206 Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “Apparently no one’s checking out. And there are several huge conventions in town.” Innocent choirboy look. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

  “You know I have plans.”

  “I suppose I could try for a rental car.” Insincere.

  Dear God. I couldn’t take Ryan where I was going.

  “Could be nasty, what with this weather, and me unfamiliar with the city,” Ryan went on.

  “Agencies provide maps. Or you can ask for something with GPS.”

  No go at Hertz or Avis.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. Could the day get worse?

  I thought of the evening ahead.

  A lot worse, I realized.

  “All right,” I said as Ryan requested the number at Budget. “You can have my car. But you’ll have to drive me to the burbs.”

  “Sounds workable. Surely motels that far out will have vacancy.”

  “Surely.”

  That’s not how it went.

  6

  EVEN IN GONZO TRAFFIC, THE DRIVE FROM GREEKTOWN to Elmhurst should take less than an hour. That afternoon it took two and a half.

  By the time I reached St. Charles Road, the dashboard clock said six forty. Great. I’d given an ETA of four. Everyone would be there. If Ryan was spotted, my arrival would turn into a circus.

  Sound melodramatic? Trust me. I know the crowd.

  Ryan understood a little about my colorful in-laws. While driving, I’d given him the current saga. I’d missed Thanksgiving, and would compound that felony at Christmas by taking Katy to Belize to scuba-dive instead of to Chicago to hang stockings by the fire. Thus, I was spending a couple of days with the Petersons tribe.

  “Your former in-laws?”

  “Mm.”

  Though we’d lived apart for years, my ex and I weren’t technically exes. We’d never legally divorced. But that would soon change. Recently, fiftysomething Pete had slipped a diamond onto the finger of twenty something Summer. Needless to say, Old Pete had also opted out of turkey this year.

  “Your mother-in-law is making supper?”

  “You just ate, Ryan.”

  “You rave about her cooking.”

  “She’ll have a houseful.”

  “Aunt Klara and Uncle Juris?”

  Over the years, I’d shared tales of Pete’s alarmingly close and remarkably extended Latvian family. The annual beach trip, Easter egg–coloring contest, and Yuletide caroling to the Brookfield Zoo bears. The mandatory appearances at christenings, graduations, weddings, and funerals. The telephone network that makes the national disaster alarm system look like child’s play. Apparently, Ryan remembered key player names.

  Here’s the story. Following World War II and the subsequent Soviet occupation of the Baltics, Pete’s grandmother, her sons, and their wives decided it was best to seek greener pastures. According to family lore, the departure from Riga involved a dead-of-night dash and a harrowing voyage on a sketchy cargo ship.

  Next came an extended heel-cooling period in “displaced persons” compounds, known as DP camps, up and down the German countryside. Undaunted by the long wait, the couples used their time to be fruitful and multiply. Madara and Vilis produced Janis, our very own “Pete,” and his sister, Regina. Klara and Juris produced Emilija and Ludis.

  After eight long years, a Latvian church in Chicago finally stepped up to the plate. In agreeing to sponsor the brave little band, the pastor and his flock guaranteed employment, housing, and a linguistically intelligible support network in the Windy City.

  Upon their arrival, the family lived in an abandoned store. Not much, but it was home.

  Working two jobs each, the brothers eventually managed to copurchase a wreck of a place in Elmhurst, a suburb close to the factories, the college, and the Latvian church. More important perhaps, Elmhurst’s grand old trees reminded Omamma of her lost home far across the sea.

  The house was a rambling frame affair with enough bedrooms to accommodate the whole ragtag clan. But that isn’t family, American-style. In the U.S. we go to nuclear units, Ward, June, Wally, and the Beav.

  A few more years and the brothers held separate mortgages. Pete and his parents and sister stayed in the big house with Omamma and a collie named Oskars. Pete’s aunt, uncle, and cousins moved to a smaller property two short blocks away.

  Homes, cars, TVs, and washers. College funds for the kids. Within a decade, the Petersons families were living the stars-and-stripes dream. Juris continued until retirement at the refrigerator factory. Vilis switched to teaching math full-time at Elmhurst College.

