Page 7 of Evil Bones
Ryan had said he’d phone at eight. I was looking forward to that call. To making plans together for his upcoming visit.
The sun was low, the breeze cautious but managing an occasional frail gust. With each anemic puff, the grass shifted in soft undulating waves, momentarily going from green to bronze.
Two cardinals—each male and flamboyantly crimson—were arguing loudly high above my head. An unclaimed seed? A female? A coveted position on a branch? Whatever the dispute, both birds held strong opinions.
It was one of those velvety summer nights unique to Dixie. I felt relaxed, happy to have no obligations that evening. Pleased that Ryan might be with me soon.
Ryan, you ask?
Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, recently retired from the homicide division of theSûreté du Québec, the provincial police service forthe Canadian province of Quebec. Tall and sexy in a younger Harrison Ford sort of way, the French version, Ryan has been my cop partner for decades. My romantic partner for a few years less.
Canada and North Carolina? It wasn’t easy but, at the moment, we were making it work.
Ryan and I had been apart for almost two weeks. I’d been stuck in Charlotte with commitments at the MCME. Bones discovered by a hunter stalking quail. A torso washed ashore along the Catawba River. An attic skull that turned out to be a “borrowed” museum specimen.
Ryan had been stuck north of the border working a PI job involving surveillance of an employee suspected of skimming from a family-owned business. The case, boring as mud, was typical of many he’d accepted since his retirement.
At seven-fifty-five my iPhone rang.
Sang. It’s dorky, I know. The teasing from Katy is brutal. Still, I program my mobile to alert me with musical ringtones. Currently, it was Fleetwood Mac singing about dreams.
“Hey, big guy,” I answered, certain it was Ryan.
“What?” Katy blew one of her trademark snorts. “You’re stealing material from Rachel Feinstein, now?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“I’m expecting a call from Ryan,” I explained, a bit defensive.
“How is the old dude?”
“He’s not old.”
“How is the young buckaroo?”
“He’s good.”
“In every way.”
Katy’s sense of humor leans hard toward sarcasm. Occasionally, I have no idea of her meaning.
“What’s up?” I asked, wanting to move the conversation along.
“Have you left yet?”
That caught me off guard.
“Nooo.” Neutral.
“Good. Can you pick up a baguette on your way? It seems I’m supposed to serve bread with mussels. Who knew?”
“Any particular kind?” Buying time as I swiped the phone’s screen to open my calendar app.
“The recipe says it should be crusty. Aren’t all baguettes crusty?”
Mental head slap.
