Bare Bones (4 page)

By six forty-five I was parked beside my patio.

The annex was blissful y quiet. Entering through the kitchen, I heard nothing but the hum of the Frigidaire and the soft ticking of Gran Brennan’s mantel clock.

“Hey, Bird.”

My cat did not appear.

“Birdie.”

No cat.

Setting down my dinner, purse, and briefcase, I crossed to the refrigerator and popped a can of Diet Coke. When I turned, Birdie was stretching in the dining room doorway.

“Never miss the sound of a pop-top, do you, big guy?”

I went over and scratched his ears.

Birdie sat, shot a leg in the air, and began licking his genitals.

I knocked back a swig of Coke. Not Pinot, but it would do. My days of boogying with Pinot were over. OrShiraz , or Heineken, or cheap Merlot. It had been a long struggle but that curtain was down for good.

Did I miss alcohol? Damn right. Sometimes so much I could taste and smel it in my sleep. What I didn’t miss were the mornings after. The trembling hands, the dilated brain, the self-loathing, the anxiety over words and actions not remembered.

From now on, Coke. The real thing.

The rest of the evening I spent writing reports. Birdie hung in until the guacamole and sour cream ran out. Then he lay on the couch, paws in the air, and dozed.

In addition to Tamela Banks’s baby, I’d examined three sets of remains since my return toCharlotte fromMontreal . Each required a report.

A partial y skeletonized corpse was discovered under a pile of tires at a dump inGastonia . Female, white, twenty-seven to thirty-two years of age, five-foot-two to five-foot-five in height. Extensive dental work. Healed fractures of the nose, right maxil a, and jaw. Sharp instrument trauma on the anterior ribs and sternum. Defense wounds on the hands. Probable homicide.

A boater onLakeNorman had snagged a portion of an upper arm. Adult, probably white, probably male. Height five-foot-six to six feet.

A skul was found on the banks of Sugar Creek. Older adult, female, black, no teeth. Not recent. Probably a disturbed cemetery burial.

As I worked, my mind kept drifting back to the previous spring inGuatemala . I’d picture a stance. A face. A scar, sexy as hel . I’d feel a ripple of excitement, fol owed by a prick of anxiety. Was this upcoming beach trip such a good idea? I had to force myself to focus on the reports.

At one-fifteen I shut down the computer and dragged myself upstairs.

It wasn’t until I was showered and lying in bed that I had time to consider Geneva Banks’s statement.

“It wasn’t Darryl’s baby.”

“What!”Slidel , Banks, and I had replied as one.

Genevaremumbled her shocker.

Whose?

No idea. Tamela had confided that the child she was carrying had not been fathered by Darryl Tyree. That was al Geneva knew.

Or would say.

A thousand questions jockeyed for position.

DidGeneva ’s information clear Tyree? Or did it render him even more suspect? Knowing the child was not his, had Tyree murdered it? Had he forced Tamela to kil her own baby?

DidGeneva have a valid point? Could the infant have been born dead? Had there been a genetic defect? An umbilical cord problem? Had Tamela, heartbroken, merely chosen the most expedient way and cremated the lifeless body in the woodstove? It was possible. Where had the baby been delivered?

I felt Birdie land on the bed, explore possibilities, then curl behind my knees.

My mind circled back to the upcoming beach junket. Could it lead anywhere? Did I want that? Was I looking for something meaningful, or merely hoping for rock-and-rol sex? God knows, I was horny enough. Was I capable of committing to another relationship? Could I trust again? Pete’s betrayal had been so painful, the breakup of our marriage so agonizing, I wasn’t sure.

Back to Tamela. Where was she? Had Tyree harmed her? Had they gone to ground together? Had Tamela run off with someone else?

As I drifted off, I had one final, disquieting thought.

Finding answers concerning Tamela was up to Skinny Slidel .

When I awoke, scarlet sun was slashing through the leaves of the magnolia outside my window. Birdie was gone.

I checked the clock. Six forty-three.

“No way,” I mumbled, drawing knees to chest and burrowing deeper beneath the quilt.

A weight hit my back. I ignored it.

A tongue like a scouring brush scraped my cheek.

“Not now, Birdie.”

Seconds later I felt a tug on my hair.

“Bird!”

A reprieve, then the tugging began again.

“Stop!”

More tugging.

I shot up and pointed a finger at his nose.

