"Right, plundered. And Celine? You'd still like to sell the farm, of course?"
"You bet, Nicky! Buy a nice villa in Antibes, get out of this dump."
"So everyone feels the same as they did before,” Nick said reflectively. “The only thing that's changed is the money.” He turned to his right. His voice, his entire manner, became gentler. “Therese, do you want to say anything, honey?"
Therese looked startled. She too hadn't said much until now, and what little she'd said had left Gideon with the impression that she was very sweet, very solicitous of others— of John, of her parents, of her children—and not very bright. Not very self-assured either. Most of her remarks faded away in mid-sentence, in a soft, not unattractive flurry of confusion and discomposure: oh gosh, she seemed to be saying, there I've gone and put my foot in my mouth again, haven't I?
That said, she was certainly a knockout, with clear, fresh skin somewhere between copper and bronze, features that combined the best of her Chinese and American heritage, and as classically beautiful, heart-shaped, and perfectly symmetrical a face as Gideon had ever seen.
"What a skull she must have under there,” Gideon had said to John in quiet admiration shortly after they arrived.
"You be sure and tell her that, Doc,” John had said. “I mean, what female wouldn't love to hear that? No wonder you swept Julie off her feet."
Therese's reply to Nick's question was, as usual, self-effacing. As far as she was concerned, she would be happy with whatever he decided—but in her heart of hearts she hoped they wouldn't sell, that was all.
Nick prompted her to continue.
Therese chewed her lip and went hesitantly forward. Since she had been a little girl, not a day had passed, not a single meal, when coffee hadn't been discussed, and pondered over, and argued about. For as long as she could remember, the growing of coffee had been the focal point of the family. More than that, much more, it was the coffee farm into which Brian had poured so much of his energy and thought and devotion. He had left his stamp on it, and to her—she knew how silly this sounded—it was a kind of monument to him. The idea of abandoning coffee simply because someone offered them money—did they really need more money?—of letting all that work and achievement be bulldozed away for just another tourist hotel...
As usual, she trailed off into mumbled fragments. “I'm sorry...I just...I can't really...you know...” She hunched her shoulders and looked down at her hands.
Treacly as it was, Therese delivered it with such patient, awkward sincerity that Gideon found himself moved. Nick was moved too. Moist-eyed, he put his hand over his daughter's.
Nelson, who was not moved, rapped peevishly on the table. “Pardon me, but may I suggest that this has nothing whatever to do with Brian, for God's sake? We grow beans here, not holy relics, and the reason we grow them is so people can make something called coffee out of them. And what is coffee? Coffee is no more than a mixture of burnt hydrocarbons, alkaloids, and mineral salts suspended in an aqueous solution..."
That was one way to look at it, Gideon thought.
Next to him, Rudy raised his glass of Medoc in a salute to Nelson. “Here's to a true romantic,” he said.
Nelson glared briefly at him. “My point is—"
"Enough,” Nick said, his hand still on Therese's. “Tell Superstar we're still not interested. We're doing fine right here."
Therese, still looking down, said something so softly that Gideon couldn't hear it but read it on her lips. “Thank you, Poppa."
"Anybody have any more comments they just have to make?” Nick asked.
They knew better than to bother. Nelson sulked. Maggie pouted. The others went back to eating.
"That's that, then,” Nick said, his spirits visibly lifting. “Dessert time."
He turned in his chair to call over his shoulder.
"Hey, Poema...you suppose we could get a cup of coffee around here?"
"You have reached Julie and Gideon Oliver,” Gideon was informed by his own voice, sounding very much like a robot, and a pretty listless robot at that. “We aren't available to take your call, but if you'll leave a message at the tone we'll get back to you."
This was disconcerting. Why
wasn't
Julie home? It was after 10:00 in Tahiti—past midnight in Port Angeles—and she hadn't said anything about going anywhere for the night. He chewed his lip for a few moments before it occurred to him to press the pound button to see if she had left him a message. When he did he was immediately relieved to hear her voice.
