Page 113 of The Bone Code
While Anne ladled soup into bowls, I set places and divvied up the seafood. As we ate, I half-listened to her tale of woe featuring a horse and her ex-husband and one of her twins. Made comforting noises at all the right spots.
“So,” I said, eager to move things along. “Tell me everything you’ve discovered about the death mask.”
Finished venting, Anne retrieved a downloaded photo of L’Inconnue and her copy of Beecroft’s print and laid both on the table. We agreed. There was absolutely no doubt. It was the same face.
Anne launched into an excruciatingly detailed account of her death mask quest. Though I nodded approvingly and asked a question now and then, my heart wasn’t in it. Every few minutes, I discreetly checked the time, anxious to get to Harmony’s diary.
When Anne finished, I granted that she had, indeed, made a major breakthrough. Assured her that Polly Beecroft would be thrilled.
“But how could you ever prove that Sybil Bouvier was the lady in the Seine?” she asked, tone wistful.
“That would be tough,” I said.
“Or figure out how she ended up in the river?”
“Even tougher.”
As we chewed on that, and on the last of the shrimp, my eyes drifted to the photos.
Again, I felt that soft elbow nudge from my id. What? The woman couldn’t possibly look familiar. No matter her name or fate, she’d died almost a century before I was born. Our paths could never have crossed.
“How’s Ryan doing?” Anne and I had discussed the hit-and-run incident by phone.
“Sketchy haircut but nimble as ever.”
“Why would some dickwad run you down?”
“That question is currently under investigation.” Not mentioning Claudel’s theory as to which of us was the real target.
“Did you make progress on your cold case?”
I gave a very brief accounting. Exhumation. DNA. Genetic genealogy. Dr. Aubrey Sullivan Huger.
“Why the trip to Nashville?”
Again, quick and succinct. Digger France. Harmony Boatwright. Amity House. MMM. The online Canadian friend. The diary.
“How did you get here from Nashville?”
“Caught a ride with the lead detective on the Charleston case.”
“How long did the drive take?”
“A millennium and a half.”
By the time I made my escape, it was nine fifteen.
Up in my room, I took a quick shower, climbed into bed, and phoned Ryan.
Got voice mail. Left a brief message.
Beyond the French doors, the ocean was calm. Inside my chest, the situation was anything but. Opening the diary, I felt my heart beating double time.
The first page was dated January 2, 2017. The entry was short and direct. Harmony explained that the diary was a gift, that she’d give journaling a shot but wasn’t sure writing was her thing. She named the little book Di.
For a while, she penned only brief narrative accounts listing the day’s activities. Eventually, her entries became more frequent. And more creative.
And, to my dismay, more cryptic.
