She reached into a jean pocket and drew out a phone that she jabbed angrily. “C’mon, answer already-oh, I got you. Finally. Listen, I need you to come over … to the house. You won’t believe what happened … what? No, I can’t-okay, soon as the meeting’s finished … no, don’t call, just come over.”
She hung up.
Milo said, “Your husband?”
“He’s an accountant.” As if that explained it. “So what’s
“Our first step will be bringing some dogs in to sniff around, depending upon what they come up with, maybe a below-ground sonar to see if anything else is buried down there.”
“Else?” said Holly Ruche. “Why would there be anything else?”
“No reason, but we need to be thorough.”
“You’re saying my home is a graveyard? That’s disgusting. All you’ve got is some old bones, there’s no reason to think there’s more.”
“I’m sure you’re right-”
“Of course I’m right, I own this place. The house
A hand fluttered to her abdomen. She massaged. “My baby’s developing perfectly.”
“That’s great, Ms. Ruche.”
She stared at Milo, gave out a tiny squeak. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth went slack, she pitched backward.
Milo and I both caught her. Her skin was dank, clammy. As she went limp, the paramedics rushed over, looking oddly satisfied.
Milo said, “You sure as hell will,” and went to call the anthropologist.
CHAPTER 3
Liz Wilkinson had just finished a lecture at the U., would be over in twenty. Milo went to make more calls and I sat with Holly Ruche.
All vital signs fine per the EMTs, but she needed to rest and get down some fluids. They gave me custody of the Gatorade squeeze bottle, packed up and left for an emergency call near the 405 freeway.
The first time I offered the bottle to Holly she clamped her mouth and shook her head. The second time, her lips parted. Several sips later, she smiled and lowered her right hand until it rested atop my left. Her skin had warmed. She said, “I feel much better … you’re a psychologist for victim aid?”
“I do what’s needed, there’s no set routine.”
“I guess I am a victim. Of sorts.”
“It had to be rough.”
“It was horrible. Do you think he’s going to dig up my entire yard?”
“He won’t do anything unnecessary.”
“That sounds like you’re covering for him.”
“I’m judging from experience.”
“So you work with him a lot.”
“I do.”
“Must be … ooh.” She winced, touched her belly. The black jersey of her top puffed. “She’s moving like crazy- it’s a girl.”
“Congratulations.”
“Girls rule.” She grinned. “I’m looking forward to having a little BFF.” Another grimace. “Wow, she’s being really hyper … oh, my … that one smarted a bit, she’s kicking me in the ribs.”
I said, “First baby?”
“You can tell?” she said. “I’m coming across like an amateur?”
“Not at all. You’re young.”
“Not that young,” she said. “I’m thirty-one.”
“That’s young.”
“My mother had me when she was eighteen.”
“That’s younger.”
She laughed, grew serious. “I didn’t want that.”
“Starting so young.”
Her eyes shifted upward. “The way she did it … but I always knew I wanted it.”
“Motherhood.”
“Motherhood, house, yard, the whole domestic-goddess thing … it’s going to be great.” Looking past me, she took in the crime scene techs studying the tree segments. They’d arrived fifteen minutes ago, were waiting for Liz Wilkinson, had placed a white cloth over the blue box. The fabric had settled into an oblong; a deflated ghost costume.
Holly Ruche said, “I can’t have them turning my property into a disaster zone or something. I know it’s not much right now but I have plans.”
Not a word about the tiny bones. I wondered why a married woman would avoid the plural form.
“It was all coming together,” she said. “Then that crazy tree had to-”
Movement from the driveway caused us both to turn. A man around Holly’s age, skinny-but-soft, bald and bearded, studied the felled tree before heading over. He wore a long-sleeved blue shirt, gray slacks, brown shoes. Beeper on his belt, iPhone in his hand, aviator sunglasses perched atop his clean head.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he said.
His wedding ring matched hers. Neither of them took the greeting beyond that. He had one of those faces that’s allergic to smiling, kept several feet between himself and Holly, looked put-upon.
She said, “Matt?”
His attention shifted to the hand she’d continued to drape over mine.
I stood, introduced myself.
He said, “A doctor? There’s a problem, health-wise?”
“She’s doing well, considering.”
“Good. Matt Ruche. She’s my wife.”
Holly said, “Doctor as in psychologist. He’s been giving me support.”
Matt Ruche’s eyes narrowed. “Okay.”
His wife flashed him a broad, flat smile. “I’m feeling much better now. It was crazy. Finding it.”
“Had to be … so when can we clean up?”
“Don’t know, they’ll tell us.”
“That sucks.”
“They have to do their job, Matt.”
He touched his beeper. “What a hassle.”
“The stupid tree fell down,” said Holly. “No way could anyone-”
“Whatever.” He glanced at his phone.
I turned to leave.
Holly Ruche said, “Hold on, one sec.”
She got to her feet. “Do you have a card, Dr. Delaware?”
I found one. Matt Ruche reached to take it. She beat him to it. He flushed clear up to his scalp. Shrugging, he began texting.
Holly gripped my hand with both of hers. “Thanks.”
I wished her good luck just as Liz Wilkinson strode into the yard, carrying two hard-shell cases. She had on a pantsuit the color of bittersweet chocolate; same hue as her skin, a couple of tones lighter. A white coat was
