SUNDAY DAWNED COOL AND RAINY. I AWOKE, NOTED CONDITIONS, and went back to sleep. Apparently, my cohorts reacted in a similar fashion. Or no one even raised a lid.
At nine thirty, muffled rattling sounds roused me again. Throwing on shorts and a tee, I descended to the kitchen.
Ryan was preparing French toast and bacon. The smell was orgasmic.
I rousted the ladies and the four of us shared another prickly meal. As we ate, the rain tapered off and the sun began gnawing holes through the clouds.
After breakfast, we went our separate ways, Ryan and Lily to view fish from a glass-bottom boat, Katy and I to snorkel and read on the beach.
I took my BlackBerry, figuring I could make calls from the sand. Knowing Danny was not an early riser, I put that one off. But I was anxious to talk to Plato Lowery.
As before, Plato did not answer his phone. Neither did Silas Sugarman.
Frustrated, I stared at my current screen saver, a shot of Birdie sitting on Charlie’s cage. The photo usually triggered a smile. Not this time.
The tiny digits told me it was six thirty p.m. East Coast time. I searched my brain for inspiration. Who might be available on a Sunday evening in Lumberton, North Carolina?
Idea. Why not? He’d proven useful before.
I got a number through Google. Punched it in.
“Robeson County Sheriff’s Department.” The voice was crisp, more New York than Dixie.
“Sheriff Beasley, please.”
“Not in.”
“Could you patch me through to him?”
“Not possible.”
“This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. Could you give the sheriff my number and ask him to call me back? It’s rather urgent.”
“What is the nature of your complaint?”
“It’s not a complaint. On May eleventh I conducted an exhumation in Lumberton. The sheriff was present. I need information concerning the disinterred remains.”
“The sheriff is extraordinarily busy.”
“As am I.” The woman was starting to piss me off.
“Your number?”
I provided it.
During the pause that followed, a gull cried out. I hoped the sound didn’t carry across the line.
“I’ll transmit your request.”
Click.
“Do that,” I snapped to dead air.
Katy’s head came up. I flapped a hand. She resumed reading her book.
Ten minutes later the phone rang.
“Sheriff Beasley.” High and a bit rubbery, like Barney Fife.
“Thanks for returning my call. I apologize for intruding on your Sunday evening.”
“Just watching the Braves get their sorry butts whupped.”
“I’m calling concerning the individual buried at the Gardens of Faith Cemetery under the name John Charles Lowery.”
“First that detective, now you. Spider’s sure stirring up a hornet’s nest of interest.”
“Yes, sir. Did you know him?” I asked. “Personally?”
“We run up against each other from time to time.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Spider was three grades behind me in school. After graduation, I went into law enforcement.” Yep. Deputy Fife. “My rookie years I had to deal with a couple of his antics.”
“Antics?”
“Actually, Spider wasn’t so bad. It was that cousin of his. That was one rambunctious juvenile.” A very long
“And he was?”
“Reggie Cumbo. Boy had a sheet longer than my arm.”
