“No. She wasn’t.”
“How could you know that?”
“Her father was a monster.”
“Your husband is a monster.”
“Please.” Her voice was trembling. “Come in and sit down.”
“So you can tell me that things aren’t what they appear?” I was angry now, no longer trying to be nice.
“Claudine’s father sold her into child pornography for five thousand dollars.”
That brought me up short.
“To whom?”
“An evil man.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes dropped, came back. I suspected she was lying.
“When did this take place?”
“Five years ago.”
The year Claudine went missing from Saint-Lazare-Sud. Five years after Kelly Sicard. Five years before Phoebe Jane Quincy.
Kelly Sicard. A sudden thought.
“Was this man’s name Pierre?”
“I never knew.”
I turned and looked out the window. The road was empty. The spaniel was now peeing on a post by the T intersection.
Time dragged by. Behind me, I heard Obeline take a chair at the table. The muffled voices of Homer and Marge Simpson floated from a TV somewhere deep in the house.
Finally, I turned back to her.
“How was your husband acquainted with this man who ‘bought’ Claudine?” I finger-hooked quotation marks around the word.
“He worked for David’s father. A long time ago. Before we married.”
“So strip joints weren’t enough. Your husband partnered up with this sleaze to make kiddie porn.”
“No.” Vehement. “David hates this man. Occasionally they”—she broke off, cautious about word choice—“need each other.”
“So Mr. Evil just handed Claudine over to your husband. What? She get too old for his market?”
Again, Obeline’s eyes dived, recovered. “David gave him money.”
“Of course. David Bastarache, rescuer of maidens.”
I wasn’t buying this, but Kelly Sicard’s story of liberation from Pierre nagged at me.
I looked at my watch. Ryan had been gone almost twenty minutes.
“Where does this man operate?”
“I don’t know.”
At that moment my cell chirped. It was Ryan. Bastarache had managed to get onto the twenty and was heading west. Ryan was following, discreetly, hoping Bastarache would further incriminate himself. He’d be a while.
Great. I was carless in Quaintsville for God knew how long.
Feeling trapped, I jammed my phone into my purse. Before the flap settled, it rang again. The area code was unexpected. New York. Then I remembered. Rob Potter.
Eyes steady on Obeline, I flicked on.
“Hey, Rob.”
“Do you love rock and roll!”
“Sorry I couldn’t return your call last night.” I was far too tired and cranky to be witty.
“No problem. You got a few minutes? I have some thoughts you might find interesting.”
“Hang on.”
Pressing the phone to my chest, I spoke to Obeline. “I need to take this alone.”
“Where has that detective gone?”
“To arrest your husband.”
She cringed as though I’d threatened to strike her.
