Skeleton Dance (12 page)

"Madame Renouard…" Gideon repeated, searching his mind. "That's…?"

"Bousquet's landlady, who was able to enlighten me in the matter of his relations at the institute. If we assume that her account is reliable, Bousquet did indeed have difficulties—I mean to say, extreme difficulties—with one particular member of the staff." He broke a plum tart in two, delicately inserted one piece into his mouth, and used a napkin to carefully wipe powdered sugar from his lips and fingers.

Gideon fidgeted. "So, who?"

Joly disposed of the rest of the tart and swabbed down his lips and fingers again while he chewed and swallowed. "As a matter of fact, it was Ely Carpenter."

"Carpenter
!
" Gideon exclaimed unwisely, cringing at the bright flash of pain behind his eyes.

"Carpenter," said Julie more softly. "Now that raises some interesting questions."

"For example," Gideon said, thinking aloud, "was Bousquet somehow tied in with the hoax?"

He was indeed, said Joly. According to Madame Renouard, Carpenter had somehow come to the conclusion that Jean Bousquet was the writer of the anonymous letter to
Paris-Match
that had first exposed the Tayac fraud. In what had apparently been an intense public scene at the institute, Carpenter had accused Bousquet to his face and Bousquet had hotly denied that he'd had anything to do with it. Carpenter had gone further, suggesting that Bousquet had somehow been involved with the scheme from the beginning—the planting of the bones, followed by the subsequent exposé—all with the intention of humiliating him, Carpenter.

"But what reason could he have?" Julie asked. "Bousquet was just a temporary workman, wasn't he? Why would he want to humiliate the director?"

There again, the all-knowing Madame Renouard claimed to have the inside story: not long before, it had been discovered that one or two Paleolithic stone implements had disappeared from the institute's storage area. On investigating, Carpenter had concluded that Bousquet had sold them to tourists—another accusation that Bousquet had angrily rejected—and issued Bousquet a formal reprimand and warning. The injured Bousquet had made no secret, at least not to his landlady and his fellow boarders, of his resentment.

"I've seen the letter to
Paris-Match
," Joly said. "It is not the language of an educated man, and certainly not that of a professional archaeologist."

"So you think it might be true—that Bousquet wrote it?" Gideon asked. "I think it shouldn't be dismissed as a possibility. Nor should the possibility that he was behind the hoax."

Julie shook her head. "I don't know. Could somebody like that know enough to really take in an expert, a genuine archaeologist? It's hard to believe."

"It is," Gideon agreed. "On the other hand, if you think about it that's exactly what
Bones to Pick
is about: the amazing capacity of even the most learned experts to turn into gullible chumps if they
want
to believe something."

"That's so, but whether Bousquet was or wasn't the perpetrator is irrelevant to our purposes," Joly said. "The fact that Carpenter
thought
it was true still remains." He paused to let this sink in. "You see what it means, don't you?"

Gideon slowly nodded. "It means I probably got it wrong. They're not protecting one of themselves, they're protecting Carpenter, or rather his memory. They're afraid he's going to be accused of killing Bousquet."

"Well, maybe he did kill Bousquet," Julie said. "He's dead. Somebody killed him."

"Yes, that's the point I was about to make," Joly said. From a pocket of his suit coat he took the small leather-bound notebook he carried and with the aid of a moistened forefinger turned to one of its pages. "Consider these facts: The hoax was first exposed by means of the letter on the first of September. On the twenty-fifth Carpenter suddenly submitted his resignation and, without waiting to learn if it was accepted, flew off into the night sky toward Brest, a journey he didn't live to complete. On the twenty-eighth of the same month, Madame Renouard notified the police that Bousquet had not been seen for three days—since the twenty-fifth of September, to be exact. Do you not find it suggestive that—"

"Forget it, Lucien," said Gideon, "you're definitely on the wrong track there. Bousquet was still alive long after Carpenter died. Ely couldn't have killed him."

Joly's eyebrows went up; his mouth pursed. He waited for Gideon to continue.

"He called the institute a month or so later to ask for a job reference. They told me this morning. From Corsica, they thought."

