Bones of the Lost

front. And I promise. Not a word about the wedding.”
    “I don’t think—”
    “How was it you planned to get home?”
    Side-out, Pete.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER , a shiny new BMW convertible swerved to the curb. Red with black leather interior.
    Trophy wife. Trophy car. I fought an impulse to roll my eyes.
    Less commendable was Pete’s fashion sense. Sure, he could muster a suit and tie for court, but a golf shirt and khakis was his normal attire. My ex’s guiding principle: comfy and cool.
    As I dropped into the passenger seat, my brows rose at the sports jacket, blue shirt, and navy slacks.
    “Don’t we look snazzy.” Excluding the sockless loafers.
    “I’m having dinner with a lovely lady.”
    Orbital roll beyond my control.
    “Nice wheels.” Keeping it light.
    “Got a good deal.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Took ’er up to Asheville over the weekend. Purred like a kitten. Summer squealed at every switchback. Almost squealed myself once or twice.”
    Squeals all around.
    “Goes from zero to sixty in faster than you can say zero to sixty.”
    Pete understood I cared little about cars. I knew he was tiptoeing to avoid mention of the upcoming nuptials.
    I grabbed the armrest as he gunned out of the lot, cut left, right, then left again.
    “Zero to sixty,” I said, smiling.
    “Check out the sound system.” Pete tapped something and Maroon 5’s “Payphone” surrounded us in a moving cloud of noise that rendered further communication impossible.
    Just past the Queens University campus, Pete winged onto the main drive at Sharon Hall, shot the tunnel of ancient magnolias past the white-columned manor house, and braked to a gravel-spitting stop in the parking area between the carriage house and its annex. Turning his head sideways, he gave me a two-brow waggle.
    “Nice.” I unbuckled my seatbelt.
    “I’ll wait here.”
    “I’ve got to shower.”
    “No rush.”
    I held out a palm.
    Pete pulled his keys from the ignition, removed one, and handed it to me.
    “Thanks.” I flipped the door handle.
    “Tempe?”
    “Yes?”
    “Don’t lock it in the house.”
    Pete’s phone was out before I was.
    The annex has a bedroom and bath upstairs, living and dining rooms, kitchen, a study/guest room, and bath down. Garden in back, grassy patch in front, patio to one side. Though cramped, the place suits me perfectly.
    I let myself into the kitchen and flipped on the light.
    “Bird?”
    No cat.
    “Here, boy.”
    Nothing but a soft ticking coming from the parlor.
    I found Birdie under the sideboard holding Gran’s clock. Though cats are said to lack facial musculature capable of expression, his message was clear.
    “You mad?”
    Pausing a moment for effect, Birdie rose, stretched, then padded toward me, cool but prepared to consider explanation. And dinner.
    I bent and scratched one furry white ear.
    “Sorry, champ. But tonight’s menu is a bit subpar.”
    Returning to the kitchen, I plucked two eggs from the fridge, mixed in a tin of sardines, and heated the combo. When the mess congealed I scraped it into his bowl.
    One thing about Bird, he does not hold grudges. All sins forgiven, the feline dived in.
    Since I often spend my days with decomp and biohazard, I’ve mastered the art of the quick cleanup. And amassed a spa-worthy array of soaps, gels, and lotions. Tonight I grabbed the nearest. Out and dry in five minutes, smelling of grapefruit.
    Birdie walked in as I was pondering acceptable couture for delivering divorce papers. My eyes met his.
    “Screw it.”
    I grabbed jeans and a black tee, added pale green seashell earrings and a black cotton jacket.
    “What do you think?”
    Birdie cocked his head but rendered no opinion.
    I hurried down to the study, cat at my heels. As I snatched up the documents, Birdie did a figure eight through my ankles.
    I glanced at my watch. Pete had been waiting a full twenty minutes.
    The cat arched his back and lifted his tail. I scratched his ears and added a series of down-the-back strokes.
    When I popped the Beemer door, Pete was still on the phone.
    “Don’t inhale while you’re spraying.” Pause. “Okay. But really, I’ve got to go.” Shorter pause. “Yes, I’ll call when I’m on the way. I love you, too.” Sotto voce.
    “Sorry. Bird—”
    “No problemo. Ale House good with you?”
    “Sure.” It wasn’t. Big-screen TVs. Fans cheering, groaning, coaching. Noise level at eighty-five decibels. “Is Summer having bug issues?”
    Pete looked at me