Aaron Elkins: Make No Bones

“I would say so, yes,” Callie said with a dismissive laugh. “This is hardly the time for a weenie roast.”

“It is steaks we’re talking about,” Miranda reminded her gently, “not weenies.”

“Whatever. The longer we put off dealing with the trauma and depression associated with what’s happened, the longer it will be before we can get on with our lives in a constructive way. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking that this evening would be a good time for some co-supportive grief work sessions for those who’d like them.”

“I don’t know that I’d go as far as all that,” Leland said, “but it’s certainly not the time for a biennial picnic. It would be entirely out of place.” It was the closest he’d come to agreeing with Callie in Gideon’s or anyone else’s memory.

“Well, but that creates a small problem,” Miranda said. Leland gave her the lorgnette look. “And what problem is that?”

“They’ve already gone ahead and bought the supplies. Forty-five T-bone steaks, ten chickens, wine, beer, charcoal, plastic plates, the works. The bill comes to $432. We’ll have to pay for it in any case.”

“Oh,” Leland said after a moment. “That’s different.” He considered. “Well, perhaps we could think of it as a joint memorial picnic-for Harlow as well as Albert? That might be more appropriate. In fact, we might think about keeping it as the Jasper-Pollard Memorial Dinner in the future.”

“Hey, at the rate we’re getting knocked off, we better just start calling it the General Memorial Weenie Roast,” Les said.

Callie glared at him. “One of our members has been murdered. Two, if you include Jasper. The murderer or murderers are still at large and would almost certainly be in attendance, have you thought of that? Under those circumstances, I think it’s repellent even to be discussing this.”

“Yes, I think so too,” Nellie said. “You know, if the wastage is what’s bothering people, we can always have the food served in the dining room as the regular dinner tonight.”

“Turn forty-five choice T-bones over to the regular kitchen staff?” Miranda cried. “To the same people who were responsible for Rhoda’s Meatloaf? Instead of having them grilled over an open mesquite fire? Please, are we sure we don’t want to give this some serious thought?”

“Why don’t we just go ahead and have it outside if they’ve already gotten started?” Gideon suggested. “We don’t have to make a big deal out of it. There’s nothing that says we have to call it a picnic or a memorial or anything else.”

“Fine!” Miranda said. “Excellent idea. I’ll settle for that.”

“Simply an alfresco dinner,” Leland said. “A picnic. That sounds like a reasonable compromise to me.”

It did to the others, too, and the matter was settled.

“Well, I’ll be there,” Nellie said to Gideon as they got up to leave, “but I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. I’m afraid it’s going to be an awfully gloomy affair.”

But Nellie turned out to be wrong. Although it was true that the general level of hilarity wasn’t up to that of previous years’ Weenie Roasts, Singalongs, and Chugalug Contests, there was an unmistakable crackle of lively interest in the air as people gathered in the cookout area near the crumbling, weedy tennis courts at seven o’clock. Even the qualmish presence of Farrell Honeyman, who had come to confer with John and had been induced to stay for the cookout, failed to dim the sparkle. The eyes of the younger members, in particular, returned again and again to the faces of the Founding Members, not so much with outright suspicion as with a kind of curious and speculative relish.

Julie, John, and Gideon, off to one side, surveyed the scene from the small rise on which the tennis courts were set. Below them the line at the barbecue pit, which Honeyman had just gone to join, was beginning to shorten as people got their steaks and found seats.

“Well, look at the bright side,” Julie said. “You’re not going to have any trouble getting a big registration for the 1993 conference.”

Gideon smiled. “Wouldn’t you love to have a booth selling buttons and T-shirts? ‘I survived 1991.’ You could make a fortune.”

He turned to John, who was looking glum. “No progress?”

John shook his head and sipped beer from a bottle. “Anything from the fingerprint people?”

“What can they tell us? There aren’t any fingerprints on the weapon, and finding prints on anything else doesn’t prove a thing. Everybody and his grandmother was in there playing poker Monday night.”

“Everybody but Frieda,” Julie said.

“Wrong,” John said. “She came in to drag Nellie out of there at about two in the morning, so she’s got an excuse for her prints being there too. Oh, one thing: we pinned down the time of death a little closer. Now it looks like Harlow bought it somewhere between four and five o’clock Wednesday afternoon.”

“How did you come up with that?” Gideon asked.

“One of the employees, the kid who brought around the towels.” He gestured with the bottle at a tall, skinny boy with a turned-around baseball cap, one of three people who were working at the barbecue pit and who was at that moment serving Honeyman his steak. “Him. He was there a couple of minutes before five, and the do-not-disturb sign was hanging on the door. I figure that’s got to mean Harlow was already dead, don’t you? I mean, why would Harlow put the sign out? He wouldn’t know anybody was coming around with towels.”

Gideon nodded. “True.”

“The employee,” Julie said. “Did he see anything?” “Nah, just the sign. He couldn’t see anything through the window. Come on, they’re starting to run out of steaks over there.”

They walked to the stone barbecue pit and got utensils and plastic plates from a table alongside it.

“Why couldn’t he see anything through the window?” Gideon asked. “I could see through the window.”

“Weil, there were those flowers right in front of it. They made it hard to look in.”

“But I looked in. I saw Harlow.”

John shrugged as he helped himself to a roll. “I guess he didn’t look as hard as you.”

“Were those his exact words? He couldn’t see anything?”

“Look-”John lowered his voice; they were approaching the boy. “This is not a particularly swift kid, you know? Words are not his thing. But go ahead and ask him, if it’s worrying you.”

“It’s not worrying me. I was just wondering.”

John had reached the boy, who was standing at the ready, tongs in hand, having just served Julie. “How’re you doing, Vinnie? Let me have that one on the side there.”

“It’s pretty well-done.”

“Great, that’s the way I like ’em.” He held out his plate. “And my associate here has something he wants to ask you.”

What he really wanted to ask him, Gideon thought, was why so many kids walked around with their baseball caps on backward, a fashion that had mystified him since the first time he’d seen it. Instead he said: “I understand you’re the one who left the linens at Cottage 18.”

The boy regarded him suspiciously.

“I understand you said you couldn’t see anything through the window.”

“That’s right. You want a steak? I’m not supposed to be talking to the customers.”

Gideon held out his plate while Vinnie dropped a huge T-bone into it. “What did you mean when you said you couldn’t see anything? You must have been able to see something.”

“I already told him,” Vinnie said, indicating John. “I didn’t look. There wasn’t no point.”

“Why wasn’t there any point?”

“Because,” Vinnie said, showing a streak of adolescent impatience with slowminded adults, “the blinds were down. I already told him that.”