Speaking in Bones

Mama’s words buzzed like an electrical short in my head. As I walked to the car. Drove home. Prepared cheeseburgers and ate them with Birdie.

I didn’t want to reflect on what Mama’s euphoria could mean. Didn’t know in reality what I thought of her tale.

My mother, gray-haired and dying of cancer, was madly in love.

I didn’t fly to the phone or fire off a text or an email. Frankly, I wasn’t sure where to reach out. Her Heatherhill doctor, Luna Finch? Goose? Harry?

Somewhere in her giddy outpouring, Mama had mentioned my sister. I decided to start there.

Harry didn’t answer her cell. A chirpy voice asked me to “Leave a short message like this one!” I did. With a far less bubbly air.

Baby Sister called as I was brushing my teeth.

“Have you talked to Mama?” I asked, still swishing and spitting.

“Now, Tempe, don’t you take that snippy tone. She’s happy.”

“She’s crazy.”

“Well aren’t we Judge Judy.”

“You’re right. That was insensitive. But Mama is hardly what you’d call a stable personality.”

“She says she’s taking her pills.”

“Mama always says she’s taking her pills.”

“She’s under the eye of a boatload of doctors.”

“That will do it.” Our mother was a master at sleight of hand. Had, over the years, evaded medication in the most creative of ways.

“Goose knows all Mama’s tricks.” Defensive.

“Right. So who is this geriatric gigolo?”

“Clayton Sinitch. And he’s not all that old.”

“Please say the guy’s not thirty-five.”

“The guy’s not thirty-five.”

“Harry!”

“He’s sixty-three.”

“What does he do?”

“Owns a dry-cleaning shop.”

“Well hallelujah! Mama can get her pants pressed at a discount.”

“And all her pleats starched.”

I caught the purry innuendo. Wanted absolutely nothing to do with the image.

“Where is Sinitch from?”

“Arkansas.”

“How did she meet him?”

“He’s recharging his batteries at Heatherhill.”

“How long has she known him?”

“That’s not important.”

I waited.

“I don’t keep her calendar, Tempe. I don’t know. Maybe a couple of weeks.”

“Harry.” Oh, so controlled. “She’s out-of-her-Guccis swept away with the guy.”

“Maybe a bit of romance will do her good.”

“Or maybe it’s a con and the asshole’s going to break her heart.”

“She’s agreed to the chemo.”

“What?” Mama hadn’t told me that.

“She’s agreed—”

“Because of Sinitch?”

“He vowed he’d love her when she’s bald as a coot.”

“What else do you know about him?” Rolling my eyes. Immediately feeling guilt for having done it.

“He buys her flowers and chocolates. They hold hands. They take meals together in the dining room. He scolds her for putting salt on her food.”

“Really?”

“I gather they’re also spending quality time in her suite.”

“Harry!”

I wasn’t believing this. Was confused over what to feel. Mama’s apathy on my last visit wasn’t due to an impending downward spiral. She was either preoccupied daydreaming about Sinitch or focused on hiding the guy’s existence from me.

“Don’t let on I told you about the chemo,” Harry said.

“Why not?”

“Apparently she doesn’t want you to know. Now promise.”

“Harry, this is—”

“I mean it. Not a word.”

“What’s a coot?” Defeated.

“I think it’s some kinda bird.”

I said good night and we disconnected.

No way I was up to phoning Ryan.

—

A 2014 National Geographic publication on the world’s best cities described Asheville, North Carolina, as “a mecca of awesome mountain scenery, bohemian art, and high southern cuisine.” The little burg has repeatedly snagged the top spot on surveys ranking towns as to livability. More than once, it has been voted the most desirable place to live in America.

Asheville is artists and street musicians and microbreweries. The nineteenth-century Downton-Abbey-eat-your-heart-out Vanderbilt house. The University of North Carolina–Asheville.

But, like Avery to the northeast, Buncombe County is a schizoid mélange of the civilized and the backward. Outside the prize jewel, there are no tourists. No antiques shops, Christmas boutiques, or vegan bistros. Out past the ski slopes and nature outfitters, gun cabinets are kept stocked and the Ten Commandments rule with an iron fist.

This time Ramsey arrived first. He was waiting at one of a half dozen cement tables outside Double D’s, a red double-decker bus turned coffee shop on Biltmore Avenue in Asheville’s small downtown.

“Costa Rican drip.” He slid a mug my way. “Hope it’s still hot.”

“Thanks.” The cream was frothed and configured into a meaningfully artful design whose symbolism was lost on me. The coffee was tepid but tasty.

“Good drive?”

“Yeah.”

“Ladies first?”

