KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

For the next thirty minutes Ryan spoke to airlines, then to a minimum of eight hotels. No flights. No rooms. Even the place we’d just left was fully booked.

“How’d everyone move so fast?” I asked.

“Apparently no one’s checking out. And there are several huge conventions in town.” Innocent choirboy look. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

“You know I have plans.”

“I suppose I could try for a rental car.” Insincere.

Dear God. I couldn’t take Ryan where I was going.

“Could be nasty, what with this weather, and me unfamiliar with the city,” Ryan went on.

“Agencies provide maps. Or you can ask for something with GPS.”

No go at Hertz or Avis.

I couldn’t believe this was happening. Could the day get worse?

I thought of the evening ahead.

A lot worse, I realized.

“All right,” I said as Ryan requested the number at Budget. “You can have my car. But you’ll have to drive me to the burbs.”

“Sounds workable. Surely motels that far out will have vacancy.”

“Surely.”

That’s not how it went.

EVEN IN GONZO TRAFFIC, THE DRIVE FROM GREEKTOWN TO Elmhurst should take less than an hour. That afternoon it took two and a half.

By the time I reached St. Charles Road, the dashboard clock said six forty. Great. I’d given an ETA of four. Everyone would be there. If Ryan was spotted, my arrival would turn into a circus.

Sound melodramatic? Trust me. I know the crowd.

Ryan understood a little about my colorful in-laws. While driving, I’d given him the the current saga. I’d missed Thanksgiving, and would compound that felony at Christmas by taking Katy to Belize to scuba-dive instead of to Chicago to hang stockings by the fire. Thus, I was spending a couple of days with the Petersons tribe.

“Your former in-laws?”

“Mm.”

Though we’d lived apart for years, my ex and I weren’t technically exes. We’d never legally divorced. But that would soon change. Recently, fiftysomething Pete had slipped a diamond onto the finger of twenty-something Summer. Needless to say, Old Pete had also opted out of turkey this year.

“Your mother-in-law is making supper?”

“You just ate, Ryan.”

“You rave about her cooking.”

“She’ll have a houseful.”

“Aunt Klara and Uncle Juris?”

Over the years, I’d shared tales of Pete’s alarmingly close and remarkably extended Latvian family. The annual beach trip, Easter egg-coloring contest, and Yuletide caroling to the Brookfield Zoo bears. The mandatory appearances at christenings, graduations, weddings, and funerals. The telephone network that makes the national disaster alarm system look like child’s play. Apparently, Ryan remembered key player names.

Here’s the story. Following World War II and the subsequent Soviet occupation of the Baltics, Pete’s grandmother, her sons, and their wives decided it was best to seek greener pastures. According to family lore, the departure from Riga involved a dead-of-night dash and a harrowing voyage on a sketchy cargo ship.

Next came an extended heel-cooling period in “displaced persons” compounds, known as DP camps, up and down the German countryside. Undaunted by the long wait, the couples used their time to be fruitful and multiply. Madara and Vilis produced Janis, our very own “Pete,” and his sister, Regina. Klara and Juris produced Emilija and Ludis.

After eight long years, a Latvian church in Chicago finally stepped up to the plate. In agreeing to sponsor the brave little band, the pastor and his flock guaranteed employment, housing, and a linguistically intelligible support network in the Windy City.

Upon their arrival, the family lived in an abandoned store. Not much, but it was home.

Working two jobs each, the brothers eventually managed to copur-chase a wreck of a place in Elmhurst, a suburb close to the factories, the college, and the Latvian church. More important perhaps, Elmhurst’s grand old trees reminded Omamma of her lost home far across the sea.

The house was a rambling frame affair with enough bedrooms to accommodate the whole ragtag clan. But that isn’t family, American-style. In the U.S. we go to nuclear units, Ward, June, Wally, and the Beav.

A few more years and the brothers held separate mortgages. Pete and his parents and sister stayed in the big house with Omamma and a collie named Oskars. Pete’s aunt, uncle, and cousins moved to a smaller property two short blocks away.

Homes, cars, TVs, and washers. College funds for the kids. Within a decade, the Petersons families were living the stars-and-stripes dream. Juris continued until retirement at the refrigerator factory. Vilis switched to teaching math full-time at Elmhurst College.

Almost a half century since the transatlantic odyssey, some things have changed. Old Omamma is dead now. So is Vilis. Pete’s mother, now called Vecamamma, is ruling matriarch. Spouses have been added, and a new generation of cousins now shares the piragi. Though the ties that bind have multiplied through births and marriages, they’re still forged of the same old-world steel.

“How’s that feel?” Ryan asked. “Being with your ex’s relatives?”

“Splendid.”

“Not awkward?”

“Right now they think Pete’s a dick and I’m Queen of Angels.”

“That should work in your favor.”

“Here’s how my arrival is going to play out. I’ll grab my bag and sprint. You’ll drive away. Quickly. Got it?”

“Aren’t we the drama queen?”

“Got it?”

Ryan gave a snappy two-finger salute.

As I turned north onto Cottage Hill, the car fishtailed wildly. I gently pumped the brakes until the rear wheels came back into line with the front.

I expected commentary from Ryan. Surprisingly, he offered none.

Ancient elms now lined both sides of the street. Beyond the trees, first-floor windows in large old homes cast rectangles of light onto slush-covered lawns. Ahead, at Church Street, two shadowy structures brooded like bunkers in the cold, wet night. Immaculate Conception High School and Hawthorn Elementary.

Right turn, then I proceeded a half block and slid to the curb in front of a white Victorian whose wraparound porch bulged into gazebos at each of its corners. The porch’s ornately carved columns sat on a limestone outer wall that rose approximately four feet from the ground. The house’s roof and right-wing and front-door porticos composed a trio of triangles facing the street.

Every edge now dripped electric white icicles. Ho. Ho. Ho.

I shifted into park and turned to Ryan.

“There’s a Marriott on Route Eighty-three and a Holiday Inn on York Road.” I pointed in the general direction of each. “If they’re full, have the desk clerk call over to Oak Brook. It’s hotel city out that way.”

Hopping out, I opened the back door and snatched my purse and suitcase from the seat. Icy pellets blew horizontally into my face.

I met Ryan as he was circling the trunk.

“When you have a room and a flight, call me. Tomorrow we can figure out how to handle the car.”

Ryan said something that was lost to the wind.

“And be careful.” Shouted. “I declined the extra insurance.”

With that I bolted for the house, one hand fighting my scarf, the other dragging my roll-aboard over slush that had frozen into choppy little waves.

Before my thumb hit the bell, the door opened and I was dragged inside. The air smelled of lemon polish, rye bread, and roasting meat.

“Who’s driving that car?” Vecamamma asked after kissing my cheek. Never a buzzer or pecker, the old gal always planted a very firm wet one.

“A man I work with.”

“A policeman?” One of my nieces was peering past us through the storm door. With her dark hair, green eyes, and ivory skin, Allie showed not a hint of her Baltic gene pool.