“You made no inquiries as to the source of the skeleton?”
“Guy said it came from an old Indian cemetery. What did we care?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Skulls, man. Rattlesnakes. Shrouds. Bleak mojo, know what I mean?”
A dead child. I tried to keep the distaste from my voice.
“You were arrested in Quebec. Why were you there?”
“Visiting a cousin. He told us about a quarry. We thought jazzing all that rock would be a real mind-fuck. Look, when that cop busted us we were as freaked as anyone. We’d totally zoned on those bones.”
“How long had they been in your trunk?”
“A year. Maybe more.”
“What do you do now, Mr. Whalen?”
There was a pause. I thought I could hear a television in the background.
“Work security.” Defensive. “Nights at the high school.”
“And your brother?”
“Archie’s a fucking junkie.” The macho tone now sounded whiny. “Do us both a favor. Arrest his ass and get him out of this shithole.”
I had one last question.
“Do you remember the pawnbroker’s name?”
“’Course I remember that dickhead. Jerry O’Driscoll.”
I’d barely disconnected when my cell phone rang.
Hippo.
His news rocked my world.
12
“L AURETTE PHILOMENE SAULNIER LANDRY. DOB MAY 22, 1938. DOD June 17, 1972.”
Death at age thirty-four? How sad.
I pictured Laurette in Euphemie’s Pawleys Island kitchen. My child’s mind had never slotted her age. She was simply adult, younger than Gran, more wrinkled than Mama.
“She died so young. From what?”
“Death certificate lists natural causes, but doesn’t elaborate.”
“You’re sure it’s the right Laurette Landry?”
“Laurette Philomene Saulnier married Philippe Gregoire Landry on November 20, 1955. Union produced two kids. Evangeline Anastasie, DOB August 12, 1956. Obeline Flavie, DOB February 16, 1964.”
“Jesus. I can’t believe you found this so fast.” In addition to my early telephone probes, I’d periodically tried the New Brunswick Bureau of Vital Statistics. Never had a hit.
“Used my Acadian charm.”
Hippo’s charm and a token would get him on the subway. I waited.
“Back in the sixties, the church handled most of the vital stats record keeping. Some parts of New Brunswick, babies were still being birthed at home, especially in rural areas and smaller towns. Lot of Acadians had no time for government or its institutions. Still don’t.”
I heard a soft whop, pictured Hippo downing several Tums.
“Got a church-lady niece at St. John the Baptist in Tracadie. Knows the archives like I know the size of my dick.”
I definitely did not want to hear about that.
“You found baptismal and marriage certificates through your niece?” I guessed.
“Bingo. Since I’m a homeboy, I started dialing for dollars. We Acadians identify ourselves by ancestral names. Take me, for example. I’m
“What did you learn?”
“Like I warned you, forty years is a long time. But the Acadian National Memory Bank’s got a whopper of a vault. Found a few locals remembered Laurette and her kids. No one would talk much, respecting privacy and all. But I got the drift.
“When Laurette got too sick to work, hubby’s kin took her in. The Landrys lived outside of town. Kept mostly to themselves. One old-timer called them
“Laurette had a driver’s license.”
“No. Laurette had a car.”