“Bernice is a pip.”
Apparently.
“I’m impressed. Really.”
“Not as impressed as you’re going to be, big sister.”
Harry took in my wet hair, tank, and drawstring PJ bottoms. Perhaps curious that I’d showered and jammied before dinner, she asked how I’d spent my day. Since Ryan’s DOA’s and MP’s and the Phoebe Jane Quincy disappearance had been all over the media, I could think of no reason for secrecy.
I told Harry about the cold cases Ryan and Hippo were investigating. The MP’s Kelly Sicard, Claudine Cloquet, Anne Girardin, and most recently, Phoebe Jane Quincy. The DOA’s from the Riviere des Mille Iles, Dorval, and now, Lac des Deux Montagnes. I sketched out my stint in the studio, without mentioning Cormier’s name, and described the photo of Kelly Sicard.
“Sonovabitch.”
I agreed. Sonovabitch.
We finished dinner lost in our separate thoughts. Pushing away from the table, I broke the silence.
“Why don’t you give Flannery O’Connor another shot while I clear this mess?”
Harry was back before I’d loaded the dishwasher. Still no answer in Toronto.
She looked at me, then checked the time. Five past ten.
“Sweetie, you look rode hard and put away wet.” She took the plate from my hands. “Hit the hay.”
I didn’t argue.
Birdie trailed me to bed.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
I thrashed, punched the pillow, kicked off the bedding, pulled it back. The same questions winged through my brain.
What had happened to Phoebe Jane Quincy? To Kelly Sicard, Clau dine Cloquet, and Anne Girardin? Who were the girls found in Dorval, in the Riviere des Mille Iles, and in Lac des Deux Montagnes?
I kept seeing images of Kelly Sicard/Kitty Stanley. Why had Sicard used an alias? Why had Cormier photographed her? Was he involved in her disappearance? In the disappearances and/or deaths of the others?
And the skeleton from Rimouski. Hippo’s girl. What was the meaning of the lesions on her digits and face? Where was Ile-aux-Becs-Scies? Was the girl aboriginal? Or contemporary? Could the bones be those of Evangeline Landry? Had Evangeline been murdered as her sister believed? Or was Obeline’s memory a childhood distortion of a frightening incident? Had Evangeline been sick? If so, why had Obeline insisted that she was well?
I tried to picture Evangeline, to visualize the woman she’d be today. A woman just two years my senior.
And, of course, Ryan.
Maybe it was fatigue. Or dullness from so many dispiriting developments. Or overload from the hundreds of faces I’d scrutinized that day. My mind floated dark curls, a blue swimsuit, a polka-dot sundress. Recall from snapshots, not real-time memories. Try as I might, I couldn’t live-stream an image of Evangeline’s face.
A great sadness overwhelmed me.
Flinging back the covers, I turned on the bedside light, and sat on the edge of my mattress. Bird nudged my elbow. I lifted an arm and hugged him to me.
Knuckles rapped lightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Harry opened the door. “You’re thrashing like a fish in a bass boat.”
“I can’t remember what Evangeline looked like. Not really.”
“That’s what’s keeping you up?”
“That’s my fixation of the moment.”
“Wait.”
She was back in minute, a large green book pressed to her chest.
“I was saving this as a hostess gift, but you look like you could use it now.”
Harry dropped onto the bed beside me.
“Are you aware that your sister is the all-time champ-een in the recorded history of scrapbooking?”
“Scrapbooking?”
Mock astonishment. “You’ve never heard of scrapbooking?”
I shook my head.
“Scrapbooking’s bigger than Velveeta cheese. ’Least in Texas. And I am the monster-star of the genre.”
“You paste stuff in scrapbooks?”
