Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“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.

“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

CÉLINE 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?”