Bones to Ashes

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.

“Remember the guy who mailed bombs to universities and airlines?”

“The Unabomber?”

“Yeah. How’d that go?”

“From the late seventies to the early nineties, Theodore Kaczynski killed three and wounded twenty-nine people. The Unabomber was the target of one of the most expensive manhunts in FBI history. What does Kaczynski have to do with Obéline?”

A manicured nail jabbed the air. “How did they finally catch him?”

“His manifesto: Industrial Society and Its Future. Kaczynski argued that the bombs were necessary to attract attention to his work. He wanted to inspire others to fight against subjugation facilitated by technological progress.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. But how did they nail the skank?”

“In the mid-nineties, Kaczynski mailed letters, some to his former victims, demanding that his manifesto be printed by a major newspaper. All thirty-five thousand words. Verbatim. If not, he threatened to kill more people. After a lot of debate, the Justice Department recommended publication. Both the New York Times and the Washington Post ran the thing, hoping something would break.”

“And?” Harry turned her palm up.

“Kaczynski’s brother recognized the writing style and notified authorities. Forensic linguists compared text samples provided by Kaczynski’s brother and mother with the Unabomber’s manifesto, and determined they’d been authored by the same person.”

“There you go.” Harry added a second upturned palm.

“What?” I was lost.

“That’s what we do. In Obéline’s memory. And Évangéline’s, of course. We get a linguist to compare the poems in Bones to Ashes to poems Évangéline wrote as a kid. Then we make Évangéline an official poet.”

“I don’t know, Harry. A lot of her early stuff was just adolescent angst.”

“You think young Kaczynski was William Friggin’ Shakespeare?”

I tried not to look dubious.

“You talked to Obéline about Évangéline’s murder. I don’t speak French, but I listened. I know what I heard in her voice. Guilt. Terrible, horrible, gut-wrenching guilt. The woman’s whole life was one giant guilt trip because she hid the fact that she knew about her sister’s killing. Wouldn’t she want this?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you know a forensic linguist?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well enough to ask him to do a comparison?”

“I suppose.”

Dropping both hands to the table, Harry leaned forward onto her forearms. “Évangéline and Obéline are both gone. That book is all we have left. Don’t you want to know if Évangéline wrote it?”

“Of course I do, but—”

“And get Évangéline’s name on record? Make her the published poet she always wanted to be?”

“But wait. This makes no sense. You’re suggesting Évangéline wrote the poems and that Obéline had them printed by O’Connor House. But why would Obéline use the name Virginie LeBlanc? And why wouldn’t she cite Évangéline as the author of the collection?”

“Maybe she had to hide the project from her creepozoic husband.”

“Why?”

“Hell, Tempe, I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want old dirt stirred up.”

“Évangéline’s murder?”

Harry nodded. “We know Bastarache used to beat the crap out of Obéline. He probably scared her.” Harry’s voice went hushed. “Tempe, do you think he’s now killed her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think she’s even dead? I mean, where’s the body?”

Indeed, I thought. Where is the body?