Break No Bones

  Ryan reached out and thumbed a tear from my cheek. “Thanks.” Spoken so softly, I barely heard.

  “Next installment, the Charlotte years.” I arced a hand, suggesting a movie marquee.

  Pub sounds swirled around us. Seconds passed. A minute. When Ryan’s gaze met mine some of the tension had eased in his face.

  Leaning back, Ryan raised his brows as though seeing me for the first time. The man loved raising his brows. And it worked for him. Gave him an air of unruffled curiosity.

  I imagined my appearance. Smudged mascara. Tear-streaked face. River-rat hair yanked up in a knot.

  I knew what was coming. An unspoken question as to today’s events. OK. Business. Familiar ground. Neutral.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Involving mud wrestling?”

  “Involving a reptile named Ramon.”

  “Loved Henry Silva as the big-game hunter.”

  Blank stare.

  “Alligator. 1980. Heartlessly flushed in his youth, Ramon grows to thirty feet and wants out of the Chicago sewer system. Great film. Classic B creature feature.”

  “Do you want to hear this?”

  “I do.”

  “Can I have a cheeseburger?”

  Ryan signaled the waitress, ordered, then chest-crossed his arms and thrust out his legs, ankles crossed.

  “You know about the Dewees skeleton,” I began.

  “The one your students unearthed.”

  I nodded. “He was a white male, probably in his forties. Probably dead at least two years. I found an odd fracture on one of his neck vertebrae, and nicks on his twelfth rib and on several lower back vertebrae. He’d had dental work, but nothing popped when we ran his identifiers through NCIC. Ditto for a match with local MPs. One item of interest. I found an eyelash with the bones. The Dewees guy is blond. The lash is black. Emma’s sent it to the state lab for DNA testing.”

  “Emma?”

  “Emma Rousseau is the Charleston County coroner.” I couldn’t handle discussing Emma right then.

  “The Dewees skeleton is body number one.”

  “Yes. Pete’s in Charleston doing a financial investigation and searching for a client’s daughter. Helene Flynn disappeared over six months ago while working at a street clinic operated by God’s Mercy Church, the brainchild of a local televangelist named Aubrey Herron.

  “When Helene vanished, her father, Buck Flynn, hired a private investigator named Noble Cruikshank. Two months into the investigation, Cruikshank pulled his own vanishing act. Cruikshank drank. He’d been on benders before where he just disappeared for a time, so no major search was launched. Last Monday, kids found a body hanging from a tree in a national forest just north of town. We got prints, ran them through AFIS. Bingo. The dangler was Cruikshank, who, by the way, was carrying the wallet of a guy named Chester Pinckney, a local swamp rat.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea. Pinckney says his wallet was stolen. More likely, he lost it.”

  My cheeseburger arrived. I added lettuce, tomato, condiments.

  “Cruikshank was male, white, forty-seven. He had a neck fracture like the man on Dewees. Same vertebra, same side, though the noose was knotted at the back of his head.”

  “Nicks in the ribs and lower back?”

  “No.”

  I took a moment to devour a significant portion of my burger.

  “Gullet, that’s the Charleston County sheriff, got Cruikshank’s belongings from the guy’s landlord. Among them was a disc of photos showing people coming and going from the clinic at which Helene Flynn worked. Another box held files. Some contained the stuff you’d expect on a PI’s cases. Notes, canceled checks, copies of letters and reports. There was one file on Helene Flynn. Others held nothing but clippings on missing persons. Still others held only handwritten notes.”

  “Get much from the notes?”

  “Zilch. They’re in code. We also have Cruikshank’s PC, but so far no password.”

  “OK. Cruikshank is body number two. When do we get to Ramon?”

  I told him about the woman and the cat in the barrel.

  “She’s white, approximately forty, and probably died of ligature strangulation. The cat was registered to one Isabella Cameron Halsey. I plan to follow that up tomorrow.”

  “Anything to connect the three cases?”

  “The deceased are all white and middle-aged. The two men have identical neck fractures. The woman’s been strangled. Beyond that, not really. But I haven’t finished with the barrel lady. Her bones won’t be fully cleaned until Monday.”

