Bones to Ashes Read online

  “I’ll be damned.” Harry pounded more cheese onto her pasta. “Why did the English want them out?”

  “For refusing to pledge allegiance to the British Crown. Some managed to escape the sweeps, and took refuge up here, along the Restigouche and Miramichi rivers, and along the shores of the Bay of Chaleurs. In the late 1700s, they were joined by Acadians returning from exile.”

  “So the French were allowed to come back?”

  “Yes, but the English were still dominant and hostile as hell, so an isolated finger of land jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence seemed like a good bet for a place in which they’d be left alone. A lot of them hunkered in here.”

  Harry twirled spaghetti, thought working in her eyes.

  “What was that poem you and Évangéline were always playacting?”

  “‘Evangeline,’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It’s about a pair of doomed Acadian lovers. Gabriel is carried south against his will by the English order of expulsion. Evangeline sets out across America looking for him.”

  “What happens?”

  “Things don’t go well.”

  “Bummer.” Harry downed the pasta, retwirled another forkful. “Remember how I’d nag until you’d give me a part?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I pictured Harry, skinny arms crossed, suntanned face a mask of defiance. “You’d last about ten minutes, start whining about the heat, then wander off, leaving us with a gap in casting.”

  “I got lousy roles with no lines. A tree. Or a stupid prison guard.”

  “Stardom doesn’t come overnight.”

  Rolling her eyes, Harry twirled more pasta.

  “I always liked Évangéline. She was”—Harry searched for a word—“kind. I also thought she was exceedingly glamorous. Probably because she was five years older than me.”

  “I was three years older.”

  “Yeah, but you’re my sister. I’ve seen you eating Cool Whip out of the carton with your fingers.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “And Jell-O.”

  We smiled at each other, remembering a time of backseat car rides, roller-coaster birthdays, make-believe, and Nancy Drew searches for lost friends. A simpler time. A time when Harry and I were a team.

  Eventually, conversation shifted to Obéline.

  Should we call ahead, give warning of our upcoming visit? Obéline was barely six when we’d last been together. Her life since had been rough. Her mother was dead, perhaps her sister. Bastarache had abused her. She’d been disfigured by fire. We disagreed on the warmth of the welcome we’d face. Harry felt we’d be greeted like long-lost friends. I wasn’t so sure.

  When we settled the check it was well past ten. Too late to phone. Decision made. We’d arrive unannounced.

  Our motel was across the inlet from the restaurant. Heading back down Highway 11, I guessed we were recrossing the Little Tracadie River Bridge No. 15. I remembered Hippo’s story, pitied the hapless soul who’d stumbled onto the crankshafted corpse.

  I had only one revelation that night.

  When Harry wears jeans, she goes commando.

  Harry insisted on pancakes in the morning.

  Our waitress was squat, with maraschino lipstick and wispy hair somewhere between butter and cream. She provided copious coffee, advice on nail polish, and directions toward the address Hippo had given me.

  Highway 11, then east on Rue Sureau Blanc. Right turn at the end of the green fence. Then another. What’s the family name?

  Bastarache. Do you know them?

  The wrinkled lips crimped into a thin red line. No.

  Obéline Landry?

  That’ll be all, then?

  Even Harry couldn’t cajole the woman into further conversation.

  By nine we were back in the Escalade.

  Tracadie isn’t big. By nine-fifteen we were turning onto a residential street that might have fit into any suburb on the continent. Well-tended flower beds. Neatly edged lawns. Fresh-enough paint. Most of the houses looked like they’d been built in the eighties.

  Hippo’s address took us to a high stone wall at the far end of the block. A plaque gave notice of a residence beyond. An unclasped padlock hung from the rusted iron gate. Harry got out and swung it wide.

  A mossy brick drive bisected lawn losing out to weeds. At the end loomed a brick, stone, and timber house with a weathered shingle roof. Not a mansion, but not a shack, either.

  Harry and I sat a moment, staring at the dark windows. They stared back, offering nothing.

