Spider Bones

Ryan’s mouth corners twitched as his mind performed the same transposal mine had.

“Lo is Vietnamese, puts a little cap over the o. Hung is Chinese. The two have partnered for nine years, and are no longer receptive to comments concerning their names.”

Anticipating the usual reaction, Perry had diverted any witticism I might have offered. I did the same with Ryan.

“I thought you were here for some dude who died in the sixties,” Katy said.

Ryan and I swiveled in surprise. Neither of us had heard Katy come through the sliding door.

“I am. Several dudes, actually,” I said. “And the local ME asked my advice on a recent local case. I assumed you wouldn’t want to hear about it.” Given Coop’s death. I didn’t say that.

Katy looked from me to Ryan then back again. “Sure I do.”

Ryan rose. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I haven’t checked my e-mail in days.” Lame, but Ryan sensed Katy was feeling excluded.

Katy settled into the lounge chair Ryan had vacated. I told her about Hadley Perry, the body parts, the tooth marks, the surgical pin, and the partial tattoo.

“Live every week like Shark Week.”

Huh?

“Tracy Jordan? 30 Rock?”

Still, I was lost.

“The NBC sitcom? Tracy Morgan’s character was referring to a series on the Discovery Channel? Lampooning motivational quotes? Never mind. My remark was stupid. It’s wrong to joke about victims.”

I patted her hand.

“No offense taken.”

For a moment we both listened to the tick of palm fronds and the shush of gently breaking waves. Katy spoke first.

“I’ve been spending a lot of time on my blog.”

“Commenting on what?”

“The stupidity of war.”

“Sounds worthwhile.”

“I’m going to write about the insensitivity of what I just said.” She thought a moment. “About how we sometimes lose sight of the fact that every death is tragic.”

“I’d very much like to read your thoughts.”

“You have to say that.” Shooting to her feet, she buzzed my cheek. “You’re my mother.”

Before I could protest, she hurried inside.

My second caller was Tim Larabee, the ME in Charlotte. A decomposed body had been found in a sandpit off a rural highway in Cabarrus County. He’d been on-scene since midnight, suspected the remains were those of a housewife missing since the previous fall. An anthropology consult would be needed. He wondered, no pressure, when I’d return.

Happy Days.

Lily’s phone rang at half past ten. Having finished Stephen King, I was on to a Grisham novel. Ryan was watching CNN. Katy was in her room blogging or tweeting or whatever it was she’d said.

After checking caller ID, Lily clicked on and hurried upstairs.

I looked over at Ryan, recognized the changed jawline, the tensed shoulders. Understood. Suspecting Lily’s caller was Lutetia, he was steeling himself for his daughter’s tears.

A half hour later Lily returned. She was calm, almost smiling. Curling on the sofa, she offered no explanation.

My eyes met Ryan’s. He raised questioning brows.

I nodded toward Lily.

Ryan didn’t grimace, but he came close.

I nodded again, harder.

“That your mom?” Ryan asked his daughter, casual as hell.

“No.”

I feigned total absorption in my book.

Seconds passed. A full minute.

“Anderson Cooper’s got really great hair.” Lily’s eyes stayed glued to the TV. “But I hear he’s short.”

Monday, Ryan agreed to drive Lily up to the North Shore. She wanted to visit the Turtle Bay resort where scenes from Forgetting Sarah Marshall were shot. He wanted time alone with his daughter.

Katy stayed home to work on her blog.