"I just spoke to Flannery O'Connor." Harry's voice was jittery with excitement.

"I'm listening."

There was a pause.

"Are we having another cranky pants day?"

"It's hot." I placed the ugly baby on the stack of finished files, and opened another.

"This isn't even close to hot."

"What did you learn?"

"You want hot, you try Houston in August."

"O'Connor House?"

"The business folded when Flan and her husband went splitsville. She goes by Flan. I didn't ask if she'd changed it official or not. Anyway, Flan cut bait after catching hubby au flagrant au flagrant with a guy named Maurice." with a guy named Maurice."

"Uh-huh." The new file was labeled Krenshaw Krenshaw. The subject was a c.o.c.ker spaniel. I closed it, and selected another.

"She's a hoot, Tempe. We talked for over an hour."

I could only imagine that conversation.

"What did you learn about Obeline's book?" I opened another file. Tremblay. Tremblay. A very fat lady posed with a very fat child. The Tremblays went onto the stack. A very fat lady posed with a very fat child. The Tremblays went onto the stack.

"Following the divorce, Flan kept all the O'Connor House records. Client names, book t.i.tles, number of pages, number of copies, what type of binding. 'Course we're not talking Simon and Schuster here."

"Obeline's book?" Keeping Harry on track was like herding sheep on uppers.

"During its existence, O'Connor House printed twenty-two poetry collections. Six of the orders were placed by women." I heard paper rustle. "La Penitence, by Felice Beaufils." by Felice Beaufils."

What Harry did to the French language was truly remarkable.

"Lie Down Among the Lilies, by Geraldine Haege. by Geraldine Haege. Peppermint Springtime, Peppermint Springtime, by Sandra Lacanu. by Sandra Lacanu. Un besoin de chaleur humaine, Un besoin de chaleur humaine, by Charlene Pierpont. That t.i.tle means something about needing human warmth." by Charlene Pierpont. That t.i.tle means something about needing human warmth."

I opened another folder. Briggs. Briggs. Blushing bride. Done. Blushing bride. Done.

"The other four had no authors. You know, the poet preferred to remain anonymous. Ghostly Mornings Ghostly Mornings. Flan thought that was a literary club project. A woman named Caroline Beecher handled the transaction."

The headache was banging at the back of my eyeball. Using a thumb, I rubbed circles on my temple.

"Parfum was paid for by Marie-Josephine Devereaux. was paid for by Marie-Josephine Devereaux. Fringe Fringe was paid for by Mary Anne Coffey. Each of those books was about fifty pages in length. Each print run was a hundred. Beecher and Devereaux had Moncton addresses. Coffey lived in St. John-" was paid for by Mary Anne Coffey. Each of those books was about fifty pages in length. Each print run was a hundred. Beecher and Devereaux had Moncton addresses. Coffey lived in St. John-"

"Obeline?" It came out sharper than I intended.

Harry allowed me several moments of dead air.

"I'm sorry. I know you're working hard on this. It's just a little too much information for now."

"Mm-hm."

"What did you learn about Bones to Ashes Bones to Ashes?"

I opened a new file. Zucker. Zucker. Three kids wearing plaid. Three kids wearing plaid.

"Virginie LeBlanc." Curt.

"LeBlanc placed the order?"

"Yes."

"Did O'Connor have LeBlanc's address?"

"Post office box."

"Where?"

"Bathurst."

"Any other contact information?"

"No."

"Did you try tracing LeBlanc?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Sulky silence.

I rolled my eyes. It hurt.

"Look, Harry. I'm sorry. I do appreciate what you're doing."

From across the room, I heard a phone, then Hippo's voice.

"Gallant."

"Can I buy you dinner tonight?" I asked Harry.

"Quand? Ou?" Staccato questions in the background. Where? When? Staccato questions in the background. Where? When?

"I'll be here," Harry said.

"Bon Dieu!"

"You pick the restaurant," I said.

I heard a soft grunt, then footsteps clumping my way.

"You can give me a full report on everything you've learned."

Harry agreed. Coolly.

I clicked off.

Hippo was standing over me.

I looked up.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

23.

H IPPO'S JAW WAS CLAMPED LIKE A SCREW PRESS IPPO'S JAW WAS CLAMPED LIKE A SCREW PRESS.

"What?" I closed the Zucker file.

Hippo glowered silently.

"Tell me."

"Just got a courtesy call from the RCMP in Tracadie. Obeline Bastarache is missing and presumed dead."

I shot to my feet. The Zucker file flew across the floor. "Dead? How?"

Flicking a shirttail, Hippo pocket-jammed the phone and turned away.

"How?" I repeated, too shrill.

"Neighbor downriver from the Bastarache place found a shawl wrapping one of the pilings under his pier. Recognized it. Checked. Got suspicious that Obeline wasn't home. Says the lady never goes out."

"That hardly means Obeline drowned."

"RCMP searched the property. Found blood on the breakwater."

"That could-"

Hippo continued as though I hadn't spoken. "Clothes on the end of the breakwater. Folded. Shoes on top. Note d'adieu Note d'adieu shoved into one toe." shoved into one toe."

I felt the blood drain from my head. "A suicide note?"

Hippo didn't square to face me.

Didn't speak the words I knew were goading his tongue.

There was no need. Already, I felt the deadening weight of self-blame.

I swallowed. "When?"

"Yesterday."

I'd visited Obeline on Tuesday. Wednesday she was dead.

"What did the note say?"

"Adieu. Life sucks." Life sucks."

Shame boiled inside me.

And anger.

And something else.

Though far from happy, Obeline had seemed content. Had told me she was at the one place she wanted to be.

"I detected nothing to suggest she was suicidal."

"Where was it you earned that psychology degree?"

My face flamed. Hippo was right. What did I know of this woman? Until two days ago, our last interactions had been as kids.

"No one is questioning that she's dead? I mean, there's no body. Are they dragging the river?"

"The river's a freight train right there." Hippo was squinting down the hall, into sunlight oozing through one of the living room's dirt-caked windows. "Body's probably in the Gulf of St. Lawrence by now."

"Where was Bastarache?" Hearing agitated voices, Ryan had left Cormier's office.

"Quebec City."

"He alibi out?"

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d always alibis out."

With that, Hippo stomped from the room. In seconds, the studio door opened, slammed.

"I'm sorry." Ryan's eyes said he meant it.

"Thanks." Weak.