Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“Alone. Comprenez-vous? ”

No. I didn’t understand. But I agreed.

12

MRS. SPECTER RETURNED TO HER VOGUE , WHILE I WENT UPSTAIRS. I wasn’t sure if her patience derived from courtesy or from distaste for my state of hygiene. I didn’t care. I was filthy, itchy, exhausted, and depressed from six hours of recovering a body. I needed a shower.

I took advantage of everything my toilet kit had to offer. Chamomile shampoo and conditioner, citrus bath gel, honey and almond body cream, green tea and cypress mousse.

As I dressed, I looked longingly at my bed. What I wanted was sleep. What I didn’t want was an intense, prolonged conversation with a wounded and suffering mother. But I was caught by what-ifs. What if Mrs. Specter had held back and was now willing to bare herself? What if she was about to make revelations that might unlock one or more cases?

What if she knew where Chantale was?

Dream on, Brennan.

I rejoined Mrs. Specter, smelling like a Caswell-Massey shop. She suggested a park two blocks north of the hotel. I agreed.

Parque de las Flores was a small square framed by rosebushes and divided by paths cutting diagonally from corner to corner. Trees and wooden benches occupied the four triangles formed by the gravel X.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” said Mrs. Specter, removing a newspaper and settling onto a bench.

It’s eleven o’clock, I thought.

“It reminds me of a summer night in Charlevoix. Were you aware that that’s my home?”

“No, ma’am. I wasn’t.”

“Have you ever visited that part of Quebec?”

“It’s very scenic.”

“My husband and I keep a little place in Montreal, but I try to visit Charlevoix as often as I can.”

A couple passed in front of us. The woman pushed a stroller, its wheels crunching softly on the gravel. The man’s arm was draped around her shoulder.

I thought of Galiano. My left cheek burned where his fingers had touched me. I thought of Ryan. Both cheeks burned.

“It’s Chantale’s birthday.” Mrs. Specter’s words brought me back. “She’s seventeen today.”

Present tense?

“She’s been gone more than four months now.”

It was too dark to read her expression.

“Chantale would not have allowed me to suffer as I am. If she was anywhere from where she could communicate, she would have done so.”

She fidgeted with the tab on her purse. I let her go on.

“This past year has been so terribly difficult. What did Detective Galiano call it? A rough patch? Oui, a rough patch. But even when Chantale went a fait une fugue — How do you say that?”

“Ran away.”

“Even when she ran away, Chantale always let me know that she was well. She might refuse to come home, refuse to tell me her whereabouts, but she’d call.”

She paused, watched an old woman rummage though trash one triangle over.

“I know something dreadful has happened to her.”

Her features were lit by a passing car, then receded into darkness once more. Moments later she spoke again.

“I fear it was Chantale in that septic tank.”

I started to say something, but she cut me off.

“Things are not always as they seem, Dr. Brennan.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“My husband is a wonderful man. I was very young when we married.” Choppy. Throwing out thoughts as they came to her. “He is a decade older than I. In the early years there were times—”

She paused, fearful of the telling but needing to dig something out of her heart.

“I was not ready to settle down. I had an affair.”

“When?” I had my first inkling why I was here.

“In 1983. My husband was posted to Mexico City, but traveled incessantly. I was alone most of the time, started going out in the evenings. I wasn’t looking for anyone, or anything, I just wanted to fill the hours.” She drew a deep breath, let it out. “I met a man. We began seeing each other. Eventually, I considered leaving André to marry him.”

Another pause, sorting through what to say, what to hold back.

“Before I made that decision, Miguel’s wife found out. He ended it.”

“You were pregnant,” I guessed.

“Chantale was born the following spring.”

“Your lover was Mexican?”

“Guatemalan.”

I remembered Chantale’s face in the photographs. She had deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, a broad jaw. The blonde hair had distracted me. Preconceived notions had colored my perception.

Jesus. What else would I bungle?

“Is there anything more?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

She allowed her head to drop to one side, as though the weight of it were too much for her neck to bear.

“Many spouses cheat on their partners.” I knew that firsthand.

“I’ve lived almost two decades with my secret, and it has been pure hell.” The voice was tremulous and angry at the same time.

“I’ve never been able to admit who my daughter is, Dr. Brennan. To her, to her father, to my husband, to anyone. The deception has tainted every part of my life. It has poisoned thoughts and dreams I’ve never even had.”

I thought that an odd thing to say.

“If Chantale is dead, it’s my fault.”

“That’s a natural reaction, Mrs. Specter. You’re feeling lonely and guilty, bu—”

“Last January I told Chantale the truth.”

“About her biological father?”

I sensed her nod.

“The night she disappeared?”

“She refused to believe it. She called me dreadful names. We had a terrible quarrel, and she stormed from the house. That was the last anyone has seen her.”

For a full two minutes, neither of us spoke.

“Does the ambassador know?”

“No.”

I envisioned the report I would write concerning the septic tank bones.

“If it was your daughter at the Paraíso, what you’ve told me may come out.”

“I know.”

Her head returned to vertical, and a hand rose to her chest. The fingers looked pale, the lacquered nails black in the night.

“I also know about the body recovered near Kaminaljuyú today, though I’m sorry I don’t remember the poor girl’s name.”

The Specters’ sources were good.

“That victim has not been identified,” I said.

“It’s not Chantale. So the field now narrows to three.”

“How can you know that?”

“My daughter has perfect teeth.”

The Specters’ sources were very good.

“Did Chantale see a dentist?”

“She went for cleanings and checkups. The police have her records. Unfortunately, my husband does not approve of unnecessary X rays, so the file contains none.”

“The Paraíso skeleton may be none of the missing girls we are searching for,” I said.

“Or it may be my daughter.”

“Do you have a cat, Mrs. Specter?”

I felt more than saw her tense.

“What an odd question.”

So the Specters’ sources weren’t infallible. She didn’t know about Minos’s findings.

“Cat hairs were rolled into the jeans recovered from the septic tank.” I didn’t mention the sample I’d collected from her home. “You told Detective Galiano that you have no pets.”

“We lost our cat last Christmas.”

“Lost?”

“Guimauve drowned.” The black fingernails danced on the black pearls. “Chantale found his little body floating in the pool. She was heartbroken.”

She fell silent a few moments, then, “It’s late, and you must be very tired.”

She stood, smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the perfect gray silk, and stepped onto the path. I joined her.

She spoke again when we’d reached the sidewalk. In the pale orange light of a street lamp I could see that her carefully decorated face had returned to its diplomat’s wife appearance.