  “Looks like Ye Olde Rod and Gun Club,” Harry said.

  She was right. The place had the air of a hunting lodge.

  “Ready?”

  Harry nodded. She’d been unnaturally quiet since rising. Other than a brief tête-à-tête concerning her aversion to underpants, I’d left her in peace. I figured she was sorting remembrances of Obéline. Bracing herself for the scarred woman we were about to encounter. I was.

  Wordlessly, we got out and walked to the house.

  Overnight, clouds had rolled in, thick and heavy with moisture. The morning promised rain.

  Finding no bell, I knocked on the door. It was dark oak, with a leaded glass panel that yielded no hint of a presence beyond.

  No answer.

  I rapped again, this time on the glass. My knuckles fired off a sharp rat-a-tat-tat.

  Still nothing.

  A gull looped overhead, cawing news of the upcoming storm. Tide reports. Gossip known only to the Larus mind.

  Harry put her face to the glass.

  “No movement inside,” she said.

  “Maybe she’s a late sleeper.”

  Harry straightened and turned. “With our luck, she’s in Wichita Falls.”

  “Why would Obéline go to Wichita Falls?”

  “Why would anyone go to Wichita Falls?”

  I looked around. Not a neighboring structure nearby.

  “I’ll check in back.”

  “I’ll cover the front, sir.” Saluting, Harry slipped her saddlebag purse from her shoulder. It dropped by her feet with a thup.

  Stepping from the porch, I circled to my right.

  A stone deck ran almost the full length of the back of the house. A wing paralleled the deck’s far side, tangential to and invisible from out front. It looked newer, its trim brighter than that on the rest of the structure. I wondered if I was looking at the site of the fire.

  The deck held a patio set, a barbecue grill, and several lawn chairs, all empty. Climbing to it, I crossed and peered through a set of double glass doors.

  Standard kitchen appliances. Pine table and captains chairs. Cat-cuckoo clock with a pendulum tail.

  Center island. A paring knife, a paper towel, and a peeled apple skin.

  I felt my nerves tingle.

  She’s here!

  I turned.

  Past an expanse of lawn stood a small gazebo-like structure. Past the gazebo, water, rough and gunmetal gray. An inlet of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, I presumed.

  Strange columns flanked the gazebo’s entrance, tall, with projections forward and to the sides. Atop each was an unidentifiable shape.

  Through the gazebo’s screening I could dimly make out a silhouette. My mind logged detail.

  Small, probably female. Hunched. Still.

  The maybe-Obéline woman had her back to me. I couldn’t tell if she was reading, dozing, or merely gazing seaward.

  I moved forward, senses still logging information. A wind chime tinkling notes. Wet grass. Explosions of froth against a seawall.

  Drawing closer, I realized the columns had been carved into stacks of zoomorphic creatures. The projections were beaks and wings. The shapes on top were renderings of stylized birds.

  Then, recognition, prompted by anthropology studies of years ago. The gazebo had once been a sweat house, later modified by replacing walls with screening.

  The assemblage looked thousands of miles out of place. Totem poles and sweat houses were built by peoples of the Pacif
ic Northwest, the Tlingit, Haida, or Kwakiutl, not by the Micmac or other tribes of the Maritimes.

  Ten feet back, I stopped.

  “Obéline?”

  The woman’s head snapped up.

  “Quisse qué là?” Who’s there? Acadian French.

  “Temperance Brennan.”

  The woman didn’t reply.

  “Tempe. From Pawleys Island.”

  Nothing.

  “Harry is here, too.”

  A hand rose, hovered, as though uncertain of its purpose.

  “We were friends. You and Harry. Évangéline and I.”

  “Pour l’amour du bon Dieu.” Whispered.

  “I knew Tante Euphémie and Oncle Fidèle.”

  The hand shot to the woman’s forehead, dropped to her chest, then crossed from shoulder to shoulder.

  “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”

  Pushing to her feet, the woman draped a shawl on her head, hesitated, then shuffled to the door.

