Free Death Du Jour by Kathy Reichs Page B

inventory indicated that only a metatarsal and six phalanges were missing. They did not show up when I screened the soil, but I did locate several incisors and a canine, and replaced them in their sockets.
    I followed my regular procedure, filling out a form just as I would for a coroner case. I started with the pelvis. The bones were those of a female. No doubt there. Her pubic symphyses suggested an age of thirty-five to forty-five years. The good sisters would be happy.
    In taking long-bone measurements I noted an unusual flattening on the front of the tibia, just below the knee. I checked the metatarsals. They showed arthritis where the toes join the feet. Yahoo! Repeated patterns of movement leave their marks on the skeleton. Élisabeth was supposed to have spent years in prayer on the stone floor of her convent cell. In kneeling, the combination of pressure on the knees and hyperflexion of the toes creates exactly the pattern I was seeing.
    I remembered something I’d noticed as I removed a tooth from the screen, and picked up the jaw. Each of the lower central incisors had a small but noticeable groove on the biting edge. I found the uppers. Samegrooves. When not praying or writing letters, Élisabeth sewed. Her embroidery still hung in the convent at Lac Memphrémagog. Her teeth were notched from years of pulling thread or holding a needle between them. I was loving this.
    Then I turned the skull faceup and did a double take. I was standing there, staring at it, when LaManche entered the room.
    “So, is this the saint?” he asked.
    He came up beside me and looked at the skull.
    “ Mon Dieu .”
    *   *   *
    “Yes, the analysis is going well.” I was in my office, speaking with Father Ménard. The skull from Memphrémagog sat in a cork ring on my worktable. “The bones are remarkably well preserved.”
    “Will you be able to confirm that it’s Élisabeth? Élisabeth Nicolet?”
    “Father, I wanted to ask you a few more questions.”
    “Is there a problem?”
    Yes. There may be.
    “No, no. I’d just like a little more information.”
    “Yes?”
    “Do you have any official document stating who Élisabeth’s parents were?”
    “Her father was Alain Nicolet, and her mother was Eugénie Bélanger, a well-known singer at that time. Her uncle, Louis-Philippe Bélanger, was a city councilman and a very distinguished physician.”
    “Yes. Is there a birth certificate?”
    He was silent. Then,
    “We have not been able to locate a birth certificate.”
    “Do you know where Élisabeth was born?”
    “I think she was born in Montreal. Her family washere for generations. Élisabeth is a descendant of Michel Bélanger, who came to Canada in 1758, in the last days of New France. The Bélanger family was always prominent in city affairs.”
    “Yes. Is there a hospital record, or a baptismal certificate, or anything that officially records her birth?”
    More silence.
    “She was born more than a century and a half ago.”
    “Were records kept?”
    “Yes. Sister Julienne has searched. But things can be lost over such a long time. Such a long time.”
    “Of course.”
    For a moment we were both silent. I was about to thank him when,
    “Why are you asking these questions, Dr. Brennan?”
    I hesitated. Not yet. I could be wrong. I could be right but it meant nothing.
    “I just wanted a bit more background.”
    I’d hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang.
    “ Oui, Dr. Brennan.”
    “Ryan.” I could hear tension in his voice. “It was arson all right. And whoever planned it made sure the place went up. Simple but effective. They hooked a heat coil to a timer, same kind you use to turn on your lamps when you go off to the spa.”
    “I don’t go to spas, Ryan.”
    “Do you want to hear this?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “The timer turned on the hot plate. That set off a fire which ignited a propane tank. Most of the timers were destroyed, but we recovered a few. Looks like they were set to go off at