A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(10)
We both turned. I forced myself to smile.
“What are you doing here?” Heavner was wearing an expression like she’d just soiled her Gucci’s in dog shit.
“I was driving nearby and caught the start of your press conference.” Not wanting to out whoever had sent the text. “Hearing you had a decomp, I diverted over.”
“My understanding is that you consult to this office only upon specific verbal or written request.”
“Dr. Larabee and I—”
“I am not Dr. Larabee.”
I said nothing.
“Do you seriously think this office cannot function without you, Dr. Brennan? That I am incapable of determining when specialty expertise is required?”
Our eyes met for a long, cold moment.
“Should I require your services, I will contact you. Now, please leave.”
I did, chest burning as though I’d just run a marathon.
As I walked to my car, Paulette Youngman’s words came zinging from long ago. The ant always loses.
* * *
I’d just entered the annex when my landline rang.
After checking caller ID, I picked up the handset.
“Sweetie, are you all right?” Mama, vowels broader and more honeyed than Scarlett at Tara.
“Of course, I’m all right.”
“Why aren’t you answering your mobile?”
“I’m having battery issues.” True, but unrelated to her query.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Are you feeling poorly?”
“Not at all. I’m going out later.” Regretted as soon as the words left my lips.
Surprisingly, Mama didn’t pounce. “Sinitch arrived today.” Mama’s fiancé was named Clayton Sinitch. For some reason, she never used his first name. “He’ll be here until Wednesday.”
“That’s nice.”
“I suppose so.” Wistful, begging me to inquire.
I didn’t. “Do you two have big plans?”
“I must do something about the man’s feet.”
“His feet.”
“They smell like soup made from dirty shorts.”
No way I was touching that.
“I’m thinking I should buy one of those foot-odor products they sell at the grocery. Maybe shake some into his shoes when he’s in the shower. You’d think soap and water should resolve the situation.”
“Mm.”
“He’s in there now, splashing away. One upside to showering is it gets him naked.”
Snapshot image I’ll never unsee.
“Sinitch is a lovely man, but some days I still do miss your daddy.”
“I know, Mama. So do I.”
My early childhood was a happy time. I wasn’t abused, or bullied, or made to adhere to a set of crazy-strict religious mores. I never broke a bone, needed surgery, stitches, or counseling. My sister, Harry, and I got along reasonably well. Mama suffered from what would now be called bipolar swings. She’d disappear into rehab for periods but always came home. Then my baby brother died of leukemia, and it all went to hell. Mama fell into a dark place that she couldn’t escape for years. Daddy turned to drinking hard, ended up dead on a highway in the family Buick. Decades later, I still missed my father terribly.
“I called because I’m lying in bed and just watched some very interesting television.” Mama’s tone dropped to a confidential half whisper. “You working on this corpse got gnawed by hogs?”
Point of information. My petite, gray-haired mother has a mind like a spaghetti-bowl highway interchange. Conversations with her swoop and diverge, sometimes loop back, sometimes don’t. We were now on the subject of my work. Which, for some reason, fascinates her.
Additional POI. Regardless of the momentary off-or on-ramp, Mama can home in on evasion like a night-vision drone. I didn’t bother dodging this question.
“Apparently not,” I said.
“Is that dreadful woman still causing you grief? What’s her name?”
“Margot Heavner.”
“Why on earth is she so hateful to you?”
“Years ago, I offended her.”
“How? Poisoned her parakeet? Spit in her grits?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” she said firmly.
I laid it all out. Hardin Symes. The Body interviews. The revelation about Hardin’s autism. Heavner’s failure to counter Body’s antivax insanity. My calling her unprofessional.
While I was talking, Birdie padded into the kitchen, sat, and fixed me with a contemplative gaze. Either that, or he was hungry.
Choosing to interpret the cat’s appearance as a gesture of rapprochement, I got up and filled his bowl. With the canned stuff he prefers, not the dry crunchers. He sniffed, then stretched, to show his indifference. As I turned away, he abandoned the theater and eagerly dived in.
When I’d finished my story, Mama’s reaction was quick and severe.
“I can forgive the man his flat-out stupidity. Lord knows he can’t help the IQ he’s been dealt. But Nick Body is mean-spirited, unprincipled, and vile as a snake.”
“You listen to his show?” Surprised.
“I listen to everything.”