Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“LANCASTER.”

“Lancaster who?”

“South Carolina.”

I heard cellophane crinkle, then the sound of chewing.

“That’s about forty minutes south of Charlotte.”

“Uh-huh. Straight down five twenty-one.”

Pause.

“What about Lancaster, South Carolina?”

“Skeleton.” Garbled through what sounded like caramel and peanuts.

“Three”—crinkle—“years back.”

Slidell was in Snickers mode. My grip tightened on the receiver.

“Hikers.”

A lot of crinkling, and a comment I couldn’t make out.

“Park.”

“Hikers found a headless, handless skeleton in a park near Lancaster?” I prompted.

“Yep.”

A click, as though Slidell were picking a tooth with a thumbnail.

“Were the remains ID’ed?”

“Nope.”

“What happened to them?”

“Packed up and shipped to Columbia.”

“To Wally Cagle?”

“He the anthropologist down there?”

“Yes.”

“Stubby little fruit fly, goatee looks like a mallard’s arse?”

“Walter Cagle is a highly qualified, board-certified forensic anthropologist.” It took an effort to keep my voice level. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Probably.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fine citizens of Lancaster County elected themselves a new coroner two years back. New kid claims his predecessor didn’t keep real good records.”

“Who circulated the query?”

“Sheriff.”

“What does he say?”

“Says talk to the former coroner. Sheriff ’s new, too.”

“Have you done that?”

“Tough order. Guy’s dead.”

I was gripping the receiver so tightly the plastic was making small popping sounds.

“Does the current coroner have any information on the case?”

“Unknown. Partial skeleton with animal damage.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s what’s in the original police report. Nothin’ else in the file.”

“Is someone checking with Dr. Cagle?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you pulling up missing persons for an ID on the privy skull?”

“Hard to do with nothing to go on.”

Slidell had a point.

“White male, twenty-five to forty. Bad teeth, four restorations.” I kept my voice even.

Mrs. Flowers’s fingers were flying over her keyboard. Now and then she’d glance up at Ryan. He’d smile, and the color in her cheeks would deepen.

“That helps.”

“But don’t rule out a female if everything else works.”

“The hell are you saying? Don’t a person got to be one or the other?”

“Yes. One does.”

I looked at Ryan. He grinned.

“I’ll keep my cell turned on,” I said to Slidell. “Call me when you know something.”

Normally my refrigerator contains leftover carryout, frozen dinners, condiments, coffee beans, Diet Coke, and milk, with a smattering of slimed-out produce in the bins. That night it was uncharacteristically full.

When I opened the door, a Vidalia onion dropped to the floor and rolled to a stop against Boyd’s haunch. The chow sniffed, licked, then relocated himself under the table.

“Been foraging?” I asked.

“Hooch pointed me to the Fresh Market.”

Boyd’s ears rose, but his chin stayed on his paws.

I picked up a package wrapped in butcher paper.

“You know how to cook swordfish?”

Ryan held out both arms.

“I am a son of Nova Scotia.”

“Uh-huh. Would you like a Sam Adams?”

“Generations of my people have made their living from the sea.”

I really could love this guy, I thought.

“Your parents were born in Dublin, trained in medicine in London,” I said.

“They ate a lot of fish.”

I handed him the beer.

“Thanks.”

He twisted off the lid and took a long swig.

“Why don’t you—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “Why don’t I take a shower while you and Hooch rustle up some vittles.”

Ryan winked at Boyd.

Boyd wagged at Ryan.

“OK.”

That’s not how it went.

I’d just lathered my hair when the shower door opened. I felt cool air, then a warm body.

Fingers began massaging my scalp.

I pressed into Ryan.

“Have you started the fish?” I asked, without opening my eyes.

“No.”

“Good.”

We were cuddled on the couch when the phone rang.

It was Katy.

“What’s up?”

“Just finished dinner.”

“Now?”

I looked at the mantel clock. Ten-thirty.

“Some things, uh, came up.”

“You need to ease back, Mom. Take some time for yourself.”

“Um.”

“Are you still working on Boyd’s big score?”

“Boyd’s big score may actually turn out to be something.”

“Such as?”

“I found human bones mixed in with the animal remains.”

“You’re kidding.”

Ryan tickled behind my ear. I brushed his hand away.

“I’m not kidding. Anyway, where have you been hiding out?”

“Subbing at Dad’s firm while the receptionist is on vacation. It is so boring.”

She gave the “so” at least three syllables.

“What do they have you doing?”

Ryan blew air onto the nape of my neck.

“Licking envelopes and answering the phone. ‘Bialystock und Bloom. Bialystock und Bloom.’ ” She imitated the Swedish receptionist from The Producers.

“Not bad.”

“Lija and I thought we’d throw a dinner party.”

“That sounds like fun.”

Ryan unwrapped his arm from my shoulders, stood, and waggled his coffee cup. I shook my head and mouthed “no thanks.”

“Is someone else there?”

“Who do you plan to invite?”

Short pause.

“When I called, some guy answered your phone.”

Slightly shorter pause.

“That guy’s staying with you, isn’t he? That’s why you sound funny. You’re playing tonsil tennis with the studmuffin from Montreal.”

“Are you talking about Andrew Ryan?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about.” Sudden recollection. “Wait a minute. It’s been bugging me, but I just figured out who that is. I met that guy when I visited you in Montreal and some serial killer tried to reconfigure your larynx with a chain.”

“Katy—”

“Anyway, le monsieur was there when I dropped Boyd off. Whoooo, Mom. That guy’s a player.”

I heard her shout across the apartment.

“My mom’s shacking up with a gendarme.”

“Katy!”

Muffled comment.

“Oh, yeah. This dude makes Harrison Ford look like Freddy Geek-meister.”

More muffled commentary.

Katy spoke into the phone.

“Lija says keep him.”

Again, a voice in the distance.

“Good idea.” Katy reengaged. “Lija says bring him to the party.”

“When is this gala?”

“Tomorrow night. We thought it might be fun to dress up.”

I looked at Ryan. After our shower, the studmuffin had swapped the luau shirt and shorts for cutoffs, tank, and flip-flops.

“What time?”

At nine-seventeen the next morning Ryan and I entered an office on the third floor of the McEniry Building at UNCC. Though not large, the room was sunny and bright, with a colorful throw rug overlying the institutional wall-to-wall. Woven in primary colors, stylized nests formed an outer border, and a long-legged heron took flight in the center.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled the wall to the left. Those to the right held dozens of aviary prints and photos. Brilliant, dull, tropical, arctic, predatory, flightless. The variety in beaks and plumage was astonishing.

Carved and sculpted birds perched on the desk and filing cabinets, and peeked from atop and between shelved books. Tapestry bird pillows rested on the window ledge. A parrot marionette hung from the ceiling in one corner.