Make No Bones

'That's right. You want a steak? I'm not supposed to be talking to the customers.'

Gideon held out his plate while Vinnie dropped a huge T-bone into it. “What did you mean when you said you couldn't see anything? You must have been able to see something.'

'I already told him,” Vinnie said, indicating John. “I didn't look. There wasn't no point.'

'Why wasn't there any point?'

'Because,' Vinnie said, showing a streak of adolescent impatience with slow-minded adults, “the blinds were down. I already told him that.'

There was a moment of startled silence before John said, “Uh, actually, I think you missed that little detail.” “Well, they were,” Vinnie said sullenly.

'You're absolutely positive?” Gideon said. “They were down?'

'Well, jeez, I know what blinds look like.'

'All the way down?” John asked.

'Yeah, all the way down. I gotta go back to work. There's more people.'

'Why all the fuss?” Julie asked as the three of them moved away from the pit. “Why is it so important that the blinds were down?'

'Because,” John said, coming to a standstill, “they were up when we found him. And if he really was dead when Vinnie was there, that means somebody must have come back later—before we found him—and raised them. Is that the way you see it too, Doc?'

'Mm.'

'Oh,” Julie said, chewing gently at her lip. “But that doesn't make any sense. You mean somebody wanted the body to be found?'

'Looks like it,” John said.

'But then why not take down the do-not-disturb sign too?'

'You got me.'

'And why would the killer want the body to be found anyway? Wouldn't he want to put it off as long as possible? Don't all those gruesome pathological clues get harder and harder to figure out as time goes on?'

'Yeah, they do,” John said thoughtfully. “Everything does. You know, maybe it wasn't the killer. Maybe—maybe what?'

John and Julie looked at each other and shook their heads. “Gideon,” Julie said, “you're being awfully quiet.'

Gideon was being quiet because his mind was racketing along another track entirely, one that hadn't even vaguely occurred to him before.

'I was just thinking...” he murmured. “What if those blinds didn't really have anything to do with keeping people from seeing in? What if...I don't know; I don't quite have it worked out...'

'Hey there, you three,” Miranda called from a few feet away, “we can squeeze you in here if you don't mind consorting with known suspects.'

And indeed, there they all were, lined up at a single table: Miranda, Callie, Les, Leland, Nellie, and Frieda.

'Thanks,” John said, “but I've still gotta talk to my compadre about a couple of things. You guys go ahead.” He headed for the next table, where Farrell was sitting.

Callie slid over so Julie had room next to her. Gideon sat around the corner from Julie, on her right, next to Leland. Frieda and Nellie were across the square table from him, with Les and Miranda on the fourth side.

'We have been driven to band together,” Leland said, “by the unrelenting scrutiny of our peers.” He looked sourly across at Callie. “We are now hard at work providing each other with a caring, nurturing environment in which to initiate the mind-body healing process.” Something in his voice suggested that the glass of white wine at his elbow was not his first.

Callie glowered briefly at him. “Do you suppose we could get the potato salad started around, please?'

Julie began to cut into her steak, then stopped and touched the back of Gideon's hand. “Everything all right?” she asked quietly.

'What? Yes, fine, I was just thinking.” He sliced a wedge from his steak and began chewing.

The blinds, the blinds. Down shortly after Harlow's death, up twenty-four hours later when he and John had found the body. All the way up, letting the sun pour in...

Julie passed him the big blue bowl of potato salad. “Thanks,” Gideon said absently and put it down without spooning any onto his plate.

The blinds—yes, sure, the blinds could have fooled them all; especially with a little help from the air- conditioning. But what about those Calliphora eggs? Surely there was no way to fake them, no way to alter the—

'Hey, if you're not going to have any of that stuff, cover it up, will you?” Les said to him from the other side of Leland. “The flies are having a field day.'

'Oh—sure,” Gideon said. Mechanically, he began to tug at the plastic wrap that still covered half the bowl, pulling it down over the rim.

And then, suddenly, he was on his feet, almost upsetting the bench and Leland with it. “Plastic wrap!” he blurted.