  A hand reached out.

  Hinges squeaked.

  The woman stepped into daylight.

  17

  M EMORY IS CAPRICIOUS, SOMETIMES PLAYING STRAIGHT, SOMETIMES deceiving. It can shield, deny, tantalize, or just plain err.

  There was no mistake or dissembling here.

  Though I saw only half the woman’s face, I felt I’d taken a body blow. Dark gypsy eye, petulant upper lip swooping down to a diminutive lower. Brown blemish on her cheek in the shape of a leaping frog.

  Obéline giggling. Évangéline tickling, teasing. Frog-freckle face! Frog-freckle face!

  The jawline was sagging, the skin deeply etched. No matter. The woman was an aged and weathered mutation of the child I’d known on Pawleys Island.

  My eyes welled up.

  I saw Obéline, little legs churning, crying to be included in our games. Évangéline and I had read her stories, costumed her in sequins and tutus, built her sand castles on the beach. But, mostly, we’d sent her away.

  I forced a smile. “Harry and I missed you both terribly.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk with you.”

  “Why?”

  “We’d like to understand why you left so suddenly. Why Évangéline never answered my letters.”

  “How did you get this address?” Her voice was wire-thin, her breathing and swallowing measured, perhaps a product of speech therapy following the fire. “Do you work for the police?”

  I told her I worked for the coroner in Montreal.

  “This coroner sent you to find me?”

  “It’s a long story. I’d like to share it.”

  Obéline twisted the fabric bunched at her chin. The skin on her fingers was lumpy and waxy-white, like oatmeal congealed on the bottom of a pot.

  “The horror comes real.”

  “I’m sorry?” Obéline’s chiac accent was so strong I wasn’t catching all her words.

  “The nightmare made truth.”

  “Pardon?”

  She ignored my question. “Harry is here?”

  “At your front door.”

  Her gaze drifted past me, lingered, I suspected, on a moment long past.

  Then, “Join her. I will let you in.”

  After sliding what sounded like a hundred deadbolts, Obéline admitted us to a foyer giving onto a wide central hall. Light diffusing through leaded glass windows gave an ephemeral cast to the large, empty space.

  Ahead, I noted an ornately carved staircase; suspended from the ceiling, a faux Louis-the-something chandelier. The hall was furnished with carved and painted high-backed benches, more artifacts from the Pacific Northwest.

  In spots, the floral wallpaper was marked by brighter rose and green rectangles, evidence that paintings or portraits had been removed. The floor was covered by a massive antique Persian Sarouk Farahan carpet that must have cost more than my condo.

  Obéline’s shawl was now wrapped below her chin and tied at the back of her neck. Up close, the reason was obvious. Her right eyelid drooped and her right cheek looked like blistered marble.

  Involuntarily, my eyes broke contact with hers. I wondered, How would I feel were I the scarred one and she the visitor from so long ago?

  Harry said howdy. Obéline said bonjour. Both were restrained. Neither touched the other. I knew Harry was feeling the same pity and sadness as I.

  Obéline indicated that we should accompany her. Harry fell into step, head swiveling from side to side. I followed.

  Heavy pocket doors sealed off rooms to the right and left of the main hall. Beyond the staircase, regular doors gave onto other rooms and closets. A small crucifix hung above each.

  Clearly, the architect hadn’t been tasked with bringing Mother Nature into the back of the house. Even so, the small parlor to which we were led was much dimmer than mandated by the paucity of glass. Every window was shuttered, every panel closed. Two brass table lamps cast a minimum wattage of light.

  “S’il vous plaît.” Indicating a gold velveteen loveseat.

  Harry and I sat. Obéline took a wing chair on the far side of the room, snugged her sleeves down her wrists, and cupped one hand into the other in her lap.

  “Harry and Tempe.” Our names sounded odd with the chiac inflection.

  “Your home is lovely.” I started out casual. “And the totem poles are quite striking. Am I correct in assuming the gazebo was once a sweat house?”

