Read Online Speaking in Bones by Kathy Reichs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathy Reichs
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All around me, except for wind, utter silence.
On the inside, River House looked exactly as promised on the outside. The gleaming oak floors were covered with Oushaks and Sarouks. The upholstered pieces were done in soft beiges and tans, the wooden ones stained and distressed to look old. The designer, striving for calm and serene, had achieved that and a sense of limitless cash.
After presenting ID to a smiling attendant at a Louis-the-somethingth desk, I wound through the living room, past gas-fed flames dancing in a stacked stone fireplace. Mama’s suite was down a side corridor, the last on the right.
Before turning, I glanced left, into the dining room. Half a dozen diners of various ages sat at linen-draped tables centered with flower arrangements showing not the slightest hint of droop. I knew Mama wasn’t among them. Daisy prefers eating solo, at the small desk by her sitting room window.
The door was open a crack. A fact that set a tiny alarm dinging deep in my brain. Normally Mama is a bugger on security and privacy. Did the breach mean apathy, thus a dark phase? Carefree jubilation? A random mishap lacking significance?
Mama was, indeed, at her desk, fork forgotten in one hand, staring through the glass at the woods beyond. Perhaps at a flickering memory from another time. Perhaps at nothing.
I studied her a moment. She’d lost weight, but otherwise looked good. Which told me zilch. Despite her myriad mental issues, or perhaps because of them, my mother is an Oscar-Tony-Emmy-class actress.
On hearing me, she turned, all bright green eyes and soft, crinkling crow’s-feet. The smile faded as she took in my appearance. “Oh, my.”
“Yeah.” I chuckled. “Good look, eh?”
“My sweet girl. Have you run away from the circus?”
“Good one.” Refusing to rise to the bait. I intended to keep the visit light and sweet. No arguments about my dress, coiffure, or marital state. No pressure on Mama to begin the chemo she was resisting with every fiber of her ninety-pound being.
“Or did you have a fight with your lovely detective?” Nonchalantly pointing the fork at me “What’s the gentleman’s name?”
“Andrew Ryan.”
“Wait. I know.” Mama’s face lit up. “You’ve come from a crime scene.” Her voice went low and breathy. My work fascinated her. “You’ve dug up a body.”
Nope. No talk of murder or death. Or marriage proposals. Mama would make a Broadway production out of that.
“I was doing a consult in Burke County. It was no big deal.” Crossing to inventory her plate. “I was close so I decided to drop by for dinner. What’s on the menu?”
Mama is not easily dissuaded. Ever. “You can’t share with your doddery old mother?” Spreading her arms. Which looked like twigs inside her thick Irish-knit sweater. “Sweet lord in heaven, where do I ever go? With whom would I discuss the intricacies of your professional life?”
Wind rattled the window at Daisy’s back, shimmying the reflection of her upturned face. A sad image bubbled up in my mind. Mama, alone in her self-imposed exile, talking to no one but Goose and the Heatherhill staff, doing little that didn’t involve her journal or laptop.
Mama’s logic was sound. She was isolated. She was also better at keeping secrets than the CIA. How could she compromise a case in which I knew neither the victim’s identity nor the cause of death?
“Okay, Sherlock.” Sighing theatrically. “Let me wash up.”
Mama arced the fork as a conductor might flourish a baton. “The game is afoot.”
I went to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands and face. Cleaned my nails. Considered my hair. Decided that situation was hopeless and retucked it under the cap. When I returned, a second plate and a chair had appeared at the desk.
Between mouthfuls of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and minted peas, I explained ME229-13 and the day’s exploits with Gunner and Ramsey. I described finding the hand bones and the glob of pine tar. I
On the inside, River House looked exactly as promised on the outside. The gleaming oak floors were covered with Oushaks and Sarouks. The upholstered pieces were done in soft beiges and tans, the wooden ones stained and distressed to look old. The designer, striving for calm and serene, had achieved that and a sense of limitless cash.
After presenting ID to a smiling attendant at a Louis-the-somethingth desk, I wound through the living room, past gas-fed flames dancing in a stacked stone fireplace. Mama’s suite was down a side corridor, the last on the right.
Before turning, I glanced left, into the dining room. Half a dozen diners of various ages sat at linen-draped tables centered with flower arrangements showing not the slightest hint of droop. I knew Mama wasn’t among them. Daisy prefers eating solo, at the small desk by her sitting room window.
The door was open a crack. A fact that set a tiny alarm dinging deep in my brain. Normally Mama is a bugger on security and privacy. Did the breach mean apathy, thus a dark phase? Carefree jubilation? A random mishap lacking significance?
Mama was, indeed, at her desk, fork forgotten in one hand, staring through the glass at the woods beyond. Perhaps at a flickering memory from another time. Perhaps at nothing.
I studied her a moment. She’d lost weight, but otherwise looked good. Which told me zilch. Despite her myriad mental issues, or perhaps because of them, my mother is an Oscar-Tony-Emmy-class actress.
On hearing me, she turned, all bright green eyes and soft, crinkling crow’s-feet. The smile faded as she took in my appearance. “Oh, my.”
“Yeah.” I chuckled. “Good look, eh?”
“My sweet girl. Have you run away from the circus?”
“Good one.” Refusing to rise to the bait. I intended to keep the visit light and sweet. No arguments about my dress, coiffure, or marital state. No pressure on Mama to begin the chemo she was resisting with every fiber of her ninety-pound being.
“Or did you have a fight with your lovely detective?” Nonchalantly pointing the fork at me “What’s the gentleman’s name?”
“Andrew Ryan.”
“Wait. I know.” Mama’s face lit up. “You’ve come from a crime scene.” Her voice went low and breathy. My work fascinated her. “You’ve dug up a body.”
Nope. No talk of murder or death. Or marriage proposals. Mama would make a Broadway production out of that.
“I was doing a consult in Burke County. It was no big deal.” Crossing to inventory her plate. “I was close so I decided to drop by for dinner. What’s on the menu?”
Mama is not easily dissuaded. Ever. “You can’t share with your doddery old mother?” Spreading her arms. Which looked like twigs inside her thick Irish-knit sweater. “Sweet lord in heaven, where do I ever go? With whom would I discuss the intricacies of your professional life?”
Wind rattled the window at Daisy’s back, shimmying the reflection of her upturned face. A sad image bubbled up in my mind. Mama, alone in her self-imposed exile, talking to no one but Goose and the Heatherhill staff, doing little that didn’t involve her journal or laptop.
Mama’s logic was sound. She was isolated. She was also better at keeping secrets than the CIA. How could she compromise a case in which I knew neither the victim’s identity nor the cause of death?
“Okay, Sherlock.” Sighing theatrically. “Let me wash up.”
Mama arced the fork as a conductor might flourish a baton. “The game is afoot.”
I went to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands and face. Cleaned my nails. Considered my hair. Decided that situation was hopeless and retucked it under the cap. When I returned, a second plate and a chair had appeared at the desk.
Between mouthfuls of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and minted peas, I explained ME229-13 and the day’s exploits with Gunner and Ramsey. I described finding the hand bones and the glob of pine tar. I
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