'Second-degree murder?” Julie said.
'Right. According to Pratt, he was poking around, see, looking for the manuscript, when Tremaine surprised him. Then there's this big confrontation, with Pratt trying to talk his way out of it. But after a couple of minutes this weird expression comes on Tremaine's face, and he points his finger and says, ‘Why, I know you. You're James Pratt.’”
John swallowed the last of his lasagna, shoved his plate away, and sipped from his glass of white wine. “Well, Pratt panicked. He started to threaten Tremaine, and then to shove him a little. To scare him, he says. But Tremaine kept getting more excited. And then—'
'Let me guess,” Marti said. “He blacks out. He can't remember what happened next.'
'That's it,” John said genially. “He blacked out, came to with Tremaine dead,
'Sounds like first-degree murder to me,” Marti grumbled.
'Marti, things'll get sorted out. Don't you have any faith in the American system of jurisprudence?'
'Ho,” Marti said. “Does anybody want some more lasagna?'
'What happened to the manuscript?” Julie asked.
He threw it in the lake, he says. I guess he was hoping it really was the only copy, the way Tremaine said. And the bones got tossed in the woods. What's for dessert, babe?'
'Tofutti,” announced Marti, who took a thematic approach to dinners. “You love it.'
John looked pained. “How about walking down to the Pacific Dessert Company for something?'
'Chocolate Decadence?” Julie murmured plaintively.
'Fine with me,” Marti said, unoffended, “but it's gonna be guilt burgers in the morning.'
'I'll risk it,” John said.
'I wonder what will happen to Tremaine's book now,” Julie said as they got into their jackets.
John had the answer to that too. “It'll get published. Javelin's asked Anna Henckel to finish it up. Do a foreword in her own name, expand the scientific stuff, edit the whole thing.'
'Anna Henckel?” Julie said. “But I thought she hated him. She'll destroy him.'
'No,” John said slowly, “I think she'll do just fine.'
They were sitting over their coffee and dessert in the big, bright pastry restaurant at the base of the hill when Gideon raised something else.
'John, how could you make all those assumptions about Pratt not being dead, when I kept telling you we had bones from both men?'
'Yeah, well...” John said with a grin. “No offense, Doc, but I don't always believe everything you tell me.'
Gideon smiled. “A good thing, too,” he said.
[Back to Table of Contents]
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * * *
Gideon Oliver has always relied on the kindness of his real-life counterparts. For Icy Clutches, particular thanks are due to several practicing forensic anthropologists. First, it was Dr. Michael Charney, Director of Colorado State University's Forensic Science Laboratory, who gave me the focal idea for the plot over a friendly cup of coffee one morning.
Later, others cordially and generously filled in gaps in my knowledge with their own formidable expertise, viz: Peggy Caldwell of Rutgers University and the New York City Medical Examiner's Office; Dr. Rodger Heglar, Consultant in forensic anthropology, San Diego, and Professor Emeritus, San Francisco State University; Dr. Ted Rathbun, Chairman of the Anthropology Department, University of South Carolina; and Dr. Ed Waldrip, Director of the Southern Institute for Forensic Science, New Orleans.
David W. Spines, Chief Ranger, Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve, was equally generous with his time and considerable knowledge.
Glacier Bay Lodge, where much of the story's action occurs, is a real place, and is as described. My thanks go to owner Bob Giersdorf for his permission to use this remote and romantic hotel as a setting for some fictional foul play.
Visit www.e- reads.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
