Page 102 of The Bone Code

“You know what else the Bible says is abomination, sir?”

France just looked at her.

“Trimming your goddamn beard.”

We took the box and left.

23

Thursday, November 11

Vislosky placed the box in the trunk, and we climbed into her car.

“Is that true?” I asked as we buckled our belts.

“What?”

“The Bible forbidding a man to cut his beard?”

“Yeah.”

“Old Testament?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Why did you say it?”

“The guy’s a bigoted wanker.”

I didn’t pursue it. But I was curious about the source of Vislosky’s antipathy toward France. His cavalier attitude toward Harmony’s disappearance? His rejection of Bonnie Bird’s lesbian lifestyle? His twangy musical style?

“Amity House?” I asked,

“Can’t hurt,” she said.

I programmed the Waze dude. His directions took us to a tree-shaded street hosting a mix of private residences and large homesconverted for genteel commercial use. An architectural firm. A law office. A children’s theater.

Our destination was a two-story red brick number with a tile-roofed veranda spanning the entire street side. An enormous live oak spread its branches above most of the sloping front yard. Below the oak, a sign declared,Amity House:A Youth Crisis Center.

Three concrete steps rose from a short walkway to the front porch. We climbed them. Vislosky thumbed the buzzer. A moment, then a voice spoke through a perforated brass plaque.

Vislosky explained who we were and dropped the name Harmony Boatwright.

A short wait, then the door was opened by a woman doing a look-alike for the sheriff’s elderly aunt in Mayberry. Short and stout, plump cheeks, gray hair swept into a poofy updo. She could have been friendlier but only with the aid of powerful pharmaceuticals.

“Dear, dear Harmony.” Chirrupy with anticipation. “Do tell how she is.”

“May we come inside?” Vislosky asked. I wondered if Nashville protocol required a request.

“Ooh.” Aunt Bee quavery. “Of course. Please, excuse my bad manners.”

The door gave directly onto a large rectangular living room. One end contained a mishmash of battered upholstered and wooden furniture arranged in conversational groupings. The other end was filled with tables and chairs, most of the former stacked with boxed games. I recognized Scrabble, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders. A sideboard held a partially completed jigsaw puzzle, loose pieces scattered around the incomplete center.

Aunt Bee led us to one of the groupings. “Would you like some cookies? Lemonade?”

“No, thank you.” Vislosky and I declined in unison.

Out of habit, we took the couch. Aunt Bee sat in an armchair with ankles crossed, knees splayed but modestly covered by her print housedress and long butcher-style apron.