"And how would they know where he was calling from?"

"Well, that's what he said, I suppose. But wherever he was calling from, he was definitely alive, so that lets Ely out."

"Unless," Joly said after a moment's thought, "the account was concocted for your benefit."

"Why would they do that?"

"For the reason you suggested: to prevent suspicion from attaching to Carpenter."

"I really don't think so," said Gideon, but with something less than total conviction, "but—anyhow, aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves? Let's not jump—"

Julie interrupted. "No, it's a point. You told us they all obviously liked Carpenter and would've wanted to protect him, right? So isn't it at least possible—"

"Look," Gideon said, "we don't even know for sure that those bones
are
Bousquet's. I mean, I think they are too—we sure don't have any other candidates, do we?—but unless we get them back, which seems pretty unlikely, there's no possible way to prove it."

"But isn't there?" Julie said through a mouthful of plum tart, then paused to gulp some tea to get it down. "What about that tooth that was left in the box? It has some dental work on it, doesn't it? I can remember a dozen cases where that was all you needed for a positive identification."

"Right," Gideon said. "All we had to do was ask the right dentist to see whether they matched the files of one of his patients. But to find the right dentist you have to have a pretty good idea of who the victim is so that—"

"Which we do. Jean Bousquet."

"Sure, but who was Jean Bousquet's dentist?"

"Why should that be so difficult to find out? He must have had a dentist. Someone did that work. And you said there was a crown too, on another tooth."

"But not somebody from around here," Gideon said. "The crown had a lot of wear on it; it was in his mouth a good ten years, probably more. And Bousquet was a drifter; who knows where he was ten years ago?"

"Not I," Joly agreed sadly.

"Oh," said Julie.

"Of course it's always possible he did go to a dentist while he was here," Gideon said, "and that dentist might be able to help."

"Yes, I'll see," Joly said, but they all knew there wasn't much hope of that. Drifters, whether French or American, didn't typically make regular visits to the dentist, and Bousquet had spent only three months in Les Eyzies.

"So," Julie said brightly after a solemn pause during which the only sound was the clinking of china cups on china saucers, "where to from here?

"I was thinking," Gideon said. "Tomorrow I start my interviews on the hoax. I ought to be able to pry a little more out of them about what was going on at the time without too much trouble."

Julie stared at him and then at Joly. "He's got to be kidding."

"Thank you, Gideon," Joly said politely, "but I have my own resources."

"Sure you do, but you said I could do it more subtly than you could before; why not now?"

"Why not…" Julie put down her cup with a bang. "Because they've already fragmented your… your stupid neuroaxons, haven't they? What do you expect them to do next? Politely ask if you wouldn't be good enough, old chap, to stay out of it?"

"Julie makes a good—" Joly began.

"Now be reasonable, people," Gideon said. "Let's look at this objectively. No one had any intention of killing me or even injuring me—"

"No? What was it then?" Julie asked. "Some form of ritual greeting known only to Middle Paleolithic archaeologists? 'Salutations, O fellow archaeologist.' Bop!"

What he'd meant, he explained, was that it was obvious that no one had gone to the St.-Cyprien morgue with the objective of doing him harm. The purpose had clearly been to remove the bones so that they couldn't be identified, nothing more. Gideon had had the misfortune of walking in at the wrong time. The tap on the head he'd received—

"Tap on the head!" Julie exclaimed to Joly. "That wasn't what he was calling it an hour ago."

—had been a desperation measure, nothing more. "And if the guy had wanted me dead, why didn't he finish the job then, instead of leaving me on the floor unconscious?"

"Maybe he thought you
were
dead."

"No, he wouldn't have thought I was dead. And anyway, I'm not any kind of a threat to anybody any more. With the bones gone what could they have to worry about from me? Besides, my asking everybody questions is perfectly natural. They're all expecting it. That's what I'm here for, remember?

Pretty impeccable logic, he thought, but Joly seemed doubtful and Julie wasn't buying it at all. "I'd say the issue is moot," she said. "How do you expect to interview anybody tomorrow? You can't even blink your eyes without wincing."

