19
KATY AND I RETURNED TO CHARLOTTE ON DECEMBER 28, BRONZED and gorgeous. Or so we told ourselves. Pounds up and peeling was closer to the truth.
On the 29th, my daughter called for a late family Christmas. We met at Pete’s house. My old house. It’s easier now. Used to be a bitch.
Pete played chef. Standing rib roast for us. New York strip for Boyd, a very Ho Ho Ho kind of dog. Especially with a bellyful of steak.
Pete gave Katy a racing bike, the chow a rawhide bone, and me a gold David Yurman bracelet.
I was stunned, said it was way too much. Pete waved off my objections.
I wondered. Was my gift the reason for the surprising but delightful absence of the lovely and exceedingly busty young Summer?
Whatever. I kept the jewelry.
I spent New Year’s Eve with Charlie Hunt. Dinner at the Palm, noise-makers, hats, slow dancing. After midnight we shook hands and went our separate ways.
Well, not exactly a handshake. But we each slept solo. Or at least I did.
Andrew Ryan: Tall, Nova Scotia Irish, sandy-going-gray hair, corn-flower eyes.
Charlie Hunt: Very tall, exotically
What was right with this picture?
What was
Evenings, Ryan and I talked on the phone, but not as we had in the past. Our conversations stayed outside the guardrail, prudently distant from the dangerous ground of feelings and future.
We discussed LaManche. The chief had suffered a setback, an infection that would delay his return to work.
We hashed over the Keiser, Oka, and Villejoin investigations, everything we knew. Not much to hash.
Ryan had revisited those living on the Villejoin’s block in Pointe-Calumet. Claudel had canvassed Keiser’s building on Edouard-Montpetit. They’d learned which neighbors were neat, which drank, which were churchgoers, which were stoners.
Claudel had reinterviewed Keiser’s stepson, Myron Pinsker, and again contacted her son and daughter in Alberta. Ryan had tracked down Yves Renaud, the nurse who’d discovered Anne-Isabelle Villejoin.
Everyone checked out. No one provided new facts.
Ryan had also reinterrogated Florian Grellier, the snitch who’d led them to the Oka grave, hoping to shake something loose. Grellier’s story remained disappointingly consistent. He’d scored his info from an anonymous bar buddy. Beyond that, he knew jackshit.
On January 12,
A psychic swore Villejoin was still in Quebec, in a small, dark space. She’d seen no sign of Keiser.
Winter is my slow season up north. Waterways freeze and snow hides the land. Kids are in school. Campers and sportsmen stow their gear and grab their remotes.
Corpses miraculously found outdoors arrive solid as deer carcasses hung in a freezer. In those cases, the pathologist rules. Defrost. Y-incision.
Still, the wind-chill days generate plenty for the anthropologist. Folks die and putrefy in their beds. Folks crank up heaters or build fires that burn down the house. Folks off themselves in barns, bathtubs, and basements.
Perhaps Hubert still had a hard-on over the missing phalanges. Perhaps the tundra was atypically calm. Early January passed with no call from Montreal for my services.
While enjoying the sixty-degree sunshine in Charlotte, I examined three cases for the Mecklenburg County ME, worked on a research grant, cleaned closets, plastered and painted a cracked wall I’d been looking at for years.
In between professional and domestic chores, I spent time with my daughter. Unhappy with her job in the Public Defender’s Office, Katy was considering a change, perhaps graduate or law school. I listened to her complaints and ponderings, murmured sympathy at appropriate points, rendered opinions when asked.
I also saw quite a bit of Charlie Hunt. He and I shared dinners, attended a few movies and a Bobcats game, played tennis twice. Though the kettle was racing toward a boil, I kept the lid on. A little neckin’, as we say in the South, then home to bed with my cat.
Weeks passed.
The Oka woman remained
Marilyn Keiser remained
On the 25th, as I was trimming Birdie’s claws, my mobile rang.
Emily Santangelo.
Laying down the clippers, I hit speaker with one hand while pressing the cat to my chest with the other. Already peeved, Birdie began vigorous twist-and-push maneuvers.
“What’s up?” I asked, tightening my arms.
Birdie meowed indignation.
“Am I catching you at a bad time?” Santangelo asked.
“Not at all.”
Birdie started gnawing my knuckle.
“Stop that.” Sharp.
“You all right?”
“Fine. Coroner got a stinker for me?”
“I’m not calling about a case.”
Surprised, I thought for a moment.
“Have my DNA results come back?”
“No.”
“Have Villejoin relatives been located up in the Beauce?”
“Not that I know of.”
My blood turned to ice.
“LaManche?”
“No, no. The chief ’s fine. Well, relatively fine. He’s responding to antibiotics, but will be out another six weeks.”
Unconsciously, I relaxed my arms. Birdie wriggled free, launched himself, and shot from the room.
“Things just aren’t the same without the old boy.” Relief made me babble. “Did you ever glance over your shoulder and LaManche was just
