Chapter 17
THE EXCAVATION WENT on until dusk. The bones and clothing were collected and cataloged and secured in a plastic box for transport to the medical examiner’s office.
Ballard flew back in the LAPD helicopter shortly after the sheriff’s airship took off with the ME’s team.
Stilwell got home to the smell of Tash’s gumbo.
That plus the music she was playing on the kitchen Bose—Steely Dan’s album Gaucho—told him that he was forgiven for reneging on their plans to hike Black Jack Mountain that morning in light of Ballard’s plan to come with a cadaver dog and a gas probe.
She was at the stove with her back to him, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon, when he entered the kitchen.
“Hey,” she said. “How did it go up there?”
“Good and bad,” Stilwell said.
“You found her, I heard.”
“Yeah.”
“Sad.”
“Yeah.”
She turned around to check him and saw the bouquet of flowers in his hand.
“Flowers,” she said. “You thought I’d be mad?”
“I don’t know,” Stilwell said. “I guess. Mad or sad. She liked to hike on her own. Like you. I hope it doesn’t change your love of walking trails.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way. But it won’t.”
“Good.”
She put the wooden spoon down on a plate on the counter and came over to him in the doorway. She took the flowers.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Know what?” Stilwell asked.
“These are wishbones—my favorite. Did you pick them up there in the grove?”
“Yeah. Away from the dig.”
“I hope so.”
He realized it was the first time he had ever given her flowers.
“Do you mind stirring the roux while I find a vase for these?” Tash asked.
“As long as I can take a taste,” Stilwell said.
“Don’t you dare.”
She went out to the dining room and came back with a wine carafe from the shelves. She filled it with water and arranged the flowers in it. She saw him raising the spoon from the pot.
“No,” she said.
“Smells so good,” he said.
“My grandma’s Catalina gumbo.”
“I know. Why can’t I try it?”
“Because it’s not ready. Why don’t you go get cleaned up. It’ll be ready when you’re back.”
“Perfect. I definitely need a shower.”
She came to the stove and took the spoon from him.
“I know,” she said. “So go.”
She pushed him toward the hallway.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“You want red or white?” she called after him. “I’ll open a bottle.”
“Uh… red.”
“Red it is.”
A few minutes later his head was under the hot shower. He raised his face into the spray. He knew that it couldn’t wash away everything. But he was home and he felt the dread he had been carrying start to lift.