KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

I got the picture. Lu revealed something Eddie didn’t know. New search. Bingo.

“Where was she?” I asked.

Claudel shook his head, as though amazed at the foibles of his fellow man.

“Turns out the old broad kept a getaway near Lac Memphrémagog.”

I let the “old broad” reference pass. “She went there to paint.”

Claudel dipped his chin. “Yeah. The place started life as her third husband’s hunting shack.”

“Third?”

“Got the lineup from the kids, Otto and Mona. They’re a prize pair, by the way. Gotta revisit that.”

“Oh?”

“Just a gut. Problem is, both were thousands of clicks from Montreal in Alberta when Mama dropped off the radar. There’s no evidence of missing money. Still, I’m examining financials, looking for secret accounts, suspicious transfers or withdrawals, major debts, big purchases. Any flags over the past three months. Changes in routine, spending habits, income. It’s a long shot, but we’ve got no short ones. I’m also checking the possibility of nasty habits-addiction, gambling, the usual. Doing the same for the stepson, Myron Pinsker.”

“What about the three husbands?”

“Uri Keiser was numero uno. They married in ’fifty-eight, divorced in ’seventy-eight. He remarried in ’seventy-nine, moved to Brooklyn in ’eighty-two. Some bad blood there. Keiser’s been in New York ever since. Pinsker was next. Married in ’eighty-four, taken out by an aneurysm in ’ninety-six.”

“He’d be Myron Pinsker’s father?”

“Yeah. Named Myron, too. Why would you keep saddling kids with a tag like Myron? That a Jewish thing?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hubby three was Samuel Adamski. Keiser married him in ’ninety-eight. Interesting sidebar, the guy was fourteen years younger than his bride. She was sixty-one. He was forty-seven.”

“Is Adamski still around?”

“Died in a boating accident in 2000. No tears there, at least not in Otto and Mona’s world. Keiser’s kids say the guy was a parasite and mean as a snake.”

“When Adamski bought the farm, Keiser added electricity and plumbing to the hunting shack. Kept the whole deal secret. Property’s still in Adamski’s name, so it never popped on the radar.”

“Her kids knew nothing about it? Her stepson?”

“Allegedly, no one did.”

“Except Lu.”

“Hard to believe, eh? Anyway, soon as Lu rolls on the shack, I haul ass to the country. Outside things look hunky-dory. Inside’s a different story.”

Claudel has a habit of rising up on his toes when he gets to the good part. He did that now. Descended.

“Interior’s one room with a sleeping loft in back. Left-hand corner, by a wood stove, the carpet, one wall, and a sofa are burned to shit. Also one body.”

I’d seen it before. A fire flames quickly, runs out of fuel, dies. One room can be toast, another undamaged.

“Where was the body?”

“Half on, half off the sofa.”

“You sure it’s Keiser?”

“Nah. My money’s on Hillary Clinton.”

I ignored the sarcasm. “You’ve told Keiser’s kids?”

Claudel nodded. “Neither suggested they’d be booking airline reservations soon. Pinsker’s on his way over here now.” The thin lips went thinner. “Unless we got us one hell of a coincidence, it’s Keiser.”

I thought of Rose Jurmain. Anne-Isabelle and Christelle Villejoin.

“Any reason to suspect foul play?”

“Gee, how about Granny’s pension checks turning up cashed? How about her purse being in a Dumpster a million miles from her crib? But there was no sign of forced entry, if that’s what you mean. The place wasn’t ransacked. No blood. The vic was fully clothed.”

“Any obvious trauma? A gunshot wound? A blow to the head?”

“I am a detective. Not a pathologist.”

Claudel’s arrogance often goads me over the edge. Given the day’s events, I was gripping the brink with my toes. But Claudel was right. My question was stupid.

That, too, made me cranky.

“Did you detect anything to suggest Keiser could have died elsewhere?”

“She was lying facedown. Contact with the floor preserved flesh on the chest and belly. Pooling looked right.”

Claudel referred to the third of death’s Triple Crown. Rigor mortis: stiffening in the muscles. Algor mortis: cooling of the tissues. Livor mortis: pooling on the “down” side.

Here’s livor, short and quick. When the heart stops beating and chasing the blood around, gravity causes the heavier red cells to sink through the lighter serum and settle in the dependent parts of the corpse. The result is a purplish red discoloration known as lividity, or livor mortis, on the body’s “down” side.

Like its colleagues, rigor and algor, livor works the clock, beginning twenty minutes to three hours after death and congealing in the capillaries in four to five. Maximum lividity usually occurs within six to twelve hours.

So. In addition to estimating postmortem interval, livor is useful in determining if a corpse has been moved.

Case in point. Had Keiser been lying prone while flying a purple bum, that pattern would have suggested she’d been moved after death. A darkened chest and belly were consistent with dying facedown.

“What about the car?”

“Parked in a lean-to in back.”

I tried to picture the setup. Woods. Rustic cabin and shed.

“Is the property that isolated?”

“The nearest neighbors are a half mile away. Cottagers, gone since September. We’re tracking them.”

“Who’s doing the post?”

“Ayers.” Claudel tugged a very expensive cuff to check a very expensive watch. “Pinsker should be here by now. He’s going to take a look at the clothes. What’s left of them.”

I got to my feet. “I’ll ride down with you.”

Petty, but I couldn’t help myself. Claudel’s phobia is the stuff of legend.

The man can calmly size up any crime scene. Blood-soaked sheets? No problem. Brain-spattered walls? Bring ’em on. Feces-smeared rugs? Groovy. To Claudel, crime scenes are telltale moments frozen in time. Violent moments, yes. But distant ones. And useful building blocks. In his thinking, each tableau is an exercise, a puzzle to be dissected and reassembled. Guts and gore talk, and one must listen intently.

But park a corpse on stainless steel and Claudel goes Jell-O in the knees. Yep. The guy can’t handle cold flesh or morgues.

“Pinsker’s identification of the body is a formality.” Claudel tipped his head. The hawk nose shot a shadow across one cheek. “It’s Keiser. I’ve got to get back on the street.”

I watched Claudel’s impeccably pressed buttocks disappear through the door.

An hour later it was Ryan.

“That the Lac Saint-Jean stuff?” Eyeing the bones spread before me.

I nodded.

“Looks old.”

“It is.”

“How old?”

“It’s safe to say these folks didn’t hang stockings this season.”

“Forty years?”

I just looked at him.

“A Cessna 310 disappeared in ’sixty-seven en route from Chicoutimi to Quebec City. Gouvrard family. Parents, two kids. The last sighting was in the vicinity of Lac Saint-Jean, so thinking was the plane went down in the water. No wreckage was ever found.”

Ryan handed me a paper. I glanced at it. Listed were the names and ages of four individuals.

Achille Gouvrard, 48

Vivienne Gouvrard, 42

Serge Gouvrard, 12

Valentin Gouvrard, 8

“Any chance there are antemorts after all these years?”

“File’s on the way.”

“You’re good, Detective.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“I owe you.”

“I’ll collect.” Exaggerated brow flash.

Something stirred in my southern parts. I ignored it.