“You were right. O’Connor House was a press for frustrated writers wanting to self-publish. It was a family business, owned and operated by a husband-and-wife team named O’Connor.”
“Flannery and spouse.”
Harry’s eyes went round. “You know them?”
Mine went rounder. “You’re making that up. This woman wasn’t really named after Flannery O’Connor?”
Harry shook her head. “She was once she got married. Flannery and Michael O’Connor. The operation was headquartered in Moncton. Printing and binding were done elsewhere.”
Harry dropped a handful of shredded Cheddar onto her chili.
“Apparently self-publishing wasn’t the fast track to prosperity the O’Connors envisioned. The press folded after churning out a whopping ninety-four books, manuals, and pamphlets. Salad?”
I held out my plate. Harry filled it.
“Chili needs sour cream.”
While in the kitchen, Harry must have sallied on in her head. When she returned, she’d fast-forwarded a page or two.
“Of those, twenty-two fit the bill.”
“Fit what bill?”
“Twenty-two were books of poetry.”
“Get out! Did you obtain author names?”
Harry shook her head. “But I got contact information for Flannery O’Connor. She’s living in Toronto, working for an ad agency. I called and left a message. I’ll call again when we’ve finished supper.”
“How did you learn all this?”
“Books, Tempe. We’re talking about books. And who knows books?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical.
“Librarians, that’s who. ’Course, libraries are called bibliothèques here. But I found one with a Web site in the good old King’s lingo. Has a staff directory with names and e-mail addresses and phone numbers. You can’t imagine what happened when I dialed the reference desk.”
I couldn’t.
“A human being spoke to me. In English. Nice lady named Bernice Weaver. Bernice told me I should hike right on in.”
Harry swiped the dregs of her chili with a slice of baguette.
“Building looks like a big ole dollhouse.” Harry pointed the baguette in a vaguely western direction. “It’s just yonder.”
“Are you talking about the Westmount Public Library?”
Harry nodded, mouth full of bread.
Founded in 1897 in commemoration of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, the Westmount Public Library does, indeed, reflect the era’s architectural whimsy. Its collections are some of the oldest in the Montreal area, and its clientele is solidly Anglophone.
Good choice, Harry.
“So Bernice was able to identify O’Connor House, its owners, and its publication list?”
“Bernice is a pip.”
Apparently.
“I’m impressed. Really.”
“Not as impressed as you’re going to be, big sister.”
Harry took in my wet hair, tank, and drawstring PJ bottoms. Perhaps curious that I’d showered and jammied before dinner, she asked how I’d spent my day. Since Ryan’s DOA’s and MP’s and the Phoebe Jane Quincy disappearance had been all over the media, I could think of no reason for secrecy.
I told Harry about the cold cases Ryan and Hippo were investigating. The MP’s Kelly Sicard, Claudine Cloquet, Anne Girardin, and most recently, Phoebe Jane Quincy. The DOA’s from the Rivière des Mille Îles, Dorval, and now, Lac des Deux Montagnes. I sketched out my stint in the studio, without mentioning Cormier’s name, and described the photo of Kelly Sicard.
“Sonovabitch.”
I agreed. Sonovabitch.
We finished dinner lost in our separate thoughts. Pushing away from the table, I broke the silence.
“Why don’t you give Flannery O’Connor another shot while I clear this mess?”
Harry was back before I’d loaded the dishwasher. Still no answer in Toronto.
She looked at me, then checked the time. Five past ten.
“Sweetie, you look rode hard and put away wet.” She took the plate from my hands. “Hit the hay.”
I didn’t argue.
Birdie trailed me to bed.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
I thrashed, punched the pillow, kicked off the bedding, pulled it back. The same questions winged through my brain.
What had happened to Phoebe Jane Quincy? To Kelly Sicard, Clau dine Cloquet, and Anne Girardin? Who were the girls found in Dorval, in the Rivière des Mille Îles, and in Lac des Deux Montagnes?
I kept seeing images of Kelly Sicard/Kitty Stanley. Why had Sicard used an alias? Why had Cormier photographed her? Was he involved in her disappearance? In the disappearances and/or deaths of the others?
