Bones to Ashes

Harry waited as the waiter refilled my mug.

“Remember the guy who mailed bombs to universities and airlines?”

“The Unabomber?”

“Yeah. How’d that go?”

“From the late seventies to the early nineties, Theodore Kaczynski killed three and wounded twenty-nine people. The Unabomber was the target of one of the most expensive manhunts in FBI history. What does Kaczynski have to do with Obeline?”

A manicured nail jabbed the air. “How did they finally catch him?”

“His manifesto: Industrial Society and Its Future. Kaczynski argued that the bombs were necessary to attract attention to his work. He wanted to inspire others to fight against subjugation facilitated by technological progress.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. But how did they nail the skank?”

“In the mid-nineties, Kaczynski mailed letters, some to his former victims, demanding that his manifesto be printed by a major newspaper. All thirty-five thousand words. Verbatim. If not, he threatened to kill more people. After a lot of debate, the Justice Department recommended publication. Both the New York Times and the Washington Post ran the thing, hoping something would break.”

“And?” Harry turned her palm up.

“Kaczynski’s brother recognized the writing style and notified authorities. Forensic linguists compared text samples provided by Kaczynski’s brother and mother with the Unabomber’s manifesto, and determined they’d been authored by the same person.”

“There you go.” Harry added a second upturned palm.

“What?” I was lost.

“That’s what we do. In Obeline’s memory. And Evangeline’s, of course. We get a linguist to compare the poems in Bones to Ashes to poems Evangeline wrote as a kid. Then we make Evangeline an official poet.”

“I don’t know, Harry. A lot of her early stuff was just adolescent angst.”

“You think young Kaczynski was William Friggin’ Shakespeare?”

I tried not to look dubious.

“You talked to Obeline about Evangeline’s murder. I don’t speak French, but I listened. I know what I heard in her voice. Guilt. Terrible, horrible, gut-wrenching guilt. The woman’s whole life was one giant guilt trip because she hid the fact that she knew about her sister’s killing. Wouldn’t she want this?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you know a forensic linguist?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well enough to ask him to do a comparison?”

“I suppose.”

Dropping both hands to the table, Harry leaned forward onto her forearms. “Evangeline and Obeline are both gone. That book is all we have left. Don’t you want to know if Evangeline wrote it?”

“Of course I do, but—”

“And get Evangeline’s name on record? Make her the published poet she always wanted to be?”

“But wait. This makes no sense. You’re suggesting Evangeline wrote the poems and that Obeline had them printed by O’Connor House. But why would Obeline use the name Virginie LeBlanc? And why wouldn’t she cite Evangeline as the author of the collection?”

“Maybe she had to hide the project from her creepozoic husband.”

“Why?”

“Hell, Tempe, I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want old dirt stirred up.”

“Evangeline’s murder?”

Harry nodded. “We know Bastarache used to beat the crap out of Obeline. He probably scared her.” Harry’s voice went hushed. “Tempe, do you think he’s now killed her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think she’s even dead? I mean, where’s the body?”

Indeed, I thought. Where is the body?

The check arrived. I did the math and signed.

“There’s a problem, Harry. If I still have any of Evangeline’s poems, and that’s a big ‘if,’ they’d be in Charlotte. I have nothing here in Montreal.”

A smile crawled Harry’s lips.

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