Bones to Ashes (20 page)

To avoid an argument, I changed the subject.

“Ever hear of an island called Île-aux-Becs-Scies?”

“Where?”

“Near Miramichi.”

Hippo thought a moment, then shook his head.

“What does the name mean?”

“I think a
bec scie
is some kind of duck.”

Something rolled over in my hindbrain.

Duck Island? What?

I chose a cabinet and began pulling file after file.

Kids. Pets. Couples.

I found it hard to concentrate. Was I really championing judicious thinking? Or was I in denial? Cormier a pornographer. Cormier a photographer of women and children. Were the implications simply too awful?

And why the heads-up from my subconscious? Duck Island?

Partly heat. Partly hunger. A headache began organizing on the right side of my skull.

Ryan was to have bought lunch and come directly from Cormier’s apartment to his studio. Where the hell was he? Cranky, I continued plowing through folders.

It was two-thirty before Ryan made his appearance. In lieu of the salad and Diet Coke I’d requested, he’d gotten hot dogs and fries from Lafleur’s.

As we ate, Ryan and Hippo discussed the thumb drive. Ryan agreed that Cormier was probably hiding smut. Hot, irritable, and stuffed with greasy wieners, I played devil’s advocate.

“Maybe Cormier got sick of dealing with this disorganized mess.” I waved an arm at the cabinets. “Maybe he was scanning all his old images and files.”

“To a thumb drive stashed in his flour bin.”

Ryan had a point. It irked me.

“OK, so it’s porn. Maybe Cormier’s just a perv trying to hide his dirty little secret.”

Both men looked at me as though I’d suggested anthrax was harmless.

“Think what you want.” I bunched my wrappers and shoved them into the greasy brown bag. “I’ll wait for proof.”

Cabinet twelve. I was looking at a photo of an exceedingly unattractive baby when my cell phone chirped.

Two-eight-one area code. Harry.

I clicked on.

“You certainly were up early this morning.”

“I’m up early most mornings.”

“How’s that French buckaroo?”

“If you mean Ryan, he’s a jerk.”

“I just spoke to Flannery O’Connor.” Harry’s voice was jittery with excitement.

“I’m listening.”

There was a pause.

“Are we having another cranky pants day?”

“It’s hot.” I placed the ugly baby on the stack of finished files, and opened another.

“This isn’t even close to hot.”

“What did you learn?”

“You want hot, you try Houston in August.”

“O’Connor House?”

“The business folded when Flan and her husband went splitsville. She goes by Flan. I didn’t ask if she’d changed it official or not. Anyway, Flan cut bait after catching hubby
au flagrant
with a guy named Maurice.”

“Uh-huh.” The new file was labeled
Krenshaw
. The subject was a cocker spaniel. I closed it, and selected another.

“She’s a hoot, Tempe. We talked for over an hour.”

I could only imagine that conversation.

“What did you learn about Obéline’s book?” I opened another file.
Tremblay.
A very fat lady posed with a very fat child. The Tremblays went onto the stack.

“Following the divorce, Flan kept all the O’Connor House records. Client names, book titles, number of pages, number of copies, what type of binding. ’Course we’re not talking Simon and Schuster here.”

“Obéline’s book?” Keeping Harry on track was like herding sheep on uppers.

“During its existence, O’Connor House printed twenty-two poetry collections. Six of the orders were placed by women.” I heard paper rustle. “
La Pénitence,
by Félice Beaufils.”

What Harry did to the French language was truly remarkable.

“
Lie Down Among the Lilies,
by Geraldine Haege.
Peppermint Springtime,
by Sandra Lacanu.
Un besoin de chaleur humaine,
by Charlene Pierpont. That title means something about needing human warmth.”

I opened another folder.
Briggs.
Blushing bride. Done.

“The other four had no authors. You know, the poet preferred to remain anonymous.
Ghostly Mornings
. Flan thought that was a literary club project. A woman named Caroline Beecher handled the transaction.”

The headache was banging at the back of my eyeball. Using a thumb, I rubbed circles on my temple.

“
Parfum
was paid for by Marie-Joséphine Devereaux.
Fringe
was paid for by Mary Anne Coffey. Each of those books was about fifty pages in length. Each print run was a hundred. Beecher and Devereaux had Moncton addresses. Coffey lived in St. John—”

“Obéline?” It came out sharper than I intended.