And the skeleton from Rimouski. Hippo’s girl. What was the meaning of the lesions on her digits and face? Where was Île-aux-Becs-Scies? Was the girl aboriginal? Or contemporary? Could the bones be those of Évangéline Landry? Had Évangéline been murdered as her sister believed? Or was Obéline’s memory a childhood distortion of a frightening incident? Had Évangéline been sick? If so, why had Obéline insisted that she was well?
I tried to picture Évangéline, to visualize the woman she’d be today. A woman just two years my senior.
And, of course, Ryan.
Maybe it was fatigue. Or dullness from so many dispiriting developments. Or overload from the hundreds of faces I’d scrutinized that day. My mind floated dark curls, a blue swimsuit, a polka-dot sundress. Recall from snapshots, not real-time memories. Try as I might, I couldn’t live-stream an image of Évangéline’s face.
A great sadness overwhelmed me.
Flinging back the covers, I turned on the bedside light, and sat on the edge of my mattress. Bird nudged my elbow. I lifted an arm and hugged him to me.
Knuckles rapped lightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Harry opened the door. “You’re thrashing like a fish in a bass boat.”
“I can’t remember what Évangéline looked like. Not really.”
“That’s what’s keeping you up?”
“That’s my fixation of the moment.”
“Wait.”
She was back in minute, a large green book pressed to her chest.
“I was saving this as a hostess gift, but you look like you could use it now.”
Harry dropped onto the bed beside me.
“Are you aware that your sister is the all-time champ-een in the recorded history of scrapbooking?”
“Scrapbooking?”
Mock astonishment. “You’ve never heard of scrapbooking?”
I shook my head.
“Scrapbooking’s bigger than Velveeta cheese. ’Least in Texas. And I am the monster-star of the genre.”
“You paste stuff in scrapbooks?”
Harry’s eyes rolled so high I thought they might stick.
“Not just stuff, Tempe. Memorabilia. And you don’t just slap it in mishmash. Each page is an artfully crafted montage.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Temperance Daessee Brennan.” Harry’s voice was Ralph Edwards dramatic. “This is your life.” She opened the scrapbook. “But you can peruse the early years at a future time of your choosing.”
Flipping several pages, Harry slid her opus onto my lap.
And there we were, tan and barefoot, squinting into the sun.
Harry had penned Tenth Birthday beside the grainy snapshot. Sharing the page with Évangéline and me were a photo of Gran’s house, a napkin from a Pawleys Island fish camp, and a ticket from Gay Dolphin Park on the Myrtle Beach boardwalk. Sand dollar and dolphin stickers completed the artful montage.
“I love it, Harry.” I threw my arms around her. “Really, I love it. Thank you.”
“Don’t go all slobbery.” Harry stood. “Get some sleep. Even if he is a two-timing peckerwood, Ryan’s still a biscuit. You need to look perky on the morrow.”
My eye roll made Harry’s lo
ok amateur.
Before turning out the light, I spent a long time studying Évangéline’s features. Dark, curly hair. Strong, slightly humped nose. Delicate lips, tight around an impishly protruding tongue.
I had no idea how soon I’d see that face again.
21
I DON’T KNOW WHAT I EXPECTED. A H HAH ! HEAD SLAP! EPIPHANY! If so, I disappointed myself.
Other than evidence of disease, I found nothing in Hippo’s girl’s bones to alter my original age estimate, and nothing to exclude the possibility that she was sixteen. The nature of the skeletal pathology still baffled me.
At nine, I phoned a private DNA lab in Virginia. Bad news: prices had skyrocketed since I’d last used their services. Good news: I was permitted to submit samples as a private citizen.
After downloading and completing the proper forms, I packaged the Sprite can, the tissues, a molar, and a plug from the girl’s right femur. Then I went in search of LaManche.
The chief listened, fingers steepled below his chin. Évangéline. Obéline. Agent Tiquet. The Whalen brothers. Jerry O’Driscoll’s pawnshop. Tom Jouns.
LaManche raised some points for clarification. I answered. Then he called the coroner.
