Bones to Ashes

I turned to face her. Up close I could see that her hair was dark down close to her scalp. Dried makeup caked the corners of her eyes and mouth.

“That’s funny.” The woman picked a speck of tobacco from her tongue and flicked it. “You a cop?”

“Now that’s funny.”

“Mr. Macho over there?”

I nodded. “Tough guy. Got a big badge.”

“Officer Ass Wipe.”

Now I chuckled. “Officer Ass Wipe. I like that.”

“But not him.”

“Jerk’s supposed to be helping me.”

The blonde didn’t take the bait. I didn’t push it.

Seemingly still fuming, I crossed my legs and began agitating one ankle.

The blonde lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Her fingers were nicotine yellow below fake pink nails.

We sat without talking for several minutes. She smoked. I tried to remember what I’d learned from Ryan about the art of interrogation.

I was about to take a chance when the blonde broke the silence.

“I been rousted so often I know the first name of every vice cop in town. Never encountered your Officer Ass Wipe.”

“He’s SQ, from Montreal.”

“A bit off his patch.”

“He’s searching for some missing kids. One of them is my niece.”

“These kids missing from here?”

“Maybe.”

“If you’re not on the job, why the tag-along privileges?”

“We’ve known each other a very long time.”

“You doing him?”

“Not anymore,” I said disdainfully.

“He give you that bruise?”

I shrugged.

The woman inhaled then blew smoke toward the ceiling in an inverted cone. I watched it drift and dissolve, backlit by neon over the bar.

“Your niece work here?” the blonde asked.

“She may have hooked up with the owner. Do you know him?”

“Hell, yeah, I know him. Worked for Mr. Bastarache off and on for twenty years. Mostly in Moncton.”

“What’s your take?”

“He pays OK. Doesn’t let customers rough up his girls.” Her lips pooched forward as she shook her head. “But I rarely see him.”

That seemed odd with Bastarache living upstairs. I filed the comment for future consideration.

“My niece may have gotten herself involved in something,” I said.

“Everyone’s involved in something, sunshine.”

“Something more than dancing.”

The blonde didn’t respond.

I lowered my voice. “I think she was doing porn flicks.”

“Gal’s gotta earn a living.”

“She was barely eighteen.”

“What’s this niece’s name?”

“Kelly Sicard.”

“What’s yours?”

“Tempe.”

“Céline.” Again, the chuckling noise. “Not Dion, but not without flair of my own.”

“Nice to meet you, Céline Not Dion.”

“Ain’t we a pair.”

Céline sniffed, then backhanded her nose with a wrist. Reaching into my purse, I moved to her table and handed her a tissue.

“How long you been searching for this Kelly Sicard?”

“Almost ten years.”

Céline looked at me as though I’d said Kelly had marched off to Gallipoli.

“The other kid’s only been missing two weeks.” I didn’t mention Évangéline, who’d been missing over thirty years. “Her name is Phoebe Jane Quincy.”

Céline took a very long drag, then the current butt joined the others in the lid.

“Phoebe is only thirteen. She disappeared while walking to dance class.”

Céline’s hand paused, then resumed mashing the butt. “You got a kid?”

“No,” I said.

“Me neither.” Céline stared at the jar lid, but I don’t think she saw it. She was looking at a place and time far removed from the little table in Le Passage Noir. “Thirteen years old. I wanted to be a ballerina.”

“This is Phoebe.” I slipped a picture from Ryan’s envelope and placed it on the table. “It’s her seventh-grade class photo.”

Céline considered the image. I watched for a reaction, but saw none.

“Cute kid.” Céline cleared her throat and looked away.

“Ever see her here?” I asked.

“No.” Céline continued gazing off into space.

I replaced Phoebe’s photo with that of Kelly Sicard.

“How about her?”

This time there was a twitch in her lips and movement in her eyes. Nervously, she rubbed her nose with the back of a wrist.

“Céline?”

“I’ve seen her. But like you said, it was a long time ago.”

I felt a ripple of excitement. “Here?”

Céline looked over her shoulder and around the bar.

“Mr. Bastarache has a place in Moncton. Le Chat Rouge. This kid danced there. But not for long.”

“Her name was Kelly Sicard?”

“Doesn’t click.”

“Kitty Stanley?”

A fake pink nail came up. “Yeah. That was it. She danced as Kitty Chaton. Cute, eh? Kitty Kitten.”

“When was this?”

She gave a bitter smile. “Too long ago, sunshine.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

Céline tapped another cigarette from her pack. “Kitty hit the lottery. Married a regular and got out of the business.”

“Do you recall the man’s name?”

“It’s not that kind of business.”

“Can you remember anything about him?”

“He was short and had a skinny ass.”

Céline lit up, idly waved the smoke from her face with one hand. “Wait. There is one thing. Everyone called him Bouquet Beaupré.”

“Because?”

“He owned a flower shop in Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré.”

Céline’s gaze was steady now, her mouth skewed with the hint of a grin. “Yeah. Kitty Kitten got out.”

Looking at the woman, I felt an unexpected sadness. She’d been pretty once, might still be save for the overdone makeup and bleach.

“Thank you,” I said.