“It’s a big province, Hippo.”
Hippo’s brow furrowed. “Good point, doc. Miramichi’s a city of eighteen, maybe twenty thousand. But the name also refers to the river and the region in general.”
“But where is it?”
“Northumberland County.”
Fighting back an eye roll, I wiggled my fingers in a “give me more” gesture.
“Northeast coast of New Brunswick.”
“Acadia?”
“Deep in the heart.”
I listened to blacktop whump under our tires. Beyond the windshield, a layer of smog was buffing up the sunset, bathing the city in a soft, golden glow.
Miramichi. I’d heard of the place. In what context?
Suddenly, I remembered.
11
T HE SUMMER I WAS TEN AND EVANGELINE WAS TWELVE, SHE described an event that had occurred the previous December. The incident had so troubled her, she’d been unable to write of it in her letters.
Entrusting Obeline to a neighbor, Evangeline’s mother had driven to a nearby town for groceries. That was unusual, since Laurette habitually shopped in Tracadie. Leaving the market, she’d directed her daughter to return to their old Ford and wait for her.
Curious, Evangeline had watched her mother round the corner, then followed. Laurette entered a pawnshop. Through the window, Evangeline saw her in animated conversation with a man. Frightened, Evangeline had hurried back to the car.
Laurette owned a single piece of jewelry, a sapphire ring with tiny white diamonds. Though unaware of its history, Evangeline was certain the ring never left her mother’s finger. When Laurette slid behind the wheel that day, the ring was gone. Evangeline never saw it again.
Our childish imaginations conjured stories of heartbreak and lost love. A handsome fiance killed in the war. A Montague-Capulet feud, Acadian style. We wrote verse rhyming the name of the town. Peachy. Beachy. Lychee.
That’s how I remembered.
Evangeline and her mother had gone to Miramichi.
“How far is Miramichi from Tracadie?” More crazy possibilities swept through my mind.
“’Bout fifty miles.”
“Straight down Highway 11.”
Drawing a deep breath, I told Hippo the story of Evangeline Landry. When I finished, he was mute for so long I thought his attention had wandered. It hadn’t.
“You really believe something happened to this kid?”
That question had tortured me over the years. Had Oncle Fidele and Tante Euphemie, tired of nurturing their two young nieces, simply sent them home? Or had it been the other way around? Had Evangeline grown bored with the Lowcountry? With my friendship? Had my summer soul mate merely outgrown me? I didn’t believe it. She would have told me she was leaving. Why Tante Euphemie’s remark about danger?
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
We were crossing onto the island. I watched Hippo’s gaze slide sideways to the turgid water of the Riviere des Prairies. I wondered if he was thinking of the girl snagged by the boat in the Riviere des Mille Iles in 1999, Ryan’s DOA number one. Or the girl washed ashore in Dorval in 2001, Ryan’s DOA number two. Or the one found last week in Lac des Deux Montagnes, perhaps DOA number three in the chain.
“You say the skeleton’s of mixed race,” Hippo said. “Was your friend?”
“That’s my impression. But I haven’t had time to fully clean the skull. I never thought of Evangeline that way. I just thought she was exotic in a mysterious sort of way.”
Hippo took a moment to chew on that.
“You told me the stuff’s pretty beat up. You good with a PMI pushing forty years?”
I’d given the question of postmortem interval considerable thought. “I’m certain this girl was buried, then the bones were held for some period aboveground. The problem is, I’ve got zip on context. Buried how? In sandy soil? Acid soil? Shallow grave? Deep? Coffin? Fifty-gallon Hefty? Time since death could be ten, forty, or a hundred and forty.”
Hippo did some more mental chewing. Then, “How well did you know this kid’s family?”