Hippo was right. No way, José.
I leveled with LaManche about my personal agenda. Reluctantly, he granted my request to pay for the tests out of pocket.
LaManche informed me I had one new case. Nothing urgent. Long bones had been found near Jonquiére. Probably old cemetery remains.
He updated me on the Doucet situation. The psychiatrist had concluded that Théodore was mentally incompetent. Since no cause of death could be established for Dorothée or Geneviève, charges were not being laid.
I outlined the cold cases Hippo and Ryan were working, and described my involvement in them. The MP’s, Kelly Sicard, Claudine Cloquet, and Anne Girardin. The DOA’s from the Rivière des Mille Îles, Dorval, and Lac des Deux Montagnes. The phone rang as I was explaining the possible link to Phoebe Jane Quincy.
LaManche raised two palms in apology. What can one do?
Back in my lab, I directed Denis to send the DNA samples by Federal Express. Then I phoned the lab and begged for expedition. The man said he’d do what he could.
I was grabbing my purse when I remembered one of LaManche’s questions.
“Où se situe l’Île-aux-Becs-Scies?”
Where was it, indeed? I’d been unable to find the island anywhere in the New Brunswick atlas.
And what did the name mean? Island of what? Perhaps the maps I’d consulted used an English translation.
I pulled out my Harrap’s French-English dictionary.
I knew scie translated “saw.” I’d encountered the word countless times on requests for analysis of dismembered corpses. I wasn’t so sure about bec.
Lots of choices. Beak. Bill. Snout. Mouth. Nose (of tool). Nozzle (of tube). Lip (of jug). Spout (of coffeepot). Peak (of bicycle saddle). Mouthpiece (of clarinet).
Who can explain the French mind?
I checked for alternate meanings of scie.
Nope. Saw was pretty much it. Radial, wood, circular, hack, power, jig, turning, chain, scroll. Distinctions were handled with modifiers.
Island of Beaks Saws. Island of Snouts Saws. Island of Peaks of Bicycle Saddles Saws.
I gave up. Better to ask Hippo.
Cormier’s apartment was located a block from his studio, in a white-brick box lacking a single redeeming architectural detail. Air conditioners jutted from all four floors, whirring and dripping. Gold script above the glass entrance provided the building’s name: Château de Fougères.
Good concept, but nary a fern in sight.
Ryan’s Jeep was parked at the curb. Up the block I spotted a dark blue Taurus. The plate told me the vehicle was SQ.
The Chateau’s outer vestibule had collected the usual unwanted fliers and brochures. Stepping around them, I pressed the button beside Cormier’s name. Ryan buzzed me in.
The lobby was furnished with a brown plastic sofa and green plastic ferns. OK. I’d jumped to judgment on the flora.
I rode the elevator to the third floor. Doors stretched to my right and left along a gray-tiled corridor. I checked the number Ryan had given me: 307. The unit was unlocked.
The kitchen was to my right. Ahead was a parquet-floored living room. To my left a short hall gave onto a bedroom and bath. Mercifully, the place was small.
And clean. Every surface gleamed. The air smelled mildly of disinfectant.
Though heat and humidity fought for dominion outside, inside the temperature barely topped sixty-five. Cormier kept his AC cranked.
Terrific. After yesterday’s sweatshop, I’d worn a sleeveless top and shorts. I could feel squadrons of goose bumps gathering for action.
Ryan was in the bedroom talking to the same CSU techs who’d GPR’ed the dog in the barn. Chenevier was dusting for prints. Pasteur was rifling drawers. Ryan was searching the closet. Their faces looked tense.
We exchanged bonjour’ s.
“No Hippo?” I asked.
“He’s at the studio.” Ryan was checking the pockets of a very dingy trench coat. “I’ll roll that way when I finish here.”
“Finding anything?”
Ryan shrugged. Not really.
“The guy has some sweet electronics.” Chenevier chin-cocked the bedroom’s west wall. “Check it out.”
I returned to the living room.
The west end of the room was overfurnished with a discount-store chair-sofa-coffee-end-table grouping. The plasma TV was the size of a billboard.