  Almost a half century since the transatlantic odyssey, some things have changed. Old Omamma is dead now. So is Vilis. Pete’s mother, now called Vecamamma, is ruling matriarch. Spouses have been added, and a new generation of cousins now shares the piragi. Though the ties that bind have multiplied through births and marriages, they’re still forged of the same old-world steel.

  “How’s that feel?” Ryan asked. “Being with your ex’s relatives?”

  “Splendid.”

  “Not awkward?”

  “Right now they think Pete’s a dick and I’m Queen of Angels.”

  “That should work in your favor.”

  “Here’s how my arrival is going to play out. I’ll grab my bag and sprint. You’ll drive away. Quickly. Got it?”

  “Aren’t we the drama queen?”

  “Got it?”

  Ryan gave a snappy two-finger salute.

  As I turned north onto Cottage Hill, the car fishtailed wildly. I gently pumped the brakes until the rear wheels came back into line with the front.

  I expected commentary from Ryan. Surprisingly, he offered none.

  Ancient elms now lined both sides of the street. Beyond the trees, first-floor windows in large old homes cast rectangles of light onto slush-covered lawns. Ahead, at Church Street, two shadowy structures brooded like bunkers in the cold, wet night. Immaculate Conception High School and Hawthorn Elementary.

  Right turn, then I proceeded a half block and slid to the curb in front of a white Victorian whose wraparound porch bulged into gazebos at each of its corners. The porch’s ornately carved columns sat on a limestone outer wall that rose approximately four feet from the ground. The house’s roof and right-wing and front-door porticos composed a trio of triangles facing the street.

  Every edge now dripped electric white icicles. Ho. Ho. Ho.

  I shifted into park and turned to Ryan.

  “There’s a Marriott on Route Eighty-three and a Holiday Inn on York Road.” I pointed in the general direction of each. “If they’re full, have the desk clerk call over to Oak Brook. It’s hotel city out that way.”

  Hopping out, I opened the back door and snatched my purse and suitcase from the seat. Icy pellets blew horizontally into my face.

  I met Ryan as he was circling the trunk.

  “When you have a room and a flight, call me. Tomorrow we can figure out how to handle the car.”

  Ryan said something that was lost to the wind.

  “And be careful.” Shouted. “I declined the extra insurance.”

  With that I bolted for the house, one hand fighting my scarf, the other dragging my roll-aboard over slush that had frozen into choppy little waves.

  Before my thumb hit the bell, the door opened and I was dragged inside. The air smelled of lemon polish, rye bread, and roasting meat.

  “Who’s driving that car?” Vecamamma asked after kissing my cheek. Never a buzzer or pecker, the old gal always planted a very firm wet one.

  “A man I work with.”

  “A policeman?” One of my nieces was peering past us through the storm door. With her dark hair, green eyes, and ivory skin, Allie showed not a hint of her Baltic gene pool.

  “Yes.”

  “Cool.” Allie’s younger sister, Bea, had wandered in wearing a very large sweater, very short skirt, black tights, and boots. On a six-foot blond the look was impressive.

  “Is your policeman frie
nd hungry?” Vecamamma was yanking my coat with enough force to rip pelts from wild game. “I’m making fresh ham. Men like fresh ham.”

  “He’s eaten.” I managed to slip free of both sleeves while retaining my arms.

  “What’s his name?” Bea was as forward as Allie was timid.

  “Ryan.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “We work together.”

  “Like, what? You never noticed?”

  “Alise and Beatrise, finish setting the table.” Vecamamma’s command boomed from deep in the closet. “We’ll be twelve.”

  Only a dozen. Not too bad.

  Vecamamma emerged with hair doing a Kramer imitation. Death-gripping my arm, she ordered, “Leave the suitcase. Teodors will take it up to your room.”

  The house’s main artery is a wide central hall. From it, in front, arched doorways open onto living and dining rooms, the latter used frequently, the former almost never. A central staircase rises from the hall on the left.

  The kitchen is farther down on the right. Butler pantry. Opposite, two bedrooms and a bath.

  Spanning the rear of the house is a wood-paneled room with green plaid carpet, a massive stone fireplace, and enough square footage to practice Hail Mary passes. Well, laterals, anyway. Chez Petersons’ sports center, party pad, Speakers Corner, and family hearth.

