KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

“Yes.”

“Cool.” Allie’s younger sister, Bea, had wandered in wearing a very large sweater, very short skirt, black tights, and boots. On a six-foot blond the look was impressive.

“Is your policeman friend hungry?” Vecamamma was yanking my coat with enough force to rip pelts from wild game. “I’m making fresh ham. Men like fresh ham.”

“He’s eaten.” I managed to slip free of both sleeves while retaining my arms.

“What’s his name?” Bea was as forward as Allie was timid.

“Ryan.”

“Is he cute?”

“We work together.”

“Like, what? You never noticed?”

“Alise and Beatrise, finish setting the table.” Vecamamma’s command boomed from deep in the closet. “We’ll be twelve.”

Only a dozen. Not too bad.

Vecamamma emerged with hair doing a Kramer imitation. Death-gripping my arm, she ordered, “Leave the suitcase. Teodors will take it up to your room.”

The house’s main artery is a wide central hall. From it, in front, arched doorways open onto living and dining rooms, the latter used frequently, the former almost never. A central staircase rises from the hall on the left.

The kitchen is farther down on the right. Butler pantry. Opposite, two bedrooms and a bath.

Spanning the rear of the house is a wood-paneled room with green plaid carpet, a massive stone fireplace, and enough square footage to practice Hail Mary passes. Well, laterals, anyway. Chez Petersons’ sports center, party pad, Speakers Corner, and family hearth.

Through the door I could see Ted, Ludis, and Juris watching a big-screen TV, each wearing a knit cap identical to the one on the Santorini valet. Ted had rotated the NFL logo to the back of his head. Old-school, Ludis and Juris had positioned theirs front and center.

“Tempe’s here,” Vecamamma warbled.

Ludis and Juris raised bottles of Special Export. Ted said, “Da bears!” All six eyes remained glued to the set.

Emilija’s husband, Gordie, and Regina’s husband, Terry, were conversing beside an overdecorated Christmas tree doing a Tower of Pisa imitation. Gordie is bald and paunchy and holds political views that make Limbaugh’s look libertine. Terry is short and shaggy-haired and has voted Democratic all his life. At family gatherings each tries fervently and fruitlessly to persuade the other of the error of his thinking. When tempers flare, usually somewhere north of the third or fourth beer, Veca-mamma and Aunt Klara signal disapproval by clucking.

I was following Vecamamma through the swinging kitchen door when realization struck.

Suitcase. Singular.

My hand flew to my shoulder. One lonely purse strap.

“Shit!”

Vecamamma cocked one wiry brow.

I was halfway down the hall when the doorbell bonged.

“I’ll get it,” I called out.

Bea was already there.

I heard the rattle of a chain guard, then hinges. A male voice. Giggling.

When I arrived, Ryan was in the foyer, my computer hanging from one sleet-drenched shoulder.

“Thought you might need this.” He patted the case with his palm.

“Thanks.” Stepping forward, I took the laptop. “Sorry to delay you.”

“No trouble at all.”

“Is it still coming down out there?” Bea asked.

“It’s a real gullywasher.”

Gullywasher?

“You should stay for dinner, give the storm a chance to let up,” Bea said. “My grandmother always makes enough for an army.”

“He has things to do.” I squinted a warning at Ryan.

“Is this your policeman friend?” Vecamamma had steamed up behind me.

“I left something in the car. Detective Ryan was kind enough to bring it in. He’s going now.”

“Of course he’s not. Look at him. He’s soaked.” To Ryan. “Officer, would you like to join us for dinner?”

“He’s a detective, not-”

“I’m not exaggerating.” Bea cut me off. “She makes tons.”

“Something does smell mighty tasty.”

Mighty tasty? Gullywasher? Great. Ryan was doing some warped Canadian version of the Waltons.

“I’ve made fresh ham and sauerkraut.”

“I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.” Diffident smile.

“What trouble? Setting one extra plate on my table?”

“Tempe does go on about your cooking.”

“Then that’s settled.” Vecamamma was showing a full yard of denture. “Bea, take the officer’s jacket.”

AS THE OTHERS MIGRATED TOWARD THE FAMILY ROOM, I PULLED Ryan aside and gave him some ground rules.

“Don’t drink Gordie’s homemade wine. Don’t talk politics with Ludis or Juris. Don’t participate in competitive gaming of any kind. Don’t discuss the job or details of what I do.”

“Why?”

“Some of Pete’s relatives share an alarming enthusiasm for the macabre.”

Ryan knew what I meant.

We in the death business are often asked about our work, especially about cases flogged by the media. Ryan and I are both queried so regularly, our dinner invitations are often prefaced by hostess suggestions concerning appropriate table conversation. Never works. Though I don’t volunteer, and sidestep when questioned, inevitably some guest persists in probing the blood-and-guts skinny.

It seems the world divides into two camps: those who can’t get enough and those who prefer to hear nothing at all. Ryan and I called them Diggers and Dodgers.

“Diggers?” Ryan asked.

“Yes. Except for Vecamamma and Klara. Autopsy talk gives Veca-mamma gas.”

“Do they know about-” Ryan wagged a finger between his chest and mine. Us?

“No. But they have pack instincts.” I continued my list of directives. “And don’t even think of accepting an invitation to overnight.”

“Holiday Inn all the way.”

“And one other suggestion.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lose the John Boy routine.”

Things went better than I would have expected. Ryan accepted and praised Gordie’s rotgut bordeaux. He talked Big Moe and Bizzy Bone with Bea and Allie. He delighted Vecamamma, Emilija, and Connie by twisting the napkins into crook-necked swans.

No one asked about his marital status. No one queried our personal relationship. No one grilled him on current commerce in murder and mayhem.

Then, as we were gathering in the dining room, Cukura Kundze bustled in.

What to say about Mrs. Cukurs?

The Cukurs were pillars of the small church that welcomed the immigrant Petersons to the New World. More liberal than most ladies of her generation, over the years Laima Cukurs’s exploits had inspired considerable gossip among her more proper Lutheran peers. The explicit sculptures. The colorful lingo. The hippie period mentioned only in whispers. The unfortunate tattoo.

Eighty-four, and widowed for a decade, Cukura Kundze had recently begun dating an octogenarian Hungarian named Mr. Tot. No one had gotten the gentleman’s first name. Now, four months and many pot roasts and casseroles down the road, no one asked.

Or perhaps the more formal appellation just seemed more appropriate. Though Laima’s first name had been known to the Petersons for half a century, Cukura Kundze had always remained Cukura Kundze.

Tonight, Cukura Kundze arrived Totless but bearing a torte.

“It’s raspberry.” Cukura Kundze handed the cake to Vecamamma. “Who’s that?”

“A policeman friend of Tempe’s.”

“Good.” Cukura Kundze wore glasses with clear plastic frames probably designed for combat soldiers. She nodded so emphatically the things hopped the hump on her nose. “Husbands cheat. Women have needs.”

“Pete wasn’t cheating.” The cake smacked the table.

Cukura Kundze gave one of those harrumphs old ladies deliver so well.

“He and Tempe just decided it was time to skedaddle.” Turning to me. “Right?”