"Granted, but tomorrow, if I'm feeling better—"

"I'll tell you what," Joly said thoughtfully. "I expect to be busy with other things tomorrow in any case—I want to chat with some of Bousquet's acquaintances, and with the receptionist at the St.-Cyprien hospital, and so on. Assuming that you're physically able, I don't think it would be a bad thing at all if you went ahead with your scheduled interviews."

"Fine."

"But only on the condition that you don't play at detective. You're to stick to the subject of your book and not raise questions about Bousquet and his troubles with Carpenter or anyone else, or about the missing bones; that's my job. On the other hand, if information presents itself without provocation on your part, well and good; I'll be interested to hear."

"Deal."

"And it would be wise to make no mention of the episode at St.-Cyprien. Only the guilty party is likely to know of it, and it might be that he would say something to give himself away."

"Good point, I agree. Julie, what about you? If you'd really feel better if I didn't—"
"Do you
really
promise to do what Lucien asked you to? Stick to the Old Man of Tayac?"

He raised his hand. "Word of honor."

"Okay, good, I'll go along with it as long as you promise not to do anything dumb.
You
might have brain cells to spare, but I only have one husband, and I'm not interested in being in the market for another."

"I'm relieved to hear it."

She stirred her tea and laid down her spoon. "On the other hand, another day like today and I just might change my mind."

   "Mmm," Julie said luxuriously, "what a lovely way to start the day."

Gideon smiled. "Not bad."

He moved his face, only six inches from hers, even closer, to brush his lips along the warm, velvet curve of her cheek. "I'm sorry I was such a miserable grouch yesterday. I sure love you."

"Mmm," she said again with her eyes closed, arching her neck to press her face against his.

"You have the world's most absolutely gorgeous submaxillary triangle, did I ever tell you that?" he murmured into her throat.

"Yes, many times," she said sleepily. "It never fails to take my breath away."

His fingertips glided over the tender flesh beneath her chin. "The soft swell of your Digastricus—"

"Thank you. Now, shh." With a practiced motion that was all the more affecting because of its easy, familiar intimacy, she pushed on his shoulder to let him know she wanted him on his back. Having arranged him to her satisfaction, she patted his chest as if she were plumping a pillow, worked her head into the hollow of his shoulder, threw one round, sturdy leg over him, sighed, and fell back asleep. Gideon remained awake but was content—much more than content—to lie without moving, his arm under the weight of her and his fingers curled loosely in her dark hair, utterly relaxed and empty of mind, conscious of little more than her closeness and the clean, sweet, warm smell of her. The window was open; dappled morning sunshine filtered through the slats of the wooden shutters, making patterns on the floor and paler, shifting, green-tinged reflections on the ceiling. Time passed.

"I hope," he said, when she began to move and stretch, "that in addition to being pleasant, this morning's, um, activity proved to you that I am back in command of my capacities."

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. "I was worried about your head, not—"

"My head is fine too," he said. "Everything is fine." It was, too, or very nearly. "Tell me, what can I do to convince you?"

"Well…" She rolled onto her back, yawning. "Maybe if you went downstairs and came back with a couple of
cafés au lait
, that might do it."

He kissed her one more time and climbed out of bed. "Give me five minutes."

Julie snuggled back under the covers and closed her eyes again. "You might want to put on some clothes first," she said, snickered quietly to herself, and went back to sleep.

   At one side of the Hotel Cro-Magnon, enclosed by crumbling stone walls covered by trailing ivy, was a private breakfast garden with a few round tables of filigreed metal; a sheltered oasis of shade trees, bright flowers, and potted plants no more than ten yards from the main street. It was here, at an umbrellaed table, with the last droplets of morning dew still shimmering on the leaves around them, that they sat awaiting their breakfasts half an hour later.

"What's your schedule this morning?" Julie asked. "Do you see Jacques Beaupierre first?"

"Yes, that seemed like the right protocol. He's on for ten o'clock, followed at ten-thirty by Pru, who's probably going to be the most informative, then Montfort and the rest of them."

"You're just doing half-hour interviews? You could have done that over the phone from home. Not that I'm complaining," she said, taking in the scene around them.