  Through the door I could see Ted, Ludis, and Juris watching a big-screen TV, each wearing a knit cap identical to the one on the Santorini valet. Ted had rotated the NFL logo to the back of his head. Old-school, Ludis and Juris had positioned theirs front and center.

  “Tempe’s here,” Vecamamma warbled.

  Ludis and Juris raised bottles of Special Export. Ted said, “Da bears!” All six eyes remained glued to the set.

  Emilija’s husband, Gordie, and Regina’s husband, Terry, were conversing beside an overdecorated Christmas tree doing a Tower of Pisa imitation. Gordie is bald and paunchy and holds political views that make Limbaugh’s look libertine. Terry is short and shaggy-haired and has voted Democratic all his life. At family gatherings each tries fervently and fruitlessly to persuade the other of the error of his thinking. When tempers flare, usually somewhere north of the third or fourth beer, Vecamamma and Aunt Klara signal disapproval by clucking.

  I was following Vecamamma through the swinging kitchen door when realization struck.

  Suitcase. Singular.

  My hand flew to my shoulder. One lonely purse strap.

  “Shit!”

  Vecamamma cocked one wiry brow.

  I was halfway down the hall when the doorbell bonged.

  “I’ll get it,” I called out.

  Bea was already there.

  I heard the rattle of a chain guard, then hinges. A male voice. Giggling.

  When I arrived, Ryan was in the foyer, my computer hanging from one sleet-drenched shoulder.

  “Thought you might need this.” He patted the case with his palm.

  “Thanks.” Stepping forward, I took the laptop. “Sorry to delay you.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “Is it still coming down out there?” Bea asked.

  “It’s a real gullywasher.”

  Gullywasher?

  “You should stay for dinner, give the storm a chance to let up,” Bea said. “My grandmother always makes enough for an army.”

  “He has things to do.” I squinted a warning at Ryan.

  “Is this your policeman friend?” Vecamamma had steamed up behind me.

  “I left something in the car. Detective Ryan was kind enough to bring it in. He’s going now.”

  “Of course he’s not. Look at him. He’s soaked.” To Ryan. “Officer, would you like to join us for dinner?”

  “He’s a detective, not—”

  “I’m not exaggerating.” Bea cut me off. “She makes tons.”

  “Something does smell mighty tasty.”

  Mighty tasty? Gullywasher? Great. Ryan was doing some warped Canadian version of the Waltons.

  “I’ve made fresh ham and sauerkraut.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.” Diffident smile.

  “What trouble? Setting one extra plate on my table?”

  “Tempe does go on about your cooking.”

  “Then that’s settled.” Vecamamma was showing a full yard of denture. “Bea, take the officer’s jacket.”

  7

  AS THE OTHERS MIGRATED TOWARD THE FAMILY ROOM, I pulled Ryan aside and gave him some ground rules.

  “Don’t drink Gordie’s homemade wine. Don’t talk politics with Ludis or Juris. Don’t participate in competitive gaming of any kind. Don’t discuss the job or details of what I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of Pete’s relatives share an alarming enthusiasm for the macabre.”

  Ryan knew what I meant.

  We in the death business are often asked about our work, especially about cases flogged by the media. Ryan and I are both queried so regularly, our dinner invitations are often prefaced by hostess suggestions concerning appropriate table conversation. Never works. Though I don’t volunteer, and sidestep when questioned, inevitably some guest persists in probing the blood-and-guts skinny.

  It seems the world divides into two camps: those who can’t get enough and those who prefer to hear nothing at all. Ryan and I called them Diggers and Dodgers.

  “Diggers?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes. Except for Vecamamma and Klara. Autopsy talk gives Vecamamma gas.”

  “Do they know about—” Ryan wagged a finger between his chest and mine. Us?

  “No. But they have pack instincts.” I continued my list of directives. “And don’t even think of accepting an invitation to overnight.”

  “Holiday Inn all the way.”

  “And one other suggestion.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Lose the John Boy routine.”

