Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

Should I have acted? Might visits, letters, phone calls have prevented Barbara’s death? Of course not. Her own family had been unable to do that. Still, my insensitivity haunts me.

Devereaux sat with her tiny hands resting on her upraised knees. From the length of her torso and legs, I put her height at that of your average middle-schooler.

Like Barbara Herrmann, some CdLS individuals have subnormal mental ability. Based on the exchange with Ollie, I doubted that was the case with Devereaux.

“We’re coming in now.” Ollie’s voice had lost some of its tough cop tone. I could tell from his face that he, too, was shocked. Ditto Ryan, though he hid his reaction better.

Devereaux watched in silence as the three of us stepped from the top riser and circumvented the shattered lamp lying on a rectangle of tile inside the door.

The room was maybe twelve-by-twelve. In addition to the daybed, it held a wooden table and two captain’s chairs, a dresser, and shelving filled with a scramble of clothes, purses, toiletries, and magazines. The wall-mounted TV looked like something you’d see in a hospital.

The right side of the room was a kitchenette with an undersize fridge, a sink, and a stove arranged shotgun-style along one wall. Its floor was done in the same tile as the entrance, setting the space off from the carpeted living/sleeping area. The sink and small counter were heaped with dirty dishes and utensils, open cans, and the remains of fast-food meals.

From the kitchenette, a short corridor led to a closet and a bath. Both doors were open, and both overhead lights were on. The rooms looked like bombsites, with garments, linens, makeup, laundry, footwear, and a mix of unidentifiables jumbled on the floors and draped on the fixtures or hung haphazardly from doorknobs, towel and closet bars, and the shower rod.

Ollie plucked a shiny green robe from a chair and tossed it onto the bed. Devereaux ignored it.

“Foxy’s not happy,” Ollie began.

“Bitch never is.”

“Says you had a groovy high going last night.”

Devereaux raised a palm and one bare shoulder. So?

“Foxy wants you out.”

“Foxy wants a lot of things.”

“Do you have a lease?”

“Sure. I keep it in the safe-deposit box with my estate planning papers.”

“Then you have no legal right to stay.”

Devereaux said nothing.

“Time to go, Aurora.” Ollie sounded almost sympathetic.

Devereaux snatched a small plastic bottle from the bedside table. Raising her chin, she inhaled antihistamine into one nostril, then the other.

While waiting out the noisy process, I took in more detail. The place was devoid of personal items. No photos, fridge magnets, knickknacks, or macramé plant holders.

In addition to the antihistamine, the bedside table held a half-empty bottle of Pepto and a mound of bunched tissues. Recalling another symptom of CdLS—gastroesophageal reflux disease, a condition that can make eating unpleasant—I felt a wave of compassion for the childlike woman in the bed.

As Devereaux blew her nose with a thoroughness I had to admire, I edged toward the hall for a closer look at the closet, being as discreet as possible. My movement wasn’t lost on our hostile hostess.

“Where the hell’s she going?”

“Never mind her,” Ollie said.

“The fuck, never mind. I don’t like strangers sniffing through my undies.”

“Ms. Forex left a duffel in the closet,” I said. “We have permission to search it.”

The neon blues jumped to me. Their lashes were curly and perhaps the longest I’d ever seen.

“Ms. Forex,” delivered as a full-on sneer, “has the brainpower of a salami sandwich.”

“She was kind to you.”

The heavy brows winged up in surprise. “That what you call it? Kindness? I was her latest pity project.”

“Pity project?”

“Take in the flawed and make their lives bliss.”

“Was Annaliese Ruben flawed?” My compassion was losing out to dislike.

“She wasn’t Miss America.” Devereaux snorted, an ugly antihistamine-wet sound.

“You knew her?”

“I heard about her.”

“Where’s the duffel?” Curt. Ollie was fast losing patience.

“No clue.”

“Give it the old college try, Aurora.”

“You’ve got no warrant, you don’t get shit.”

“I’m trying to appeal to your good side, kiddo.”

“I don’t have a good side.”

“Fair enough. Let’s try another angle. I’ve got a landlady reporting illegal substances on her property. How about we toss the place, starting with this?”

Ollie lifted a shoulder bag from the floor beside the bed. The thing was metallic, with enough fringe to embarrass Dale Evans.

Devereaux arched forward at the waist and shot out an arm. “Give me that!”

Ollie held the purse just out of her reach.

“You bastard.”

Smiling, Ollie swung the bag like a pendulum.

“Bastard!”

Ollie pointed to the robe.

“Turn around!”

Ryan and I did. Ollie did not.

I heard movement, the swish of fabric, then a thumpy jangle as the purse hit the bed.

“Excellent.”

On hearing Ollie’s comment, Ryan and I turned back.

Devereaux was sitting sideways, lower legs over the edge of the mattress, toes not touching the carpet. She was wearing the robe and the same fuck-you pout.

Ollie repeated his question. “Where’s the duffel?”

“Closet shelf.”

“I believe you have some packing to do?”

“I’d rather eat dog shit than spend one more day in this dump!”

Bag pressed to her chest, Devereaux scooched forward and dropped from the bed. Grabbing shorts and a top from the mess on the shelving, she strode to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Ryan, Ollie, and I were right on her heels.

The closet was a miniature walk-in with a long head-high bar on one wall and shorter double bars on the other. Dresses, tops, and skirts hung from hangers, most featuring bright colors and a whole lot of bling.

The floor was ankle-deep in shoes and soiled clothing. The latter filled the small space with a sweaty, syrupy scent.

A single shelf L’ed above both of the high bars, filled to capacity. Rolls of toilet tissue and paper towel. Shoe boxes. A printer. A blender. A fan. Plastic tubs whose contents I couldn’t identify.

I spotted the duffel in the corner where the long stretch right-angled into the short. It was olive-green polyester with black handles and a front zipper pouch. Wading through the muddle of Walmart fire-hazard chic, I pushed a handful of hanging garments aside. A stepladder lay against the baseboard. As I grabbed it, my eye took in something on the wall, half concealed by a large suitcase. My pulse quickened.

Later .

After backing out of the dresses, I positioned the ladder. Then, with Ryan acting as my spotter, I scampered up the rungs.

Three tugs and the duffel came free. Its weight suggested there was little inside.

I lowered the duffel to Ryan, who handed it to Ollie. We retraced our steps to the living room. Running water behind the bathroom door suggested Devereaux was still engaged in her morning toilette.

Ollie gestured for me to do the honors. I spread the duffel’s handles and yanked the zipper.

The bag held four objects. A pair of cheap plastic sunglasses with one cracked lens. A snow globe with a panda and butterflies inside. A rusty Bic razor. A tire-tread sandal probably dating to the Woodstock era.

“Our job is easy now.”

Ryan and I looked at Ollie.

“No way she’s not coming back for these jewels.”

No one smiled at Ollie’s joke.

“What about the front compartment?” Ryan suggested.

I checked. It was empty.