  Ryan dropped his eyes to the little metal disk filled with cigarette ash. But he wasn’t really seeing it. He looked like he was focusing on some thought, coming to grips with some realization.

  “You really have pulled the plug on Pete?” he asked.

  “I moved out on the man how long ago?” Words chosen carefully.

  Ryan’s gaze came up and settled on mine. The blue eyes, the sandy hair, the lines and creases in all the right places. Looking like that must be breaking six state laws and a dozen federal guidelines, I thought. What was I doing? Why hadn’t I simply said yes to Ryan’s question about Pete? Would I now get a brotherly kiss on the cheek and a fond good-bye? My fingers remained tight on the handle of my mug.

  Then Ryan smiled.

  “Startovers?” he asked in a quiet, calm voice.

  “Olee ocean free,” I answered, relief flooding through me.

  Ryan held out a hand. We shook. Our fingers lingered, then separated slowly.

  “My dear old Irish mother gave a lot of thought to choosing my Christian name,” Ryan said.

  “Don’t push it, bucko,” I said.

  “I’ll keep trying.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’m a detective,” Ryan said.

  “I know.”

  “I detect things.”

  “A special skill.”

  “I could, if properly persuaded, place my years of experience at your disposal.”

  “With Isabella Halsey?”

  “And the cat. I love cats.”

  “What sort of persuasion?”

  “Persuasive persuasion.” Ryan ran one finger across my hand and up my wrist.

  I signaled the waitress.

  When the bill arrived we both went for it. Ryan won. As he dug out his credit card, I rose and circled the table.

  Arm-wrapping Ryan’s shoulders, I laid my cheek on the top of his head.

  Ryan agreed to move into the house.

  22

  RYAN AND I WERE EATING CAP’N CRUNCH when we heard Pete’s bedroom door open.

  “Lucy, I’m home!” Desi Arnez boomed across the house. “What’s that Jeep”—Pete bounded into the kitchen—“ers creepers.”

  Boyd jumped up. Ryan did not. The cop and the chow did the eyebrow thing. The counselor shot his to the hairline. Like Desi.

  “And who’s this nice young man?” A smile tweaked the corners of Pete’s mouth.

  I made introductions. Ryan half rose and the men shook hands.

  Pete was in running shorts, a sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck cut off, and Nikes. Turning his back to the counter, he palmed himself up and sat facing us, lower legs dangling.

  “Interesting time at GMC yesterday?” I asked.

  “Not as interesting as yours.” Pete’s gaze slid to Ryan, back to me. The corners of his mouth again twitched.

  I narrowed my eyes in a “don’t you dare” warning.

  Pete’s face went Lucille Ball innocent.

  Ryan’s attention remained focused on the Cap’n.

  “Money in. Money out,” Pete said. “I’m of the growing opinion that Daddy Buck needs an accountant, not an attorney.”

  “Did you speak to Herron?”

  “Damndest thing. The rev had to make an unscheduled trip to Atlanta. Unavoidable. So sorry. The staff will do everything they can to help.”

  “Everything except talk about Helene.”

/>   “They talk. What they say is, she was here, she’s gone, we don’t know, we haven’t heard. Maybe California.” Pete’s feet were swinging, his heels thunking the under-counter cabinets. “Oh. And pray God she’s well.”

  “Have they offered insight on how one of their brethren vanishes leaving no trace?”

  “They’re sticking with the gospel according to California. There are dozens of street clinics in the land of fruit and nuts, many operated, not surprisingly, by fruits and nuts. They suspect Helene may have abandoned the gospel for the teachings of crazoids and slipped outside the system.”

  Thunk. Thunkety-thunk-thunk went the Nikes.

  “It’s possible to effectively disappear if she’s in some communal living arrangement, using no credit cards, paying no bills, car insurance, taxes, or social security.”

  “Which would explain the truncated paper trail. Cruikshank reported to Daddy Buck that he’d found nothing postdating last November. At least nothing up until his own disappearance. Anything new on Cruikshank?”

