She straightened and drew her hair from her face. “It’s about the Bone Wars.”
“Th-the Bone Wars?”
“Have you heard of it?”
“Marsh and Cope.”
“Correct.” She smiled with a nod of approval. “Dr. Newell has a fascinating lineup of fossils ready to be loaned to us—many that Marsh and Cope either discovered themselves or were responsible for naming during the height of their intense activity.”
“Why is Dr. Thyne against such an exhibit? It’s historically relevant to paleontology.”
“He feels Dr. Newell is—was—focusing too much on the men instead of the dinosaurs.”
“Huh.”
“But then there was the whole fiasco with the skull. And now that Dr. Newell… well… who knows if this exhibit will ever come to fruition.”
There it was.
“Hold on,” I said. My heart pounded hard. “What skull?”
“Edward Cope’s,” Gould stated. “It’s gone missing.”
Chapter Nine
I SATin a Starbucks about three blocks away from the museum, reluctantly taking up residence in the window seat—back to the simultaneously warm sun gleaming through and the cold air leeching in. I tugged my scarf off and unbuttoned my coat before removing the wedding planner notebook from my shoulder bag. I dropped it on the table and started fishing for a pen.
“Specify the north or south end of the block next time.”
I glanced up as Max draped his coat over the back of the second chair. “Are there two Starbucks on this block?”
“As well as a Dunkin’ Donuts and three Duane Reades,” he teased. He set his hands on the chair back. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentle.
I returned to digging through my black hole for the one thing I wanted and couldn’t find. “Nope.”
“Want a coffee?” Max offered at length.
I finally retrieved the pen, set it on the notebook, and put the bag down by my feet. I slouched my shoulders, staring up at Max.
“What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
Max hesitated. “Boss—”
I waved my hand at the counter. “Go. Go, go.”
Once Max had turned to fetch a beverage, I opened the notebook. I flipped through the pages and laughed dryly. Two days ago, this fucking wedding had been my only source of pain and displeasure. Two days ago, I had called a few florists for estimates on roses—prices and availability apparently varied by color and species. That had irritated the hell out of me. Not one aspect of the wedding seemed easy to plan.
And Sunday night in bed, Calvin had sleepily reminded me I didn’t evenlikeroses.
“Why not use carnations, baby?”
I was a smart man. But I lacked common sense. I knew this about myself. I was so preoccupied with the social commentary behind early and morbid Victorian Christmas cards, or the stories of arsenic-laced candies, that I forgot to shave or comb my hair or overlooked that I loved carnations, sowhywouldn’t I use my favorite flower at our wedding instead of one that was cliché and overpriced?
It was sometimes shocking I’d managed to make it to thirty-four.
I flipped to a blank page, took a breath, mentally reminded myselfin and out, then started writing down everything I knew so far.
