Speaking in Bones (23 page)

“And on my end?”

“How about we meet in Asheville first thing tomorrow?” I said. “Have a chat with the Brices.” A return to the mountains was the last thing I wanted right then. Though, mercifully, Asheville was a quicker drive from Charlotte than the trek to Avery County.

“Roger that.”

A second, then Ramsey read off an address. I wrote it down.

“In the meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up on the Brice baby’s death. The more info we have, the better we can press them.”

“And maybe look into Cora Teague’s health issues,” I suggested.

“You know how that will go.”

I did. Cora was a minor. No one would reveal squat about her medical history.

“Be clever,” I said.

“Deputy Devious. Going ten-eight.”

Dead air.

I wasn’t sure the meaning of Ramsey’s code. But I liked the guy more with each interaction.

I phoned the DNA section. Was told the person running the samples, a tech I didn’t know named Irene Trent, was out to lunch. I requested a callback.

The conversation reminded me I’d eaten nothing since a bagel at seven that morning. The clock now said two-fifteen.

Quick trip to the staff lounge. I zapped a frozen burrito. While downing it with a Diet Coke, I tried Ryan. Again got voice mail.

For a second I saw Ryan’s face, softly shadowed in the yellow porch light. In my mind I heard his stumbling proposal. We hadn’t spoken in days. Why wasn’t he returning my calls?

A pinprick of fear. Had I waited too long? Had he changed his mind about wanting me to come to Montreal? About wanting me at all?

I spent the next hour photographing the bust of Mason Gulley. Different angles. Different lighting effects. In some shots the resemblance to Uncle Edward was freaky. In the black and whites, Mason looked eerily alive.

Observing the wretched stone face, I again felt revulsion for Martha Gulley. How could a woman revile a child for a genetic lapse that occurred at his conception? Condemn her own grandson?

Trent finally phoned back at four. She didn’t laugh when I asked how the DNA testing was coming, but she came right to the edge. Fair enough. I’d submitted the samples only one week earlier. Her opinion, when pushed: The bone was shit. Don’t bet the farm on a testable sample.

As we were disconnecting, I remembered the swabs I’d taken from the hollow inside the concrete. Asked to be transferred to trace.

Got voice mail. Left a message.

I was on a roll.

Next I tried Marlene Penny at WCU. Was shocked when she picked up. Disappointed with what she could tell me.

The bones, found by her students in 2012, represented portions of a lower leg and foot. Due to extensive surface abrasion and fragmentation, she’d been unable to determine gender, race, height, age, cause of death. The remains had been sent to the University of North Texas for DNA testing. All attempts at amplification had failed. The bones were now in a box in her lab.

“Shall I scan and send you copies of my photographs?”

“Sure. Thanks. Eventually, I’ll need the bones.”

I provided my email address and we disconnected.

I was sitting, dulled by frustration, when my mobile started buzz-skipping across the blotter. I tipped my head to read the caller ID.

Great.

One steadying breath. I clicked on. “Hey.” Perky as a cherry topping a sundae.

“Oh, Tempe.” Breathless. “Are you just too unbearably busy to talk?”

“Never too busy for you, Mama. What’s up?”

“I was
so
afraid to tell you. I was petrified what you’d think. What you’d say.” So tremulous her words were taking little hops. “That’s why I was unforgivably distracted during your visit. Then you told me your news. Well, I was—”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Tell me!” Heart racing.

She did.

In long, swoopy superlatives and giddy little gasps.

M
ama’s words buzzed like an electrical short in my head. As I walked to the car. Drove home. Prepared cheeseburgers and ate them with Birdie.

I didn’t want to reflect on what Mama’s euphoria could mean. Didn’t know in reality what I thought of her tale.

My mother, gray-haired and dying of cancer, was madly in love.

I didn’t fly to the phone or fire off a text or an email. Frankly, I wasn’t sure where to reach out. Her Heatherhill doctor, Luna Finch? Goose? Harry?

Somewhere in her giddy outpouring, Mama had mentioned my sister. I decided to start there.