“I have little to report. Still waiting on DNA from the bones, trace from the concrete.” A lobotomy on Slidell.

“Good work.” Ramsey pulled the obligatory spiral from his jacket and thumbed a few pages. “Joel Brice is thirty-four, a sculptor, part of Asheville’s large, I don’t know, hippie community I guess you could call it. Crystals. Sandals. Hummus and yogurt.”

“I thought he was a welder.”

“He works in metal. Katalin is thirty-six, bakes organic breads to sell to area restaurants. Neither has an arrest record. Their daughter Saffron is seven.”

“Where does Saffron attend school?” Not sure why I asked.

“She’s homeschooled.”

“Like Mason Gulley.”

“And a lot of kids. The Brices are Unitarian now, but for several years belonged to Jesus Lord Holiness.”

“Until River’s death.”

“Yes.”

“That’s quite a philosophical leap from über-Catholic to Unitarian.”

“Perhaps they’re spiritual seekers.”

As usual, Ramsey’s expression was impenetrable. Was he mocking me? Them?

“The Brices live a few clicks north of here.” Repocketing the spiral. “We can ask them all about it.”

Ramsey knocked back the dregs of his coffee. Came away with a milky mustache. I pointed to his upper lip. He wiped it with his napkin and stood.

We left my car and took the SUV. No Gunner. I kind of missed him.

The neighborhood was one of mature trees, sagging overhead wires, and modest homes, some newer, most probably built in the twenties and thirties. The Brices’ house was one-story, with green siding and a fully roofed porch that kept the front door and windows in perpetual shade. Curtains draping a double dormer window suggested an attic bedroom.

The house, like its neighbors, sat on a small ridge above street level. The porch was accessed by narrow steps rising from the sidewalk through bushes that were probably pretty in summer.

Ramsey and I had a routine by now. As he rang, we stood to either side of a door whose small glass window was divided by scallopy mullions. Reminded me of a Gothic cathedral in miniature.

A dog took great interest in the sound of the bell. A big dog. Or a small one with truly impressive vocals.

In seconds the door swung open, releasing the sweet, doughy smell of baking bread. A girl regarded us, relaxed but curious. Cujo, not so relaxed, but at least he didn’t charge out the door.

“Who is it? A female voice came from somewhere beyond the girl’s back.

“A policeman.” The girl’s dark hair was center-parted and braided. Her eyes, deeply green, looked out from a pale, heart-shaped face.

“Hold Dozer, Saffron baby.” Footsteps hurried toward us.

The girl placed a hand on Dozer’s head. The dog stopped growling, but continued eyeing us with open suspicion. Composed of a big chunk of mastiff, the beast easily outdid me in poundage. And drool.

The woman appeared holding both arms up and away from her body. They were white with flour and her face was red with exertion. Her smile, at first friendly, wavered on seeing the deputy’s uniform.

“Katalin Brice?”

“Yes. And you are?” Eyes moving between Ramsey and me.

“Deputy Zeb Ramsey.” Displaying his badge. “This is Dr. Brennan.” Glossing over my qualifications. “We’d like to speak with you briefly.”

“About?”

“May we come in?” Directed more at Dozer than his mistress.

Katalin Brice looked past us to the street. In the morning sun, her short curly hair sparked like copper, her eyes like the sapphires in a brooch I’d inherited from Gran. Totally sans makeup, she was stunning.

Perhaps reassured by the Avery County logo on the SUV, Katalin stepped back. “Dozer, go to your bed.”

Radiating disapproval, the dog withdrew.

“I’m baking and mustn’t let the dough sit. Do you mind if we talk while I work?”

“Of course,” Ramsey said.

Katalin and Saffron led us to the back of the house, through living and dining rooms that were worn but spotless. The hardwood floors looked original, the paint fresh.

The furnishings, sparse and eclectic—papasan chairs, string beads hanging in a doorway, a framed poster of Gandhi—reminded me of my grad school apartment. A plaque on one wall read: “Someday, after we have mastered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for good the energies of love.”

Every horizontal surface held a metal objet d’art. Most were abstract, all swooping curves and jutting appendages. A few appeared to be animals, though the species were none I’d ever encountered.

The kitchen was surprisingly large. At its center was a heavy pine table flanked by benches. Beside the stove was an enormous oval cushion now occupied by Dozer.

The table held a stainless-steel bowl, a rolling pin, and a lump of dough large enough to sink a beluga. Six bread pans waited in a line on the counter.

“Please.” Winging an elbow outward, using the inside of the other to brush errant curls from her forehead. “I’m sorry about the mess.”

