And I had bear bones in the cooler.
If annoying tasks are avoidable, I am a world-class procrastinator. I advance mail from pile to pile, then chuck it when the deadline or opportunity has passed. I wait out snow until it melts. I coexist with dandelions and weeds. My garden relies on rain.
Conversely, unfinished but ultimately unavoidable chores hang over my head like guillotine blades. All through school I submitted papers in advance of due dates. I never pulled an all-nighter. I pay bills on time. I can’t rest until the inescapable is put to bed.
I phoned Ryan’s cell. Four rings, then his voice requested a message in French then in English.
“Get cooking, slick. I’ll be home by seven.”
Hanging up, I questioned the wisdom of my phrasing. I was referring to steak and potatoes. Ryan might take it to mean something else.
I tried Geneva Banks. Still no answer.
I considered Skinny Slidell.
Avoidable.
Returning to the autopsy room, I tied on a new paper apron, changed the soaking solution for the pubes and ribs, and packed up the remains of the passenger’s skull. Then I went to the cooler, reunited the tubs with their headless owner, and rolled out The Three Bears.
Only a portion of one bag remained unexamined. How long could it take?
Untwisting the plastic, I dumped the contents onto the table.
The large bones took ten minutes. All bear.
I was laying down the last tibia when something crawled into my peripheral vision. I turned to the mound of smaller material I’d scooped into a pile by my left elbow.
My eyes went to an object that had rolled free.
My heart plunged.
I poked through the pile, teased free another.
My fingers curled into fists and my head flopped forward like a Dalí clock.
I DREW A DEEP BREATH, OPENED MY EYES, AND REEXAMINED THE two small bones. One was cuboid with a hooklike process. The other resembled a miniature, half-carved bust.
Neither had anything to do with Ursus.
Damn!
My heart was in free fall.
Scooping the carpals onto my glove, I sought out Larabee. He was in his office.
I held out the bones.
He glanced at them, then up at me.
“A hamate and a capitate,” I said.
“From the Goldilocks gang?”
I nodded.
“Paw?”
“Hand.”
His face skewed into a frown.
“Human?”
“Very.”
“You’re sure?”
I did not reply.
“Damn!” Larabee tossed his pen onto the desk.
“My thought precisely.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Damn it to blue blazes!”
“I’ll go with that, too.”
“We’ll have to haul ass back out there.”
“Yes.”
“If that”—he jabbed a thumb at my upturned palm—“hand is recent, whoever did the burying might rethink his arrangement.”
“Could be searching for a shovel as we speak.”
“Tomorrow?”
I nodded.
Larabee reached for the phone. “Could it be an old unmarked grave?”
“Anything’s possible.”
I didn’t believe it.
* * *
Joe Hawkins dropped me at the annex.
Ryan was stretched out watching an I Love Lucy rerun. His day had obviously included shopping, for he now featured plaid shorts and a T-shirt that proclaimed BEER: NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE. Though his face was tanned, his legs were the color of uncooked perch.
Boyd was dozing at his end of the couch.
The coffee table held a dead Heineken and a cereal bowl containing a half-dozen chips. An empty bowl sat on the floor.
Four eyes scanned me when I appeared in the doorway. Birdie was sulking out of sight.
Boyd slunk to the floor.
“Bonjour, Madam La Docteure.”
I allowed my pack and purse to slide from my shoulder.
“Rough day?” Ryan asked.
I nodded, smiled. “Hope yours was better.”
“Hooch and I went to Kings Mountain.”
“The national park?”
“The Yanks kicked some serious British butt there, right, podna?” He scratched Boyd’s ear. Boyd laid his chin on Ryan’s chest.
While I was up to my elbows in putrid flesh, these two were strolling down history lane. At least someone had enjoyed the day.
Ryan palmed chips into his mouth. Boyd’s eyes followed his hand.
“Hooch kicked some serious squirrel butt.”
I crossed to the couch. Ryan drew back his feet, and I dropped into the spot Boyd had vacated.
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 c
ut 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.
Boyd led us from tree to tree, tail and nose working double-time, now and then flushing a bird or squirrel. Every few seconds he’d loop back, as though reminding us to stay focused on him.
I wasn’t. My mind was in countdown to plunge.
