space between us.

“Who is it?” A quavery voice floated from inside the house.

Miriam turned and said something in Yiddish or Hebrew, then reoriented to us.

“My mother-in-law is unwell.”

“Your husband is dead,” Ryan said, not too gently. “I can’t delay a murder investigation for the comfort of the bereaved.”

“I live with that thought every moment of the day. So you believe it’s murder, then?”

“As do you, I think. Are you avoiding me, Mrs. Ferris?”

“No.”

Lavender and blue met head-on. Neither gave way.

“I’d like to ask you again about a man named Kessler.”

“I’m going to tell you again. I don’t know him.”

“Might your mother-in-law?”

“No.”

“How do you know that, Mrs. Ferris? Kessler claimed to know your husband. Have you discussed Kessler with your mother-in-law?”

“No, but she has never mentioned that name. My husband’s business brought him into contact with many people.”

“One of whom may have pumped two rounds into his head.”

“Are you trying to shock me, Detective?”

“Are you aware that your husband dealt in antiquities?”

Miriam’s brows dipped almost imperceptibly. Then, “Who told you that?”

“Courtney Purviance.”

“I see.”

“Is that statement untrue?”

“Ms. Purviance has a tendency to exaggerate her role in my husband’s affairs.” Miriam’s voice was edged like a scythe.

“Are you suggesting she’d lie?”

“I’m suggesting the woman has little in her life but her job.”

“Ms. Purviance suggested your husband’s demeanor had changed prior to his death.”

“That’s ridiculous. If Avram had been troubled, surely I’d have noticed.”

Ryan circled back to his point.

“Is it not true that your husband dealt in antiquities?”

“Antiques formed a very small part of Avram’s trade.”

“You know that?”

“I know that.”

“You’ve told me you know little about the business.”

“That much I know.”

The day was clear with a temperature just above freezing.

“Might those antiquities have included human remains?” Ryan asked.

The violet eyes widened. “Dear God, no.”

Most people are uncomfortable with gaps in conversation. When faced with silence, they feel compelled to fill it. Ryan uses this impulse. He did so now. He waited. It worked.

“That would bechet, ” Miriam elaborated.

Ryan still waited.

Miriam was opening her mouth to say more, when the voice again warbled behind her. She swiveled and spoke over her shoulder.

When she turned back, sunlight glinted off moisture on her upper lip.

“I must help my mother-in-law prepare for Shabbat.”

Ryan handed Miriam a card.

“If I think of anything I will call.” Again, the widened eyes. “I really do want Avram’s killer brought to justice.”

“Have a nice day,” Ryan said.

“Shabbat shalom,”I said.

As we turned to go, Miriam reached out and laid a hand on Ryan’s arm.

“Regardless of what you think, Detective, I did love my husband.” There was a chilling bleakness to her voice.

Ryan and I didn’t speak until we were back in his car.

“Well?” Ryan asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

We both thought about that.

“Chet?”Ryan asked.

“Kind of like sin,” I said.

“The lady’s not into the power of sisterhood,” Ryan said.

“She acted like I wasn’t there,” I agreed.

“You were,” Ryan said.

“I thought so,” I said.

“She’s definitely not one of Purviance’s fans.”

“No.”

Ryan started the engine and pulled from the curb.

“I’d say I’m pretty good at character analysis,” he said.

“I’d say that’s a fair assessment,” I agreed.

“But I can’t figure Miriam. One moment she’s bereaved. The next she’s broadcasting this fuck-you attitude. Protecting something?”

“She was perspiring,” I said

“On a cold day,” Ryan said.

We rolled to a stop at the corner.

“Now what?” Ryan asked.

“You’re the detective,” I said.

“The gun was an orphan. Can’t trace it. My canvass of Ferris’s neighbors in the industrial park turned up zip. Ditto for statements by family and business associates. I’m still waiting for tax records and a phone dump on the warehouse. I’ve got a Kessler query into every synagogue in town.”

“Sounds like you’ve been doing some serious detecting.”

“I’ve been detecting my ass off, but progress is halting,” Ryan said.

“What now?”

“SIJ’s still working the scene. Purviance is still checking to see if anything was stolen. That leaves lunch.”

I’d barely settled with my Whopper when my cell phone warbled. It was Jake Drum. This time the connection was clear.

“You actually diverted to Paris?” I asked, then mouthed the name Jake Drum to Ryan.

“No big deal. Instead of driving to Toronto and catching a flight to Tel Aviv, I’m connecting through Charles de Gaulle.”

“The skeleton’s that important?”

“It could be huge.”

“What have you learned?”

Ryan partially unwrapped my burger and handed it to me. I took a one-handed bite.

“My hunch was right,” Jake said. “A Masada skeleton arrived at the Musée de l’Homme in November of 1963. I located a specimen file and an accession number.”

“Go on.”

“What are you eating?”

“Whopper.”

“Fast food is sacrilege in a city like Montreal.”

“It’s fast.”

“The gastronomic slippery slope.”

I compounded the blasphemy with a sip of Diet Coke.

“Are the bones still there?”

“No.” Jake sounded frustrated.

“No?”

I went for more Whopper. Ketchup dribbled my chin. Ryan blotted it with a napkin.

“I found a woman named Marie-Nicole Varin who helped inventory collections in the early seventies. Varin recalls coming across a Masada skeleton. But it’s not at the museum now. We searched everywhere.”

“No one’s seen it since the seventies?”

“No.”

“Aren’t records kept on the movement of every specimen?”

“Should be. The rest of that file’s missing.”

“What’s the museum’s explanation?”

“C’est la vie. Few of the current staff were here back then. Varin did the inventory with a graduate student named Yossi Lerner. She thinks Lerner may still be in Paris. And here’s an interesting twist. Varin thinks Lerner’s either American or Canadian.”