Page 14 of The Bone Code
Moments later, I crossed the bridge connecting Mount Pleasant to the Isle of Palms. Salt marsh stretched to the horizon on both sides, tranquil and still. Here and there, I saw a wink of white, an ibis or egret, fading into shadow along with the spartina grass in which it stood.
I turned onto Palm Boulevard, a single phrase ricocheting in my head, a mantra born of foreboding.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
4
Wednesday, October 6–Thursday, October 7
Anne was four chardonnays in when I arrived. And, predictably, quite serene. Despite one downed palmetto palm that had taken out a corner of the front porch.
Birdie, not a fan of travel in any form, radiated displeasure through the mesh window of his carrier. While I set up a feline hygiene station, Anne’s term, she did her best to cheer him with tidbits of a Whopper left over from her lunch.
Anne has never been a cat person, so her best wasn’t great. Ditto for dogs, birds, rabbits, and fish. Sensing this aversion to pets, the cat kept his distance, despite the tempting bribes.
The power was still out, so Anne and I barbecued grouper fillets on the grill. I’d brought lettuce, tomatoes, and a somewhat sad-looking avocado that combined into a passable salad. All the chopping and tossing and grilling distracted me momentarily from the gruesome images troubling my thoughts.
We dined on the back deck, watching the ocean roll ashore and recede. Like my hostess, it was also remarkably calm.
In addition to the uprooted palm, the damage that had goosed Anne into near-panic mode included sand in the yard and loss of theboardwalk leading over the dunes and down to the beach. She could now see the humor in her overreaction. In everything, actually, funny or not.
We talked as we ate. Nothing serious, mostly our kids. Herrin’s call had made me far too anxious to tackle anything deep.
Anne reported that her youngest, Stuart, was still a gay rights activist and currently living in Colorado. The twins, Lola and Josh, were in L.A. trying to break into film, one as a writer, one as an actor. I reported that my daughter, Katy, finishing her second deployment to Afghanistan, was due to rotate stateside in several weeks. We slapped a high five and yelled “Hot damn!”
Anne asked about Ryan. I explained that he was in Yellowknife.
“That boy’s a keeper,” she said, not slurry but moving that way. “Dangle him much longer, he’ll slip the line.”
“You’ve mentioned that.” Ad nauseam.
“Well, it’s true. What’s your damn problem?”
When I danced around an answer, she didn’t press.
“Anything interesting going workwise these days?”
Wishing to avoid the inquisition that would ensue should I mention Herrin’s call, I told her about Polly Beecroft and the death mask.
“So who is it?” When I’d ended.
“I don’t know. But here’s the odd part. They all look vaguely familiar to me.”
“The twin sisters and their grandmother and great-aunt?” Beyond dubious.
“And the mask.”
“How can that be if you’d never laid eyes on any of them? I mean, before Polly.”
“Maybe they remind me of someone I’ve met.”
“You said Polly has a condo at Rosewood. Maybe you saw her there.”
“I considered that. But Mama’s only lived there a very short time. And her unit isn’t anywhere near Polly’s, not even in the same building. Besides, if I’d seen Polly in passing, I think I’d remember.”
After a pause, Anne said, “Josh and Lola look about as much alike as a parrot and a hamster.”
