Flash and Bones (24 page)

“Did Eddie put anything in his notes?”

“Yeah. He tracked down eighteen ’sixty-five Mustangs tagged in North and South Carolina. Ran them all. Fifteen came up legit. The other three owners he could never locate.”

“But Gamble found them.”

“One car belonged to a dead woman. Her daughter-in-law ponied up for a tag every year without even asking questions. The dead lady no longer lived at the Raleigh address listed on the paperwork. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Where was the Mustang?”

“Rusting in a storage shed.”

“The second car belonged to a collector with a Myrtle Beach address. Same deal. The guy’s assistant relicensed annually, not knowing the thing was sitting in a warehouse somewhere with no wheels and no engine. The owner was living in Singapore.”

“So his contact information was also useless.”

“The third car belonged to a retired army sergeant. He’d moved the vehicle to Texas but kept the South Carolina plate. When Eddie tried to call, the line had probably been disconnected.”

“So those three owners were effectively lost to the system back in ’ninety-eight.”

“Yeah. But Gamble found them. And all three are dead ends.”

“Like the other fifteen.”

“You’ve got it.”

“How could such a unique vehicle remain untraceable?”

“Good question.”

“Could Winge have been wrong?”

“He was very specific.” I heard paper rustle. “At the Speedway, he told us it was a ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

I felt a tickle deep in my brainpan. What?

Slidell shifted gears. “Your gut about Owen Poteat was right on target. In ’ninety-eight the guy was up to his eyeballs in debt. He hadn’t worked in three years, and he’d dropped a ton fighting the little missus over custody. The poor bastard took out loans, eventually sold his house. Still lost his kids. Never again found gainful employment.”

“But somehow he had twenty-six thousand to invest in their college educations.”

“Winning lottery ticket?”

“What are the odds?”

After we disconnected, I spent a little more time on my laptop. And learned a few more disturbing facts.

Abrin is a yellow-white powder that can be released into the air as fine particles. If released outdoors, it has the potential to contaminate agricultural products.

Abrin can be used to poison food and water.

The fatal dose of abrin is approximately seventy-five times smaller than the fatal dose of ricin.

I checked another site. Got a figure. Did some math in my head.

Holy crap.

Abrin can kill with a circulating amount of less than 3 micrograms.

At seven p.m., I broiled a flounder filet and shared it with Birdie. Preferring a mayo-based sauce, he passed on the slaw. Or maybe he just dislikes storebought salads.

I then worked through my in-box.

Several e-mails concerned casework. A pathologist at the
LSJML
needed clarification on a report. A prosecutor in Charlotte wanted to schedule a meeting. LaManche wondered when I’d return to Montreal.

Others offered the deal of a lifetime. A Rolex watch for fifty bucks. Access to unclaimed funds in an African bank. A cleanser that would make my skin glow like that of a Hollywood star.

Katy was thinking of quitting her job to spend a year in Ireland. She had an offer to tend bar at a pub in Cork. Great.

Ryan had sent an uncharacteristically long message describing his latest therapy session with Lily. He was dismayed at the amount of anger his daughter seemed to harbor. Against him for being absent during her childhood. Against Lutetia for hiding from him the fact of her existence—and for recently abandoning her to return to Nova Scotia.

He wrote that he was discouraged, homesick, and missed my company. The tenor was so heartbreaking, it drilled a hole through my sternum.

But Ryan’s message wasn’t as sad as the one penned by Harry. Recently, my sister and I had received shocking news not dissimilar from that which had altered Ryan’s world.

Harry’s son, Kit, had fathered a child the summer he was sixteen and in Cape Cod at sailing camp. For reasons that would forever remain a mystery, the child’s mother, Coleen Brennan, of an unrelated branch of the clan, had not disclosed to her summer love that he had a daughter.

Victoria “Tory” Brennan was now fourteen. Upon the sudden death of Coleen, Tory had relocated from Massachusetts and was now living with Kit in Charleston.

Harry had a granddaughter. I had a grandniece.

Harry was furious about all the lost years. And despondent over the fact that Kit, wanting to give Tory time to adjust, wouldn’t yet allow his mother to visit.

I was dialing Harry’s number when the front bell chimed. Thinking it was Galimore, I put down the handset and went to the door.

It wasn’t my worst nightmare.

But it was close.

P
ETE AND SUMMER WERE STANDING CLOSE BUT NOT TOUCHING.
Both looked tense, like people waiting in line. Summer held a Nieman Marcus bag by its string handle.

Pasting on a faux smile, I opened the door. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Summer looked like the question stumped her.

“You sure you want to do this?” Pete sounded uncomfortable.

“Sure.” Oh, no. “Come on in.”

Pete was wearing flip-flops, khaki shorts, and a Carmel Country Club golf shirt. Summer had on wedge sandals, a silk tank, and designer camouflage pants that would have unnerved Patton.

Summer swanned straight to the dining room and parked the bag on the table. Pete and I followed.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked. Cyanide and Kool-Aid?

“Merlot would be nice if—”

“We won’t be here that long.” Pete shot me an apologetic grin. “I know you have more important things on your mind.”

“See, Petey. That’s your problem. Our wedding
is
important. What could be
more
important?”

Finding a cure for AIDS?

Summer began lifting items from the bag and organizing them into clusters. Napkins. Swatches of fabric. Silver picture frames. A glass container that looked like a giant lab flask.

“Now. The tablecloths will be ecru. The centerpieces will be made up of roses and lilies arranged in these vases.” A cherry-red nail ticked the flask. “These are the napkin possibilities.”

She fanned out the stack. The choices included pink, brown, silver, green, black, and a shade that I took to be ecru.

“And these are the options for the fabric that will drape each chair back.”

