Bones to Ashes

R YAN WAS SITTING CROSS-LEGGED ON HIS JEEP WHEN I TURNED onto my street. Sliding from the hood, he flicked a wave. I returned it. His image flashed in my rearview as I plunged into my underground garage. Faded jeans. Black polo. Shades.

A decade down the road and the man still gave me that jolt. For once, Harry’s appraisal was perfect. Ryan was hot-damn good-looking.

All the way home I’d replayed our phone conversation. What was it Ryan had started to say? Tempe, I’m the happiest man on the planet. Tempe, I miss you. Tempe, I have heartburn from the sausage at lunch.

My neural factions squared off for their usual debate.

You were attacked. Ryan’s looking for excuses to keep you in his sights.

You’ve been threatened before. Your safety is no longer Ryan’s personal concern.

He wants to question Winston.

He could do that on his own.

He wants to know about Hippo’s girl.

The Rimouski skeleton is not his case.

He’s curious.

It’s an excuse.

Those were his words.

His voice said otherwise.

After parking, I checked Winston’s basement workshop. He was there. I explained what Ryan wanted. He agreed. I could tell he was curious about my bruised cheek. He could tell from my demeanor it was a bad idea to ask.

Ryan was in the outer vestibule when Winston and I arrived on the first floor. I buzzed him into the lobby.

“Nice shoes,” I said of Ryan’s red high-top sneakers.

“Thanks.” Ryan looked at Winston. “Undercover.”

Winston nodded knowingly.

I rolled my eyes.

“Dr. Brennan explained why I’m here?” Ryan.

“Yes.” Winston, solemn as a mortician.

Ryan produced the mug shots of Mulally and Babin.

Winston stared at the faces, brows furrowed, upper teeth clamping his lower lip. After a few moments, his head wagged slowly.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Take your time,” Ryan said.

Winston refocused, then shrugged both shoulders.

“Sorry, man. It was so hectic that day. These dudes bothering Dr. Brennan?”

Ryan pocketed the pictures. “If you see them again, do let me know.” Grave.

“Absolutely.” Graver.

Ryan dug a card from his wallet and handed it to Winston. “I feel better knowing you’re here.”

The men locked gazes, acknowledging responsibility for the womenfolk.

I’d have done another eye roll, but it would have bothered my head.

Ryan held out a hand. Winston shook it then left, a soldier with a mission.

“Undercover?” I snorted. “With whom? The Disney police?”

“I like these shoes.”

“Let’s see what Harry’s doing.” I headed toward my corridor.

Whatever my sister was doing, it required her presence elsewhere. A fridge note explained that she’d left and would return later in the week.

“Maybe she got bored,” Ryan suggested.

“Then why come back?”

“Maybe something came up that needed her attention at home.”

“She’d need a passport to go to Texas.”

Ryan followed me to the guest room.

Clothes were everywhere. Scrambled in suitcases, heaped on the bed, draped on the chair back and over the open closet door. Relying on memory, I lifted sweaters from the desk and opened the top drawer.

Harry’s passport lay among my old bills and receipts.

“She’s gone somewhere in Canada,” I said. “Oh God. She’s probably cooking up another of her surprises.”

“Or maybe she figured the little side trip wasn’t worth mentioning.”

Worth mentioning. The phrase triggered a worrisome thought.

“Yesterday, I told Harry about the phone call, the e-mail, and the guy on the stairs. She was incensed. Immediately fingered the pair in Tracadie.”

“Mulally and Babin.”

“Harry didn’t know their names. You don’t suppose she’s gone to Tracadie?”

“That would be nuts.”

We looked at each other. We both knew Harry.

“Harry’s not convinced Obéline killed herself.” My brain was starting to spin possibilities. “Actually, though I’ve never said so, neither am I. Obéline seemed content when we visited her. Maybe Harry’s suspicions drove her to do some snooping on her own.”

“While there, ferret out Mulally and Babin. Ream them. Kill two birds with one stone.”

Even Harry wouldn’t do something that stupid. Or would she? I searched my mind for alternative explanations.

“Last night we also discussed Bones to Ashes.”

Ryan gave me a questioning look.

I told him about the book Harry had filched from Obéline Bastarache’s bedside table. And about Flan and Michael O’Connor’s vanity press, O’Connor House.

“Harry thinks Évangéline wrote the poems. Maybe she’s gone to Toronto to talk to Flan O’Connor.”

Another thought.

“Harry found out that the print order for Bones to Ashes was placed by a woman named Virginie LeBlanc. LeBlanc used a post office box in Bathurst. Maybe Harry’s gone to Bathurst.”

“Not the easiest place to get to.”