KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

“Worth a shot,” I said.

“Got nothing else.”

“You talk to Claudel lately?”

“We keep missing each other.”

I told him about the accelerant in Keiser’s cabin. Likely arson.

Ryan opened his lips, as though to comment. Or share a thought. Instead, he checked his watch.

“Time to put the chairs on the tables and kill the lights.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m outa here.”

That night I picked up shrimp curry with veggies. Birdie downed the crustaceans but spit the carrots and peas on the rug after licking off the sauce.

I tried reading a novel but couldn’t focus. I kept picturing Rose Jurmain alone in the woods. Anne-Isabelle Villejoin hemorrhaging on her kitchen floor. Christelle Villejoin trembling on the edge of her grave. Marilyn Keiser in flames on her couch.

I phoned Harry, but she was out. So was Katy.

Frustrated and antsy, I decided to assemble a chart. Perhaps a pattern would emerge once facts were placed on paper. Or converted to megabytes.

Opening a blank document on my laptop, I created three columns, then entered what was known about each woman.

Rose Jurmain

Fifty-nine, but looked older

American (Chicago)

Wealthy background, cut from father’s will, estranged from family

Lesbian, lived with partner, Janice Spitz

Religion?

Suffered from depression

Prescription drug and alcohol abuse

Estate goes to?

Traveled to Quebec to view foliage, L’Auberge des Neiges

Body found on surface in woods near Sainte-Marguerite thirty months after disappearance, skeletonized, scavenged by bears

No perimortem skeletal or cranial trauma

Anne-Isabelle/Christelle Villejoin

Eighty-six, eighty-three

Pointe-Calumet, Quebec

Spinsters, lived together

Catholic, active in church

No alcohol or drug use

No car or travel

No extended family

Cats

Estate goes to Humane Society

Anne-Isabelle bludgeoned to death in home, overkill. Christelle disappeared on same date.

ATM card used on east side of city hours after attack

Tip from Florian Grellier following DUI arrest (info obtained from unknown bar patron; O’Keefe plus AKAs?) concerning Christelle

Christelle’s body found in shallow grave near Oka eighteen months after disappearance, skeletonized

Cranial fractures indicate blows with a shovel (Anne-Isabelle beaten with cane)

Marilyn Keiser

Seventy-two

Widow, lived alone in apartment in Montreal, Boulevard Éduard-Montpetit

Married three times

Son and daughter, Otto and Mona, in Alberta, estranged

Stepson, Myron Pinsker in Montreal

Hippie. Active social life.

Jewish

Cabin near Memphrémagog. Existence known only to building super, Lu Castiglioni

Owned and drove auto, took local trips

Vehicle found at cabin

Fire. Accelerant indicates arson.

Found in cabin three months after disappearance, body decomposed and burned

Ayers autopsy. No obvious cause of death.

I stared at the lists, willing an idea to go off in my mind. Or on. Like an overhead bulb in a comic strip.

Didn’t happen. Only questions emerged. I began jotting them down.

The Villejoins were Francophone. Rose Jurmain was American, undoubtedly Anglophone. Did Marilyn Keiser speak French or English? Or both?

Keiser’s estate would go to her kids. The Villejoin sisters left everything to the Humane Society. Who stood to benefit from Rose Jurmain’s death?

Keiser was Jewish. The Villejoins were Catholic. Rose Jurmain?

Keiser had two kids. The Villejoins and Jurmain had none. Did Rose’s partner, Janice Spitz, have offspring?

An American lesbian with substance abuse problems. Two spinsters who rarely ventured from their home. A socially active grandmother married three times and estranged from her kids.

Did these women have anything in common besides violent death?

Keiser and Jurmain liked back-to-nature getaways. The Villejoins never left Pointe-Calumet.

Keiser and Jurmain had large families from whom they were disconnected. The Villejoins had only each other, maybe distant relatives in the Beauce.

The Villejoins were bludgeoned. Jurmain and Keiser had suffered no skeletal trauma.

Keiser was torched in her country chalet. Anne-Isabelle was left in her home. Christelle was buried in a shallow grave. Jurmain was dumped on the surface.

Were we looking for linkage that didn’t exist?

I started anew, focusing on commonalities.

Every victim was female.

Every victim was old or appeared to be old.

Every victim died within the past three years.

Except for Anne-Isabelle, every victim was found in a remote wooded area.

Coincidence? I didn’t believe it.

I was logging off when window glass exploded into the room.

Heart hammering, I dove for the floor.

I LAY BELLY TO THE CARPET, ARMS FLUNG OVER MY HEAD. I SENSED stinging on my left shoulder and cheek.

Traffic sounds drifted in from the street. A man singing. The hum of a transformer next to the building behind mine.

Inside the condo, nothing but quiet.

Cold air was rapidly chilling the room.

I opened my eyes. The upended lamp was out. Light from my computer screen sparked fragments of glass scattered around me.

Then, in the stillness, I heard a soft crunch.

A footstep?

My breath froze in my throat.

Pushing with my palms, I hopped up into a squat and twisted.

Birdie was staring at the window with round yellow eyes, one forepaw frozen like a setter on point.

“Birdie,” I hissed. “Come here.”

The cat kept staring.

“Bird.” I reached out a hand. It was shaking.

Birdie took a tentative step toward the window, nose up and twitching, instincts roused by the unfamiliar scent of outdoors.

Keeping low, I duckwalked across the room, scooped and pressed the cat to my chest, then strained for further sounds. Did I sense another presence in the condo?

My ears picked up nothing but Birdie’s breathing and my own racing heart.

As my vitals normalized, questions ricocheted in my head.

What the hell had just happened? An explosion in the restaurant across the alley? A collision in the street?

Had someone fired a missile? A cherry bomb? A bottle rocket?

Who?

Kids, drunk or stoned or simply careless?

Or had my window just taken a bullet? If so, had the shooting been accidental? A random drive-by?

Had the hit been intentional, the barrel aimed specifically at me?

Probably not, or the shooter had very poor aim.

To intimidate?

Sparky?

Was my neighbor escalating his campaign to oust me from the building?

Sudden recollection. Go home damn American!!

Was the letter from Sparky? Someone more dangerous? Should I have taken the message more seriously? Was the sender a genuine threat?

Why had I refused to discuss the issue with Ryan?

Simple. I’d traveled that road. I knew Ryan would kick into gear and tag me with round-the-clock guards. Or a listening device on my bedside lamp. Or an ankle bracelet that sounded an alarm if I raised my voice.

Had Ryan’s tossed-off suggestion been right? Had the letter writer also placed the call to Edward Allen Jurmain?

Sparky?

Someone more malevolent?

Professional slander.

Hate mail.

Incoming projectiles.

Were the caller, the sender, and the window blaster one and the same? I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

A unit showed up within minutes. The cops listened, dutifully checked the window, made a few notes. Then we all went outside.

Broken glass littered the lawn, but there wasn’t a bullet casing or spent rocket in sight. We agreed on a probable point of origin, a cement ledge behind a pizza parlor across the alley. The spot is a popular hangout for kids and street people.