A glass and steel workstation ran the length of the east wall and shot some distance up the north. On it sat a cable modem, a keyboard, a flatbed scanner, and a twenty-inch LCD monitor. A CPU tower occupied the corner on the floor.
I watched lights flicker on the modem, thinking. Something didn’t track. Cormier had high-speed Internet at home, but ran his business out of envelopes and manila folders?
The wireless mouse glowed red. I jiggled it and the monitor flashed to life. Blue background. Black cursor blinking in a rectangular white box.
“Does the search warrant cover the computer?” I called out.
“Yeah.” Ryan left the bedroom and joined me. “I spent a couple of hours trolling when I first arrived.”
“Cormier doesn’t use password protection?”
“Genius uses his last name.”
I moved aside. Ryan sat and hit a few keys. Notes sounded, and the screen changed to the familiar Windows desktop. The wallpaper was a cityscape, taken at night from an overlook on Mont Royal. The picture was good. I wondered if Cormier had snapped the shot.
I recognized most of the icons. Word. HP Director. WinZip. Adobe Photoshop. Others were unfamiliar.
Ryan right-clicked the green Start button on the bottom tool bar, then clicked on Explore, followed by My Documents. A list of files and dates filled the screen. Correspondence. Expenses. Mail Order. My Albums. My Archives. My eBooks. My Music. My Pictures. My Videos. Upcoming Events.
“I checked every folder, every file. Tracked what Internet history I could. I’m no expert, but it looks like a whole lot of harmless crap.”
“Maybe Cormier’s clean.”
“Maybe.” Ryan didn’t sound convinced.
“Maybe the guy’s just what he appears to be.”
“Which is?”
“A low-end photographer with a high-end PC.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe Cormier’s such a Luddite he got talked into buying way more than he needs.”
Ryan ducked his chin.
“It does happen,” I said.
“Cave canem.”
“Beware of the dog? You mean caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware. Both are Latin proverbs, not quotes.”
The way-too-goddamn-blue eyes held mine.
Something sparked in my chest. Ryan’s lips tightened.
We both looked away.
“I called Division des
crimes technologiques.” Ryan changed the subject. “Guy should be here any time.”
As though on cue, the techie walked in. Only it wasn’t a guy.
“Tabarnouche. Traffic’s the shits.” The woman was tall and thin, with lank blond hair that cried out for a stylist. “Already preparation for the festival’s gumming up the streets.”
The Festival international de jazz de Montréal takes place in late June and early July. Every year it paralyzes a major chunk of centre-ville.
The woman extended a hand to Ryan. “Solange Lesieur.”
Ryan and Lesieur shook.
The hand came to me. Lesieur’s grip could have fractured billiard balls.
“This the system?”
Without waiting for an answer, Lesieur seated herself, gloved, and began clicking keys. Ryan and I moved behind her for a better view of the monitor.
“I’ll be awhile.” Lesieur spoke without looking up.
Fair enough. I, too, refused to work with breath on my neck.
Chenevier was still tossing the bedroom. Pasteur had shifted to the bath. Sounds of his search drifted up the hall. The ceramic clunk of a toilet tank cover. The squeak of a medicine cabinet door. The rattle of tablets in a plastic tube.
While gloving, Ryan and I decided to start in the kitchen.
I’d finished going through the refrigerator, when Lesieur spoke.
Abandoning his utensil drawer, Ryan went to her.
I carried on in the kitchen.
Four stainless steel canisters lined one counter. I opened the smallest. Coffee beans. I ran a spoon through them, found nothing of interest.
“This system can accommodate multiple hard drives, boosting capacity to one point five terabytes.”
Ryan asked a question. Lesieur responded.
The second canister contained a brown sugar geodite. I poked at it. If anything was inside, we’d need a hydraulic drill to free it.
Lesieur and Ryan droned on in the next room. I took a moment to listen.
“A gigabyte equals one billion bytes. A terabyte equals one trillion bytes. That’s a friggin’ locomotive. But all this toad’s doing is surfing the Net, storing a few files?”
I refocused on the canisters. The third held white sugar. My spoon churned up no booty.