Grave Secrets

“C’est magnifique. Not the stealing, of course. But Chantale is all right.” Her voice was high and taut, the accent more pronounced than I remembered.

“It’s wonderful news.” I sat up.

“ Oui. My baby is alive.”

“Do you know if Chantale has been charged with anything other than shoplifting?”

“No. We must go and bring her home.”

I didn’t point out that a judge might have different thoughts on that.

“If drugs are involved I will find a new program. A better one.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“We will insist.”

“Yes.”

“She will listen to you.”

“Me?”

Suddenly, I was fully awake.

“Mais, oui.”

“I’m not going to Montreal.”

“I have booked two seats on this afternoon’s flight.” Mrs. Specter was a woman unaccustomed to refusal.

“I can’t leave Guatemala now.”

“But I need you.”

“I’m committed to a project here.”

“I can’t do this alone.”

“Where is Mr. Specter?”

“My husband is at an agricultural conference in Mexico City.”

“Mrs. Spect—”

“Chantale was furious the night she left. She said terrible things. She said she never wanted to see me again.”

“I’m sure—”

“She may refuse to talk with me!”

Bring on the Valium.

“May I call you back?”

“Please, don’t turn your back on me. I need your help. Chantale needs your help. You are one of the only people who knows the whole situation.”

“Let me see what I can do.” For lack of a better remark.

I threw back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

Why wasn’t the ambassador rushing to be with his wife and daughter? The woman sounded seriously distraught.

I stared at a spot where I’d nicked my knee.

Given the situation, would I be any different? Probably, but not relevant.

I shuffled to the kitchen, scooped grounds, dumped them into the coffeemaker, added water. Then I took out the doughnuts and ate one while Mr. Coffee perked.

I could see Ryan.

I mashed powdered sugar on the countertop, sucked it from my fingertip.

LaManche wanted my opinion on the Lac des Deux-Montagnes torso. Said the case was urgent.

I pictured Chupan Ya, thought of the skeletons lying on tables at the FAFG lab. That work was so important. But the victims had been dead for almost two decades. Was my need to be here as urgent as my need to help LaManche? With Carlos and Molly out of the picture, Mateo was already working shorthanded. But couldn’t he get along without me for a couple of days?

I poured coffee, added milk.

I pictured the body in the ditch and felt the familiar sadness. Claudia de la Alda, age eighteen. I pictured the bones in the septic tank and was overcome by guilt.

And frustration. The harder Galiano and I worked, the farther we seemed to be from answers.

I needed to accomplish something concrete.

I wanted an opinion on cat hair.