Bones to Ashes

“Kitty was a good kid.” She flicked her ash to the floor.

“Céline,” I said. “You could get out, too.”

She shook her head slowly, eyes suggesting the abandonment of all illusion.

At that moment, Ryan appeared.

“Found something curious.”

34

C ÉLINE AND I FOLLOWED RYAN THROUGH THE ILLUMINATED SORTIE into a dim back hall. Deschênes watched our approach, heavy-lidded and bored. To his right was a small dressing room, door ajar. Through a smoky haze I could see the bartender and the kimono girls amid mirrors and makeup and sequined things that must have been costumes.

A faux-wood-paneled room was on the left. Hippo was in it sorting through papers at a desk.

Céline joined her coworkers. Ryan and I joined Hippo.

“Anything?” Ryan asked.

“Doesn’t look like he’s used this office for a while. Bills and receipts are all at least two years old.”

“I got something.”

Both men looked at me.

“The blond dancer, Céline, said Kelly Sicard worked at Bastarache’s place in Moncton under the name Kitty Stanley. Billed herself as Kitty Chaton. Married a florist from Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré.”

“When?”

“Céline is a bit hazy on dates.”

“Shouldn’t be tough to track the guy down,” Ryan said.

Hippo was already digging out his phone. “I’m on it.”

A side door in the office gave onto stairs. Ryan and I climbed them into a loft-style flat.

The place was one big square with sleeping, eating, and living spaces demarcated by furniture groupings. The kitchen was separated by an island and bar stools. The parlor was a sofa-chair-lounger affair of chrome and black leather. The combo faced a flat-panel TV on a glass and steel stand. The boudoir consisted of a queen bed, a very large wooden desk, a side table, and a wardrobe. The area was bounded by an L of black metal filing cabinets. A corner bath was sectioned off with walls and a door.

Two CSU techs were doing what CSU techs do. Dusting for prints. Rifling closets. Looking for anything suspicious or illegal. It appeared they hadn’t found much.

“I want you to listen to this.”

Ryan led me to the desk and hit a button on the phone. A mechanical voice reported no new messages, thirty-three old ones, and admonished that the mailbox was full. Ryan hit “1” as instructed for old voice mail.

Twenty-nine callers had answered an ad about a Lexus. A woman had phoned twice to reschedule a housecleaning service. A man named Léon wanted Bastarache to go fishing.

The last voice was female, the French clearly chiac.

“It is not a good day. I need the prescription. Ob—”

The tape cut off.

“Was she saying Obéline?” Ryan asked.

“I think so.” I felt totally jazzed. “Play it back.”

Ryan did. Twice.

“It sounds like Obéline, but I can’t be sure. Why didn’t the jerk empty his mailbox?”

“Check this out,” Ryan said. “The phone has caller ID. Unless blocked by the dialer, names or numbers are displayed, along with the time and date the connection was made. If blocked, the call comes up ‘private number.’” Ryan began scrolling through the list, pausing on private-number records. “Notice the times and dates.”

“A ‘private number’ phones at roughly seven each evening,” I said.

“The truncated message was the last one to enter the mailbox. It came up ‘private,’ and was left at seven-oh-eight last night.”

“Obéline may be alive,” I said, realizing the implication. “And checking in every evening.”

“Exactly. But why?”

“If it is Obéline, why the staged suicide?” I asked. “And where is she?”

“Shrewd questions, Dr. Brennan. We’ll get a trace.”

I noticed the CSU tech working the kitchen. “Are they finding anything to tie Bastarache to Quincy or Sicard? Or to Cormier?”

“Doesn’t look like Bastarache spent much time living in this place.”

“That jives. Céline said she hardly ever saw him. So where’s he living?”

“The shrewdness never ends.” Ryan smiled.

It slayed me. Ryan’s smile always does.

I began to wander, opening closets, cupboards, and drawers already dusted for prints. Ryan was right. In addition to frozen shrimp and a carton of badly crystallized Ben & Jerry’s, the refrigerator contained olives, clamato juice, a half-eaten jar of pickled herring, a dried-out lemon, and some fuzzy green chunks that were probably cheese. Save for aspirin, Gillette Foamy, and a Bic, the medicine cabinet was bare.

We’d been in the flat twenty minutes when Hippo bounded up the stairs.

“Got Sicard. Married name’s Karine Pitre. Hubby’s still hawking lilies and tulips in Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré.”

“Sonovabitch,” Ryan said.

“She’ll be at a café on Route 138 at eleven.”

Ryan and I must have looked surprised.

“Lady’s got kids. Prefers to discuss her good times in show biz away from the fam.”

Le Café Sainte-Anne was a typical Quebec truck stop. Counter. Vinyl booths. Sun-faded curtains. Tired waitress. At that time of night the place was pretty much empty.