“Do you know any big birdbrains?”
“I know you, cowboy.”
Ryan made a pistol with his hand and pointed it at me.
“Ready for another field trip tomorrow?”
“Hee-haw.”
This time the finger made a lasso.
We were passing Mrs. Flowers’s desk when the phone rang. She answered, then flapped a hand in my direction.
I waited while she spoke, then placed the call on hold.
“It’s Detective Slidell.”
I felt a sigh elbowing up my chest, but resisted the impulse toward melodramatics.
Mrs. Flowers smiled at me, then at Ryan. When he grinned back, a pink spot blossomed on each of her cheeks.
“He sounds like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
“Not a pretty picture.” Ryan winked.
Mrs. Flowers giggled, and her cheeks went raspberry.
“Do you want to take it?”
Like I wanted Ebola.
I reached for the receiver.
“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 figu
red 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 Geekmeister.”
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.
The place looked as though someone had hired an ornithologist, then consulted a “Birds Us” catalog to equip the office with what were thought to be exemplary furnishings.
Actually, Rachel had done it herself. One of the foremost ornithologists in the country, Rachel Mendelson was passionate about her science. She lived, breathed, slept, dressed, and probably dreamed birds. Her home, like her office, was resplendent with feathered subjects, both living and inanimate. On each visit I expected a shrike or a spoonbill to swoop in, settle in the recliner, and begin hogging the remote.
A window filled the upper half of the wall opposite the door. The blinds were half open, allowing a partial view of Van Landingham Glen. The rhododendron forest shimmered like a mirage in the midmorning heat.
A desk sat squarely in front of the window. Two chairs faced it, standard-issue metal with upholstered seats. One held a stuffed puffin, the other a pelican.
The desk chair looked like something designed for astronauts with orthopedic complaints. It held Dr. Rachel Mendelson.
Barely.
She looked up when we entered, but didn’t rise.
“Good morning,” Rachel said, then sneezed twice. Her head double-dipped, and her topknot bobbed.
“Sorry we’re late,” I said when Rachel had recovered. “Traffic was terrible on Harris Boulevard.”
“That’s why I’m always on the road by first light.” Even her voice was birdlike, with an odd, chirpy quality to it.
Rachel pulled a tissue from a painted owl holder, and blew her nose loudly.
“Sorry. Allergies.”
She wadded the tissue, tossed it into something below the desk, and lumbered to her feet.
It wasn’t much of a lumber, since Rachel stood only five feet tall. But what the woman lacked in height she made up for in breadth.
And color. Today Rachel was wearing lime green and turquoise. Lots of it.
For as long as I’d known Rachel, she had struggled with her weight. Diet after diet had enthused then failed her. Five years back she’d tried a regimen of veggies and canned shakes and dropped to 180, her all-time postpubescent best.
But try as she might, nothing lasted. By some bizarre chromosomal trick, Rachel’s set point seemed stuck at 227.
As though to compensate, her double helices granted Rachel thick, auburn hair, and the most beautiful skin I have ever seen.
And a heart big enough to accommodate a Radio City Music Hall Rockettes finale.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Ryan.” Rachel extended a chubby hand.
Ryan kissed the back of her fingers.
“Bonjour, madame. Parlez-vous français?”
“Un petit peu. My grandparents were québecois.”
“Excellent.”
Rachel’s eyes swung to me. Her brows rose and her lips rounded into a tiny O.
“Just say ‘down, boy,’” I said.
Ryan released her hand.
“Down, boy.” Rachel made a palms-down movement with both hands. “And girl.”
We all sat.
Ryan pointed to a metal sculpture atop a pile of exam books.
“Nice duck.”
“It’s a grebe,” Rachel corrected.
“You can put this visit on his bill.” Ryan.
“You know, I’ve never heard that one before.” Rachel could be as deadpan as Ryan. “Now. What’s this about a dead bird?”
Keeping details to a minimum, I explained the situation.
“I’m not top-drawer with bones, but I’m crackerjack with feathers. Let’s go into my lab.”
If Rachel’s office held a few dozen genera of birds, her lab was home to the entire Linnaean lineup. Kestrels. Shrikes. Moorhens. Condors. Hummingbirds. Penguins. There was even a stuffed kiwi in a glass-fronted cabinet at the far end.