  Thunk. Thunk.

  I shook my head. “Stop banging Anne’s cabinetry.”

  Pete’s legs went still for a full ten seconds. He turned to Ryan.

  “You drive that Jeep all the way from Canada?”

  “Her name’s Woody.”

  “Long trip.”

  “Tough on her. Her heart’s back in the Adirondacks.”

  Blank stare.

  “Must be a tree thing.”

  “Funny.” Pete’s face came back to me. “He’s a funny guy.”

  Now I gave Ryan the eye squint warning.

  “Did you learn why Cruikshank had that other guy’s wallet?” Pete asked.

  Thunk. Thunk.

  “Chester Pinckney. No, we didn’t.”

  “Good day yesterday?”

  I described the recovery of the woman in the barrel.

  “A gator’s no match for you, sugar pants.”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “Sorry.”

  Thunk. Thunk.

  I told Pete about the strangulation, the cat, the chip, and Dinh. Ryan listened and watched. I knew his philosophy. People speak two languages, only one verbal.

  “How’s Emma?” Pete asked.

  “She took a pass.”

  “Still bad?”

  “I’ve got to call her.”

  Pete hopped down, raised a heel to the counter, and began stretching. Ryan fluttered his lashes at me, a swooning deb. I repeated my eye squint.

  “What’s your next move?” I asked Pete.

  “Beach run with Boyd. Then golf.”

  “Golf?”

  Pete switched legs. “Tomorrow is Sunday, Herron will be back for the big show. That’s when I climb into the ring for some divine intervention.”

  “Your metaphor is mixed.”

  “My results won’t be.”

  “You’re feeling pretty cocky.”

  “Relax, I’m wearing a jock strap.” Lowering his leg, Pete winked in my direction.

  Major league eye roll.

  Seeing the leash unpegged, Boyd went wild. Pete squatted, hooked his collar, then rose and pointed in my direction.

  “Have a really special day.”

  Pete and chow disappeared.

  From beyond the door. “Sugar britches.”

  * * *

  We took Ryan’s Jeep into Charleston. He drove. I directed. On the way, I told him about my long friendship with Emma, about the curious rapport that kept us bonded, despite long periods of noncommunication. I shared the secret of Emma’s lymphoma. He suggested a visit after we’d been to Isabella Halsey’s house.

  I also told Ryan about Dickie Dupree and Homer Winborne. He asked my level of concern, on a one-to-ten scale. I gave the developer a five, the journalist a minus two.

  I remembered a comment from our discussion the night before.

  “What’s anomalous monism?”

  Ryan gave me a look of feigned disappointment at the gap in my schooling. “It’s a type of dualism in the philosophy of mind and action. Mental processes have genuine causal powers, but the relationships they enter into with physical entities can’t be explained by the laws of nature.”

  “Like our relationship.”

  “There you go.”

  “Hang a left here. Why Woody?”

  Ryan shot me a questioning look.

  “When did you name your Jeep Woody?”

  “This morning.”

  “You made that up.”

  “Inspired by GI Joe.”

  “Pete was a Marine. And don’t say ridiculous things to him. I don’t want him thinking you’re a clown.”

  Isabella Halsey lived on King Street, deep in the heart of old Charleston. As usual, that district was crowded with people who looked like they’d arrived on the Donald Duck parking shuttle. Women in designer sundresses, or in shorts that barely covered their cheeks. Men with large bellies and mesh baseball caps blankly gazing, or talking on cell phones while wearing golf shirts and eighteen-hole tans. Sunburned kids. Hand-holding newlyweds, or weds-to-be.

  The Old City Market was a hive of activity. Ice cream peddlers jangling their bicycle bells. Black ladies selling flowers and sweetgrass baskets, or offering to cornrow your hair. Husbands shooting footage of Mom and the kids. Retirees puzzling over walking-tour maps. Teens pointing throwaway Kodaks at each other. Vendors hawking beans, pralines, and peach preserves.

  Halsey’s address was just off the Battery, a harbor-front commons complete with statues, cannons, and a Victorian bandstand. The little park always strikes up a Sousa march in my head.

