Make No Bones Read Free Page B

their beards about the place of Marapithecus in hominid evolution? Like last year in Detroit?”
    “That’s
Rama
pithecus,” Gideon said unwisely. “And those were evolutionary anthropologists. True, they can get a little stuffy. But these are forensic anthropologists. Chardonnay or Chablis?”
    “Which one’s open?”
    “Chardonnay.”
    “That’s what I’ll have.”
    He poured glasses for both of them, the cold wine clucking into the bottoms of the hollow-stemmed glasses, then carried Julie’s to her.
    “Fancy glasses,” she said. “I almost forgot we had them.” “Fancy dinner,” Gideon told her. “As you’ll soon see.” Julie was in the living room, browsing through the day’s mail, while Gideon worked in the open kitchen, talking to her over the wide counter. Thursday was one of his nights to make dinner, inasmuch as he had only a 10:00 A.M. class, and an easy one at that, while she worked her usual 8:00 to 5:00, winding up with the dreaded weekly staff meeting. Today’s, from what she’d told him, had been even more lunatic than usual, and he was happy to see her start to relax.
    “Anyway,” he said, “forensic anthropologists are a much looser crowd, more lively, more irreverent.”
    “Oh, I’ll bet. I can just imagine all the great ‘topics of conversation: handling decomposed remains, time-of death estimates…”
    “Well, yes, but it’s not all business. A lot of people bring wives and husbands. There’ll be plenty of time for taking in the sights and just being lazy. Look, read the letter, will you? The one from Miranda Glass, with the Museum of Natural History letterhead.”
    Julie foraged in the plate of raw vegetables and came up with a broccoli stalk. Then she fished the letter out of the pile of mail. Behind her, the big bay window looked out onto a wet, somber world. It had been a typical early-May day in Port Angeles, Washington: raw, overcast, and drizzly. The sky at 6:00 P.M. looked exactly the way it had at 8:00 A.M., a featureless and dismal slaty gray. According to the KIRO weather report, it was going to look much the same tomorrow.
    “‘To Members of the Western Association of Forensic Anthropologists,’” she read aloud. “‘Esteemed Fellow Body-Snatchers. June 16-22, the week of our eagerly anticipated bone bash and weenie roast, is fast approaching. As this year’s host I hereby bid you a genial welcome.’”
    She looked up at him from under lifted eyebrows. “Bone bash and weenie roast? Well, you’re certainly right about them not being stuffy.”
    He smiled. “Miranda’s a little more irreverent than most. Read on.”
    “‘Fittingly enough,’” she continued, “‘this year’s enlightenment and jollification will be held where it all started: the decaying but still scenic Whitebark Lodge near Bend, Oregon. I must tell you that the lodge is not quite what it was ten years ago (who among us is?), but the management promises to do its best. Dinner and continental breakfast will be provided daily, and those of you who wish more variety will find the restaurants of Bend and Sisters just a short drive away. In addition, the general store in nearby Camp Sherman stocks an ample supply of gourmet comestibles (bologna, American cheese, tuna Fish), which you may prepare in the privacy of your cottages. As usual, we’ll set up a kitty to take care of lunch and beverages so that we are not unnecessarily torn away from our scholarly pursuits. Naturally, potables stronger than Diet Coke are the responsibility of the individual. As always, cocktail hour begins at sunrise.’”
    Smiling, she glanced up again. “Maybe I ought to go, just to keep an eye on you. Don’t you guys do any work?”
    “Sure, we do. Don’t let Miranda’s style throw you off. We may be informal, but WAFA is a dignified, professional organization, and we work damn hard. Listen.” He had come into the living room to get some vegetables and dip for himself, and he took the letter from