Aaron Elkins: Make No Bones

“That’s Rama pithecus,” Gideon said unwisely. “And those were evolutionary anthropologists. True, they can get a little stuffy. But these are forensic anthropologists. Chardonnay or Chablis?”

“Which one’s open?”

“Chardonnay.”

“That’s what I’ll have.”

He poured glasses for both of them, the cold wine clucking into the bottoms of the hollow-stemmed glasses, then carried Julie’s to her.

“Fancy glasses,” she said. “I almost forgot we had them.” “Fancy dinner,” Gideon told her. “As you’ll soon see.” Julie was in the living room, browsing through the day’s mail, while Gideon worked in the open kitchen, talking to her over the wide counter. Thursday was one of his nights to make dinner, inasmuch as he had only a 10:00 A.M. class, and an easy one at that, while she worked her usual 8:00 to 5:00, winding up with the dreaded weekly staff meeting. Today’s, from what she’d told him, had been even more lunatic than usual, and he was happy to see her start to relax.

“Anyway,” he said, “forensic anthropologists are a much looser crowd, more lively, more irreverent.”

“Oh, I’ll bet. I can just imagine all the great ‘topics of conversation: handling decomposed remains, time-of death estimates…”

“Well, yes, but it’s not all business. A lot of people bring wives and husbands. There’ll be plenty of time for taking in the sights and just being lazy. Look, read the letter, will you? The one from Miranda Glass, with the Museum of Natural History letterhead.”

Julie foraged in the plate of raw vegetables and came up with a broccoli stalk. Then she fished the letter out of the pile of mail. Behind her, the big bay window looked out onto a wet, somber world. It had been a typical early-May day in Port Angeles, Washington: raw, overcast, and drizzly. The sky at 6:00 P.M. looked exactly the way it had at 8:00 A.M., a featureless and dismal slaty gray. According to the KIRO weather report, it was going to look much the same tomorrow.

“‘To Members of the Western Association of Forensic Anthropologists,’” she read aloud. “‘Esteemed Fellow Body-Snatchers. June 16-22, the week of our eagerly anticipated bone bash and weenie roast, is fast approaching. As this year’s host I hereby bid you a genial welcome.’”

She looked up at him from under lifted eyebrows. “Bone bash and weenie roast? Well, you’re certainly right about them not being stuffy.”

He smiled. “Miranda’s a little more irreverent than most. Read on.”

“‘Fittingly enough,’” she continued, “‘this year’s enlightenment and jollification will be held where it all started: the decaying but still scenic Whitebark Lodge near Bend, Oregon. I must tell you that the lodge is not quite what it was ten years ago (who among us is?), but the management promises to do its best. Dinner and continental breakfast will be provided daily, and those of you who wish more variety will find the restaurants of Bend and Sisters just a short drive away. In addition, the general store in nearby Camp Sherman stocks an ample supply of gourmet comestibles (bologna, American cheese, tuna Fish), which you may prepare in the privacy of your cottages. As usual, we’ll set up a kitty to take care of lunch and beverages so that we are not unnecessarily torn away from our scholarly pursuits. Naturally, potables stronger than Diet Coke are the responsibility of the individual. As always, cocktail hour begins at sunrise.’”

Smiling, she glanced up again. “Maybe I ought to go, just to keep an eye on you. Don’t you guys do any work?”

“Sure, we do. Don’t let Miranda’s style throw you off. We may be informal, but WAFA is a dignified, professional organization, and we work damn hard. Listen.” He had come into the living room to get some vegetables and dip for himself, and he took the letter from her, turning to the second page.

“Here. ‘Round-table topics will include the adjustment of aging standards in light of today’s accelerating maturation rates; race-linked differences in sexual dimorphism; blunt-force skull fractures; and new developments in computerized forensic data nets.’”

“Very impressive.”

Gideon accepted this with a magisterial nod. “‘In addition, we’re trying to scare up an FBI agent or high-level working cop to put on a session on crime-scene do’s and don’ts, which, it pains me to say, most of us can sorely use. (Contact me if you know any likely candidates for this. No honorarium, but we’ll cover expenses.) As usual, one of our conference highlights will be…’” He coughed and folded up the sheet. “Well, you get the idea.”

She snatched it away from him. “‘…will be our competition for the wildest, weirdest case of the last ten years. Present the most bizarre, off-the-wall doings you’ve had the good (?) fortune to be associated with in the last decade. Winner will receive a T-shirt with an appropriate and meaningful WAFA slogan, such as “Ten Years of Beer for Breakfast.”’

Julie nodded soberly. “‘Dignified’ hardly does you justice.”

“Didn’t I say it wasn’t all business? Forensic work can get pretty grim. You need some comic relief.”

“Right,” she said, beginning to read aloud again as he went back to the kitchen. “‘Another highlight, she said hopefully, will be the opening, after almost a year of feverish preparation, of the Murder, Mayhem, and Miseries exhibit in the Central Oregon Museum of Natural History. This, as you know, is the country’s first permanent, large-scale forensic anthropology exhibit, and if I do say so myself, it’s going to knock your socks off!

“‘Sunday afternoon is reserved for unwinding, greeting old friends, hoisting a few, and similar intellectual pursuits. In the evening, please plan on being the guests of the museum for an open house and reception. On Monday we roll up our sleeves and get down to business with our first working session. Spouses/lovers/friends/whatever can soak up some rays around the pool, or play tennis, Ping-Pong, or basketball, or go horseback riding or hiking-or, if desperate enough, can always sit in on our sessions.

“‘An extra treat this year will be a chuck-wagon breakfast to break up things at midweek. On Thursday morning we’ll have a three-mile group horseback ride to a rustic picnic spot where the works-bacon, eggs, coffee, and so forth-will be waiting for us, compliments of the lodge.’”

Julie sipped her wine pensively. “I’ll admit, it sounds like fun.”

“Of course it does,” he said, heartened. “And don’t a few days in central Oregon sound good? Blue skies, warm sun, dry air-”

“Not really, thanks.”

Naturally not. Raised in the Pacific Northwest, she thrived on the cool mists and lush, wet green of the Olympic Peninsula. So, amazingly enough, did Gideon, a native Southern Californian. All the same, by the time May arrived-after half a year of dark days and endless, drifting gray rain, with two more months of it yet to come-he was ready to bargain away his soul for a few days of hot, flat, cloudless sunshine. It was hard to remember that anyone could feel otherwise.

Glass of wine in hand, she began reading again, then lifted her head as he turned up the heat under some olive oil. “Mm, it’s starting to smell good. What are we having, anyway?”

“Rock shrimp with garlic-basil sauce and pine nuts over fettucine.”

She was patently impressed. “That sounds wonderful. How long will it be? I’m starving.”

“I don’t know, I’ll see what it says on the can.” “No, seriously.”

He peered at the recipe and did some quick arithmetic. “Oh, should be no more than half an hour. Say seven o’clock at the latest.”

Julie sighed. “Say eight o’clock,” she murmured more or less to herself.