Bones to Ashes

“When did this take place?”

“Five years ago.”

The year Claudine went missing from Saint-Lazare-Sud. Five years after Kelly Sicard. Five years before Phoebe Jane Quincy.

Kelly Sicard. A sudden thought.

“Was this man’s name Pierre?”

“I never knew.”

I turned and looked out the window. The road was empty. The spaniel was now peeing on a post by the T intersection.

Time dragged by. Behind me, I heard Obéline take a chair at the table. The muffled voices of Homer and Marge Simpson floated from a TV somewhere deep in the house.

Finally, I turned back to her.

“How was your husband acquainted with this man who ‘bought’ Claudine?” I finger-hooked quotation marks around the word.

“He worked for David’s father. A long time ago. Before we married.”

“So strip joints weren’t enough. Your husband partnered up with this sleaze to make kiddie porn.”

“No.” Vehement. “David hates this man. Occasionally they”—she broke off, cautious about word choice—“need each other.”

“So Mr. Evil just handed Claudine over to your husband. What? She get too old for his market?”

Again, Obéline’s eyes dived, recovered. “David gave him money.”

“Of course. David Bastarache, rescuer of maidens.”

I wasn’t buying this, but Kelly Sicard’s story of liberation from Pierre nagged at me.

I looked at my watch. Ryan had been gone almost twenty minutes.

“Where does this man operate?”

“I don’t know.”

At that moment my cell chirped. It was Ryan. Bastarache had managed to get onto the twenty and was heading west. Ryan was following, discreetly, hoping Bastarache would further incriminate himself. He’d be a while.

Great. I was carless in Quaintsville for God knew how long.

Feeling trapped, I jammed my phone into my purse. Before the flap settled, it rang again. The area code was unexpected. New York. Then I remembered. Rob Potter.

Eyes steady on Obéline, I flicked on.

“Hey, Rob.”

“Do you love rock and roll!”

“Sorry I couldn’t return your call last night.” I was far too tired and cranky to be witty.

“No problem. You got a few minutes? I have some thoughts you might find interesting.”

“Hang on.”

Pressing the phone to my chest, I spoke to Obéline. “I need to take this alone.”

“Where has that detective gone?”

“To arrest your husband.”

She cringed as though I’d threatened to strike her.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

She rose.

“Don’t go hitting your speed dial,” I added. “Warning David could end up making you a widow.”

Rigor stiff, she walked from the room.

I dug a pen and notepad from my purse. Then I hooked on my earpiece, laid the cell on the table, and resumed my conversation with Rob, glad for a diversion to pass the time.

“Shoot,” I said.

“Long or short version?”

“Tell me enough to make me understand.”

“Got the poetry there in front of you?”

“No.”

Hearing the clatter of cookware, I assumed Obéline had gone to a kitchen not far from where I sat.

“No big deal. I’ll review it. Now K is code for poems written by your gal pal back in the sixties, and Q refers to those contained in the Bones to Ashes collection.”

“Known versus questioned,” I guessed.

“Yes. Fortunately for the analysis, as I’ll explain, both the K and Q poetry is written in English. Since your friend was a native French speaker.”

I didn’t interrupt.

“An interesting thing is that, even when people try to disguise their language, or mimic someone else’s, a forensic linguist can often see below the surface to areas not under control of the speaker. For example, most people in the United States say they stand ‘in line’ at the post office. In New York, people say they stand ‘on line.’ American speakers, either from New York or elsewhere, don’t seem to be aware of this. It’s very distinctive, but beneath the level of most people’s consciousness.”

“So someone mimicking a New Yorker would have to know that. Or a New Yorker disguising his speech would have to be aware of that.”

“Exactly. But typically folks are oblivious to these quirks. Grammatical differences can be even more subtle, to say nothing of pronunciation.”

“Rob, we’re dealing with written poetry.”

“Written poetry draws on all levels of language. Differences in pronunciation might affect the rhyme scheme.”

“Good point.”

“Going back to words, and awareness, ever hear of the devil strip ransom note?”

“No.”

“It was a case brought to my mentor, Roger Shuy. He looked at the thing, predicted the kidnapper was a well-educated man from Akron. Needless to say, the cops were skeptical. Write this down. It’s short, and it’ll help you understand what I did with your poems.”

I scribbled what Rob dictated.