Harry didn’t answer her cell. A chirpy voice asked me to “Leave a short message like this one!” I did. With a far less bubbly air.

Baby Sister called as I was brushing my teeth.

“Have you talked to Mama?” I asked, still swishing and spitting.

“Now, Tempe, don’t you take that snippy tone. She’s happy.”

“She’s crazy.”

“Well aren’t we Judge Judy.”

“You’re right. That was insensitive. But Mama is hardly what you’d call a stable personality.”

“She says she’s taking her pills.”

“Mama always says she’s taking her pills.”

“She’s under the eye of a boatload of doctors.”

“That will do it.” Our mother was a master at sleight of hand. Had, over the years, evaded medication in the most creative of ways.

“Goose knows all Mama’s tricks.” Defensive.

“Right. So who is this geriatric gigolo?”

“Clayton Sinitch. And he’s not all that old.”

“Please say the guy’s not thirty-five.”

“The guy’s not thirty-five.”

“Harry!”

“He’s sixty-three.”

“What does he do?”

“Owns a dry-cleaning shop.”

“Well hallelujah! Mama can get her pants pressed at a discount.”

“And all her pleats starched.”

I caught the purry innuendo. Wanted absolutely nothing to do with the image.

“Where is Sinitch from?”

“Arkansas.”

“How did she meet him?”

“He’s recharging his batteries at Heatherhill.”

“How long has she known him?”

“That’s not important.”

I waited.

“I don’t keep her calendar, Tempe. I don’t know. Maybe a couple of weeks.”

“Harry.” Oh, so controlled. “She’s out-of-her-Guccis swept away with the guy.”

“Maybe a bit of romance will do her good.”

“Or maybe it’s a con and the asshole’s going to break her heart.”

“She’s agreed to the chemo.”

“What?” Mama hadn’t told me that.

“She’s agreed—”

“Because of Sinitch?”

“He vowed he’d love her when she’s bald as a coot.”

“What else do you know about him?” Rolling my eyes. Immediately feeling guilt for having done it.

“He buys her flowers and chocolates. They hold hands. They take meals together in the dining room. He scolds her for putting salt on her food.”

“Really?”

“I gather they’re also spending quality time in her suite.”

“Harry!”

I wasn’t believing this. Was confused over what to feel. Mama’s apathy on my last visit wasn’t due to an impending downward spiral. She was either preoccupied daydreaming about Sinitch or focused on hiding the guy’s existence from me.

“Don’t let on I told you about the chemo,” Harry said.

“Why not?”

“Apparently she doesn’t want you to know. Now promise.”

“Harry, this is—”

“I mean it. Not a word.”

“What’s a coot?” Defeated.

“I think it’s some kinda bird.”

I said good night and we disconnected.

No way I was up to phoning Ryan.

—

A 2014 National Geographic publication on the world’s best cities described Asheville, North Carolina, as “a mecca of awesome mountain scenery, bohemian art, and high southern cuisine.” The little burg has repeatedly snagged the top spot on surveys ranking towns as to livability. More than once, it has been voted the most desirable place to live in America.

Asheville is artists and street musicians and microbreweries. The nineteenth-century Downton-Abbey-eat-your-heart-out Vanderbilt house. The University of North Carolina–Asheville.

But, like Avery to the northeast, Buncombe County is a schizoid mélange of the civilized and the backward. Outside the prize jewel, there are no tourists. No antiques shops, Christmas boutiques, or vegan bistros. Out past the ski slopes and nature outfitters, gun cabinets are kept stocked and the Ten Commandments rule with an iron fist.

This time Ramsey arrived first. He was waiting at one of a half dozen cement tables outside Double D’s, a red double-decker bus turned coffee shop on Biltmore Avenue in Asheville’s small downtown.

“Costa Rican drip.” He slid a mug my way. “Hope it’s still hot.”

“Thanks.” The cream was frothed and configured into a meaningfully artful design whose symbolism was lost on me. The coffee was tepid but tasty.

“Good drive?”

“Yeah.”

