Old Bones

I practically had to get us all drowned to convince you.'

'That's what I like about you. You never rub it in.” He took the open booklets from Gideon and looked hard at them. “What did you mean, ‘doctored'? You're talking about a major production here. Look at the paper and the printing on the phony pages. They're exactly the same as the real ones. That took work. It would have had to be set up way ahead of time, and whoever did it would have had to have a real tide schedule on hand, which means —'

Gideon was shaking his head. “No, I think it was simpler than that. If I could get into Guillaume's files, I think I could show you.'

'Guillaume's files? They must be right here in his study, where Joly's been doing most of his interviewing.” He walked a few steps to a closed door and turned the handle. The door opened. “What's stopping us?'

Gideon hesitated. “Don't you feel a little awkward about snooping around other people's homes without being invited?'

'Are you kidding me?'

'Well, I do.'

'Doc,” John said with a sigh, “you got to get over these over-fastidious sensitivities. That is, if you ever hope to operate anything like an honest-to-God detective.'

'That's the last thing I hope to do,” Gideon muttered, but in he went behind John. They left the door ajar as a salve to his conscience (it wasn't really snooping if they did it openly) and flicked on the light.

The study was very different from the other rooms Gideon had seen, its contents reflecting the wintry personality of its dead user: functional, gray metal desk with nothing on it but a marble pen set with the two pens neatly inserted in their holders; two three-drawer file cabinets of matching blue steel (a grudging concession to cosmetic considerations?); a tripartite glass-fronted display case filled with tiny seashells meticulously arranged in long, dull, rows. Everything labeled, efficient, and ruthlessly neat, a private sanctuary of austerity in the lush manoir.

Gideon went to the right-hand file cabinet, to the drawer labeled “M—P.” There, in a hanging folder under 'Marees,' he quickly found what he expected to find: Guillaume's tide schedules, a set of blue booklets all looking just like the ones he had already seen, except for the years. There were eleven in all, arranged in order (naturally) from 1976 to 1986. The table for 1987 was not in its place. Presumably, that was the one he'd gotten from Ben, which he now put on the desk alongside the one he'd bought at the store.

He sat down and began going through the stack, starting with 1976, opening each one to the page for January, glancing briefly at it, and moving on to the next booklet.

'So what are we looking for?” John asked, leaning over his shoulder.

'We're looking for a year where the dates—” But he had already found it. “Here,” he said, “Nineteen-eighty- one. Look.” He pointed to the entry under Jours for January 1. “ ‘J',” he said, “for jeudi. Thursday.'

'Yeah,” John said. “So?'

'So in 1981 January started on a Thursday, just the way it did this year, which means—” He flipped a few pages. “—that the days for March also must correspond.'

'Unless 1981 was a leap year.'

'It wasn't.'

'I bet anything there's some point to this,” John said.

'You better believe it. Look at the afternoon high tide for March 23, 1981.” He put his finger on the place.

'Sixteen-forty-three,” John said, still not comprehending. “Huh. The same time as it was today. That's funny.'

'It's more than funny. If we match the rest of the times with the ones on the schedule from Monoprix, I think they'll match too. But only on pages 31 to 34.” He opened the Monoprix booklet to compare, and sighed with satisfaction. “See?'

Even the three-line advertisement at the bottom of page 32 matched. 'Le Galle Freres, Opticiens,' it proclaimed. 'L’ ami de vos yeux.' But the advertisement on page 32 of the one Ben had found in the car was for aluminum boats.

'Doc,” John said, frowning over the booklets, “I still don't—'

'John, look at the individual pages. Do you see any indication of the year? There isn't any. Just 'Mars,' or 'Avril,' or whatever. They're printed up in exactly the same format every year, and the only place you can find the date is on the cover. Just like the schedules we use to go clamming at Sequim Bay. It'd be the easiest thing in the world—'

'—to open up the staple and switch pages from one year to another!” John smacked the table. “Damn! As long as you used a year where the dates fell on the same days of the week you could get away with it!'

'At last, the light.'

'Not bad,” John said appreciatively. “Somebody hears the old guy say he's going tidepooling the next morning, sneaks in here during the night, switches a few pages from 1981 to 1987—'

'And vice-versa, so there aren't any missing pages in the 1981 schedule, just in case Guillaume happens to look.'

John nodded slowly. “And goodbye, Guillaume.'

'Right. Only of course it wasn't really Guillaume.'

'Oh, yeah.” John tapped his temple with a forefinger. “It's hard to keep these little details straight. Sometimes I start wondering who I am. Hey, we better cut Joly in on this right now, don't you think? Most of these people aren't going to be around after tomorrow.'