Death Du Jour [Temperance Brennan 2] by Kathy Reichs

Author:Kathy Reichs
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Forensic Anthropology, Montreal (Quebec), Mystery & Detective, Arson Investigation, Montréal (Québec), Political, American, Women Forensic Anthropologists, Women Anthropologists, Pizza Industry, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Women Sleuths, Brennan, General, Thrillers, Suspense, Fiction, Temperance (Fictitious Character), Restaurants
ISBN: 9780671011376
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 1999-08-14T05:00:00+00:00

"Al ons-y," I said to the others. "Al ons-y," echoed the sheriff, reaching for his hat and placing it on his head.

We took Highway 21 out of Beaufort to Lady's Island, crossed Cowan's Creek to Saint Helena, and continued for several miles. At Eddings Point Road we turned left, and drove past miles of weather-beaten frame houses and trailers set on pilings. Plastic stretched across windows and porches sagged under the weight of moth-eaten easy chairs and old appliances. In the yards I could see junked auto frames and parts, makeshift sheds, and rusted septic tanks. Here and there a hand-lettered sign offered col ards, butter beans, or goats.

Before long the blacktop made a hard left and sandy roads took off ahead and to the right. Baker turned and we entered a long, shady tunnel. Live oaks lined the road, their bark mossy, their branches arching overhead like the dome on a green cathedral. To either side ran narrow moats of algae-coated water.

Our tires scrunched softly as we passed more mobile homes and run-down houses, some with plastic or wooden whirligigs, others with chickens scratching in the yards. Save for the model years of the beat-up cars and pickups, the area looked much as it must have in the nineteen-thirties. And forties. And fifties.

Within a quarter mile Adler Lyons joined us from the left. Baker turned and drove almost to the end and stopped. Across the way I could see mossy gravestones shaded by live oaks and magnolias. Here and there a wooden cross gleamed white in the murky shadows.

To our right stood a pair of buildings, the larger a two-story farmhouse with dark green siding, the smal er a bungalow, once white, its paint now gray and peeling. Behind the houses I observed trailers and a swing set.

A low wal separated the compound from the road. It was built of cinder blocks laid sideways and stacked, so the centers formed rows and layers of smal tunnels. Each hol ow was packed with vines and creepers, and purple wisteria meandered the length of the wal . At the driveway entrance a rusted metal sign said PRIVATE PROPERTY in bright orange letters.

The road continued less than a hundred feet past the wal , then ended in a stand of marsh grass. Beyond the weeds lay water the color of dul pewter.

"That should be four-three-five," said Sheriff Baker, shifting into park and indicating the larger home. "This was a fishing camp years ago." He tipped his head toward the water. "That's Eddings Point Creek out there. It empties into the sound not too far up. I'd forgotten about this property. It was abandoned for years."

The place had definitely seen better times. The siding on the farmhouse was patched and covered with mildew. The trim, once white, was now blistered and flaking to reveal a pale blue underlayer. A screened porch ran the width of the first floor, and dormer windows projected from the third, their upper borders mimicking in miniature the angle of the roof.

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