I was dawdling by the water’s edge when the door to the studio opened. Blanche, our little French bulldog, trotted toward me, twenty pounds of blond charm and Zen-serenity. The breed tends to be stubborn; Blanche isn’t, preferring diplomacy to artillery. She nuzzled my pant leg, snorted coquettishly. I rubbed her head and she purred like a cat. She’d rolled on her back for a belly tickle when Robin emerged, fluffing her mass of auburn curls and brushing sawdust from her favorite red overalls.

Mouthing an air kiss as she hurried toward me, she arrived smiling, planted a real smooch on my lips. Her breath was sweet with cola, the black T-shirt under the overalls fragrant with wood dust. Spanish cypress, a material that holds on to its perfume for centuries. The feather-light flamenco guitar she’d been working on for weeks.

I kissed her back.

She said, “What’s the matter?”

“Who says anything?”

She stepped back, studied me. “Honey?”

“What was the tell?”

“The shoulders,” she said. “It’s always in the shoulders.”

“Maybe it’s just a kink.”

Taking my hand, she guided me toward the house. Blanche trotted at our side, checking me out every few seconds. Between the two of them, I felt like a patient. As we reached the door, Robin said, “The new case?”

I nodded.

“Especially bad?”

“Maybe.”

She put her arm around my waist. When we got in the kitchen, I offered her coffee.

“No, thanks, just water.” She fetched a bottle from the fridge, sat down at the table, propped her perfect chin in one hand. Chocolate eyes were soft, yet searching. Her lips parted. The slightly oversized central incisors that had turned me on years ago flashed into view.

I filled a second mug, joined her. “A baby. A baby’s skeleton.”

She winced. “That must have been terrible for everyone involved.”

She stroked my fingers.

I told her everything.

When I was through, she said, “One of the girls at that hospital changed her mind and had her baby? Gave it to that nurse to take care of and something went wrong?”

“Could be.”

“Wrong doesn’t have to mean a crime, Alex. What if the poor little thing died by accident? Or from a disease and it couldn’t be buried legally because officially it didn’t exist?”

A new tremolo colored the last three words.

She said, “A thing; it. Can they do DNA, find out the sex?”

“Theoretically.” I told her about the case’s low priority.

She said, “Every generation thinks it invented the world, no one cares about history.”

“Are you sorry I told you?”

“Not at all.” She stood, got behind me, kneaded my shoulders. “You are one block of iron, darling.”

“Oh,” I said. “Perfect. Thanks.”