Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

At nine, I called Emma a second time. I was on a voice mail roll. The same recording asked for my name and number.

Odd, I thought, rinsing then placing my cup in the dishwasher. I'd phoned Emma twice the night before, at six and at eight, and twice this morning. It wasn't like her to ignore my messages. Especially now, when I was so concerned about her health.

I knew that Emma often monitored calls, dodged conversations she didn't want to have. But she'd never done that with me. At least, not that I knew of. But then, when wrapped up in normal life, I called so rarely. Was she now ducking my calls because proximity made me a threat? An annoyance? Was my worry causing her discomfort? Did she regret taking me into her confidence? Was she avoiding me to avoid the reality of her disease?

Or was she really sick?

I made a decision.

Crossing the house to Pete's bedroom, I leaned close to the door. "Pete?"

"I knew you'd come knocking, sugar britches. Give me a minute to light some candles and cue Barry White."

Pete. You gotta love him.

"I have to go see Emma."

The door opened. Pete was wearing a towel and a half face of shaving cream.

"Deserting me again?"

"Sorry." I considered telling Pete about Emma's NHL, decided that doing so would betray a confidence. "Something's come up."

Pete knew I was being evasive. "If you divulge the full story you'll have to kill me, right?"

"Something like that."

Pete cocked a brow. "Any word from the French Foreign Legion?"

"No." I switched topics. "Gullet called. Parrot's kid probably has Cruikshank's computer."

"Think he'll release it to us so we can check the hard drive?"

"Probably. The sheriff's not exactly a techie, and he says he's short-handed right now. And, thanks to Emma, he views me as part of the team. Sort of."

"Keep me posted."

"Can you manage to charge and carry your cell?"

Pete had been the last person in the western hemisphere to obtain a mobile phone. Unfortunately, his bold advance into the world of wireless communication had peaked at the moment of purchase. His BlackBerry usually lay dead on his dresser, forgotten in a pocket, or buried in the center compartment of his car.

Pete gave a snappy salute. "Will secure and maintain apparatus, Captain."

"Show no mercy at God's Mercy Church, Counselor," I said.

Ill-chosen words, as things turned out.

Emma owned a property so "old Charleston " it should have been dressed in a hoopskirt and crinolines. The two-story house was peach with white trim and double porches, and sat on a lot enclosed by wrought iron fencing. A giant magnolia shaded the tiny front yard.

Emma had been negotiating to purchase the home when we met. She'd fallen in love with its woodwork, its gardens, and its Duncan Street location, just minutes from both the College of Charleston and the MUSC complex. Though the house was beyond her means in those days, she'd been overjoyed when her bid was accepted.

Good timing. In the years that followed, Charleston real estate shot into the stratosphere. Though her little slice of history was now worth a small fortune, Emma refused to sell. Her monthly payments were stiff, but she made it work by spending money on little other than food and her home.

It had rained throughout the night, freeing the city from its premature skin of oppressive heat. The air felt almost cool as I pushed open Emma's gate. Details seemed magnified. The rusty squeak of old hinges. Buckled cement where a magnolia root snaked beneath. The scent of oleander, confederate jasmine, crepe myrtle, and camellia floating from the garden.

Emma answered the door wearing a bathrobe and slippers. Her skin looked pasty, her lips dry and cracked. Greasy stragglers hung from an Indian-print scarf knotted on her head.

I tried to keep the shock from my face. "Hey, girlfriend."

"You're more persistent than a Yahoo! pop-up."

"I'm not selling products to enlarge your man's penis."

"Already got a magnifying glass." Emma mustered a weak smile. "Come on in."

Emma stepped back, and I brushed past her into the foyer. The smell of pine and wood polish replaced the perfume of flowers.

The inside of Emma's house was exactly as promised by the outside. Straight ahead, double mahogany doors gave way to a wide hallway. A large parlor opened to the right. A bannistered staircase curved up to the left. Everywhere, Baluchi and Shiraz carpets topped gleaming wood floors.

"Tea?" Emma asked, exhaustion emanating from every part of her body.

"If you let me make it."

As I followed Emma, I scoped out the house.

One look told me where my friend's money was going. The place was furnished with pieces that had been crafted before the founding fathers inked up their pens. Had she needed cash, Emma could have sold off antiques through the next millennium. Christie's would have taken months just to write catalog copy.

Emma led me to a kitchen the size of a convenience store, and settled herself at a round oak table. While I started a kettle and got tea bags, I told her about Cruikshank's boxes. She listened without comment.

"Cream and sugar?" I asked, pouring boiling water into a pot.

Emma pointed to a china bird on the counter. I carried it to the table and took a carton of milk from the fridge.

As Emma sipped I brought her fully up to date. The missing computer. The images on the disc. The odd fractures on the two cervical vertebrae.

Emma asked a few questions. It was all very friendly. Then I changed the tone.

"Why are you ignoring my calls?"

Emma looked at me as you might a squeegee kid asking to do your windshield, uncertain whether to say "thanks" or "buzz off." A few seconds passed. Setting her mug carefully on the table, she seemed to make a decision.

"I'm sick, Tempe."

"I know that."

"I'm not responding to treatment."

"I know that, too."

"This latest round is knocking me on my ass." Emma turned her face away, but not before I saw the pain in her eyes. "I've been unable to do my job. First Monday, now today. I've got a skeleton I'm failing to get ID'd. You tell me I've got a dead former cop who might not have killed himself. And what am I doing? I'm home sleeping."

"Dr. Russell said you might experience some fatigue."

Emma laughed. There was no humor in it. "Dr. Russell's not here to see me heaving my guts out."

I started to protest. She cut me off with a raised hand.

"I'm not going to get better. I need to face that." Emma's eyes came round and dropped to her mug. "I need to consider my staff and the community I've been elected to serve."

"You don't have to make any major decisions right now." My mouth felt dry.

A wind chime danced outside the window, merry, oblivious to the anguish on the opposite side of the glass.

"Soon," Emma said softly.

I set down my mug. The tea was cold, untouched.

Ask?

The chimes tinkled softly.

"Does your sister know?"

Emma's eyes came up to mine. Her lips opened. I thought she was about to tell me to go to hell, to stop meddling and mind my own business. Instead she just shook her head no.

"What's her name?"

"Sarah Purvis." Barely audible.

"Do you know where she is?"

"Married to some doctor in Nashville."

"Would you like me to contact her?"

"Like she'd care."

Pushing from the table, Emma walked to the window. I followed, stood at her back and lay a hand on each of her shoulders. For several moments no one spoke.

"I love baby's breath." Emma was gazing at a stand of delicate white flowers in the garden outside. "The flower ladies sell baby's breath at the marketplace. That, too." She pointed at a cluster of green and white stalks topped by long, slender leaves. "Know what that is?"