A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(3)
Clamped in the dog’s jaw was the severed head of a goose, ravaged neck glistening black, cheek swath winking white like the smile of an evil clown.
I watched rain fall on the bird’s sightless eye.
2
FRIDAY, JUNE 29
A week passed. Almost to the minute. Nothing much happened. Freaked by the dueling dogs and murdered goose, I hadn’t reported the intruder. Or peeper. Or whatever he was. Never saw him again.
I’d hit a rough patch of late. Healthwise. Personally. Professionally. The last self-inflicted. I could have been more diplomatic. Or kept my mouth shut. Who knew my comments would come back to bite me in the ass? Right. Don’t they always? Mostly, I focused on those problems.
And seriously? A prowler in a trench coat? Was that not the oldest cliché in the book? Had the man been there at all? Or was the whole incident an aftershock of my migraine-induced nightmare?
A pair of fuzzy orbs congealed into headlights that drilled my car’s rear window. The interior brightened, nudging my thoughts back from wherever they’d been.
11:10 p.m. I’d just dropped Mama at her new digs and was stopped on Sharon Amity at the intersection with Providence Road. While waiting for a green, I peeked at myself in the rearview mirror.
Hair knotted at the nape of my neck, not great but OK. Remnants of mascara, blush, and gloss gamely trying to mask the exhaustion.
Mama hadn’t commented. Or had she? I’d paid little attention.
Silk tunic, a little bohemian but not over the top. Couldn’t see the black skinny jeans, baggier these days. Tory Burch sandals. “I Stop for Red” toes.
The outfit, the L’Oréal, the OPI polish. I was making an effort. Reengaging with the world, as Mama would say. Did say. Repeatedly. Between checking to see if my pupils were equal.
Mahler’s Symphony no. 2 in C Minor tonight. Resurrection.
Ironic.
I couldn’t wait to get home.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the concerts. But I rank the postperformance cocktail klatches with Mama’s friends on par with a colonoscopy. Though, in fairness, the old up-yours confers a health benefit.
My mother, Katherine Daessee “Daisy” Lee Brennan, is a widow with cancer and a boyfriend who spends his weekdays running a dry-cleaning empire out of its Arkansas headquarters. My sister, Harry, lives a thousand miles away in Texas. And is crazy.
You get the picture. I’m usually Mama’s default date.
Which is fine. But why agree to the après-theater gatherings? Simple. My mother elevates the art of passive-aggressive to previously unimagined heights. And I always cave.
The traffic signal changed. I accelerated. The headlights behind me shrank, winged left. Sharon Amity became Sharon Lane. No reason. Ahead, Sharon Lane would T-bone into Sharon Road. Confusing street names are Charlotte’s way of messing with out-of-town drivers.
Shadows skipped across the windshield as I passed under a lattice of willow oaks arching high overhead. Snatches of the evening’s conversation replayed in my head. The same tired conversations as always.
“Your mother looks great!” Meaning not dead.
“The chemo is going well.”
“How’s Pete?” I heard your ex is dating a hot yoga instructor, a brain surgeon, the heiress to an international shipping line.
“He’s good, thanks.”
“Our prayers are with Katy.” Thank God it’s your kid in a war zone, not ours.
“She’s good, thanks.”
“My nephew just finalized his divorce and is moving to Charlotte. You two must meet.” Let me rescue you from your pathetic life.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Tonight new topics had entered in, queries inspired by my current fiasco.
“Are you still teaching at UNCC?” Are you being forced to fall back on your day job?
“A few graduate courses.”
“Dr. Larabee’s death was a terrible tragedy.”
“It was.”
“How do you like the current ME?” Rumor has it you’re embroiled in a shitstorm with your new boss.
“Excuse me, I think Daisy is signaling that she’d like to leave.”
These sessions made me wish I still drank. A lot.
I crossed Wendover. The road narrowed to two lanes. I hit a speed bump, the car bucked, dropped.
My iPhone lit up. No chime. I’d had it on silent during the concert, forgotten to flick the little lever.
I glanced down to where the mobile lay on the passenger seat. A gray box indicated a received text. I figured it was Mama, concerned my embolization had blown. Or that I’d been kidnapped by Somali pirates.
Minutes later, parked in my drive, I tapped the screen and flicked to the Messages app. The text had arrived at 8:34.
I opened the app, the message.
Four images.
A frisson of current sparked under my sternum.
* * *
My townhouse was blessedly cool and smelled faintly of plaster and fresh paint.
“Birdie?” Tossing my keys onto the counter.
No response.
“I’m home, Bird.”
Nothing. The cat was still pissed about the renovations. Fine. I had my own issues.
I locked the door, set the alarm, and crossed the kitchen without turning on a light. Passing through the dining room and then the parlor, I climbed the stairs.