Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  While Owens talked I checked the gardeners. No Kathryn.

  “Is everyone here free to come and go?” I asked, turning back to Owens.

  “Of course.” He laughed. “How could I stop them?”

  “What happens if someone wants to leave for good?”

  “They go.” He shrugged and spread his hands.

  For a moment no one spoke. The creak of the swings carried across the yard.

  “I thought your young couple might have stayed with us briefly, perhaps during one of my absences,” Owens offered. “Though not common, that has happened. But I’m afraid that is not the case. No one here has any recollection of either of them.”

  Just then Howdy Doody appeared from behind the neighboring house. When he spotted us he hesitated, then turned and hurried back in the direction from which he’d come.

  “I’d still like to speak to a few folks,” said Ryan. “There could be something someone knows that they just don’t think is important. That happens all the time.”

  “Mr. Ryan, I will not have my people harassed. I asked about your young couple and no one knew them. What more is there to say? I’m afraid I really can’t have you disturbing our routine.”

  Ryan cocked his head and made a clucking sound. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to, Dom.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I’m not going to go away. I have a friend named Baker. You do remember him? And he has friends who give him things called warrants.”

  Owens and Ryan locked eyes, and for a moment no one spoke. I heard the men on the porch rise, and in the distance a dog barked. Then Owens smiled and cleared his throat.

  “Jason, please ask everyone to come to the parlors.” His voice was low and even.

  Owens stood back and a tall man in a red warm-up suit slipped past him and angled toward the neighboring property. He was soft and overweight, and looked a little like Julia Child. I watched him stop to stroke a cat, then continue toward the garden.

  “Please come in,” said Owens, opening the screen. We followed him to the same room we’d occupied the day before and sat on the same rattan couch. The house was very quiet.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back. Would you care for anything?”

  We told him no, and he left the room. Overhead, a fan hummed softly.

  Soon I heard voices and laughter, then the creak of the screen door. As Owens’ flock filtered in I studied them one by one. I sensed Ryan doing the same.

  Within minutes the room was full, and I could conclude only one thing. The assembly looked totally unremarkable. They might have been a Baptist study group on its annual summer picnic. They joked and laughed and looked anything but oppressed.

  There were babies, adults, and at least one septuagenarian, but no adolescents or children. I did a quick count: seven men, thirteen women, three kids. Helen had said there were twenty-six living at the commune.

  I recognized Howdy and Helen. Jason leaned against a wall. El stood near the archway, Carlie on her hip. She stared at me intently. I smiled, remembering our meeting in Beaufort the previous afternoon. Her expression didn’t change.

  I scanned the other faces. Kathryn was not present.

  Owens returned and the room fell silent. He made introductions, then explained why we were there. The adults listened attentively, then turned to us. Ryan handed the photo of Brian and Heidi to a middle-aged man on his left, then outlined the case, avoiding unnecessary detail. The man looked at the picture and passed it on. As the snapshot circulated I studied each face, watching for subtle changes of expression that might indicate recognition. I saw only puzzlement and empathy.

  When Ryan finished, Owens again addressed his followers, soliciting input on the couple or the phone calls. No one spoke.

  “Mr. Ryan and Dr. Brennan have requested permission to interview you individually.” Owens looked from face to face. “Please feel free to talk to them. If there is a thought you harbor, please share it with honesty and compassion. We did not cause this tragedy, but we are part of the cosmic whole and should do what is in our power to set this dislocation in order. Do it in the name of harmony.”

  Every eye was on him, and I felt a strange intensity in the room.

  “Those of you who cannot speak should feel no guilt or shame.” He clapped his hands. “Now. Work and be well! Holistic affirmation through collective responsibility!”

  Spare me, I thought.

  When they’d gone Ryan thanked him.

  “This is not Waco, Mr. Ryan. We have nothing to hide.”

  “We were hoping to speak with the young woman we met yesterday,” I said.

  He looked at me a moment then said, “Young woman?”

  “Yes. She came in with a child. Carlie, I believe?”

