organization, and we work damn hard. Listen.” He had come into the living room to get some vegetables and dip for himself, and he took the letter from her, turning to the second page.
'Here. ‘Round-table topics will include the adjustment of aging standards in light of today's accelerating maturation rates; race-linked differences in sexual dimorphism; blunt-force skull fractures; and new developments in computerized forensic data nets.’”
'Very impressive.'
Gideon accepted this with a magisterial nod. “'In addition, we're trying to scare up an FBI agent or high-level working cop to put on a session on crime-scene do's and don'ts, which, it pains me to say, most of us can sorely use. (Contact me if you know any likely candidates for this. No honorarium, but we'll cover expenses.) As usual, one of our conference highlights will be...'” He coughed and folded up the sheet. “Well, you get the idea.'
She snatched it away from him. “'...will be our competition for the wildest, weirdest case of the last ten years. Present the most bizarre, off-the-wall doings you've had the good (?) fortune to be associated with in the last decade. Winner will receive a T-shirt with an appropriate and meaningful WAFA slogan, such as “Ten Years of Beer for Breakfast.''
Julie nodded soberly. “'Dignified’ hardly does you justice.'
'Didn't I say it wasn't all business? Forensic work can get pretty grim. You need some comic relief.'
'Right,” she said, beginning to read aloud again as he went back to the kitchen. “'Another highlight, she said hopefully, will be the opening, after almost a year of feverish preparation, of the Murder, Mayhem, and Miseries exhibit in the Central Oregon Museum of Natural History. This, as you know, is the country's first permanent, large- scale forensic anthropology exhibit, and if I do say so myself, it's going to knock your socks off!
''Sunday afternoon is reserved for unwinding, greeting old friends, hoisting a few, and similar intellectual pursuits. In the evening, please plan on being the guests of the museum for an open house and reception. On Monday we roll up our sleeves and get down to business with our first working session. Spouses/lovers/friends/whatever can soak up some rays around the pool, or play tennis, Ping-Pong, or basketball, or go horseback riding or hiking—or, if desperate enough, can always sit in on our sessions.
''An extra treat this year will be a chuck-wagon breakfast to break up things at midweek. On Thursday morning we'll have a three-mile group horseback ride to a rustic picnic spot where the works—bacon, eggs, coffee, and so forth—will be waiting for us, compliments of the lodge.’”
Julie sipped her wine pensively. “I'll admit, it sounds like fun.'
'Of course it does,” he said, heartened. “And don't a few days in central Oregon sound good? Blue skies, warm sun, dry air—'
'Not really, thanks.'
Naturally not. Raised in the Pacific Northwest, she thrived on the cool mists and lush, wet green of the Olympic Peninsula. So, amazingly enough, did Gideon, a native Southern Californian. All the same, by the time May arrived —after half a year of dark days and endless, drifting gray rain, with two more months of it yet to come—he was ready to bargain away his soul for a few days of hot, flat, cloudless sunshine. It was hard to remember that anyone could feel otherwise.
Glass of wine in hand, she began reading again, then lifted her head as he turned up the heat under some olive oil. “Mm, it's starting to smell good. What are we having, anyway?'
'Rock shrimp with garlic-basil sauce and pine nuts over fettucine.'
She was patently impressed. “That sounds wonderful. How long will it be? I'm starving.'
'I don't know, I'll see what it says on the can.” “No, seriously.'
He peered at the recipe and did some quick arithmetic. “Oh, should be no more than half an hour. Say seven o'clock at the latest.'
Julie sighed. “Say eight o'clock,” she murmured more or less to herself.
Julie was an amazingly fast cook. Her stints in the kitchen were blurred, efficient flurries of activity, with everything seemingly done at the same time. Gideon had a more leisurely approach, slicing, chopping, and arranging things well ahead of time, so he could putter pleasantly through the cooking with his own glass of wine beside him. The result, they both agreed, was that he enjoyed it more, but what took her forty minutes was likely to take him two hours.
'Say seven-thirty,” he told her. “Have another carrot stick.” He poured her some more wine and went back to cutting basil leaves.
Julie returned to the letter. “'The Annual Albert Evan Jasper Memorial Weenie Roast, Singalong, and Chugalug Contest will begin at its time-hallowed hour of 7:00 P.M., Friday, and end God only knows when.’”—She looked at him quizzically. “Do you really have a singalong?'
'Absolutely. It's great fun.'
'And a chugalug contest?'
He laughed, dumping the basil into the blender along with some garlic and Parmesan cheese. “Poetic license.'
'And who's Albert Evan Jasper? I know the name...'
'One of the pioneering physical anthropologists. A student of Hrdlicka's. He was one of the first ones to really get into forensic work. The whole idea of WAFA came out of a sort of retirement party for him, put on by some of his own ex-students. They all got together at this Whitebark Lodge for a few days and talked forensic anthropology.'
'Yes, I've heard these retirement parties can get pretty wild.'
He smiled. “I guess some good discussion came out of it, and they decided to expand it and make it an every- other-year thing. I've been to a couple of them so far, and they've been useful. Fun too.'
'I gather Jasper himself is dead now?'
