Aaron Elkins - Skeleton dance

"So," Julie said brightly after a solemn pause during which the only sound was the clinking of china cups on china saucers, "where to from here?

"I was thinking," Gideon said. "Tomorrow I start my interviews on the hoax. I ought to be able to pry a little more out of them about what was going on at the time without too much trouble."

Julie stared at him and then at Joly. "He's got to be kidding."

"Thank you, Gideon," Joly said politely, "but I have my own resources."

"Sure you do, but you said I could do it more subtly than you could before; why not now?"

"Why not…" Julie put down her cup with a bang. "Because they've already fragmented your… your stupid neuroaxons, haven't they? What do you expect them to do next? Politely ask if you wouldn't be good enough, old chap, to stay out of it?"

"Julie makes a good-" Joly began.

"Now be reasonable, people," Gideon said. "Let's look at this objectively. No one had any intention of killing me or even injuring me-"

"No? What was it then?" Julie asked. "Some form of ritual greeting known only to Middle Paleolithic archaeologists? 'Salutations, O fellow archaeologist.' Bop!"

What he'd meant, he explained, was that it was obvious that no one had gone to the St.-Cyprien morgue with the objective of doing him harm. The purpose had clearly been to remove the bones so that they couldn't be identified, nothing more. Gideon had had the misfortune of walking in at the wrong time. The tap on the head he'd received "Tap on the head!" Julie exclaimed to Joly. "That wasn't what he was calling it an hour ago."

– had been a desperation measure, nothing more. "And if the guy had wanted me dead, why didn't he finish the job then, instead of leaving me on the floor unconscious?"

"Maybe he thought you were dead."

"No, he wouldn't have thought I was dead. And anyway, I'm not any kind of a threat to anybody any more. With the bones gone what could they have to worry about from me? Besides, my asking everybody questions is perfectly natural. They're all expecting it. That's what I'm here for, remember?

Pretty impeccable logic, he thought, but Joly seemed doubtful and Julie wasn't buying it at all. "I'd say the issue is moot," she said. "How do you expect to interview anybody tomorrow? You can't even blink your eyes without wincing."

"Granted, but tomorrow, if I'm feeling better-"

"I'll tell you what," Joly said thoughtfully. "I expect to be busy with other things tomorrow in any case-I want to chat with some of Bousquet's acquaintances, and with the receptionist at the St.-Cyprien hospital, and so on. Assuming that you're physically able, I don't think it would be a bad thing at all if you went ahead with your scheduled interviews."

"Fine."

"But only on the condition that you don't play at detective. You're to stick to the subject of your book and not raise questions about Bousquet and his troubles with Carpenter or anyone else, or about the missing bones; that's my job. On the other hand, if information presents itself without provocation on your part, well and good; I'll be interested to hear."

"Deal."

"And it would be wise to make no mention of the episode at St.-Cyprien. Only the guilty party is likely to know of it, and it might be that he would say something to give himself away."

"Good point, I agree. Julie, what about you? If you'd really feel better if I didn't-"

"Do you really promise to do what Lucien asked you to? Stick to the Old Man of Tayac?"

He raised his hand. "Word of honor."

"Okay, good, I'll go along with it as long as you promise not to do anything dumb. You might have brain cells to spare, but I only have one husband, and I'm not interested in being in the market for another."

"I'm relieved to hear it."

She stirred her tea and laid down her spoon. "On the other hand, another day like today and I just might change my mind."

"Mmm," Julie said luxuriously, "what a lovely way to start the day."

Gideon smiled. "Not bad."

He moved his face, only six inches from hers, even closer, to brush his lips along the warm, velvet curve of her cheek. "I'm sorry I was such a miserable grouch yesterday. I sure love you."

"Mmm," she said again with her eyes closed, arching her neck to press her face against his.

"You have the world's most absolutely gorgeous submaxillary triangle, did I ever tell you that?" he murmured into her throat.

"Yes, many times," she said sleepily. "It never fails to take my breath away."

His fingertips glided over the tender flesh beneath her chin. "The soft swell of your Digastricus-"

"Thank you. Now, shh." With a practiced motion that was all the more affecting because of its easy, familiar intimacy, she pushed on his shoulder to let him know she wanted him on his back. Having arranged him to her satisfaction, she patted his chest as if she were plumping a pillow, worked her head into the hollow of his shoulder, threw one round, sturdy leg over him, sighed, and fell back asleep. Gideon remained awake but was content-much more than content-to lie without moving, his arm under the weight of her and his fingers curled loosely in her dark hair, utterly relaxed and empty of mind, conscious of little more than her closeness and the clean, sweet, warm smell of her. The window was open; dappled morning sunshine filtered through the slats of the wooden shutters, making patterns on the floor and paler, shifting, green-tinged reflections on the ceiling. Time passed.

"I hope," he said, when she began to move and stretch, "that in addition to being pleasant, this morning's, um, activity proved to you that I am back in command of my capacities."

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. "I was worried about your head, not-"

"My head is fine too," he said. "Everything is fine." It was, too, or very nearly. "Tell me, what can I do to convince you?"

"Well…" She rolled onto her back, yawning. "Maybe if you went downstairs and came back with a couple of cafes au lait, that might do it."

He kissed her one more time and climbed out of bed. "Give me five minutes."

Julie snuggled back under the covers and closed her eyes again. "You might want to put on some clothes first," she said, snickered quietly to herself, and went back to sleep.

At one side of the Hotel Cro-Magnon, enclosed by crumbling stone walls covered by trailing ivy, was a private breakfast garden with a few round tables of filigreed metal; a sheltered oasis of shade trees, bright flowers, and potted plants no more than ten yards from the main street. It was here, at an umbrellaed table, with the last droplets of morning dew still shimmering on the leaves around them, that they sat awaiting their breakfasts half an hour later.

"What's your schedule this morning?" Julie asked. "Do you see Jacques Beaupierre first?"

"Yes, that seemed like the right protocol. He's on for ten o'clock, followed at ten-thirty by Pru, who's probably going to be the most informative, then Montfort and the rest of them."

"You're just doing half-hour interviews? You could have done that over the phone from home. Not that I'm complaining," she said, taking in the scene around them.

"These are just the introductory sessions, to give me an overview. I'm sure I'll have follow-up questions for them later."

"M'sieu-m'dame," said Madame Leyssales, the proprietress, bearing a tray heavily loaded with their cafes complets -big stoneware pitchers of coffee and hot milk, little ceramic pots of jam and butter, and heaped baskets of warm rolls and croissants. Each of the empty coffee cups had a third of a baguette standing upright in it, wrapped in a napkin.

Julie's eyes widened. "Wow, things have changed in France. I seem to remember rather small breakfasts, by and large."

"It's not that," Madame Leyssales said as she set the tray down. "It's only that I remember the gentleman and his appetite from the last time he was here."