Bones to Ashes

Ryan drove me home. Except for a few exchanges concerning Cormier and my visit to Tracadie, we rode in silence. No mention of Charlie or Korn or Lutetia.

In the past, Ryan and I enjoyed challenging each other with obscure quotes in an ongoing game of “Who said that?” Goofy, I know. But we’re both competitive.

A one-liner rapped at my forebrain. “Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.”

Aldous Huxley.

Good one, Brennan.

I settled for congratulating myself.

We were pulling to the curb when Ryan got the call. A warrant had been issued for Cormier’s home.

Did I want to be included?

Sure. But I had to go to the lab first. I would drive myself.

Ryan gave me the address.

Entering my front door, I was slammed by the odor of cooking. Cumin, onions, and chilies. Harry was whipping up her specialty. It was not what I needed after a day in a furnace.

I called out a greeting. Harry confirmed that dinner would be San Antonio chili.

Inwardly groaning, I beelined to the shower.

In a way, Harry’s chili was therapeutic. What toxins I hadn’t sweated out at Cormier’s studio, I definitely offloaded at dinner.

Harry was jazzed about the poetry book. In all fairness, I had to admit I was impressed with her progress.

“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.