Ramsey and I dragged a bench from under the table and settled, one at each end. Saffron slid a book down the one opposite and sat. Dozer watched, eyes rolling with the action, head never leaving his mat.

“Teilhard de Chardin.” I began my always-engaging warm-up.

At first Katalin looked confused. Then her smile broadened. “You noticed the plaque in the dining room. Do you know him?”

“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” The only quote I could dredge up by the French priest-philosopher.

“Yes. That’s one of my favorites.”

While Katalin kneaded, Ramsey began. At the mention of River, the rolling and punching increased in intensity.

“We are so very sorry for your loss,” I jumped in. “I can’t imagine the pain of losing an infant.”

“It was nature’s will.”

“SIDS.”

“Yes.”

“Can you elaborate?” As gently as I could.

“River died in his sleep. What is there to say?”

Noting movement across the table, I stole a glance at Saffron. Her body was tense, her eyes fixed on her mother’s face.

“Was a physician involved?”

“The baby was dead, so the coroner was called. No need for a doctor.”

“Do you know who that coroner was?”

“No.” Knuckle-punching the dough. To Ramsey, “You’re the one who phoned. You talked to Joel.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Joel is at his studio. He won’t be happy that you’re here.”

“We won’t stay long.” A beat, then, “You and your husband were members of the Jesus Lord Holiness church at the time, is that correct?”

“We attended briefly.”

“Why that church?”

“Joel and I believe there is more to existence than worldly concerns.”

“Why did you leave?”

She paused. Again used the inside of her elbow to brush hair from her face.

“We thought spiritual fulfillment might best come from ancient ritual, from people seeking personal engagement with forces existing on a higher plane.” Back to the bread. “We tried Jesus Lord Holiness. It wasn’t for us. Now we belong to the Unitarian church. Its principles align more closely with our current worldview.”

“And that would be?”

She answered slowly, prefacing each sentence with a series of jabs to the dough.

“We believe that all humans are welcome at the table of God’s love and fellowship. That the divisions that separate us are artificial, that all souls are one. We don’t focus on an afterlife, strict doctrine, or a written creed. We express our faith through acts of justice and compassion.”

I wasn’t sure if she was summarizing Unitarian beliefs or those of Joel and herself. But it sounded more reasonable than hellfire and speaking in tongues.

“What can you tell me about Granger Hoke?” Ramsey asked.

“Father G.” Katalin lifted, then dropped the dough. “No comment.”

“Did you know Mason Gulley?”

“Only to say hello.”

“Your impression?”

“He was a sad young man.”

“Cora Teague was your nanny?”

Across the table, Saffron’s little shoulders hiked up sharply.

Katalin reached out to her daughter. “It’s okay, baby.”

“Do you remember Cora?” I asked the child gently.

Saffron whipped to face her mother, eyes wide with alarm. “Why are they asking about Cora?”

“She’s missing,” I said gently. “Deputy Ramsey and I are trying to find her.”

“Will she come to our house, Mommy?” So shrill Dozer shot to his feet.

“No, sweetheart.”

“Which one, Mommy?” Saucer eyes probing her mother’s. “Which one?”

“Come here.”

Saffron flew from the bench and fired around the table.

Katalin hugged then released her daughter, leaving two white handprints on the girl’s back. Cupping the small chin, she said, “I want you to take Dozer out into the yard. Can you do that for me?”

A solemn nod, then the child skittered off, the dog on her heels.

“That was a very strong reaction,” I said.

“Saffron feels things deeply.”

“Still.”

“She doesn’t like Cora Teague.”

“Do you know why?” Skimming a glance at Ramsey.

“When Saffron was three she broke her wrist falling from her tricycle. Cora was with her at the time. I suspect she unconsciously associates the pain with the person.”

“Has she talked about the incident?”

“We try to focus on happy things.”

“How did Cora explain the accident?”

“Explanations.” Something flickered in Katalin’s eyes, there in the blue, then gone. “It doesn’t matter if the water is cold or warm if you’re going to have to wade through it anyway.”

“Also Teilhard de Chardin?”

She nodded.

“Was he the reason you tried Catholicism?”

“Perhaps.” She pointed an elbow at the empty bread pans. “I’m sorry. I have deliveries due by noon.”

Ramsey and I followed her to the front door. We were on the porch when her words made us pause.

“There was a pillow in the crib.” I turned. Katalin was looking not at us but at something off in the distance. Perhaps off in time.

“With River,” I guessed.

She nodded.

“I never put a pillow in his crib.” Almost a whisper.

“Did you tell someone?” I asked.

The deep indigo eyes swung to me, so filled with pain the connection felt like a blow. “Father G.”

“What did he say?”

“Beware of sinners bearing false witness.”