My blushless cheeks burned.

“Painting that face would be a sin. Like colorizing a Renoir. Y’all take care now.”

Charlie turned, hesitated, turned back, Columbo-style.

Here it comes, I thought.

“I suppose we play on opposite teams.”

My look must have revealed confusion.

“You jail ’em, I bail ’em.”

I floated a brow.

“Might make for some interesting coffee conversation.”

“You know I can’t discuss-”

“’Course you can’t. No law against reminiscing.”

The man actually winked.

By the time I got home it was almost ten. Katy had already left a message on my voice mail, a reiteration of the conversation we’d had post-Charlie. Don’t be mad. Give him a chance. He’s cool.

Charlie Hunt might be a prince, but I wasn’t going to date him. A fix-up by my offspring was humiliation I didn’t need.

There were two other messages. Pete. Phone me. A landscaping company. Buy our yard service.

Disappointment. Then the usual mental sparring.

You really thought Ryan would call?

No.

Right.

Whatever.

He’s living with another woman.

They’re not married.

He could have rung from his cell.

Cell.

Grabbing my purse, I pulled out my mobile and checked for messages.

Let him go.

I miss talking with him.

Talk to the cat.

We’re still friends.

Move on.

Settling in bed, I clicked on the news.

A fifty-seven-year-old teacher was suing the school district, alleging age discrimination as the reason for her firing. An unemployed trucker had won fifteen million dollars in the Powerball lottery.

Bird hopped up and curled at my knee.

“Good for the trucker,” I said, stroking his head.

The cat looked at me.

“The man has five kids and no job.”

Still no feline opinion.

A couple had been arrested for stealing copper wiring from a Tuck-aseegee Road business. In addition to larceny, the resourceful pair were being charged with contributing to the delinquency of minors. Mom and Dad had brought the kids along on the break-ins.

Authorities were investigating the shooting death of a sixty-four-year-old man in his Pineville home. Though police had found no evidence of foul play, the death had been ruled suspicious. The medical examiner would be performing an autopsy.

I drifted off.

“-worship of Satan right here in the cellars and back rooms of our city. Pagan idolatry. Sacrifice. Bloodletting.”

The voice was baritone, the vowels thicker than sap.

My eyes flew open.

The clip was just ending. Overweight and red-faced, Boyce Lingo was delivering one of his media-grab rants.

“Those who follow Lucifer must be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Their evil must be stopped before it seeps into our playgrounds and schools. Before it threatens the very fabric of our society.”

Preacher turned county commissioner, Lingo was a case study of extremist ideology, pseudo-Christianity, pseudo-patriotism, and thinly veiled white-male supremacy. His was a constituency that wanted the economy unregulated, the welfare state small, the military strong, and the citizenry white, native born, and strictly New Testament.

“You moron!” Had I been holding the remote, it would have gone sailing.

Birdie shot from the bed.

“You boneheaded twit!” My palms smacked the mattress.

I heard soft padding, assumed Birdie was increasing his distance. I didn’t care. Tonight’s grandstanding was typical Lingo. The man had a pattern of attaching himself to anything of media interest for a minute of air time or a half inch of print.

Killing the TV and lamp, I lay in the dark, tense and angry. I tossed, kicked the covers, punched the pillow, thoughts and images kaleidoscoping in my brain. The cauldrons. The putrefied chicken. The human cranium and femora.

The school portrait.

Who was she? Had Skinny’s decision been wise? Or should we be broadcasting the girl’s image?

Had the photo already flashed on TV screens somewhere far away, in a market disconnected from the coverage that entered Charlotte homes? Had some anchor reported a missing teen, vanished while on her way home from a ball game, from having pizza with friends? When? Had it been before the advent of centers for missing children and Amber alerts?

Had her parents made pleas to the camera, Mom crying, Dad steely-voiced? Had neighbors and townsfolk offered solace, inwardly thankful that their own children were safe? That, this time, tragedy had not selected them?

How had the picture ended up in that cauldron? The skull? Was it her skull?

And what about the leg bones? Did both come from a single individual?

Did the skull, the femora, and the photo represent one person? Two? Three? More?

My clock radio said 11:40. Twelve twenty. One ten. Out in the garden, a million tree frogs croaked. Erratic gusts scratched leaves across my bedroom window screen.

Why so warm this deep into the fall? It would be cold in Quebec by now. Montreal might even be sporting a dusting of snow.

I thought about Andrew Ryan. I did miss him. But the pragmatist brain cells were definitely right. I had to move on.

I smiled recalling Katy’s postprandial “coincidence.” Her matchmaking had started several years back, intensified with the arrival of Summer. Judd the pharmacist. Donald the veterinarian. Barry the entrepreneur. Sam the what? I never was sure. I refused all offers.

My daughter, the yenta of Dixie.

Now it was Charlie, the public defender.

Katy did have a point. Charlie Hunt was smart, good-looking, available, and interested. Why not give it a try?

Charlie was a 9/11 widower. That meant he carried baggage. Was he ready for a relationship? Was I? I also toted a satchel or two.

Puh-leeze. The man offered coffee.

Lyrics popped into my head. England Dan and John Ford Coley.

I’m not talking ’bout moving in,

And I don’t want to change your life…

There you go.

Moving in. Moving on.

Good old Pete was moving on.

Pete and Summer.

What was Summer’s last name? Glotsky? Grumsky? I made a note to ask.

Again and again, my thoughts veered back to the cellar.

I remembered the doll with the miniature sword piercing her chest. The knife.

The chicken had been decapitated. Had the goat been slaughtered in a similar fashion?

Had there really been a human sacrifice? Like Mark Kilroy, the college student killed in Matamoros. Lingo insinuated as much, but he was just yapping. He had no information. But then, neither did I.

I resolved to find some.

THOUGH I’D SLEPT LITTLE, I AGAIN ROSE AT DAWN. COFFEE AND a muffin, and I was on my way to the MCME.

By eight thirty both femora lay on the counter. So did three other sections of long bone. The latter were sawn, and came from a small mammal. Or mammals. Since no anatomical landmarks remained, the osteology text was of no use. I’d need histology to determine species and numbers.

By ten I’d emptied the large cauldron. The remaining soil produced three more red beads, a segment of antler, probably deer, and a small plastic skeleton.

After photographing the collection, I turned to the human femora.

The two leg bones were similar in size and robusticity. Both were slender and lacked prominent muscle attachment sites. One was a left, the other a right. Both were straight, with little shaft concavity, an African-American more than European trait.

As with the skull, I took measurements. Maximum length. Bicondylar breadth. Midshaft circumference. When I’d completed two sets of nine, I ran the numbers through Fordisc 3.0.