“In France.”
“I see.” Bernadette’s half-proffered hand curled back to her chest, as though embarrassed at hanging alone in midair. The nails were acrylic, painted the color of uncooked beef.
“This is my colleague, Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Ryan left it at that.
“A doctor?” She glanced at me.
“Dr. Brennan works at the medico-legal lab.”
The turquoise eyes went wide. The fingers curled tighter. Why such fear? I felt a sense of unease.
“My wife has health issues. You got something to tell us?”
Bernadette turned at the sound of her husband’s voice. “I’m okay, Jake.”
Jake placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. He was muscled and toned beyond what I’d expect of a guy just spraying for bugs. His forearm was inked with an intricate Asian design. I wondered if his gesture was meant as support or warning.
“May we talk inside?” Ryan asked.
“Of course. Please,” Bernadette said.
Jake stepped back, his expression unchanged. As we passed, he lingered to close the door.
Bernadette led us down a wide hall and turned right through an archway into a small living room with a bay window in front and a fireplace at the far end. The decor was not what I’d visualized.
Every wall was white, and off-white plush carpeting covered the floor. The sofa and armchairs were upholstered in ivory cotton trimmed with pale piping. The room’s only color came from throw pillows and paintings. Both featured bright geometric designs.
Bronze sculptures of indeterminate form covered the mantel. A reindeer skin lay in front of the hearth.
The end and coffee tables were made of glass and antique brass. A sole photo sat on one. Its frame was mother-of-pearl edged with silver, the quality much higher than that of the image it housed. The picture was grainy, maybe taken with a cellphone or inexpensive camera, then blown up beyond what the pixels could handle.
The subject was a tall young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, on a boat with a harbor or bay behind her. She was wearing a turtleneck and jacket, a bead necklace with some sort of pendant. The wind was lifting the jacket’s collar and blowing her long dark hair across her face. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t look sad. She was pretty in a disturbingly detached sort of way.
Her face was more fleshy, her breasts fuller, than when I’d last seen her. But I knew I was looking at Tawny McGee.
Ryan and I did our usual and sat on opposite ends of the couch. Bernadette took an armchair, fingers clasped like red-tipped claws in her lap. Jake remained standing, arms folded across his chest.
“May I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” Bernadette’s offer sounded rote, insincere.
“No, thank you,” Ryan and I answered in unison.
A cat appeared in the doorway, gray with black stripes and yellow-green eyes. A notch in one ear. A scar on one shoulder. A scrapper.
Bernadette noticed. “Oh, no, no, Murray. Shoo.”
The cat held.
Bernadette started to push to her feet.
“Please let him stay,” I said.
“Get him out of here,” Jake said.
“I own a cat.” I smiled. “His name is Birdie.”
Bernadette looked at Jake. He shrugged but said nothing.
Murray regarded us a moment, then sat, shot a leg, and began cleaning his toes. Something was off with his upper left canine. I liked this cat.
Bernadette settled back, spine stiff, neck muscles standing out sinewy-hard. She glanced from Ryan to me, back to Ryan. Hopeful we had news. Frightened we had news.
I understood that yesterday’s call was undoubtedly a shock after so many years. But the woman’s anxiety seemed out of proportion. The shaking hands. The terrified eyes. I didn’t like what I was sensing.
“Your home is beautiful,” I said, wanting to reassure.
“Tawny likes things bright.”
“Is this Tawny?” Gesturing at the woman framed in mother-of-pearl.
The parakeet eyes looked at me oddly. Then, “Yes.”
“She’s grown into a beautiful young woman.”