"Hi, love,” she said, sounding very much like Julie; bright, and sparkling, and pretty. “I hope you remember to listen for this message, because it's the sort of thing you always forget you can do, and if you call me and I'm not home and you don't know where I am you'll worry, right? But then if you
did
forget, then you're not listening now anyway, and you can't hear this, and if you
didn't
forget, then obviously you
are
listening, so what's the point of my babbling on about it?'
Gideon smiled as she caught her breath.
"Anyway, since you weren't going to be home for a while, I thought I might as well get out in the field for a couple of days and join the winter elk count in the Hoh quadrant; it's better than sitting behind a desk at the admin center, although you probably don't think so."
She was right about that. Two days of moldering in the rainiest river valley in the United States during the wettest, coldest, gloomiest month of the year, never getting quite dry, never getting quite warm, was not his idea of a good time. He liked the Northwestern winters all right, but he preferred to look out at them through a double-paned window with a log fire crackling in the fireplace behind him. And he preferred dry beds to wet sleeping bags. For an anthropologist, as she sometimes reminded him and as he readily admitted, he had an unseemly fondness for the soft life.
"So that's where I am,” she went on. “I hope everything's all right in Tahiti and I hope your corpse isn't too terribly messy. I'll talk to you when I get back. Hi to John. Tell him I'm meeting Marti for lunch on Wednesday. And that's about it. I miss you, Gideon. I wish you were already back.” She paused. Her voice softened and dropped a notch. “I
do
love you."
"I love you too,” he said to the recording, then left a message on the machine to that effect.
He leaned back, warmed by the call but feeling oddly vexed too. It didn't take him long to figure out why: he was always a little grumpy when Julie was away from home. The fact that he wasn't there either had nothing to do with the matter. When somebody traveled, he liked it to be
him
. Julie he preferred safe at home where she belonged—not that he would ever admit it to her. It was an attitude he didn't seem to have much control over, probably a genetic residue dating back to
Australopithecus afarensis
and before: man come back to cave from hunt, man want find woman waiting, cooking, loving...not out chasing stupid elk.
Well, what the hell, it was dangerous, wasn't it? What if they stampeded or something?
But of course he had to laugh at himself, remembering how extraordinarily capable Julie was; whom did he know that could take care of herself better in the out-of-doors? In fact, hadn't she once found and rescued
him
after he'd gotten himself hopelessly lost, confused, and miserable in the deep woods?
He was still thinking about that when he fell asleep with a smile on his face.
The following morning at 9 A.M. Gideon and John again appeared at the
gendarmerie
on the avenue Bruat. They were treated in the same supercilious manner by the same supercilious clerk, but this time made to wait half an hour before being admitted to Colonel Bertaud's presence. By the time they were seated in the commandant's office John was already steaming, not a good sign.
Bertaud was not in a good mood either. “And what have we this morning, gentlemen?” was his soft, steely greeting. “A new murder to report?” The folder in front of him remained open, the fountain pen remained between his fingers, poised to write.
"No, the same old one,” John said bluntly.
All things considered, Gideon thought, not an auspicious beginning.
"Colonel,” he said, “we're sorry to bother you again, but we've come up with something that I think will interest you. I looked at the photographs of Brian Scott's body yesterday, and in my opinion there's pretty good reason to think he was stabbed to death."
Bertaud screwed the cap on his pen. “The photographs?"
"These,” John said, and handed him the clasp-envelope across the desk.
Bertaud opened it and slid the contents out. “The top two,” Gideon said. “If you look at—"
"You made photocopies without asking for permission?” Bertaud said to John. “No doubt that is the way the FBI conducts itself in America, but—"
"If I asked for permission, would I have gotten it?” John shot back.
"Certainly not,” said Bertaud.
Gideon repressed a sigh. It was looking like a long morning. “Colonel,” he said, “with your permission I'd like to show you what I found."
"What
you
found,” Bertaud said, focusing his attention on him as if he hadn't really been aware of him before. “Forgive me, but you are...?"
"I'm a forensic anthropologist."
"Ah, you're the gentleman who was going to examine the body?"
