In 1999 Bernadette’s younger daughter vanished while playing in a park. Tawny McGee was twelve years old. Years passed with no progress in the investigation of her disappearance. In 2004 Tawny was released from captivity in Anique Pomerleau’s dungeon of torture.
What I learned from Ryan: four months after Tawny returned home, the Maniwaki dentist retired and closed his office. Appreciative of his employee’s years of loyal service, he secured Bernadette a position as receptionist and bookkeeper at his brother’s pest-control company, if she was willing to move to Montreal. Dissatisfied with the psychological counseling Tawny was receiving, and hoping for better, Bernadette packed up and headed east.
Within a year Bernadette married Jacob Kezerian, the exterminator’s son. The Kezerians now lived in the Montreal suburb of Dollarddes-Ormeaux.
Bernadette had agreed to talk with us. So at three P.M. we were heading her way.
The city of Montreal sprawls across a small hunk of land in the middle of the St. Lawrence River. The West Island—in French, l’Ouest-de-l’?le—is a handle for the burbs on the western end.
The West Island is composed of green spaces, bike paths, cross-country ski trails, golf courses, and eco-farms sandwiched among affluent bedroom communities. The area is lousy with stockbrokers, lawyers, bankers, and business owners.
Historically, Montrealers divided themselves linguistically, with the French staying east and the English staying west. That separation has softened in recent years. Still, the West Island remains strongly anglophone. Ironic. As late as the ’60s, the region was largely farmland populated by les Fran?ais.
Thirty minutes after we left Sabine Pomerleau, Ryan turned the Jeep onto a street that could have been a backdrop for Wally and the Beav, Quebecois-style. The front lawns were uniform in size and shape. Each was bisected by a center walk bordered with winter-empty swatches of dirt or with burlap-wrapped shrubs.
The homes were equally homogeneous, each a variation on la belle province’s basic bungalow design—stone or stucco facing, blue or brown wood trim, dormer windows up, small porch below.
“Tawny lives with her mother and stepfather?”
“I thought we’d ease into this. First get the lay of the land.”
“Your guy didn’t ask?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
I cocked a questioning brow.
“The kid might still have problems.”
“Tawny isn’t a kid. She’s twenty-seven.”
“I didn’t want Bernadette going all mother bear.”
“She knows you were instrumental in finding her daughter.”
“She does.”
“How did she react to your call?”
Ryan gave that some thought. “She seemed wary.”
“So you implied we were coming just to talk to her?”
“I didn’t imply. Though she might have inferred.”
Eyes rolling, I followed Ryan between the rows of bundled flora leading to the house. The door and flanking windows were trimmed with strings of multicolored lights. A plastic Santa hung from a fleurde-lis iron knocker. Ryan tapped twice, then stepped back.
The woman who answered was a trim brunette trying hard to look younger than her age. Her eyes were a startling turquoise made possible only with tinted contacts. Her makeup was overdone, the streaks in her hair far too blond to look natural. She wore a red-and-green floral shirt unbuttoned over a red tank top. Skinny jeans. Faux equestrian boots.
I’d never met Tawny’s mother. But I knew from the file that she was now forty-eight. The man behind her looked at least ten years her junior. His hair and eyes were dark, his five o’clock shadow darker. His heavy brows met in an unhappy V above the bridge of his nose.
“I’m Bernadette Higham. At least that’s the name the officer used on the phone.” Bernadette started to offer a hand, stopped. “But of course you know that. It’s Kezerian now. But you know that, too.”
“It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Kezerian.”
“I expected the other detective. The fancy dresser.”
“Luc Claudel.”
“Yes. Where is he?”