“Hikers found a headless, handless skeleton in a park near Lancaster?” I prompted.

“Yep.”

A click, as though Slidel were picking a tooth with a thumbnail.

“Were the remains ID’ed?”

“Nope.”

“What happened to them?”

“Packed up and shipped to Columbia.”

“To Wal y Cagle?”

“He the anthropologist down there?”

“Yes.”

“Stubby little fruit fly, goatee looks like a mal ard’s arse?”

“Walter Cagle is a highly qualified, board-certified forensic anthropologist.” It took an effort to keep my voice level. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Probably.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fine citizens of Lancaster County elected themselves a new coroner two years back. New kid claims his predecessor didn’t keep real good records.”

“Who circulated the query?”

“Sheriff.”

“What does he say?”

“Says talk to the former coroner. Sheriff ’s new, too.”

“Have you done that?”

“Tough order. Guy’s dead.”

I was gripping the receiver so tightly the plastic was making smal popping sounds.

“Does the current coroner have any information on the case?”

“Unknown. Partial skeleton with animal damage.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s what’s in the original police report. Nothin’ else in the file.”

“Is someone checking with Dr. Cagle?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you pul ing up missing persons for an ID on the privy skul ?”

“Hard to do with nothing to go on.”

Slidel had a point.

“White male, twenty-five to forty. Bad teeth, four restorations.” I kept my voice even.

Mrs. Flowers’s fingers were flying over her keyboard. Now and then she’d glance up at Ryan. He’d smile, and the color in her cheeks would deepen.

“That helps.”

“But don’t rule out a female if everything else works.”

“The hel are you saying? Don’t a person got to be one or the other?”

“Yes. One does.”

I looked at Ryan. He grinned.

“I’l keep my cel turned on,” I said to Slidel . “Cal me when you know something.” Normal y my refrigerator contains leftover carryout, frozen dinners, condiments, coffee beans, Diet Coke, and milk, with a smattering of slimed-out produce in the bins. That night it was uncharacteristical y ful .

When I opened the door, a Vidalia onion dropped to the floor and rol ed to a stop against Boyd’s haunch. The chow sniffed, licked, then relocated himself under the table.

“Been foraging?” I asked.

“Hooch pointed me to the Fresh Market.”

Boyd’s ears rose, but his chin stayed on his paws.

I picked up a package wrapped in butcher paper.

“You know how to cook swordfish?”

Ryan held out both arms.

“I am a son of Nova Scotia.”

“Uh-huh. Would you like a Sam Adams?”

“Generations of my people have made their living from the sea.”

I real y could love this guy, I thought.

“Your parents were born in Dublin, trained in medicine in London,” I said.

“They ate a lot of fish.”

I handed him the beer.

“Thanks.”

He twisted off the lid and took a long swig.