"Yes,” Gideon said, surprised. He'd thought that Bertaud had understood as much.
"He's famous in America,” John pointed out as Gideon winced. “They call him the Skeleton Detective. The Bureau uses him all the time for its biggest cases."
This had the effect on Bertaud that Gideon might have predicted. One corner of a sleek gray eyebrow went up a few millimeters, the sharp, knowing eyes narrowed, the mobile lips pursed. “I see. Well, then, I am flattered that the great Skeleton Detective would concern himself in our small affairs. You were saying...?"
Gideon was starting to feel the way John did about Bertaud but where would it have gotten them to show it? The colonel held the cards, all fifty-two of them, and there was no point in antagonizing him any more than he already was. Gideon nodded politely and began to explain his findings. Impatient and preoccupied at first, Bertaud soon seemed to grow genuinely interested. After a few minutes he had the original file brought in, in hopes that the photographs might be sharper, but they were equally blurry. At one point Gideon had the impression that he was on the edge of swaying him, but in the end Bertaud remained unconvinced.
"No, Dr. Oliver,” he said with a sigh, “it's all extremely interesting but in the end simply not persuasive. What do we have after all is said and done?” He treated them to a full Gallic shrug—shoulders, mouth, chin, eyebrows, and hands. “A group of maggots that might or might not be—"
"A
line
of maggots,” John pointed out.
"A line, then. In any case it's simply not enough. I'm sorry, gentlemen. There will be no police interference. I cannot justify it."
The interview was over but John wouldn't say die. “Not enough for what?” he demanded. “We're not asking you to bring charges, we don't want you to arrest anybody, we just want the body dug up so that Dr. Oliver here can have a look at it. Then you take it from there. Or don't take, depending on what turns up. We'll be long gone. What do you say?"
Bertaud shook his head. “I'm sorry.” He fixed them each in turn with a long, unmistakably cautionary gaze. “And
that
, I trust,” he purred, “is the end of it."
"Well, that was sure a howling success,” Gideon said as they left the
gendarmerie
.
John shook his head with frustration. “God, that guy ticks me off. Did I tell you that before?"
"You told me before. But cheer up, you get under his skin too."
"Yeah, that's something, I guess.” He took in a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. “Doc, what the hell do we do now?"
"Go get some lunch, would be my suggestion."
John responded with an abstracted nod. Inside his head he was obviously still arguing with Bertaud.
"Any suggestions as to where?” Gideon asked.
"What? No, we always stay out in Papara with Nick when we come over. We eat at his place. I don't know any restaurants. Where'd you eat yesterday?"
"I just grazed the stands at the market, but I remember a place on Pomare that used to be pretty good. Maybe it's still there."
"Fine, whatever,” John said listlessly.
The Acajou was still there, much as Gideon remembered it, a pleasant, tile-floored place with a shaded dining veranda separated by a line of potted shrubs from the clamor and bustle of the street. They ordered Hinanos and sat beside the plants. The menu was much the same as it had been three years earlier, and John cheered up as soon as he saw it, as Gideon had hoped he might.
"Hamburger?” John said. “I never knew you could get hamburgers in Tahiti. What do you know about that?"
It was more than he'd said on the entire four-block walk to the restaurant. John was a complex man in some ways, but not so complex that the likelihood of a decent hamburger couldn't be counted on to set him to rights.
The waitress, clad in a flowered
pareu
that highlighted firm, silky shoulders, came smiling to take their orders. Like so many Tahitian women she might have stepped out of a Gauguin painting: effortlessly graceful, strikingly handsome, skin like beaten copper, a giant hibiscus blossom in her black hair (was there anyplace but the South Pacific where a huge red flower tucked behind one ear looked perfectly natural?), and exuding a lazy, good-natured sexuality as artlessly as the hibiscus released its heavy scent.
Gideon asked for the
omelette espagnole
.
"Hamburger,” said John.
She looked up from her pad, frowning charmingly.
"Pardon?"
"Hamburger,” John said again,
"s'il vous plait."
The
s'il vous plait
didn't help. She shook her head.