“Ladies first?”

“I have little to report. Still waiting on DNA from the bones, trace from the concrete.” A lobotomy on Slidell.

“Good work.” Ramsey pulled the obligatory spiral from his jacket and thumbed a few pages. “Joel Brice is thirty-four, a sculptor, part of Asheville’s large, I don’t know, hippie community I guess you could call it. Crystals. Sandals. Hummus and yogurt.”

“I thought he was a welder.”

“He works in metal. Katalin is thirty-six, bakes organic breads to sell to area restaurants. Neither has an arrest record. Their daughter Saffron is seven.”

“Where does Saffron attend school?” Not sure why I asked.

“She’s homeschooled.”

“Like Mason Gulley.”

“And a lot of kids. The Brices are Unitarian now, but for several years belonged to Jesus Lord Holiness.”

“Until River’s death.”

“Yes.”

“That’s quite a philosophical leap from über-Catholic to Unitarian.”

“Perhaps they’re spiritual seekers.”

As usual, Ramsey’s expression was impenetrable. Was he mocking me? Them?

“The Brices live a few clicks north of here.” Repocketing the spiral. “We can ask them all about it.”

Ramsey knocked back the dregs of his coffee. Came away with a milky mustache. I pointed to his upper lip. He wiped it with his napkin and stood.

We left my car and took the SUV. No Gunner. I kind of missed him.

The neighborhood was one of mature trees, sagging overhead wires, and modest homes, some newer, most probably built in the twenties and thirties. The Brices’ house was one-story, with green siding and a fully roofed porch that kept the front door and windows in perpetual shade. Curtains draping a double dormer window suggested an attic bedroom.

The house, like its neighbors, sat on a small ridge above street level. The porch was accessed by narrow steps rising from the sidewalk through bushes that were probably pretty in summer.

Ramsey and I had a routine by now. As he rang, we stood to either side of a door whose small glass window was divided by scallopy mullions. Reminded me of a Gothic cathedral in miniature.

A dog took great interest in the sound of the bell. A big dog. Or a small one with truly impressive vocals.

In seconds the door swung open, releasing the sweet, doughy smell of baking bread. A girl regarded us, relaxed but curious. Cujo, not so relaxed, but at least he didn’t charge out the door.

“Who is it? A female voice came from somewhere beyond the girl’s back.

“A policeman.” The girl’s dark hair was center-parted and braided. Her eyes, deeply green, looked out from a pale, heart-shaped face.

“Hold Dozer, Saffron baby.” Footsteps hurried toward us.

The girl placed a hand on Dozer’s head. The dog stopped growling, but continued eyeing us with open suspicion. Composed of a big chunk of mastiff, the beast easily outdid me in poundage. And drool.

The woman appeared holding both arms up and away from her body. They were white with flour and her face was red with exertion. Her smile, at first friendly, wavered on seeing the deputy’s uniform.

“Katalin Brice?”

“Yes. And you are?” Eyes moving between Ramsey and me.

“Deputy Zeb Ramsey.” Displaying his badge. “This is Dr. Brennan.” Glossing over my qualifications. “We’d like to speak with you briefly.”

“About?”

“May we come in?” Directed more at Dozer than his mistress.

Katalin Brice looked past us to the street. In the morning sun, her short curly hair sparked like copper, her eyes like the sapphires in a brooch I’d inherited from Gran. Totally sans makeup, she was stunning.

Perhaps reassured by the Avery County logo on the SUV, Katalin stepped back. “Dozer, go to your bed.”

Radiating disapproval, the dog withdrew.

“I’m baking and mustn’t let the dough sit. Do you mind if we talk while I work?”

“Of course,” Ramsey said.

Katalin and Saffron led us to the back of the house, through living and dining rooms that were worn but spotless. The hardwood floors looked original, the paint fresh.

The furnishings, sparse and eclectic—papasan chairs, string beads hanging in a doorway, a framed poster of Gandhi—reminded me of my grad school apartment. A plaque on one wall read: “Someday, after we have mastered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for good the energies of love.”