  Things went better than I would have expected. Ryan accepted and praised Gordie’s rotgut bordeaux. He talked Big Moe and Bizzy Bone with Bea and Allie. He delighted Vecamamma, Emilija, and Connie by twisting the napkins into crook-necked swans.

  No one asked about his marital status. No one queried our personal relationship. No one grilled him on current commerce in murder and mayhem.

  Then, as we were gathering in the dining room, Cukura Kundze bustled in.

  What to say about Mrs. Cukurs?

  The Cukurs were pillars of the small church that welcomed the immigrant Petersons to the New World. More liberal than most ladies of her generation, over the years Laima Cukurs’s exploits had inspired considerable gossip among her more proper Lutheran peers. The explicit sculptures. The colorful lingo. The hippie period mentioned only in whispers. The unfortunate tattoo.

  Eighty-four, and widowed for a decade, Cukura Kundze had recently begun dating an octogenarian Hungarian named Mr. Tot. No one had gotten the gentleman’s first name. Now, four months and many pot roasts and casseroles down the road, no one asked.

  Or perhaps the more formal appellation just seemed more appropriate. Though Laima’s first name had been known to the Petersons for half a century, Cukura Kundze had always remained Cukura Kundze.

  Tonight, Cukura Kundze arrived Totless but bearing a torte.

  “It’s raspberry.” Cukura Kundze handed the cake to Vecamamma. “Who’s that?”

  “A policeman friend of Tempe’s.”

  “Good.” Cukura Kundze wore glasses with clear plastic frames probably designed for combat soldiers. She nodded so emphatically the things hopped the hump on her nose. “Husbands cheat. Women have needs.”

  “Pete wasn’t cheating.” The cake smacked the table.

  Cukura Kundze gave one of those harrumphs old ladies deliver so well.

  “He and Tempe just decided it was time to skedaddle.” Turning to me. “Right?”

  Mercifully, Emilija emerged from the kitchen balancing bowls of kraut, limp broccoli, and sour cream cucumbers. Connie followed with tomato slices, potatoes, an
d gravy. Aunt Klara brought rye bread and some odd species of little gray sausage. Juris carried a platter of pork the size of Nebraska.

  We all took our places. Plates filled quickly, then, just as quickly, began to empty. I made a preemptive conversational strike.

  “Are the Bears having a good season?”

  Ten minutes of sports analysis followed. When interest waned, I veered toward hockey.

  “The Blackhawks—”

  Cukura Kundze made an end run at Ryan.

  “You carry a Taser?” Jabbing the nose piece of her glasses with a red lacquered finger. “People are getting their asses capped with Tasers.”

  “I’ve never used one.”

  “You have a real gun, right?” Ted’s tone showed disdain for Cukura Kundze’s question. “A Glock? A SIG? A Smith and Wesson?”

  “Ever kill anyone?” Cukura Kundze was cranking up.

  “Montreal has very little violent crime.” Ryan nodded thanks as Gordie refilled his glass. I couldn’t believe he was going for more. Pete once described Gordie’s wine as a delicate Meritage hinting of goat piss and krill.

  “But you must have sprayed some brains on a wall.”

  Dual clucking from Vecamamma and Klara.

  “Will the Blackhawks make the playoffs this year?” I asked.

  “Pass the potatoes?” Ludis said.

  “I read about a biker war in Montreal.” Cukura Kundze looked like a Hobbit between Allie and Bea. “You here to kick some Hells Angels butt? Or you working the streets, busting corner boys?”

  “Ryan and I are here on administrative business,” I said. “By the way, he’s a Canadiens fan.”

  “Collaring pimps?”

  “Nothing that exciting,” Ryan laughed. “Tempe and I spent the day at the morgue.”

  “Potatoes?” Ludis repeated.

  The spuds were passed, followed by the meat, et al. Then there was a lot of jockeying to find space for the bowls and platters.

  Gordie poured Ryan more wine. Amazingly, he downed half the glass.

  “Yep. Ryan is a Habs fan.” Again I tried hockey. “Owns a Saku Koivu jersey.”

  “The Chicago morgue?” Cukura Kundze’s eyes were wide behind the thick lenses.

  “Our visit involved paperwork on a closed investigation.”