  “My father-in-law had an employee whose passion was Native art. The man lived many years in this house.”

  “The structure is unusual.”

  “The man was…” She groped for an adjective. “…unusual.”

  “I noticed the carved benches in your foyer. Do you have many pieces from his collection?”

  “A few. When my father-in-law died, my husband fired this man. The parting was not amicable.”

  “I’m sorry. Those things are always difficult.”

  “It had to be done.”

  Beside me, Harry cleared her throat.

  “And I’m very sorry your marriage turned out badly,” I said, softening my voice.

  “So you’ve heard the story.”

  “Part of it, yes.”

  “I was sixteen, poor, with few choices.” With her good hand, she flicked something from her skirt. “David found me beautiful. Marriage offered a way out. So many years ago.”

  Screw small talk. I went for what I wanted to know. “Where did you go, Obéline?”

  She knew what I was asking. “Here, of course.”

  “You never returned to Pawleys Island.”

  “Mama got sick.”

  “So suddenly?”

  “She needed care.”

  It wasn’t really an answer.

  I wondered what illness had killed Laurette. Let it go.

  “You left without saying good-bye. Tante Euphémie and Oncle Fidèle refused to tell us anything. Your sister stopped writing. Many of my letters came back unopened.”

  “Évangéline went to live with Grand-père Landry.”

  “Wouldn’t her mail have been sent there?”

  “She was far out in the country. You know the postal service.”

  “Why did she move?”

  “When Mama couldn’t work, her husband’s people took control.” Had her voice hardened, or was it a by-product of the painfully recrafted speech?

  “Your parents reunited?”

  “No.”

  Several moments passed, awkward, filled only by the ticking of a clock.

  Obéline broke the silence.

  “May I offer you sodas?”

  “Sure.”

  Obéline disappeared through the same door by which we’d entered.

  “You couldn’t at least try English?” Harry sounded annoyed.

  “I want her to feel comfortable.”

  “I heard you say Pawleys Island. What’s the scoop?”

  “They were brought back here because Laurette got sick.”

  “With w
hat?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Harry rolled her eyes.

  I took in the room. The walls were covered with amateur landscapes and still lifes marked by garish colors and distorted proportions. Cases of books and collections of bric-a-brac gave the small space a cluttered, claustrophobic feel. Glass birds. Snow globes. Dream catchers. White hobnail dishes and candlesticks. Music boxes. Statues of the Virgin Mary and her minions. Saint Andrew? Francis? Peter? A painted plaster bust. That one I knew. Nefertiti.

  Obéline returned, face fixed in its same unreadable expression. She handed out Sprites, making eye contact with neither Harry nor me. Resuming her seat, she focused on her soft drink. One thumb worked the can, clearing moisture with nervous up-and-down flicks.

  Again, I honed in like a missile.

  “What happened to Évangéline?”

  The thumb stopped. Obéline’s lopsided gaze rose to mine.

  “But that’s what you have come to tell me, no?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You came to say they’ve found my sister’s grave.”

  My heart somersaulted. “Évangéline is dead?”

  Unable to follow the French, Harry had grown bored and begun scanning book titles. Her head whipped around at the sharpness of my tone.

  Obéline wet her lips but didn’t speak.

  “When did she die?” I could barely form the words.

  “Nineteen seventy-two.”

  Two years after leaving the island. Dear God.

  I pictured the skeleton in my lab, its ruined face and damaged fingers and toes.

  “Was Évangéline sick?”

  “Of course she wasn’t sick. That’s crazy talk. She was only sixteen.”

  Too quick? Or was I being paranoid?

  “Please, Obéline. Tell me what happened.”

  “Does it matter anymore?”

  “It matters to me.”

  Carefully, Obéline set her drink on the gate-leg table at her side. Adjusted her shawl. Smoothed her skirt. Laid her hands in her lap. Looked at them.

  “Mama was bedridden. Grand-père couldn’t work. It fell to Évangéline to bring home a check.”

  “She was only a kid.” I was doing a poor job of masking my feelings.