IPPO’S JAW WAS CLAMPED LIKE A SCREW PRESS.

“What?” I closed the Zucker file.

Hippo glowered silently.

“Tell me.”

“Just got a courtesy call from the RCMP in Tracadie. Obéline Bastarache is missing and presumed dead.”

I shot to my feet. The Zucker file flew across the floor. “Dead? How?”

Flicking a shirttail, Hippo pocket-jammed the phone and turned away.

“How?” I repeated, too shrill.

“Neighbor downriver from the Bastarache place found a shawl wrapping one of the pilings under his pier. Recognized it. Checked. Got suspicious that Obéline wasn’t home. Says the lady never goes out.”

“That hardly means Obéline drowned.”

“RCMP searched the property. Found blood on the breakwater.”

“That could—”

Hippo continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “Clothes on the end of the breakwater. Folded. Shoes on top. Note d’adieu shoved into one toe.”

I felt the blood drain from my head. “A suicide note?”

Hippo didn’t square to face me.

Didn’t speak the words I knew were goading his tongue.

There was no need. Already, I felt the deadening weight of self-blame.

I swallowed. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

I’d visited Obéline on Tuesday. Wednesday she was dead.

“What did the note say?”

“Adieu. Life sucks.”

Shame boiled inside me.

And anger.

And something else.

Though far from happy, Obéline had seemed content. Had told me she was at the one place she wanted to be.

“I detected nothing to suggest she was suicidal.”

“Where was it you earned that psychology degree?”

My face flamed. Hippo was right. What did I know of this woman? Until two days ago, our last interactions had been as kids.

“No one is questioning that she’s dead? I mean, there’s no body. Are they dragging the river?”

“The river’s a freight train right there.” Hippo was squinting down the hall, into sunlight oozing through one of the living room’s dirt-caked windows. “Body’s probably in the Gulf of St. Lawrence by now.”

“Where was Bastarache?” Hearing agitated voices, Ryan had left Cormier’s office.

“Quebec City.”

“He alibi out?”

“That bastard always alibis out.”

With that, Hippo stomped from the room. In seconds, the studio door opened, slammed.

“I’m sorry.” Ryan’s eyes said he meant it.

“Thanks.” Weak.

There was a moment of strained silence.

“What’s up with Hippo and you?”

“He’s pissed that I went to Tracadie.”

“I doubt it’s you. You’re just handy.”

“He asked me not to make contact.”

“Bastarache is a flesh bandit. Hippo thinks it reflects badly on all Acadians.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer.

“Don’t let him get to you. Hippo’ll never say it, but your finding Cormier’s thumb drive impressed the hell out of him. Once Lesieur cracks it, we’ll be able to reel this dirtball in.”

“If I hadn’t found it, CSU would have.”

Ryan knew that was true. Was trying to be nice.

“If you want to knock off, I understand,” he said.

I shook my head. But I’d already lost Ryan’s attention.

“I have court tomorrow. If we don’t finish today, we’ll wrap up on Monday.”

With that, Ryan disappeared down the hall. And proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the day.

Fine. I could concentrate on Cormier’s bloody files.

Only I couldn’t. All afternoon, I kept seeing Obéline. The gazebo. The breakwater. The shawl.

Leaden, I forced myself through file after file.

Pets. Brides. Kids. None of them Phoebe. None of them a cold case MP or DOA.

At six I gave up.

Inching home through rush hour traffic, I worried about telling Harry that Obéline was dead. My sister feels things intensely, emotes unabashedly. Joy. Anger. Fear. Whatever Harry’s reaction, it’s always over the top. I was dreading the conversation.

At the condo, I parked underground. A light indicated the elevator was holding on three. I trudged up the stairs.

Both the outer and inner front doors were open. Runners crisscrossed the lobby floor. Winston, our caretaker, stood on one of them.

“Someone moving?” Not really interested. Thinking about Harry.

“Three-oh-four,” Winston answered. “Transferred to Calgary.”

I rounded the banister, started toward my corridor.

“You thinking about selling?”

“No.”

“Funny.”

I turned. “What’s funny?”

“Couple guys wandered in here this morning. Asked about your place.”

I stopped. “Asked what?”

“How many rooms. If the backyard was yours.” Winston shrugged, thumbs hooking his jeans. “The usual.”

I felt a tickle of apprehension. “Did they leave contact information?”

Winston shook his head.

“Did they use my name specifically?”

Winston gave the question some thought. “Not sure. It’s been a zoo here today. They’re probably gawkers. We get a lot of those.”

“Release absolutely no information on my condo.”

Winston’s smile crumpled. His arms came up and crossed on his chest.

“I’m sorry. I know you’d never do that.”

Winston ran a finger and thumb along the corners of his mouth.

I smiled. “Thanks for telling me.”

“That sister of yours is a hoot.”

“Isn’t she.” I made the turn toward my hallway. “I better feed her or she’ll start gnawing the woodwork.”

Still wounded, Harry had declined participation in restaurant selection. I took her to one of my favorites. Milos is pricey, but this wasn’t the night for counting coins.

Conversation upon departure went something like this.

“Is the fish fresh?”

“Still swimming.”

Upon arrival.

“Where are we?”

“Saint-Laurent near Saint-Viateur.”

“Holy mackerel.”

We shared a Greek salad and an order of deep-fried zucchini. Harry had crab legs and I had snapper.

After much prompting, she agreed to discuss Bones to Ashes.

“When I called the Bathurst post office, I was directed to a Miss Schtumpheiss.” Harry pronounced the name with a hokey Colonel Klink accent. “Frau Schtumpheiss would neither confirm nor deny that Virginie LeBlanc had rented a postal box in her facility. I swear, Tempe, you’d think the woman was running a gulag.”

“Stalag. What did she say?”

“That the information was confidential. I think Frau Schtumpheiss just didn’t want to move her frauenhintern.”

I bit. “Frauenhintern?”

“Buttocks. Female.”

“How do you know that?”

“Conrad spoke German.”

Conrad was hubby number two. Or three.

“I could ask Hippo to give her a call,” I said. “He hails from that neck of the woods.”

“Might work.” Aloof, but not hostile. Harry’s mood was improving.

For the rest of the meal, I kept it light. When coffee arrived, I reached across the table and took my sister’s hand.

“Hippo gave me some very bad news today.”

Harry fixed me with two worried eyes.

I swallowed. “Obéline may be dead.”

The eyes clouded. “Ohmygod!” Whispered, “How? When?”

I relayed what I knew. Braced.

Harry picked up a spoon and stirred her coffee. Tapped the rim. Set the spoon on the table. Leaned back. Bit her lip thoughtfully.

No tears. No outburst.

“Are you OK?”

Harry didn’t respond.

“Apparently the current is very strong.”

Harry nodded.

My sister’s composure was unsettling. I started to speak. She flapped a hand for quiet.

I signaled for the check.

“There is something we can do,” she said. “In homage to Évangéline and Obéline.”

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 Obéline?”

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 Obéline’s memory. And Évangéline’s, of course. We get a linguist to compare the poems in Bones to Ashes to poems Évangéline wrote as a kid. Then we make Évangéline 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 Obéline about Évangéline’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. “Évangéline and Obéline are both gone. That book is all we have left. Don’t you want to know if Évangéline wrote it?”

“Of course I do, but—”

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

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

“Évangéline’s murder?”

Harry nodded. “We know Bastarache used to beat the crap out of Obéline. 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 Évangéline’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.