Rachel led us to a black-topped worktable and I spread the bones on it. Raising half-moon glasses from her bosom to her nose, she poked through the assemblage.
“Looks like Psittacidae.”
“I thought so, too,” said Ryan.
Rachel did not look up.
“Parrot family. Cockatoos, macaws, loris, lovebirds, parakeets.”
“I had a pip of a parakeet when I was a kid,” said Ryan.
“Did you?” said Rachel.
“Named him Pip.”
Rachel glanced at me, and the chains on her half-moons swung in unison.
I pointed to my temple and shook my head.
Returning her attention to the table, Rachel selected the breastbone and gave it an appraising look.
“Probably a macaw of some sort. Too bad we don’t have the skull.”
A flashback. Larabee speaking of the headless passenger.
“Too small for a hyacinth’s. Too big for a red-shouldered.”
Rachel turned the sternum over and over in her hands, than laid it on the table.
“Let’s see the feathers.”
I unzipped the baggie and shook out the contents. Rachel’s eyes dropped back to the table.
If a woman can lock up, Rachel did it. For several seconds not a molecule of her being moved. Then, reverently, she reached out and picked up one feather.
“Oh, my.”
“What?”
Rachel gaped at me like I’d just pulled a nickel from her ear.
“Where did you get these?”
I repeated my explanation about the farmhouse basement.
“How long were they down there?”
“I don’t know.”
Rachel carried the feather to a work counter, pulled two strands from it, placed them on a glass slide, dropped liquid onto them, poked and repositioned them with the tip of a needle, blotted, and added a cover slip. Then she settled her ample buttocks on a round, backless stool, fiddled and adjusted, and peered through a microscope.
Seconds passed. A minute. Two.
“Oh, my.”
Rachel rose, waddled to a bank of long, wooden drawers, and withdrew a flat, rectangular box. Returning to the scope she removed the slide she had just prepared, selected one from the box, and viewed the latter.
Puzzled, Ryan and I exchanged glances.
Rachel followed the first reference s
lide with another from the box, then went back to the slide made from Rinaldi’s feather.
“I wish I had a comparison scope,” she said, exchanging Rinaldi’s feather for a third reference slide. “But I don’t.”
When Rachel finally looked up her face was flushed and her eyes were wide with excitement.
“CYANOPSITTA SPIXII.” HUSHED, LIKE A ZEALOT SPEAKING THE name of her god.
“That’s some kind of parrot?” Ryan asked.
“Not just any parrot.” Rachel pressed both palms to her chest. “The world’s rarest parrot. Probably the world’s rarest bird.”
The crossed hands rose and fell with the lime-turquoise bosom.
“Oh, my.”
“Would you like water?” I asked.
Rachel fluttered agitated fingers.
“It’s a macaw, actually.” Slipping off her half-moons, she let them drop to the end of their chain.
“A macaw is a type of parrot?”
“Yes.” She lifted the feather from beside the scope and stroked it lovingly. “This is from the tail of a Spix’s macaw.”
“Do you have a stuffed specimen?” Ryan asked.
“Certainly not.” She slid from her stool. “Thanks to habitat destruction and the cage-bird trade, there aren’t any more. I’m lucky to have the reference slides for the feathers.”
“What is it you look at?” I asked.
“Oh, my. Well, let me see.” She thought a moment, going through her own KISS abridgment. “Feathers have shafts out of which grow barbs. The barbs have mini-barbs, called barbules, connected by structures called nodes. In addition to the overall morphology and color of the feather, I look at the shape, size, pigmentation, density, and distribution of those nodes.”
Rachel went to one of the shelves above the drawers and returned with a large brown volume. After checking the index, she opened and laid the book flat.
“That”—she tapped a photo with a pudgy finger—“is a Spix’s.”
The bird had a cobalt blue body and pale head. The legs were dark, the eye gray, the beak black and less hooked than I’d expected.
“How big were they?”
“Fifty-five, sixty centimeters. Not the largest, not the smallest of the macaws.”
“Where did they hang out?” Ryan.
“The arid interior of east-central Brazil. Northern Bahia province, mostly.”
“The species is no more? They are an ex-species?”
I caught Ryan’s Monty Python reference. Rachel did not.
“The last surviving wild Spix’s disappeared in October of 2000,” she said.