She arranged the swatches side by side below the lucky napkin finalists. Over her back, Pete’s eyes met mine.

I crooked a brow. Seriously?

He mouthed, “I owe you.”

Oh, yeah.

Summer straightened. “So. What do you think?”

You don’t have the sense God gave a corn muffin.

“Wow,” I said. “You’ve done a lot of work.”

“Indeed I have.” Summer beamed a smile that could have sold a million tubes of Crest.

How to maneuver the minefield?

Psychology. No chance muffin brain would catch on.

“How would you describe the floral arrangements?” I asked.

“Kind of pink and yellow. But
very
understated.”

“So you want simple.”

“But elegant. It has to make a statement.”

“Clearly green is out.”

“Clearly.”

As Summer snatched up the first reject, I raised my brows to Pete.

“Very funny,” he mouthed.

“Do you like a monochromatic look?”

Summer regarded me blankly.

“Things being the same color.”

“I like more punch. Ah. I see what y’all mean.”

The ecru napkin disappeared into the bag.

“Stark contrast?”

“Not so much.”

“Then black is probably wrong.”

“Totally.”

Black. Gone.

“An earthy look?”

“Not for summer.” She giggled. “Not me. The season.”

“Then forget brown.”

Gone.

That left silver and pink.

“Are you leaning toward one of the patterns?” I asked.

“I love this one.” She stroked a swatch with ghastly pink swirls on a cream background.

I remembered the outfit she’d worn on her last visit.

Bingo.

I laid the pink napkin artfully across the swirly swatch of fabric.

“Yes!” Summer clapped in glee. “Yes! Yes! I agree! See, Petey? You just have to use good taste.”

Petey held his applause.

“Now.” Summer arranged the four silver frames in a row. “Every place setting will have one of these. So the guests know where to sit. Then they keep it as their gift. Clever, right?”

“Um.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“They’re all very nice.”

As Summer pointed out the minutiae that set each frame apart, I noted that she took longer with one than the others.

“I like the dotted border,” I said.

“So do I! Tempe, we are so much alike, we could be sisters!”

Behind his fiancée’s back, Petey winced.

Summer was gathering her samples when my mobile sounded. Excusing myself, I stepped into the kitchen.

Area code 704. Charlotte. I didn’t recognize the number.

Preferring a sales pitch for funeral plans to further interaction with Bridezilla, I clicked on.

“Temperance Brennan?”

I heard a car horn in the background, suggesting the caller was outside.

“Yes.”

“The coroner?”

I felt my scalp tighten. “Who is this, please?”

“You got Eli Hand at the morgue.”

The voice was muffled, as though coming through a filter. I
couldn’t tell if it was the same one that had uttered the menacing two-word voice mail.

“Who is this?”

I heard a click, then three beeps.

“Damn!”

“Everything OK?”

I whipped around.

Pete was watching me, his face tight with concern. I was so freaked I hadn’t heard him enter the kitchen.

“I”—I what?—“got an unexpected call.”

“Not bad news, I hope.”

“No. Just—” Adrenaline made it feel like crickets were trapped in my chest.

“Unexpected,” he finished for me.

“Yes.”

“You can remove the phone from your ear.”

“Right.”

“I want to thank you for”—Pete jabbed a thumb over one shoulder toward the dining room door—“that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“She’s really very bright.”

“You’ve got to have a penis to hold that view.”

Pete raised his brows.

I responded in kind.

“How’s Boyd?” I asked.

“Talks about you constantly.”

“I miss him.”

“And the Chow feels likewise. He’s crazy about you.”

“That dog is an excellent judge of character.”

“Recognizes rare qualities that others fail to appreciate.”

I’d no idea what to respond. So I said nothing.

Pete studied my face for so long, the moment grew awkward.

“Guess you should be moving along,” I said.

“Guess so.”

“I doubt you’ll be enjoying a chatty evening.” I smiled.

“Perhaps not a bad thing.” Pete didn’t.

Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise? I knew Pete. And he sounded unhappy.

Back in the dining room, Summer had been joined by Birdie. The cat was on a chair, batting at a napkin she was dangling above him.

I narrowed my eyes at the little turncoat.

He gave me the cat equivalent of an innocent look.

“Good luck,” I said as they made their way down the front steps.

I meant it.

As soon as they’d gone, I phoned Larabee. He’d just returned home from a ten-mile run.

“Do we have someone at the morgue named Eli Hand?”

“Not to my knowledge. Who is he?”

I told him about the call.

For a full thirty seconds no one spoke.

“You don’t suppose—”

Larabee finished my sentence. “—it could be a tip about the landfill John Doe.”

“That was my first thought.”

“How do we find out about Hand?”

“Do you have contact information for Special Agent Williams?”

“Hold on.”

I heard a thunk. After a brief pause, Larabee returned and read off a number.

“You think Williams will know something?” he asked.

“I think he’ll know a lot.” “Keep me looped in.”

Williams answered on the second ring.

I identified myself.

If my call surprised him, he didn’t let on.

“Eli Hand,” I said.

The silence went on for so long, I thought we’d been disconnected.

“What are you asking me?” Williams’s tone was flinty.

“Was Eli Hand John-Doeing it at our morgue?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“Why not?”

“Why are you asking about Eli Hand?”

“I got an anonymous tip.”

“From what source?”

“See, that’s the anonymous part.”

“How did you receive this tip?” Terse.

“On my mobile.”

“Was the phone able to capture the number?”

I gave it to him.

“Who is Eli Hand?”

“I’m not at liberty—”

“With or without any of that famous FBI cooperation, Dr. Larabee and I
will
find out who Eli Hand is. Or was. And we
will
find out if Hand turned up dead in a barrel of asphalt in the Morehead Road landfill. Should that prove to be the case, Detective Slidell
will
find out why.”