“Don’t chew my hair!”

My cat regarded me with round, yel ow eyes.

“Al right.”

Sighing dramatical y, I threw back the covers and pul ed on my summer uniform of shorts and a T.

I knew giving in was providing positive reinforcement, but I couldn’t take it. It was the one trick that worked, and the little bugger knew it.

I cleaned up the guacamole Birdie had recycled onto the kitchen floor, ate a bowl of Grape-Nuts, then grazed through theObserveras I drank my coffee.

There’d been a pileup on I-77 fol owing a late-night concert atParamount ’s Carowinds theme park. Two dead, four critical. A man had been shotgunned in a front yard onWilkinson Boulevard . A local humanitarian had been charged with cruelty to animals for crushing six kittens to death in his trash compactor. The city council was stil wrangling over sites for a new sports arena.

Refolding the paper, I weighed my choices.

Laundry? Groceries? Vacuuming?

Screw it.

Refil ing my coffee, I shifted to the den and spent the rest of the morning wrapping up reports.

Katy picked me up at exactly twelve noon.

Though an excel ent student, gifted painter, carpenter, tap dancer, and comic, promptness is not a concept my daughter holds in high esteem.

Hmm.

Nor, to my knowledge, is the Southern rite known as the pig pickin’

Though my daughter’s official address remains Pete’s house, where she grew up, Katy and I often spend time together when she is home from theUniversity ofVirginia inCharlottesvil e . We have gone to rock concerts, spas, tennis tournaments, golf outings, restaurants, bars, and movies together.

Never has she proposed an outing involving smoked pork and bluegrass in a backyard.

Hmm.

Watching Katy cross my patio, I marveled, yet again, at how I could have produced such a remarkable creature. Though I’m not exactly last week’s meat loaf, Katy is a stunner. With her wheat-blonde hair and jade-green eyes, she has the beauty that makes men arm-wrestle their buddies and perform swan dives from rickety piers.

It was another sultry August afternoon, the kind that brings back childhood summers. Where I grew up, movie theaters were air-conditioned, and houses and cars sweltered. Neither the bungalow inChicago nor the rambling frame farmhouse to which we relocated inCharlotte was equipped with AC. For me, the sixties were an era of ceiling and window fans.

Hot, sticky weather reminds me of bus trips to the beach. Of tennis under relentless blue skies. Of afternoons at the pool. Of chasing fireflies while adults sipped tea on the back porch. I love the heat.

Nevertheless, Katy’s VW could have used some AC. We drove with the windows down, hair flying wildly around our faces.

Boyd stood on the seat behind us, nose to the wind, eggplant tongue dangling from the side of his mouth. Seventy pounds of prickly brown fur. Every few minutes he’d change windows, flinging saliva on our hair as he whipped across the car.

The breeze did little more than circulate hot air, swirling the odor of dog from the backseat to the front.

“I feel like I’m riding in a clothes dryer,” I said as we turned fromBeatties Ford Road onto NC 73.

“I’l have the AC fixed.”

“I’l give you the money.”

“I’l take it.”

“What exactly is this picnic?”

“The McCranies hold it every year for friends and regulars at the pipe shop.”

“Why arewegoing?”

Katy rol ed her eyes, a gesture she’d acquired at the age of three.

Though I am a gifted eye rol er, my daughter is world-class. Katy is adept at adding subtle nuances of meaning I couldn’t begin to master. This was a low-level I’ve-already-explained-this-to-you rol .

“Because picnics are fun,” Katy said.

Boyd switched windows, stopping midway to lick suntan lotion from the side of my face. I pushed him aside and wiped my cheek.

“Why is it we have dogbreath with us?”

“Dad’s out of town. Does that sign say Cowans Ford?”

“Nice segue.” I checked the road sign. “Yes, it does.”

I reflected for a moment on local history. Cowans Ford had been a river crossing used by the Catawba tribe in the 1600s, and later by the Cherokee.

Davy Crockett had fought there during the French and Indian War.

In 1781 Patriot forces under General Wil iam Lee Davidson had fought Lord Cornwal is and his Redcoats there. Davidson died in the battle, thus lending his name toMecklenburgCounty history.

In the early 1960s the Duke Power Company had dammed the Catawba River at Cowans Ford and createdLakeNorman , which stretches almost thirty-four miles.