  He looked at me so long I thought perhaps he didn’t remember. Then the Owens smile.

  “That would be Kathryn. She had an appointment today.”

  “An appointment?”

  “Why are you concerned with Kathryn?”

  “She seems close to Heidi’s age. I thought they might have known each other.” Something told me not to discuss our juice party in Beaufort.

  “Kathryn wasn’t here last summer. She’d gone to visit with her parents.”

  “I see. When will she be back?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  The screen door opened and a tall man appeared in the hallway. He was scarecrow thin, and had a white streak across his right eyebrow and lashes, giving him an oddly lopsided look. I remembered him. During the assembly he’d stood near the hall, playing with one of the toddlers.

  Owens held up one finger, and scarecrow nodded and pointed to the back of the house. He wore a bulky ring that looked out of place on his long, bony finger.

  “I’m sorry, but there are things I must do,” said Owens. “Talk with whomever you like, but please, respect our desire for harmony.”

  He ushered us to the door and extended a hand. If nothing else, Dom was a great shaker. He said he was glad we had stopped by and wished us luck. Then he was gone.

  Ryan and I spent the rest of the morning talking to the faithful. They were pleasant, and cooperative, and totally harmonious. And they knew zilch. Not even the whereabouts of Kathryn’s appointment.

  By eleven-thirty we knew nothing more than when we’d arrived.

  “Let’s go thank the reverend,” said Ryan, taking a set of keys from his pocket. They hung from a large plastic disk, and were not the ones for the rental car.

  “What the hell for?” I asked. I was hungry and hot and ready to move on.

  “It’s good manners.”

  I rolled my eyes, but Ryan was already halfway across the yard. I watched him knock on the screen door, then speak to the man with the pale eyebrow. In a moment Owens appeared. Ryan said something and extended his hand and, like marionettes, the three men squatted then rose quickly. Ryan spoke again, turned, and walked toward the car.

  * * *

  After lunch we tried a few more pharmacies, then drove back to the government center. I showed Ryan the records offices, then we crossed the grounds to the law enforcement building. A black man in a tank top and fedora was crisscrossing the lawn on a small tractor, his bony knees projecting like legs on a grasshopper.

  “How y’all doin’?” he said, putting one finger to his brim.

  “Good.” I breathed in the smell of fresh-cut grass and wished it were true.

  Baker was on the phone when we entered his office. He gestured us to chairs, spoke a few more words, and hung up.

  “So, how’s it going?” he asked.

  “It isn’t,” said Ryan. “Nobody knows squat.”

  “How can we help?”

  Ryan lifted his jacket, pulled a Ziploc bag from the pocket, and laid it on Baker’s desk. Inside was the red plastic disk.

  “You can run this for prints.”

  Baker looked at him.

  “I accidentally dropped it. Owens was kind enou
gh to pick it up for me.”

  Baker hesitated a moment, then smiled and shook his head. “You know it may not be usable.”

  “I know. But it may tell us who this puke is.”

  Baker laid the bag aside. “What else?”

  “How about a wiretap?”

  “No way. You haven’t got enough.”

  “Search warrant?”

  “What’s your probable cause?”

  “Phone calls?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Ryan let out a breath and stretched his legs.

  “Then I’ll do it the hard way. I’ll start with deeds and tax records, see who owns the country club on Adler Lyons. I’ll check the utilities, find out who pays the bills. I’ll talk to the postal boys, see if anyone gets Hustler or orders from J. Crew. I’ll run Owens for a Social Security number, former wife, that sort of thing. I assume he has a driver’s license, so that should take me somewhere. If the reverend’s ever taken an illegal piss, I’ll nail him. Maybe I’ll do a little surveillance, see what cars go in and out of the compound, run the tags. Hope you don’t mind my hanging around for a while.”

  “You are welcome in Beaufort for as long as it takes, Mr. Ryan. I’ll assign a detective to help you. And, Dr. Brennan, what are your plans?”

  “I’m heading out shortly. I have classes to prepare for and Mr. Colker’s cases from Murtry to look at.”

