Part 8 (1/2)
As Quickwater exited the gates, a TV crew surrounded the Jeep, refusing to allow us to pa.s.s. We slowed to a stop and a middle-aged man with lacquered hair and perfect teeth circled to my side and tapped on the gla.s.s. Behind him a cameraman trained his lens on my face.
Not in the mood for diplomacy, I lowered the window, leaned out, and told them in graphic terms to clear the way. The camera light went on and the reporter began to pepper me with shotgun questions. I made suggestions as to places for storage of their live-eye equipment, and destinations they might enjoy. Then, rolling my eyes, I retracted my head and hit the b.u.t.ton. Quickwater gunned the engine and we shot away. I turned to see the reporter standing in the road, microphone still clutched in his hand, his flawless features wide with surprise.
I settled back and closed my eyes, knowing there would be no conversation from Quickwater. It was just as well. Questions swirled in my brain, twisting and eddying like the waters of a swollen creek.
Who was this third victim? How had he died? Those answers I hoped to find in the lab.
When had the death occurred? How had part of his cadaver ended up in a clandestine grave at the Vipers' clubhouse? Those queries I figured the Vipers should field.
Most perplexing was the question of the absent body parts. Where was the rest of the skeleton? As I'd removed and packaged the bones for transport I'd watched closely for signs of animal damage. Bears, wolves, coyotes, and other predators will cheerfully dine on human corpses if given the opportunity. Ditto for the family dog or cat.
I saw nothing to indicate scavengers had absconded with the missing parts. There were no gnawed joints or shafts, no tooth scratches or puncture wounds. Nor had I seen any saw or knife marks to suggest the body had been dismembered.
So where was the rest of the deceased?
I planned Wednesday night as a modified replay of Tuesday. Bath. Microwave. Pat Conroy. Bed. Except for stage one, that's not how it went.
I'd just toweled off and slipped into a green flannel nights.h.i.+rt when the phone rang. Birdie trailed me to the living room.
”Mon Dieu, your face is becoming better known than mine.”
It was definitely not what I needed to hear. Having done theater and television for more than twenty years, Isabelle was one of the best-loved performers in Quebec. Wherever she went she was recognized.
”I made the six o'clock news,” I guessed.
”An Oscar-winning performance, charged with raw anger and burning with the pa.s.sion of-”
”How bad was it?”
”Your hair looked good.”
”Did they identify me?”
”Mais oui, Docteur Brennan.”
d.a.m.n. When I dropped to the couch Birdie settled into my lap, antic.i.p.ating a long conversation.
”Was the tape edited?”
”Not a thing. Tempe, I'm pretty good at reading lips. Where did you learn those words?”
I groaned, recalling some of my more colorful suggestions about placement of the cameras and mikes.
”But that's not why I called. I want you to come to supper on Sat.u.r.day. I'm having a few friends over and I think you need some social therapy, time away from these dreadful bikers and that Ryan thing.”
That Ryan thing.
”Isabelle, I don't think I'd be very good company right now. I-”
”Tempe, I am not taking no for an answer. And I want you to wear pearls and perfume and get all dressed up. It will improve your whole outlook.”
”Isabelle. Tell me you're not trying another fix up.”
For a moment I listened to silence. Then, ”This type of work you do, Tempe, it makes you too suspicious. I told you. It will just be some of my friends. Besides, I have a surprise for you.”
Oh no.
”What?”
”If I tell you it won't be a surprise.”
”Tell me anyway.”
”Bon. There's someone I want you to meet. And I know he would love to meet you. Well, actually you've met, but not formally. This man is not the least bit interested in a romantic relations.h.i.+p. Trust me.”
Over the past two years I'd met many of Isabelle's friends, most of whom were involved in the arts. Some were boring, others captivating. Many were gay. All were unique in one way or another. She was right. A night of frivolity would do me good.
”O.K. What can I bring?”
”Nothing. Just wear your pumps and be here at seven.”
After unturbaning and combing my hair, I placed a seafood dinner in the microwave. I was programming the time when my doorbell sounded.
Ryan, I hoped suddenly, walking to the hall. It was all a mistake. But if it wasn't, did I really want to see him? Did I want to know where he'd been, what he'd say?
Yes. Desperately.
The self-examination proved unnecessary since the security monitor showed Jean Bertrand, not his partner, standing in the outer vestibule. I buzzed him into the building, then went to the bedroom for socks and a robe. When he stepped inside the condo, he hesitated, as if trying to compose himself. After an awkward moment he extended his hand. It felt cold when I shook it.
”h.e.l.lo, Tempe. Sorry to surprise you like this.”
Apparently surprising me was a hot thing these days. I nodded.
His face was drawn, and a dark crescent underscored each eye. Normally an impeccable dresser, he wore faded jeans tonight and a rumpled suede jacket. He started to speak again but I cut him off with a suggestion we move to the living room. He chose the sofa, and I curled into the chair opposite.
Bertrand studied me, his face tense with emotions I couldn't read. In the kitchen the microwave hummed warmth into my whitefish, carrots, and curried rice.
This is your party, I thought, refusing to break the silence. Finally.
”About Ryan.”
”Yes.”
”I got your calls, but I just couldn't talk about it then.”
”What exactly is 'it'?”