Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(57)

“When did he last see her?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Was she blond?”

“I’ll ask.”

“I’m sending two images. An age progression done on Pomerleau’s mug shot.” As I texted the files. “And a close-up I took at autopsy. Show those to him.”

“Will do. The neighbor to the north is a widower, stays out there only part of the year. He knew zilch. Ditto for those living along Hale.”

“No one noticed that the house had gone permanently dark?”

“It’s set too far back. I checked last night. You can’t see spit through the trees.”

“No one recalls vehicles entering or leaving?”

“Nope.”

“No one ever visited? Went looking for a lost puppy? Took cookies to say welcome to the ’hood?”

“Vermonters tend to keep to themselves.”

“Did you ask in town?”

“Apparently, Pomerleau took her trade elsewhere. So far we’ve found no one who remembers a woman fitting her description. If she did hit a store now and then, folks probably figured she was a tourist up for fishing or kayaking. Paid no attention.”

That fit my theory that Pomerleau had shopped near Burlington. A bigger city where she could remain anonymous.

I heard a muted ping. Another. Knew my texts had landed on Rodas’s phone.

“Where’d she get wood?” I asked.

“We found a guy who says he took a truckload each March for a few years. He says a woman paid in cash.”

“When was the last delivery?”

“His record-keeping’s a bit glitchy. He thinks maybe 2009.”

“Show him the photos.”

“Will do. Andy?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you tell her about the newspapers and food expiration dates?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking. Pomerleau makes her way from Montreal to Vermont in ’04. She moves in and lays low. The house is abandoned in 2009. You and Doc Karras think she could have been dead that long?”

I pictured the barrel. The body. The leaves preserved in pristine condition. “Five years is possible,” I said. Then, “Who owns the property?”

“There it gets interesting. The deed is still in the name Margaux Daudet Corneau.”

“Stephen Menard’s maternal grandmother.”

“I’m guessing since Corneau died in Canada, no one caught that the title never transferred after she passed away. The taxes, a staggering nine hundred dollars per year, were handled by auto payment from an account in Corneau’s name at Citizens Bank in Burlington.”

“When was the account opened?”

“I’ll know more once I get a warrant.”

“What about utilities?”

“The place has its own well, there’s no gas. Green Mountain Power was paid from the same account as the taxes. But the money finally ran out. Notices were sent—”

“But not received, since there was no mail delivery or phone.”

“The electricity was cut off in 2010.”

“The state took no action due to default on the taxes?”

“Notices were sent. No follow-through yet.”

I heard a click.

“Hold on. I’ve got another call coming in.”

The line went hollow. Then Rodas returned, tension in his voice up a notch. “Let me call you back.”

“You’re right,” Ryan said when we’d gone a few miles. “I’ve been acting like an ass.”

“You have,” I agreed.

“I hate that Pomerleau knew your whereabouts.” The lane markings sent double-yellow lines tracking up Ryan’s lenses. “That she wanted to know.”

“I don’t like it, either.”

“I’m glad the bitch is dead. Hope she rots in hell.”

“Someone killed her.”

“We’ll get him.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We’ll get him.” Ryan continued not looking at me.

“If I hadn’t granted that interview, Pomerleau never would have gone to Charlotte.”

“We don’t know that she did.”

“Her DNA was on Lizzie Nance’s body.”

“She’d have continued the carnage here in Vermont. Or someplace else.”

“Why Charlotte? Why my home turf?”

We both knew the answer to that.

We’d crossed into Quebec when Ryan’s phone buzzed again. As before, he put Rodas on speaker.

“One of my detectives found a mechanic who says he serviced a furnace at the Corneau place, once in ’04, again in ’07.”

“Did he recognize the images I sent?”

“Yes, ma’am. He says Pomerleau was alone the first time. The second visit, someone else was there.”

I shot Ryan a look; his jaw was set, but he didn’t return it.

“Can someone work with him to create a sketch?” I asked.

“Negative. He says the person was too far off, way back at one of the sheds and all bundled up for winter. All he’s sure of is that the guy was tall.”