  “Baxter will be glad to hear that. He called to say that Dr. Hardaway would like to speak with you as soon as possible. In fact, he’s rung us three times today. Would you like to use my phone to call up there?”

  No one can say I can’t take a hint.

  “Please.”

  Baker asked Ivy Lee to get Hardaway on the line. In a moment the phone rang and I picked it up.

  The pathologist had finished with what he felt he could do. He was able to determine the gender of the corpse in the bottom of the grave, and that the race was probably white. The victim had died of what he thought were incised injuries, but the body was too badly decomposed to determine their exact nature.

  The burial had been shallow enough that insects had gained access, probably using the body above as a conduit. The open wounds had also encouraged colonization. The skull and chest contained the largest maggot masses he’d ever seen. The face was not recognizable and he was unable to estimate an age. He thought he might have some usable prints.

  In the background Ryan and Baker discussed Dom Owens.

  Hardaway went on. The upper body was largely skeletonized, though some connective tissue remained. He could do little with it, and asked me to do a full analysis.

  I told him to send me the skull, the hip blades, the clavicles, and the chest ends of the third through fifth ribs from the bottom body. I would need the entire skeleton from the upper burial. I also asked for a series of X-rays on each victim, a copy of his report, and a full set of autopsy photos.

  Last, I explained how I preferred to have the bones processed. Hardaway was familiar with the routine and said both sets of remains and all documents would arrive in my lab in Charlotte on Friday.

  I hung up and looked at my watch. If I had any hope of getting everything done before my conference trip to Oakland, I had to get moving.

  * * *

  Ryan and I crossed to the lot, where I had left my car that morning. The sun was hot and the shade felt good. I opened the door and leaned my arm on the upper edge.

  “Let’s have dinner,” said Ryan.

  “Sure. Then I’ll put on pasties and we’ll take pics for the New York Times.”

  “Brennan, for two days now you’ve been treating me like I’m gum on the sidewalk. Actually, now that I think about it, you’ve had some kind of burr up your ass for a couple of weeks. Fine. I can live with that.”

  He took my chin in his hands and looked straight into my eyes.

  “But I want you to know one thing. That was not just a chemical event last night. I care about you and I was enjoying the hell out of being close. I’m not sorry it happened. And I can’t say I won’t try again. Remember, I might be the wind, but you control the kite. Drive safely.”

  With that he released my chin and walked to his car. Unlocking the door, he threw his jacket on the passenger seat and turned back to me.

  “By the way, you never told me why you doubt the Murtry victims are dealers.”

  For a moment I could only stare. I wanted to stay, but I also wanted to be continents away from him. Then my mind snapped back.

  “What?”

  “The bodies from the island. Why do you question the drug burn theory?”

  “Because they’re both girls.”

  DURING THE DRIVE I PLAYED SOME TAPES, BUT THE news from Lake Wobegon didn’t hold my attention. I had a million questions and very few answers. Had Anna Goyette returned home? Who were the women buried on Murtry Island? What would their bones tell me? Who killed Heidi and her babies? Was there a connection between St-Jovite and the commune on Saint Helena? Who was Dom Owens? Where had Kathryn gone? Where the hell had Harry gone?

  My mind spun off thoughts of all I had to do. And wanted to do. I hadn’t read a word about Élisabeth Nicolet since leaving Montreal.

  By eight-thirty I was back in Charlotte. In my absence the grounds at Sharon Hall had put on their finest springtime attire. Azaleas and dogwoods were in full bloom, and a few Bradford pears and flowering crabapples still retained blossoms. The air smelled of pine needles and bark chips. Inside, my arrival at the Annex was a replay of the week before. The clock was ticking. The message light was flashing. The refrigerator was empty.

  Birdie’s bowls were in their usual place under the bay window. Odd that Pete hadn’t emptied them. Disorderly with everything else, my estranged husband was fastidious about foodstuffs. I did a quick patrol to see if the cat was skulking under a chair or in a closet. No Bird.

