Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

Boyd sniffed Ryan’s chip bowl. I nudged him and he turned and gave me the eyebrows.

Lucy and Ethel were hiding in a closet, trying to change out of work clothes. Lucy was cautioning Ethel not to tell Ricky.

“Why doesn’t she just get a job?” Ryan asked.

“Ricky won’t let her.”

I thought about Ricky Don Dorton.

“Turns out the Cessna belongs to a local bar owner who’s probably running drugs on the side.”

“Who’s that?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I wanted no comments on the naming preferences of my Dixie brethren. “The plane was clean and the owner wasn’t flying.”

“The fine citizen’s aircraft was stolen.”

“Yep.”

“I hate it when that happens to me.”

I cuffed Ryan on the chest and gave him the spare-me face.

“Who was on board?”

“Don’t know. The NTSB investigator is liaising with the cops. They’ll check their missing persons, then run our descriptors through NCIC.”

Ryan fought back a smile.

“But you already know that.” I scratched at a mosquito bite on my elbow. “I’ve got some bad news.”

Boyd shifted his chin to my knee.

“Remember the animal bones I mentioned?”

“I do.”

“Rin Tin Tin here actually discovered them. They were buried on farmland out in the county. I was pretty sure the stuff was animal, but I brought it in to the ME office just in case. I spent most of Sunday going through it.”

Lucy was on her bum. Ethel was trying to pull the coveralls over Lucy’s shoes.

“And?” Ryan coaxed.

“Today I found a pair of human hand bones.”

“Mixed in with Smokey.”

I nodded.

“So tomorrow’s going to be another special day.”

“Unfortunately. Look, I’m really sorry. You know I would much rather be with you.”

“And Hooch.” Ryan flicked his eyes to the dog, then back to me.

“And Hooch.” I patted Boyd’s head. “By the way, I really do appreciate you looking after him.”

Ryan raised palms and eyebrows in a gesture of c’est la vie.

“If Hooch has unearthed a homicide, you don’t want the perp relocating his vic.”

Boyd transferred back to Ryan.

“No,” I agreed, with an enthusiasm I reserve for Pap smears and rectals.

“You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Right.”

Ryan was, of course. Nevertheless I felt trapped, stuck in town like a moth on a pest strip.

I leaned forward, arched my back, and rotated my head. Things crunched in my neck.

Ryan sat up and scootched close.

“Turn.”

I did.

Ryan began kneading my shoulders with strong, circular movements.

I closed my eyes.

“Mmm.”

“Too hard?”

“Hm uhm.” I hadn’t realized how tense I was.

Ryan ran a thumb along the inner edge of each shoulder blade.

A tiny groan curled up from my throat. I cut it off.

Ryan’s thumbs moved to the base of my skull.

Ohgod.

Up the back of my head.

Ohmygod.

Back down, across my shoulders, and along the muscles to either side of my spine.

Full groan.

Seconds later the hands withdrew, and I felt the couch cushion change shape.

“Here’s a plan.”

I opened my eyes.

Ryan was leaning back, fingers laced behind his head. The chip bowl was empty. Boyd had crumbs on the side of his mouth.

“I’m buying you dinner.”

“No argument. Where?”

“Your town, your choice.”

An hour later Ryan and I were munching bruschetta at Toscana. The night was Hollywood-summertime perfect, the moon a full O overhead.

Toscana is an Italian eatery hidden in Specialty Shops on the Park, an enclave of cafés, spas, and boutiques at which Charlotte’s elite sip Silver Oak Cabernet, get wrapped in mud, and purchase bandannas for their dogs.

While the establishments are a bit too special for my budget, I do enjoy Toscana, especially in the outdoor dining months. It and Volare are my favorites of the Italian places, and are roughly equidistant from Sharon Hall. Tonight I chose Toscana.

Ryan and I sat at a small wrought-iron table in the restaurant’s cobbled courtyard. Behind us, a fountain tinkled softly. To our left, a couple debated the mountains versus the beach. A female threesome on our right compared golf handicaps.

Ryan sported tan Dockers and a crisp cotton shirt the exact cornflower blue of his eyes. His face was tan from the Kings Mountain outing, his hair still shower wet.

He looked good.

Very good.

I wasn’t chopped liver myself.

Man-eater black linen sundress. Strap sandals. Guatemalan Victoria’s most secret thong.

The last few days had served up too many corpses and too much death. I’d made a decision. Like my neckline, I was taking the plunge.

“Does everyone in North Carolina play golf?” Ryan asked, as a white-shirted waiter handed us menus the size of legal briefs.

“It’s state law.”

The waiter inquired as to our cocktail preferences. Ryan asked for a Sam Adams. I ordered Perrier with lemon. Barely masking his disappointment, the waiter withdrew.

“Do you?”

I looked at Ryan. He dragged his gaze from my chest to my eyes.

“Play golf.”

“I’ve had a few lessons.”

In truth, I hadn’t swung a club in years. Golf was Pete’s thing. When I left my husband, I left the game. My handicap was probably a forty-two.

The woman to our right was claiming six strokes.

“Would you like to hit a few balls?” I asked.

Since Pete and I had never legally terminated our marriage, technically I was still a spouse and could use the facilities at Carmel Country Club.

Why hadn’t I done the paperwork? I wondered for the zillionth time. Pete and I had been separated for years. Why not cut the cord and move on?

Was it a cord?

Not the time, Brennan.

“Could be fun,” Ryan said, reaching across the table to place his hand on mine.

Definitely not the time.

“Of course, Hooch wouldn’t like being left out.”

“His name is Boyd.” My voice sounded as though I’d inhaled helium.

“Hooch must learn to enjoy the serenity of his own inner beauty. Maybe you could get him started on yoga.”

“I’ll mention that to Pete.”

The waiter returned with our drinks, explained the menu. Ryan ordered the sea bass. I went for the veal Marsala, carefully leaving my palm on the table.

When the waiter departed, Ryan’s hand came back to mine. His face showed a mixture of concern and confusion.

“You’re not nervous about tomorrow, are you?”

“No,” I scoffed.

Really, no.

“You seem tense.”

“I’m just disappointed about the beach.”

Ryan tiptoed his fingertips up my arm.

“I’ve been waiting these many years to see you in a string bikini.”

The fingers spidered back down.

“We will get to the beach.”

If goose bumps can burn, mine did.

I cleared my throat.

“There are scores of unmarked graves on these old farms. Those hand bones have probably been underground since Cornwallis crossed Cowans Ford.”

At that moment the waiter placed salads between us.

We switched gears during dinner, talking about everything but ourselves and our work. Not a word about bones. No reference to tomorrow.

No reference to later tonight.

It was after eleven by the time we’d finished coffee and tiramisu.

Hooch/Boyd greeted us at the door of the annex. When I unpegged his leash, the chow yelped and bounded around the kitchen.

“Hooch does appreciate the small things,” Ryan said.

Again, I pointed out that the dog’s name was Boyd.

“And he’s flexible,” Ryan added.

The night smelled of petunias and mown grass. A light breeze ruffled the periwinkle. A million crickets performed a summer symphony in the round.