Back home, Boyd went straight to his bowl, guzzled water, blew air like a baleen, and flopped on the floor.
I hung up the leash and locked the door. As I set the alarm, I felt the warmth of Ryan’s body inches from mine.
With one hand Ryan took my wrist and turned me to him. With the other he reached up and flicked off the light. I smelled Irish Spring and cotton tinged with male sweat.
Pressing close, Ryan raised my hand and laid it against his cheek.
I looked up. His face was swallowed in shadow.
Ryan brought my other hand up. My fingertips felt the features I’d known for a decade. Cheekbones, a corner of his mouth, the angle of his jaw.
Ryan stroked my hair. His fingers slithered down the sides of my neck, moved across my shoulders.
Outside, my wind chime tinkled gaily.
Ryan’s hands glided over the curves of my waist, my hipbones.
A strange sensation flooded my brain, like something remembered from a distant dream.
Ryan’s lips brushed mine.
I drew in my breath. No. It drew in of its own accord.
Ryan kissed me hard on the mouth.
I kissed back.
Let go, every cell in my brain commanded.
My arms went around Ryan’s neck. I drew him to me, heart racing like some wild, frightened thing.
Ryan’s hands moved to my back. I felt my zipper slide down. His hands rose, eased the straps from my shoulders. I lowered my arms.
Black linen pooled at my feet.
All the sadness and frustration and unfulfilled desire of the past few days evaporated in that instant. The kitchen receded. The earth. The cosmos.
My fingers sought the buttons on the cornflower shirt.
PALMER COUSINS, KATY, AND I WERE IN MONTREAL, SIPPING CAP puccinos at an outdoor café. Across the way a street busker was playing the spoons.
Palmer was describing a yoga class to which participants brought their dogs.
Instead of clacking, the spoons began shrilling in the busker’s hands. The noise grew louder and louder until I couldn’t understand what my daughter’s friend was saying.
I opened my eyes.
And looked at the back of Ryan’s head.
And felt like a kid who’d given it up on prom night.
Turning onto my side, I groped for the phone.
“—lo?” Groggy.
br /> “Tim Larabee.”
I felt Ryan roll over behind me.
“Sorry to wake you.” The ME didn’t sound all that sorry.
Scooping me by the waist, Ryan tucked my bum into the angle formed by his hips and thighs. My breath came out with a soft “Hmff.”
“You OK?”
“Cat.”
I squinted at the clock. My thong obscured the digits.
“Time?” Monosyllables were all I could handle.
“Six.”
Ryan molded our bodies together like spoons.
“Did you get my message?” Larabee asked.
A protrusion was forming where the bowl of Ryan’s spoon met the handle.
“Message?”
“I called around eight last night.”
“I was out.” And too busy getting nooky to check my voice mail.
“I couldn’t score a dog to save my life. Your chow zeroed in on those bear bones, so I figure he must have a nose for rot. Thought maybe you could bring him along today.”
The protrusion was growing, severely hampering my ability to concentrate.
“Boyd’s not cadaver trained.”
“Better than nothing.”
Larabee had never met Boyd.
“By the way, Sheila Jansen got a match on the Cessna pilot.”
I sat up, raised my knees, and pulled the quilt to my chin.
“That was quick.”
“Harvey Edward Pearce.”
“Dentals?”
“Plus the snake tattoo. Harvey Pearce is a thirty-eight-year-old white male from Columbia, North Carolina, out near the Outer Banks. Popped right up on the NCIC search.”
“Pearce’s only been dead since Sunday. Why were his identifiers in the system?”
“Seems Harvey’s ex wasn’t real patient about child support. Hubby skipped a payment, the little woman reported him missing.”
“And Harvey missed a few.”
“You’ve got it. Eventually the locals got wise to the bogus missing person reports, but not before Harvey’s personal stats were well known to the law.”
Ryan tried to draw me back to him. I pointed a finger and scrunched my face into an exaggerated frown, as I would with Boyd.
“Where exactly is Columbia?”
“About half an hour west of Manteo on US 64.”
“Dare County?”
“Tyrrell County. See you in an hour at the farm. Bring the dog.”
Clicking off, I faced the first problem of the day.
I could bolt from the room naked. Or I could take the quilt, leaving Ryan to fend for himself.