  It also strikes up memories of fourth grade history with Sister Mathias. It was from the Battery, in April of 1861, that Charlestonians watched Confederate soldiers battle Union troops holed up across the water at Fort Sumter. Bonjour, Civil War. Some historical preservationists have yet to say adieu, and fight to preserve the Confederate flag and to sing “Dixie.”

  After parking, Ryan and I headed south on East Bay. Past Rainbow Row, we took Tradd three blocks inland to a narrow brick-paved portion of Church.

  Unlike Cruikshank’s humble digs, Halsey’s home would have warranted the name “Magnolia Manor.” Window boxes overflowed with flowers, and the side yard was crowded with the spreading breadth of the grand old trees.

  Though realtors would use the terms “authentic,” “original,” and “uncorrupted” to describe the house itself, “handyman’s delight” popped into my mind. The beige stucco, black shutters, and wrought iron fencing all needed paint. The walkway and courtyard pavers were green with infiltrating moss.

  Approaching the gate, Ryan and I were enveloped in the fabled blossom scent.

  “Washington log some Z’s here?” Ryan asked in a low voice.

  “The general did sleep around.”

  Through the magnolias, I could see a woman sitting at a side yard table, her white hair dappled with sunlight. The woman was knitting. Though her jaw, neck, and arms had the loose, wrinkled tissue of the elderly, her hand movements were strong and confident.

  “The lady in the barrel was around forty,” I said. “If the victim is Halsey, that could be her mother.”

  Ryan laid a hand on my shoulder. I looked at him. The Viking blues held an expression I couldn’t read. A recognition of my caring? An acknowledgment that I did, indeed, feel things deeply?

  Ryan nodded encouragingly.

  “Excuse me,” I called into the courtyard.

  The woman’s head came up, but she didn’t look our way.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” I hesitated, unsure what words to use. “We’re here about Cleopatra?”

  The woman turned toward us. Sunlight on her glasses masked the expression in her eyes.

  “Ma’am? May we speak with you a moment?”

  The woman hunched forward and her mouth tightened into an inverted U. Setting her knitting on the table, she waved us into the yard. As Ryan and I crossed to her, the woman pulled smokes
from a pocket and lit up.

  “Join me?” The woman offered a pack of Davidoff mini-cigarillos.

  Ryan and I declined.

  “Lord in heaven with all his angels and saints.” The woman flapped a blue-veined hand. “You young folk run from tobacco, take the caffeine outa your coffee, the cream outa your milk. Sissies. That’s what I call y’all. Sissies. Want some sweet tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Cookie?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “’Course not. Might be real butter in those cookies. From a real cow.” To me. “You a model, buttercup?”

  “No, ma’am.” Why was I always targeted for nicknames?

  “Oughta be. You’re skinny enough.” The woman placed her free hand under her chin and smiled up through lowered lids, Lana Turner posing for a studio shot. “Miss Magnolia Blossom, 1948.” Chuckling, she drew a cigarillo hit. “A few of my parts sag a touch now, but this old gal had every chin in Charleston wagging back then.”

  The woman pointed at a wrought iron bench. “Set yourselves.”

  Ryan and I sat.

  “Lemme guess. You and this young man are researching the lifestyles of Dixie’s rich and famous?”

  “No, ma’am. I—”

  “I’m pulling your leg, buttercup. Get to it. Why are you and handsome asking after dead Egyptians?”

  “I’m speaking of a cat.”

  The wrinkled eyes narrowed, then widened behind their lenses.

  “You referencing my Cleo?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You found my wandering cat?”

  Leaning forward, I placed a hand on the old woman’s knee. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Cleo is dead. We located your address through an ID chip implanted beneath her skin.” I took a deep breath. “Cleo’s body was found with that of a woman. We suspect the dead woman was Cleo’s owner.”

  A glint came into the wrinkled old eyes. I braced for tears.

  “Isabella Halsey?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  I expected heartbreak, anger, disbelief. I got none of those.

  The woman chuckled again.

  Ryan and I glanced at each other.