Page 65 of The Bone Code

The mental gears refused to mesh.

Frustrated, I reduced the two sketches and opened the file containing my shots of Beecroft’s photos.

A few reluctant neurons yielded, admitting that the source of my disquiet was the feeling that the women, long dead, were somehow familiar.

But before her visit to the MCME, I’d never met Polly Beecroft. And definitely not her mysterious death mask ancestor.Maybeancestor.

Brain snap. Was that it? Was Beecroft’s journey what the cells were urging me to consider?

I sat back, mind slipstreaming in a zillion different directions.

Out of the morass of ideas, one seemed a possibility.

I looped over to the American Academy of Forensic Sciences website, logged in as an AAFS member, and pulled up theJournal of Forensic Sciences. Found the article I was seeking and read it through.

I picked up my phone.

Ryan had reserved at one of my favorite bistros, Leméac, on avenue Laurier Ouest in a part of the city known as the Plateau. He insisted we drive, not a great idea on a Friday night. We ended up parking several light-years away. Fortunately, the rain hadn’t started. But the heavy, moist air promised that wouldn’t last.

Melting snowdrifts, blackened by oil and car exhaust, oozed murky runoff into the gutters and onto the sidewalks. Our heels clicked wet tattoos as we hurried along the pavement.

The small restaurant was packed, but we were seated quickly. I ordered the arugula and fennel salad to start. Ryan chose thebutternut squash soup. We both went with themoules et fritesfor our mains. Mussels and fries.

While waiting to be served, I made a point to ask Ryan about Agnes and Rupert. The noise level was such that we had to lean close to converse.

“How was Idle Acres?”

“Met a rottweiler named Jose.”

“A rottweiler under twenty-five pounds?”

“I didn’t query Jose’s weight. He didn’t query the purpose of my call.”

“Fair enough.”

“Turns out the park has a new owner. Arnie Kim. Kim said the place had changed hands several times. He bought it two years back and didn’t know Rupert or Agnes.

“Did Kim have any old records?”

“It’s a trailer park.”

“Did he know the former owner’s name?”

“He did. Jimmie Gardner.”

“Did he know Gardner’s whereabouts?”

“He did not.”

Our starters arrived. Ryan and I spent time with salt and pepper. I ordered another Perrier with lime. He ordered another Moosehead, then picked up the thread.

“Undaunted, I phoned every Jimmie and James Gardner in every phone directory in Vermont.”

“Sounds daunting.”

“I always get my man.”

“Seriously?”