Harry allowed me several moments of dead air.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re working hard on this. It’s just a little too much information for now.”

“Mm-hm.”

“What did you learn about
Bones to Ashes
?”

I opened a new file.
Zucker.
Three kids wearing plaid.

“Virginie LeBlanc.” Curt.

“LeBlanc placed the order?”

“Yes.”

“Did O’Connor have LeBlanc’s address?”

“Post office box.”

“Where?”

“Bathurst.”

“Any other contact information?”

“No.”

“Did you try tracing LeBlanc?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Sulky silence.

I rolled my eyes. It hurt.

“Look, Harry. I’m sorry. I do appreciate what you’re doing.”

From across the room, I heard a phone, then Hippo’s voice.

“Gallant.”

“Can I buy you dinner tonight?” I asked Harry.

“Quand? Où?”
Staccato questions in the background. Where? When?

“I’ll be here,” Harry said.

“Bon Dieu!”

“You pick the restaurant,” I said.

I heard a soft grunt, then footsteps clumping my way.

“You can give me a full report on everything you’ve learned.”

Harry agreed. Coolly.

I clicked off.

Hippo was standing over me.

I looked up.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

H
IPPO’S JAW WAS CLAMPED LIKE A SCREW PRESS.

“What?” I closed the Zucker file.

Hippo glowered silently.

“Tell me.”

“Just got a courtesy call from the RCMP in Tracadie. Obéline Bastarache is missing and presumed dead.”

I shot to my feet. The Zucker file flew across the floor. “Dead? How?”

Flicking a shirttail, Hippo pocket-jammed the phone and turned away.

“How?” I repeated, too shrill.

“Neighbor downriver from the Bastarache place found a shawl wrapping one of the pilings under his pier. Recognized it. Checked. Got suspicious that Obéline wasn’t home. Says the lady never goes out.”

“That hardly means Obéline drowned.”

“RCMP searched the property. Found blood on the breakwater.”

“That could—”

Hippo continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “Clothes on the end of the breakwater. Folded. Shoes on top.
Note d’adieu
shoved into one toe.”

I felt the blood drain from my head. “A suicide note?”

Hippo didn’t square to face me.

Didn’t speak the words I knew were goading his tongue.

There was no need. Already, I felt the deadening weight of self-blame.

I swallowed. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

I’d visited Obéline on Tuesday. Wednesday she was dead.

“What did the note say?”

“
Adieu.
Life sucks.”

Shame boiled inside me.

And anger.

And something else.

Though far from happy, Obéline had seemed content. Had told me she was at the one place she wanted to be.

“I detected nothing to suggest she was suicidal.”

“Where was it you earned that psychology degree?”

My face flamed. Hippo was right. What did I know of this woman? Until two days ago, our last interactions had been as kids.

“No one is questioning that she’s dead? I mean, there’s no body. Are they dragging the river?”

“The river’s a freight train right there.” Hippo was squinting down the hall, into sunlight oozing through one of the living room’s dirt-caked windows. “Body’s probably in the Gulf of St. Lawrence by now.”

“Where was Bastarache?” Hearing agitated voices, Ryan had left Cormier’s office.

“Quebec City.”

“He alibi out?”

“That bastard always alibis out.”

With that, Hippo stomped from the room. In seconds, the studio door opened, slammed.

“I’m sorry.” Ryan’s eyes said he meant it.

“Thanks.” Weak.

There was a moment of strained silence.

“What’s up with Hippo and you?”

“He’s pissed that I went to Tracadie.”

“I doubt it’s you. You’re just handy.”

“He asked me not to make contact.”

“Bastarache is a flesh bandit. Hippo thinks it reflects badly on all Acadians.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer.

“Don’t let him get to you. Hippo’ll never say it, but your finding Cormier’s thumb drive impressed the hell out of him. Once Lesieur cracks it, we’ll be able to reel this dirtball in.”

“If I hadn’t found it, CSU would have.”

Ryan knew that was true. Was trying to be nice.

“If you want to knock off, I understand,” he said.

