Bare Bones

“Damn!” Larabee tossed his pen onto the desk.

“My thought precisely.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“Damn it to blue blazes!”

“I’ll go with that, too.”

“We’ll have to haul ass back out there.”

“Yes.”

“If that”—he jabbed a thumb at my upturned palm—“hand is recent, whoever did the burying might rethink his arrangement.”

“Could be searching for a shovel as we speak.”

“Tomorrow?”

I nodded.

Larabee reached for the phone. “Could it be an old unmarked grave?”

“Anything’s possible.”

I didn’t believe it.

Joe Hawkins dropped me at the annex.

Ryan was stretched out watching an I Love Lucy rerun. His day had obviously included shopping, for he now featured plaid shorts and a T-shirt that proclaimed BEER: NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE. Though his face was tanned, his legs were the color of uncooked perch.

Boyd was dozing at his end of the couch.

The coffee table held a dead Heineken and a cereal bowl containing a half-dozen chips. An empty bowl sat on the floor.

Four eyes scanned me when I appeared in the doorway. Birdie was sulking out of sight.

Boyd slunk to the floor.

“Bonjour, Madam La Docteure.”

I allowed my pack and purse to slide from my shoulder.

“Rough day?” Ryan asked.

I nodded, smiled. “Hope yours was better.”

“Hooch and I went to Kings Mountain.”

“The national park?”

“The Yanks kicked some serious British butt there, right, podna?” He scratched Boyd’s ear. Boyd laid his chin on Ryan’s chest.

While I was up to my elbows in putrid flesh, these two were strolling down history lane. At least someone had enjoyed the day.

Ryan palmed chips into his mouth. Boyd’s eyes followed his hand.

“Hooch kicked some serious squirrel butt.”

I crossed to the couch. Ryan drew back his feet, and I dropped into the spot Boyd had vacated.

Boyd sniffed Ryan’s chip bowl. I nudged him and he turned and gave me the eyebrows.

Lucy and Ethel were hiding in a closet, trying to change out of work clothes. Lucy was cautioning Ethel not to tell Ricky.

“Why doesn’t she just get a job?” Ryan asked.

“Ricky won’t let her.”

I thought about Ricky Don Dorton.

“Turns out the Cessna belongs to a local bar owner who’s probably running drugs on the side.”

“Who’s that?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I wanted no comments on the naming preferences of my Dixie brethren. “The plane was clean and the owner wasn’t flying.”

“The fine citizen’s aircraft was stolen.”

“Yep.”

“I hate it when that happens to me.”

I cuffed Ryan on the chest and gave him the spare-me face.

“Who was on board?”

“Don’t know. The NTSB investigator is liaising with the cops. They’ll check their missing persons, then run our descriptors through NCIC.”

Ryan fought back a smile.