  I called Pete, but, as before, he wasn’t in. Neither was Harry at the condo in Montreal. Thinking perhaps she’d gone home, I tried her number in Texas. No answer.

  After unpacking, I fixed a tuna sandwich and ate it with dill pickles and chips while I watched the end of a Hornets’ game. At ten I turned off the TV and tried Pete again. Still no answer. I considered driving over to collect Birdie, but decided to let it go until morning.

  I showered, then propped myself in bed with the Bélanger photocopies and escaped into the world of nineteenth-century Montreal. The hiatus had not improved Louis-Philippe, and within an hour my lids were drooping. I turned off the light and curled into a tuck position, hoping a good long rest would bring order to my mind.

  * * *

  Two hours later I was sitting bolt upright, my heart hammering, my brain struggling to know why. I clutched the blanket to my chest, barely breathing, straining to identify the threat that had sent me into full alert.

  Silence. The only light in the room came from my bedside clock.

  Then the sound of shattering glass sent the hairs straight up on my arms and neck. My adrenals went to high tide. I had a flashback to another break-in, reptilian eyes, a knife flashing in moonlight. A single thought crackled in my brain.

  Not again!

  Crash! Thud!

  Yes, again!

  The noise wasn’t outside! It was downstairs! It was in my house! My mind sprinted through options. Lock the bedroom. Check it out. Call the police.

  Then I smelled smoke.

  Shit!

  I threw back the covers and fumbled across the room, digging below the terror for elements of rational thought. A weapon. I needed a weapon. What? What could I use? Why did I refuse to keep a gun?

  I stumbled to the dresser and felt for a large conch I’d collected on the Outer Banks. It wouldn’t kill, but the point would penetrate flesh and do damage. Turning the sharp end forward, I wrapped my fingers inside and braced my thumb against the outer surface.

  Hardly breathing, I crept toward the door, my free hand sliding over familiar su
rfaces as if seeking guidance in Braille. Dresser. Doorjamb. Hallway.

  At the top of the stairs I froze and peered downward into the blackness. Blood pounded in my ears as I clutched the shell and listened. Not a sound from below. If there was someone there I should stay upstairs. Phone. If there was fire downstairs, I needed to get out.

  I took a breath and placed one foot on the top stair, waited. Then the second. Third. Knees bent, shell raised to shoulder level, I crept toward the first floor. The acrid smell grew stronger. Smoke. Gasoline. And something else. Something familiar.

  At the bottom I stopped, my mind playing back a scene from Montreal less than a year ago. That time he’d been inside, a killer, waiting to attack.

  That isn’t going to happen again! Call 911! Get out!

  I rounded the banister and looked into the dining room. Blackness. I doubled back toward the parlor. Darkness, but strangely altered.

  The far end of the room looked bronzed in the surrounding gloom. The fireplace, the Queen Anne chairs, all the furnishings and pictures glimmered gently, like objects in a mirage. Through the kitchen door I could see orange light dancing on the front of the refrigerator.

  Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

  My chest constricted as the silence was split by a high-pitched wail. I jerked and the shell struck plaster. Trembling, I pressed backward against the wall.

  The sound was from the smoke detector!

  I watched for signs of movement. Nothing but darkness and the eerie flickering.

  The house is on fire. Move!

  My heart drumming, my breath coming in short gasps, I lunged toward the kitchen. A fire crackled in the center of the room, filling the air with smoke and reflecting off every shiny surface.

  My shaking hand found the switch and I threw on the light. My eyes darted left and right. The burning bundle lay in the middle of the floor. The flames hadn’t spread.

  I put down the shell and, holding the hem of my nightie across my mouth and nose, I bent low and circled to the pantry. I pulled the small extinguisher from the top shelf. My lungs drew in smoke and tears blurred my vision, but I managed to squeeze the handle. The extinguisher only hissed.

  Damn!

  Coughing and gagging, I squeezed again. Another hiss, then a stream of carbon dioxide and white powder burst from the spout.