Forty Words for Sorrow

"It seems we don't carry the other two. We never had the Pearl Jam, no surprise there, and the Rolling Stones we used to have but it was so popular it got damaged or worn out or something and it was removed from circulation"- she prodded her keyboard mercilessly-"two years ago. Now, tell me, Detective. Can it really be true you police don't know how that little girl died?"

"Ma'am…"

"I know, I know. Just too curious for my own good. But I did dig up those names for you." She adjusted her glasses and peered at a piece of paper on which she had noted the information. "The album you have there was borrowed by Leonard Neff, Edith Soames, and Colin McGrath. As it happens, I remember Mr. McGrath. His behavior was unruly. We had to ask him to exit the premises." She pronounced it premisees.

"Unruly in what way? Had he been drinking?"

"Oh, no doubt Mr. McGrath was intoxicated. But there's no excuse for obscenities of that kind. I nearly summoned some of your colleagues- my hand was positively trembling over that dial."

"And the others- Miss Soames and Mr. Neff. Do you remember anything about them?"

The librarian closed her eyes as if in prayer, then said with conviction, "Not a thing."

Delorme pulled out her notebook. "I'm going to need addresses on all three."

DELORME had ignored Algonquin Bay's retail music outlets. None of the albums was new, all three were extremely popular, and there was no reason to believe they were even purchased in town. Cardinal- except for the possible radio angle- had finally discounted the music altogether. If Delorme had found that all three CDs were held by the library, and all three had been checked out around September 12 to the same person, that might have meant something. But tracking a single piece of music to the library carried no weight at all. After six years in Special Investigations, Lise Delorme knew a dead end when she saw one.

And yet, following up on the library CD made her heart beat a little faster. The library CD was something she could hold in her hand; it gave the illusion of direction because it led somewhere right now, not a week from now- and besides, the library CD was her only lead.

Mr. Leonard Neff's address was a modern brick bungalow in Cedarvale, an affluent subdivision of mewses, courts, and places laid out with sterile precision at the top of Rayne Street. There was a hockey net set up in the driveway, where a couple of boys in Montreal Canadiens jerseys were firing slapshots at each other. The Taurus parked out front had ski equipment strapped to the roof rack. Apparently a sporting family, the Neffs. The windows of the house were modern and triple-glazed, not likely to rattle with every passing truck. In any case, Cedar Crescent, Cedar Mews, and Cedar Place (the town council apparently did not waste its creative energy on the naming of streets) attracted little traffic of any sort, certainly not trucks.

Delorme's second stop was the home of the unruly Mr. McGrath. This turned out to be a small apartment house at the turnoff to Airport Road. Delorme got out of the car and listened a moment. The drone of an Air Ontario plane coming in for a landing. Highway 17 was less than fifty yards away; the traffic was a constant hiss. A woman heavily burdened with groceries tottered up the front steps and struggled with her keys. Delorme rushed to hold the front door open for her and entered the building enveloped in the woman's gratitude. Mr. McGrath's apartment was on the first floor at the far end of the building. Delorme stood in the hallway, listening. No traffic, just sounds from other apartments: a vacuum cleaner, the cry of a parakeet, the metallic chatter of a TV game show.

The last name on the list sounded like a little old lady: Edith Soames. All right, I know it's a dead end, Delorme told herself. There isn't a chance in hell that Todd Curry or Katie Pine was killed by some little old lady, but sometimes you just go with what you have, you take a flier, you see what happens.

The Soames address was just two blocks east of the house Delorme had grown up in, and she was sidetracked for a few moments by nostalgia. She drove past the rock cut where at the age of six Larry Laframboise had given her a split lip. On the corner was the North Star Coffee Shop where she had overheard Thйrиse Lortie- formerly a friend- saying Lise Delorme could be a real slut sometimes. Half a block farther: the park bench where Geoff Girard had told her he didn't want to marry her. She recalled the sudden heat of tears streaming down her face.