Today, Duke’s McGuire Nuclear Power Plant, built to supplement the older hydroelectric plant, sits practical y next to the General Davidson monument and the Cowans Ford Wildlife Refuge, a 2,250-acre nature preserve.

Wonder how the general feels about sharing his hal owed ground with a nuclear power plant?

Katy turned onto a two-lane narrower than the blacktop we were leaving. Pines and hardwoods crowded both shoulders.

“Boyd likes the country,” Katy added.

“Boyd only likes things he can eat.”

Katy glanced at a Xerox copy of a hand-drawn map, stuck it back behind the visor.

“Should be about three miles up on the right. It’s an old farm.”

We’d been traveling for almost an hour.

“The guy lives out here and owns a pipe store inCharlotte ?” I asked.

“The original McCranie’s is atParkRoadShopping Center .”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke pipes.”

“They also have zil ions of cigars.”

“There’s the problem. I haven’t laid in this year’s stock.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard of McCranie’s. The place is aCharlotte institution. People just kind of gather there. Have for years. Mr. McCranie’s retired now, but his sons have taken over the business. The one who lives out here works at their new shop in Cornelius.”

“And?” Rising inflection.

“And what?” My daughter looked at me with innocent green eyes.

“Is he cute?”

“He’s married.”

Major-league eye rol .

“But he has a friend?” I probed.

“You got to have friends,” she sang.

Boyd spotted a retriever in the bed of a pickup speeding in the opposite direction.Rrrrppping,he lunged from my side to Katy’s, thrust his head as far out as the half-open glass would al ow, and gave his best if-I-weren’t-trapped-in-this-car growl.

“Sit,” I ordered.

Boyd sat.

“Wil I meet this friend?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Within minutes parked vehicles crowded both shoulders. Katy pul ed behind those on the right, kil ed the engine, and got out.

Boyd went berserk, racing from window to window, tongue sucking in and dropping out of his mouth.

Katy dug folding chairs from the trunk and handed them to me. Then she clipped a leash to Boyd’s col ar. The dog nearly dislocated her shoulder in his eagerness to join the party.

Perhaps a hundred people were gathered under enormous elms in the backyard, a grassy strip about twenty yards wide between woods and a yel ow frame farmhouse. Some occupied lawn chairs, others mil ed about or stood in twos and threes, balancing paper plates and cans of beer.

Many wore athletic caps. Many smoked cigars.

A group of children played horseshoes outside a barn that hadn’t seen paint since Cornwal is marched through. Others chased each other, or tossed bal s and Frisbees back and forth.

A bluegrass band had set up between the house and barn, at the farthest point permitted by their extension cords. Despite the heat, al four wore suits and ties. The lead singer was whining out “White House Blues.” Not Bil Monroe, but not bad.

A young man materialized as Katy and I were adding our chairs to a semicircle facing the bluegrass boys.

“Kater!”

Kater? It rhymed with “tater.” I peeled my shirt from my sweaty back.

“Hey, Palmer.”

Palmer? I wondered if his real name was Palmy.

“Mom, I’d like you to meet Palmer Cousins.”

“Hey, Dr. Brennan.”

Palmer whipped off his shades and shot out a hand. Though not tal , the young man had abundant black hair, blue eyes, and a smile like Tom Cruise’s inRisky Business.He was almost disconcertingly good-looking.

“Tempe.” I offered a hand.

Palmer’s shake was a bone crusher.

“Katy’s told me a lot about you.”

“Real y?” I looked at my daughter. She was looking at Palmer.

“Who’s the pooch?”

“Boyd.”

Palmer leaned over and scratched Boyd’s ear. Boyd licked his face. Three slaps to the haunch, then Palmer was back at our level.

“Nice dog. Can I get you ladies a couple of brews?”

“I’l have one,” Katy chirped. “Diet Coke for Mom. She’s an alckie.”

I shot my daughter a look that could have frozen boiling tar.

“Help yourself to chow.” Palmer set off.

Hearing what he thought was a reference to his bloodline, Boyd shot forward, yanking the leash from Katy’s hand, and began racing in circles around Palmer’s legs.

Recovering his balance, Palmer turned, a look of uncertainty on his perfect face.

“He’s OK off the leash?”

Katy nodded. “But watch him around food.”

She retrieved the leash and unclipped it from the col ar.

Palmer gave a thumbs-up.

Boyd raced in delighted circles.