Page 35 of Fire and Bones
A small niche held enough products to open a beauty supply chain. I shampooed with a peach-pear combo, then lathered my skin with a pineapple-aloe body wash.
Were it not for my vociferously assertive hunger pangs, I might have stayed in that shower all night.
Doyle’s “light supper” consisted of green chicken curry over jasmine rice accompanied by a watermelon, mint, and feta salad. Dessert was blueberry cheesecake.
A woman named Lan served. She was round in the middle, with skinny arms and legs that didn’t match her torso. Tawny skin. Black hair coiled into a braid on the top of her head. I assumed it was Lan who had also prepared the meal.
We ate at a dining table whose top had started life in a quarry in Carrara. No idea the heritage of the shiny metal legs.
We kept the talk light. I didn’t query her plans for broadcast. Doyle didn’t ask about the subcellar corpse.
Before serving the cheesecake, Lan inquired about coffee. Doyle and I both requested decaf. Doyle asked that it be brought to the library.
We took the rolled pages that Doyle had showed me as I’d emerged from the Foggy Bottom basement to a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and another large table, this one made of polished burl wood. The coffee arrived shortly, looking out of place in an old-fashioned silver service.
I filled an alarmingly delicate porcelain cup—probably Qing Dynasty—and placed it on an equally alarming saucer. Added cream. Sipped.
Dear God. Could this really be decaf? I wondered about the appropriateness of asking the brand.
Setting our java aside, we unfurled and spread the four photocopies flat. Secured the corners of the pile with random volumes pulled from the shelves.
I felt a flutter of excitement. Why? I had no intention of returning to the Foggy Bottom house. My interest in the layout was pure curiosity. Though it was possible I might learn something about the subcellar lady.
Doyle and I both leaned in.
The topmost page showed the building’s exterior, prefire. A few minor elements differed from what I recalled, a handrail on the main staircase, a third-floor window box, but there was no doubt we were looking at the recently devastated Foggy Bottom Victorian.
It was also obvious that the original documents were old and weathered. The hand-sketched lines were fuzzy and indistinct on the photocopied version. Here and there, a tear or crease obliterated a detail.
A scrawled note along the page’s lower border provided a date and what appeared to be a name.
“Does that say Hiram L. Pepper?” I asked.
“That’s my read. Then July 1911.”
“Pepper was the architect?”
“Probably. I’ll research the name.” Doyle pointed to a series of digits. “That’s probably the lot number. I’ll research that, too.”
Allowing the top sheet to pop free and roll sideways, we viewed the second page in the stack.
“It’s the main level.” I moved my index finger over the layout. “There’s the kitchen with the steps leading down to the basement. The dining room, parlor, hallway, foyer, stairs going up to the second floor.”
“And down from it.”
“Yes.”
“No bathroom.”
“That must have been added later.”
“I see zero surprises.”
“None.”
We moved on to the second level. Saw the hallway and bedrooms as they’d been before being chopped up.
Ditto for the third.