I shook my head. But I’d already lost Ryan’s attention.

“I have court tomorrow. If we don’t finish today, we’ll wrap up on Monday.”

With that, Ryan disappeared down the hall. And proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the day.

Fine. I could concentrate on Cormier’s bloody files.

Only I couldn’t. All afternoon, I kept seeing Obéline. The gazebo. The breakwater. The shawl.

Leaden, I forced myself through file after file.

Pets. Brides. Kids. None of them Phoebe. None of them a cold case MP or DOA.

At six I gave up.

Inching home through rush hour traffic, I worried about telling Harry that Obéline was dead. My sister feels things intensely, emotes unabashedly. Joy. Anger. Fear. Whatever Harry’s reaction, it’s always over the top. I was dreading the conversation.

At the condo, I parked underground. A light indicated the elevator was holding on three. I trudged up the stairs.

Both the outer and inner front doors were open. Runners crisscrossed the lobby floor. Winston, our caretaker, stood on one of them.

“Someone moving?” Not really interested. Thinking about Harry.

“Three-oh-four,” Winston answered. “Transferred to Calgary.”

I rounded the banister, started toward my corridor.

“You thinking about selling?”

“No.”

“Funny.”

I turned. “What’s funny?”

“Couple guys wandered in here this morning. Asked about your place.”

I stopped. “Asked what?”

“How many rooms. If the backyard was yours.” Winston shrugged, thumbs hooking his jeans. “The usual.”

I felt a tickle of apprehension. “Did they leave contact information?”

Winston shook his head.

“Did they use my name specifically?”

Winston gave the question some thought. “Not sure. It’s been a zoo here today. They’re probably gawkers. We get a lot of those.”

“Release absolutely no information on my condo.”

Winston’s smile crumpled. His arms came up and crossed on his chest.

“I’m sorry. I know you’d never do that.”

Winston ran a finger and thumb along the corners of his mouth.

I smiled. “Thanks for telling me.”

“That sister of yours is a hoot.”

“Isn’t she.” I made the turn toward my hallway. “I better feed her or she’ll start gnawing the woodwork.”

Still wounded, Harry had declined participation in restaurant selection. I took her to one of my favorites. Milos is pricey, but this wasn’t the night for counting coins.

Conversation upon departure went something like this.

“Is the fish fresh?”

“Still swimming.”

Upon arrival.

“Where are we?”

“Saint-Laurent near Saint-Viateur.”

“Holy mackerel.”

We shared a Greek salad and an order of deep-fried zucchini. Harry had crab legs and I had snapper.

After much prompting, she agreed to discuss
Bones to Ashes.

“When I called the Bathurst post office, I was directed to a Miss Schtumpheiss.” Harry pronounced the name with a hokey Colonel Klink accent. “Frau Schtumpheiss would neither confirm nor deny that Virginie LeBlanc had rented a postal box in her facility. I swear, Tempe, you’d think the woman was running a gulag.”

“Stalag. What did she say?”

“That the information was confidential. I think Frau Schtumpheiss just didn’t want to move her
frauenhintern
.”

I bit.
“Frauenhintern?”

“Buttocks. Female.”

“How do you know that?”

“Conrad spoke German.”

Conrad was hubby number two. Or three.

“I could ask Hippo to give her a call,” I said. “He hails from that neck of the woods.”

“Might work.” Aloof, but not hostile. Harry’s mood was improving.

For the rest of the meal, I kept it light. When coffee arrived, I reached across the table and took my sister’s hand.

“Hippo gave me some very bad news today.”

Harry fixed me with two worried eyes.

I swallowed. “Obéline may be dead.”

The eyes clouded. “Ohmygod!” Whispered, “How? When?”

I relayed what I knew. Braced.

Harry picked up a spoon and stirred her coffee. Tapped the rim. Set the spoon on the table. Leaned back. Bit her lip thoughtfully.

No tears. No outburst.

“Are you OK?”

Harry didn’t respond.

“Apparently the current is very strong.”

Harry nodded.

My sister’s composure was unsettling. I started to speak. She flapped a hand for quiet.

I signaled for the check.

“There is something we can do,” she said. “In homage to Évangéline and Obéline.”

Harry waited as the waiter refilled my mug.