LITMIR.BIZ

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from the rocks and the marine life would make the coroner’s job trickier. Crows passed raucous approval from the trees. Ever vigilant for food, a host of motley juvenile seagulls floated on the waves, scavenging sea creatures. One on shore pecked at a blue-black mussel shell. One creature’s bier was another’s smorgasbord.

      “God, look at that.”

Two

      Chipper pointed to an area half an inch long on one of the girl’s forearms, where tiny predators had been chewing in furtherance of future generations. He put his hand over his mouth and stumbled away, one foot tripping in the cracks that fractured the basalt.

      “Who’s in charge here? I passed a few villages missing their idiots, or isn’t that phrase acceptable these days?” a jovial voice called, panting for breath around the stem of a corncob pipe. Mason Boone ambled forward, lugging a large black satchel that might have done duty at 22 Baker Street. His rice-sack gut pooched under suspendered grey work pants. Hush Puppies slurping on the wet rock, he urged his bulk toward them with surprising grace.

      The B.C. Coroners Service was a unique animal, setting fast and tangled roots in one of Canada’s younger provinces, much of which was still wilderness outside of the sushi bars of Vancouver and the tea rooms of Victoria. The province employed twenty-one full-time coroners, but the approximately one hundred and twenty community coroners dispersed throughout the territory worked on an as-needed basis. Some thought that anyone of good character could qualify as a community coroner, but the preferred background was in the legal, investigative and medical fields. Retired nurses and lawyers made good choices. They did not perform autopsies, but should circumstances warrant, they authorized pathologists to take charge. They were responsible for assembling the facts in a death: identifying the deceased and how, when, where and by what means the person died. Complicated forensics were left to the medical examiner, if one were needed. Fault or blame was not the coroner’s bailiwick, though no one should be incurious.

      Boone Mason had been a private investigator in Vancouver before a knee had blown on him during a handball game and compromised his mobility. At sixty-five, he lived quietly off a disability pension supplemented by his occasional coroner assignment and Texas hold’em poker winnings at the legion. His relationship with the RCMP in the Western Communities wasn’t smooth. A stubborn nature often made him a gadfly. “He’s a good man with a beak for the truth,” Reg had told her. “Pain in the ass or not, don’t underestimate him.”

      “Poets are goddamn liars. Death is never pretty,” he said after introductions as he put down his satchel and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He tucked the pipe, apparently empty, into his shirt pocket. “I can see why that poor slob pulled her on shore. Natural reaction. But if anything’s hinky, Christ on a cupcake.”

      Holly felt her chest tighten. She looked for Chipper, but he was still parked on the other side of a Sitka spruce. A white handkerchief had come from his pocket, as if he had given up the battle. “But how could you—”

      Boone turned his grizzled face to hers. He had assumed the retired male’s habit of shaving only when necessary, but stopped short of wearing a beard like a hundred local Santas. She could also see why Reg had mentioned his nose for the truth. Large and craggy, it gave him the look of a friendly vulture. “Ninety-nine per cent of drownings are accidents. It’s up to me to make recommendations to prevent future harm. Relax. Just making small talk. Reg told me you were taking over. Figured you needed some fatherly guidance.”

      He pulled away the rest of the blanket. Holly’s throat felt like she was trying to devour a four-headed balloon animal. Boone gave her a sidelong glance. “First body?”

      “No, but first day in charge. Some timing.”

      “Shoulda stood in bed.” He chuckled to himself and narrowed his eyes in assessment. “Craziest saying. Don’t know what the hell it signifies.”

      With straightened shoulders, Chipper had returned to the periphery and was studiously avoiding any connection with the body, his dark glance following a bald eagle high overhead, its feeble peeping cry belying its reputation as king of birds. From far away, Holly could see inquiring heads in the underbrush and hear fragmented comments. Walking over, she directed Chipper to keep away the onlookers, who, now that the coroner had arrived, sensed a melodramatic story to take home to Anacortes or Kamloops. “This looks straightforward enough. Maybe we’ll get lucky and avoid complications,” she said, back at Boone’s side.

      “We’re already luckier than she was. And besides, complications make life interesting. Doncha like no challenges?” Boone rotated the neck and head, then parted the hair, frowning. “Serious blow to the side of the head. From a dive or a fall. At the edges of the cove where the rocks meet the water.” Then taking out a thermometer, he positioned himself to shield the body and turned Angie onto her side with a gentle “Up we go, darlin’.” Holly followed an instinct to flinch and turned away as if to keep an eye on the crowd. Squeezing her fists until the nails bit the palm, she knelt next to him. The girl wore a bikini, and wore it well. Not an ounce of fat, and a neat six-pack revealed long-term toning, if not avid body building. An athlete? The shoulders were broad, the hips slim. Her legs and arms had been shaved. A swimmer? Odd that she hadn’t worn her hair short, but she’d probably used a cap. On her shoulder was a tasteful blue rose. How many teens didn’t have a tattoo?

      Boone then placed the thermometer in the water for a short while, retrieving it with a nod. “Nearly water temperature. Not surprising. Plays hell with rigor and time of death. Not as bad as being in an air-conditioned or heated room, though.” He looked up, breaking into Holly’s thoughts. “You and the rajah could give a gander to the area. We’re not going to be able to hold this scene for long. Wind and waves wait for no man.” Holly bristled at the unexpected racial jibe, nor did she appreciate the directives. They were more or less equals, each with a job. “How about watching your language, Mr. Boone?”

      He grinned and poked her leg. “Just kidding. Lighten up. My late wife of forty years was born in Bombay or Mumbai, whatever. One hell of a cook when it came to pilafs and curries. And it’s plain Boone to my friends.”

      Holly looked down and toed away a string of kelp affixed to her boot. Now she’d alienated the coroner. Things had been so different when Ben Rogers called the shots. “So, does there have to be an autopsy? Is it at the discretion of the parents?”

      “Not always, but no to your second question. It’s my call. Vic Daso at the Jubilee will probably take this one. He’s a crackerjack. Help if we could find some witnesses so we could figure this out,” Boone added, rocking back on his bulging haunches. In the distance, a siren was wailing.

      Holly had seen a couple of drownings in The Pas, when snowmobilers had gone down crossing the narrows on fickle Cedar Lake. March was the worst month. People got cocky about conditions, especially when alcohol was involved. Men in their twenties were the prime offenders, thought they were invincible and rejected flotation suits and hand picks as sissy gear. She searched her mind for the few training classes on autopsies.

      “He’ll check for water in the lungs, though there is such a thing as a dry drowning.”

      “That seems like a conflict in terms.”

      “Not really. Ever jumped into icy water? Shock makes the throat constrict. So the victim dies from lack of air. Suffocation, to be exact. He’ll run a toxicology report. It’s fair to believe that there’s been drinking at this party, if not drugs. Pot. Cocaine. Meth, I doubt.”

      In the recesses of the tidal pool flats, a round, pinkish shape shimmered in a half inch of water. Anemone. She touched it with her finger, and it shrank into itself. Odd that it knew exactly where to move and where to stay. Up nearer the tide line, it would find itself dry, if only for a few hours, and die. But then, perhaps some of the fairy-like creatures had done just that and exited the gene pool.

      “Penny for ’em. Make that a loonie. Flying higher than the eagle these days.” Boone stared at her in some amusement.

      “Wool

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