Grave Secrets

“Even when she ran away, Chantale always let me know that she was well. She might refuse to come home, refuse to tell me her whereabouts, but she’d call.”

She paused, watched an old woman rummage though trash one triangle over.

“I know something dreadful has happened to her.”

Her features were lit by a passing car, then receded into darkness once more. Moments later she spoke again.

“I fear it was Chantale in that septic tank.”

I started to say something, but she cut me off.

“Things are not always as they seem, Dr. Brennan.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“My husband is a wonderful man. I was very young when we married.” Choppy. Throwing out thoughts as they came to her. “He is a decade older than I. In the early years there were times—”

She paused, fearful of the telling but needing to dig something out of her heart.

“I was not ready to settle down. I had an affair.”

“When?” I had my first inkling why I was here.

“In 1983. My husband was posted to Mexico City, but traveled incessantly. I was alone most of the time, started going out in the evenings. I wasn’t looking for anyone, or anything, I just wanted to fill the hours.” She drew a deep breath, let it out. “I met a man. We began seeing each other. Eventually, I considered leaving André to marry him.”

Another pause, sorting through what to say, what to hold back.

“Before I made that decision, Miguel’s wife found out. He ended it.”

“You were pregnant,” I guessed.

“Chantale was born the following spring.”

“Your lover was Mexican?”

“Guatemalan.”

I remembered Chantale’s face in the photographs. She had deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, a broad jaw. The blonde hair had distracted me. Preconceived notions had colored my perception.

Jesus. What else would I bungle?

“Is there anything more?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

She allowed her head to drop to one side, as though the weight of it were too much for her neck to bear.

“Many spouses cheat on their partners.” I knew that firsthand.

“I’ve lived almost two decades with my secret, and it has been pure hell.” The voice was tremulous and angry at the same time.

“I’ve never been able to admit who my daughter is, Dr. Brennan. To her, to her father, to my husband, to anyone. The deception has tainted every part of my life. It has poisoned thoughts and dreams I’ve never even had.”

I thought that an odd thing to say.

“If Chantale is dead, it’s my fault.”

“That’s a natural reaction, Mrs. Specter. You’re feeling lonely and guilty, bu—”

“Last January I told Chantale the truth.”

“About her biological father?”

I sensed her nod.

“The night she disappeared?”

“She refused to believe it. She called me dreadful names. We had a terrible quarrel, and she stormed from the house. That was the last anyone has seen her.”

For a full two minutes, neither of us spoke.

“Does the ambassador know?”

“No.”

I envisioned the report I would write concerning the septic tank bones.

“If it was your daughter at the Paraíso, what you’ve told me may come out.”

“I know.”

Her head returned to vertical, and a hand rose to her chest. The fingers looked pale, the lacquered nails black in the night.

“I also know about the body recovered near Kaminaljuyú today, though I’m sorry I don’t remember the poor girl’s name.”

The Specters’ sources were good.

“That victim has not been identified,” I said.

“It’s not Chantale. So the field now narrows to three.”

“How can you know that?”

“My daughter has perfect teeth.”

The Specters’ sources were very good.

“Did Chantale see a dentist?”

“She went for cleanings and checkups. The police have her records. Unfortunately, my husband does not approve of unnecessary X rays, so the file contains none.”

“The Paraíso skeleton may be none of the missing girls we are searching for,” I said.

“Or it may be my daughter.”

“Do you have a cat, Mrs. Specter?”

I felt more than saw her tense.

“What an odd question.”

So the Specters’ sources weren’t infallible. She didn’t know about Minos’s findings.

“Cat hairs were rolled into the jeans recovered from the septic tank.” I didn’t mention the sample I’d collected from her home. “You told Detective Galiano that you have no pets.”

“We lost our cat last Christmas.”

“Lost?”

“Guimauve drowned.” The black fingernails danced on the black pearls. “Chantale found his little body floating in the pool. She was heartbroken.”

She fell silent a few moments, then, “It’s late, and you must be very tired.”

She stood, smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the perfect gray silk, and stepped onto the path. I joined her.

She spoke again when we’d reached the sidewalk. In the pale orange light of a street lamp I could see that her carefully decorated face had returned to its diplomat’s wife appearance.

“My husband has made a few calls. The DA will contact you to make arrangements for your analysis of the Paraíso remains.”

“I’ll be allowed access?” I was stunned.

“Yes.”

I started to thank her.

“No, Dr. Brennan. It is I who should thank you. Excuse me.”

She drew a cell phone from her purse, and spoke a few words.