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get the old adrenaline pumping.” She laughed. “But at least I have a job. People are being dumped like nuclear waste.”
    Okeydokey.
    “Where are you?”
    “At the town house. Gawd. I hope we can stay here.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Coop’s returning from Afghanistan.”
    Coop was Katy’s landlord and, from what I could tell, an on-again, off-again romantic interest. Hard to know. The man seemed perpetually out of the country.
    “I thought Coop was in Haiti.”
    “Ancient news. His Peace Corps commitment ended two years ago. He was in the States ten months, now he’s working for a group called the International Rescue Committee. They’re headquartered in New York.”
    “How long has Coop been in Afghanistan?”
    “Almost a year. Someplace called Helmand Province.”
    Was Coop’s reappearance the reason for Katy’s sunny mood? For Smooth’s heave-ho?
    “You sound happy about his homecoming.” Discreet.
    “Oh, yeah.” The Oh lasted a good five beats. “Coop’s awesome. And he’s coming straight to me after he checks in at home.”
    “Really.” My tone made it a question.
    “Play your cards right, Mommy dearest, I might bring him by.”
    A blatant dodge, but since Katy was so excited, I decided to press on for details.
    “What’s this awesome gentleman’s actual name?”
    “Webster Aaron Cooperton. He’s from Charleston.”
    “You met him at UVA?”
    “Yep.”
    “How is it that young Mr. Cooperton holds deed to a town house in Charlotte?”
    “He finished school here.”
    “Didn’t like Charlottesville?”
    “Wasn’t invited back.”
    “I see.”
    “He’s really nice. Loads of fun.”
    I had no doubt of that.
    “And the town house?”
    “His parents bought it for him when he transferred to UNCC. As an investment. They’re beaucoup bucks up.”
    Thus Coop’s freedom to hold morally admirable but woefully underpaid aid jobs.
    Whatever. Shaggy musician out. Humanitarian in. Worked for me.
    “You and Coop dated following his return from Haiti?”
    “When we could. He was in New York a lot.”
    I paused, allowing Katy to get to the reason for her call. Turned out there was none.
    “Well, Mommy-o. Have a good day.”
    Mommy-o?
    Who was this strange woman posing as my daughter?
    Ryan delivered Charlie around noon. Eager to be off to Lily, he stayed only briefly. The door had barely closed when the bird fired off two of his bawdier quips.
    “Fill your glass, park your ass!”
    “Charlie.”
    “Cool your tool!”
    Clearly, the cockatiel training CD had seen no play time in my absence.
    Point of information: confiscated during a brothel raid several years back, Charlie became Ryan’s Christmas gift to me. My little avian friend’s repertoire is, shall we say, colorful.
    Jean-Claude Hubert, the chief coroner, phoned at one o’clock. Hubert had located John Lowery’s father, Plato Lowery, and informed him of the fingerprint ID on the body in Hemmingford. At first Plato was confused. Then shocked. Then skeptical.
    The United States Army had also been brought into the loop.
    “Now what?” I asked Hubert.
    “Now we wait to see what Uncle Sam has to say.”
    At one thirty I headed to Marché Atwater, near the Lachine Canal in the Saint-Henri neighborhood. A ten-minute drive from my condo, the market there dates to 1933.
    Inside the two-story art deco pavilion, shops and stalls offer cheese, wine, bread, meat, and fish. Outside, vendors hawk maple syrup, herbs, and produce. At Christmas, freshly cut trees fill the air with the scent of pine. In spring and summer, flowers turn the pavement into a riot of color.
    When I first started shopping at Atwater, the neighborhood was blue-collar and definitely down-at-the-heels. Not so today. Since the reopening of the canal in 2002, upscale condos have replaced low- and modest-cost housing and the area has become a real estate hot spot.
    Not sure I’m a fan of such gentrification. But parking is easier now.
    Inside, I purchased meat and cheese.