“One must keep a finger on the pulse of the common man.”
“And woman.” Tap. Tap. “Cowboy.”
Tammi returned with a beer, a Diet Coke, and a million miles of teeth. I smiled her back to the kitchen.
“Anything new since this morning?” I asked when she'd gone.
“Seems Haskell Simington may not be such a hot pick. Turns out he's worth zillions, so a two mill policy on his wife isn't that unusual. Besides being worth megabucks, the guy named their kids as beneficiaries.”
“That's it?”
Ryan waited out another sound check.
“The structures group reported that three quarters of the plane has been trucked down the mountain. They're reassembling in a hangar near Asheville.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. One. Screeeeeeech. Two. Three. Four.
Ryan's eyes drifted to a TV behind my head.
“That's it?”
“That's it. Why the orange paw prints?”
“It's a Clemson home game.”
He looked a question at me.
“Never mind.”
Tammi was back after three downs.
“I gave you extra cheese,” she purred, bending low to give Ryan a spectacular view of cleavage.
“I love cheese.” Ryan gave her another blinding smile, and Tammi held position.
Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.
I glared at Tammi's breasts, and she removed them from my line of vision.
“Will that be all?”
“Ketchup.” I picked up a French fry.
“Any talk about my visit to headquarters this morning?”
When I lifted my burger a cheese umbilicus clung to the plate.
“Special Agent McMahon said you looked good in jeans.”
“I didn't see McMahon there.” The bun was raining soggy clumps onto the cheese connector.
“He saw you. At least from the back.”
“What's the FBI position on my dismissal?”
“I can't speak for the entire Bureau, but I know McMahon isn't fond of your state's second in command.”
“I don't know for certain that Davenport is behind the complaint.”
“Whether he is or not, McMahon has no time for him. He called Davenport a brainless buttwipe.” Ryan spooned chili into his mouth, followed it with beer. “We Irish are poets at heart.”
“That brainless buttwipe can probably have you invited back to Canada.”
“How was your afternoon?”
“I went to the reservation.”
“Did you see Tonto?”
“How did I know you would ask that?”
I reached into my bag and produced the moccasins.
“I wanted you to have something from my native land.”
“To atone for the way you've been treating me lately?”
“I've been treating you as a colleague.”
“A colleague who'd like to suck your toes.”
My stomach did that little flippy thing.
“Open the package.”
He did.
“These are kickin'.”
Resting an ankle on one knee, Ryan replaced a deck shoe with a moccasin. A big-haired deb at the bar stopped peeling the label from her Coors to watch him.
“Made by Sitting Bull himself?”
“Sitting Bull was Sioux. These were probably made by Wang Chou Lee.”
He reversed, and did the other foot. The deb jabbed an elbow at her companion.
“You may not want to wear them here.”
“Certainly I do. They were a gift from a colleague.”
He wrapped the deck shoes in the moccasin bag and went back to his chili.
“Meet any interesting aboriginals?”
I wanted to say no. “Actually, I did.”
He looked up with eyes blue enough to blend in with a village full of Finns.
“Or, I might have.”
I told him about the Volvo incident.
“Jesus, Brennan. How do—”
“I know. How do I get myself into these situations. Do you think I should worry about it?” I was hoping he would say no.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.
Chili.
Beer.
Fragments of conversations.
“The deconstructionists tell us that nothing is real, but I've discovered one or two truisms in life. The first is, when attacked by a Volvo, take it seriously.”
“I'm not sure the guy meant to run me down. Maybe he didn't see me.”
“Did you think so at the time?”
“That's how it felt.”
“Second truism: Volvo first impressions are generally correct.”
We'd finished eating and Ryan was in the men's room when I noticed Lucy Crowe enter and make her way toward the bar. She was in uniform and looked armed and deadly.
I waved but Crowe didn't notice. I stood and waved again, and a voice bellowed, “You're blocking the game. Park it or haul it.”
Ignoring the suggestion, I flapped both arms. Crowe saw me, nodded, and held up an index finger. As I sat, the bartender handed her a glass, then leaned forward to whisper something.
“Hey, sweet cheeks!” A redneck scorned is never pretty. I continued to ignore, he continued to taunt.
“Hey, you with the windmill act.” The redneck was ratcheting up when he spotted the sheriff moving in my direction. Realizing his error, he swigged his beer and reengaged with the game.
Ryan and Crowe reached the booth simultaneously. Noticing Ryan's feet, the sheriff looked at me.
“He's Canadian.”
Ryan let it pass and resumed his seat.
Crowe set her 7UP on the table and joined us.
“Dr. Brennan has a story she wants to share,” said Ryan, pulling out his cigarettes.
I looked icicles at him. I would have preferred a lifetime of tax audits to telling Crowe of the Volvo incident.
She listened without interrupting.
“Did you get the license number?”
“No.”
“Can you describe the driver?”
“Wearing a cap.”
“What kind of cap?”
“I couldn't tell.” I could feel my cheeks flush with humiliation.
“Was anyone else present?”
“No. I checked. Look, the whole thing may have been an accident. Maybe it was a kid peeling out in Daddy's Volvo.”
“Is that what you think?” The celery eyes were locked on mine.
“No. I don't know.”
I placed my hands on the tabletop, pulled them back, and wiped spilled beer onto my jeans.
“While I was on the reservation I thought of something that might be helpful,” I said, changing the subject.
“Oh?”
I described the foot bone research and explained how the measurements could be used to determine racial background.
“So I may be able to sort out your rainbow coalition.”
“I'll talk with Daniel Wahnetah's kin tomorrow.”
She swirled the ice in her 7UP.
“But I unearthed some interesting facts about George Adair.”
“The missing angler?”
A Crowe nod.
“Adair saw his doctor twelve times during the past year. Seven of those visits were for throat problems. The other five were for pain in his feet.”
“Hot dog.”
“It gets better. Adair's only gone one week, his grieving widow takes a trip to Las Vegas with the next-door neighbor.”
I waited while she drained her 7UP.
“The neighbor is George Adair's best friend.”
“And fishing buddy?”
“You've got it.”
THE NEXT MORNING I SLEPT UNTIL EIGHT, FED BOYD, AND OVERdosed on one of Ruby's mountain breakfasts. My hostess had bonded with the dog, and that day's Scripture lauded the fish of the sea, the fowl of the air, and things that creepeth upon the earth. I wondered if Boyd qualified as a creeper but didn't ask.
Ryan hadn't appeared by the time I left the dining room. Either he was out early, sacking in, or passing up the hotcakes, bacon, and grits. We'd returned from Injun Joe's around eleven the previous night, and he'd proffered his usual invitation. I'd left him on the front porch, swinging without me.
I was climbing to Magnolia when my cell phone rang. It was Primrose, calling from the incident morgue.