“Good morning you two,” Coil said to Hank and Agatha. “Better stock up on coffee if you got as much sleep as I did last night.”
Agatha had slept like a baby knowing Lawrence was in Austin and would be out of their hair at least for the next little while. And she helped herself to the assortment of pastries that had been donated by the Kettle Café, choosing a berry-filled kolache to start. She could tell Hank also seemed more at ease now that Andrew was out of the picture.
“Morning Sam,” Hank said as Jakes walked in. “Anything new since last night?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” he said. “I’m guessing it’s going to take the good doctor at least a couple of days to get me some information. I certainly don’t expect an I.D.”
“The longer he stays gone, the better,” Hank said.
Jakes smiled and grabbed a donut from the tray. Agatha should’ve known he’d go for a plain glazed donut. He didn’t seem like the adventurous type.
“The doc has eyes for your lady,” Jakes said.
“I noticed,” Hank said. “If he comes back too soon you might have a missing person on your hands. He’s not being very subtle about it, but I can guarantee he’ll be the first to go.”
“Understood,” Jakes said, biting into his donut. “There shouldn’t be any need for him to spend much more time here with us. He’s better served in a lab and he knows it.”
Agatha should’ve known it was too good to be true.
“Top of the morning, everyone,” Lawrence said cheerfully, bursting through the door with enough enthusiasm that all the armed men in the room had their hand on their weapons. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before, but his tie was missing and his suit jacket was rumpled. His hair was mussed, and there was a strawberry blonde stubble that was barely visible on his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, and they had a half-crazed look in them.
“What are you doing here, Lawrence?” Jakes asked. “Unless you have an identity for me of those two remains then you’d best turn around and head straight back to the lab.”
Lawrence headed straight for the pastry tray, selected one and put it daintily on a napkin, and then poured himself a cup of coffee. “Quite right, quite right,” Lawrence said. “Both remains are, in fact, female, and I can assure you that the remains do not date back to 1836.”
“Fantastic,” Jakes said. “But that doesn’t help us out any here.”
“I can also tell you,” Lawrence said, steamrolling right through Jakes’ comment, “That they are the original inhabitants of those coffins. No bodies were switched at any time, and those particular remains date between ninety and a hundred and ten years old. That also coincides with the brand marking I found on the coffin. Both victims would’ve been in their early twenties, and neither had given birth.”
“Okay,” Coil said. “That’s a little more helpful.”
“So, who are they?” Jakes asked.
“Good question,” Lawrence said. “It turns out I only had to move the remains from the coffin to find out.” He pulled out an evidence bag, and inside was an ornate locket in silver. “This was found tangled in the hair of the first set of remains. It’s got a maker’s mark stamped on the back and a photograph of a man and woman together. And an inscription—To Margaret, with Love.”
“You were able to find an identity of the victim based on a first name?” Jakes asked.
“Normally, it would be quite difficult,” he agreed. “But it seems our Margaret was quite famous. When I typed in the dates of the coffin, the locket, and her name, and then ran the photo through a facial recognition program, I was able to come up with Margaret Scott in no time at all.
“She was quite well-known as a bootlegger, and she went missing when she was twenty-one years old. A body was never found, and she was never heard from again.” Lawrence pulled a grainy photograph from his bag and set it on the table, and then carefully opened the locket so they could see the picture inside. It was definitely a match.
“That’s good work,” Hank said, grudgingly.
“Yes,” Lawrence said, agreeing.
“What about her friend?” Jakes asked.
“Well, she was a bit more challenging,” Lawrence said, pulling at his ear. “But that’s where science was able to lend a helping hand. Our second set of remains was what’s commonly known as a hexadactyly.”
“And what’s that?” Jakes asked.
“It means she had six fingers,” Agatha said, jumping in on Lawrence’s thunder.
“Quite right,” Lawrence said. “And as I kept digging, I found information of a close friendship between Margaret Scott and a Penelope Pennywell. Penelope had quite a reputation in her own right. She was a madam, renowned for her six fingers.”
“That is fascinating,” Agatha said, already trying to figure out how she could use that in a book.
“The good thing about Mistress Pennywell is that she has descendants in the area still to this day.”
“How in the world would you know that?” Coil asked.
“The ancestry sites,” Lawrence said. “People are freely giving their DNA for the government to use how they please, and they don’t even know they’re doing it. It’s quite ingenious. And helpful. How do you think we caught the Golden State Killer?”
“Okay, so what about this woman’s relatives?” Agatha asked.
“She doesn’t have direct descendants,” Lawrence said, “but I was able to track down a distant cousin, and I contacted her this morning. She said Aunt Penny was a legend, and they’ve passed down the stories for generations.”
“What happened to her?” Coil asked.
“The family story is that she fell in love with one of her customers, and they ran off together to start a new life. But clearly, Aunt Penny’s story ended differently.”
Jakes sighed and shook his head, and it was obvious he didn’t want to be impressed by Lawrence. “Hank’s right. That’s good work.”
Lawrence practically preened under all the praise.
“So, the question is,” Coil said, “Why are these two friends buried next to each other a hundred miles from where they lived? And who’s buried in the other three graves?”
“Jolly good questions,” Lawrence said.
His chest had puffed out, and he was clearly under the delusion he was in charge at this point. Agatha just shook her head. His ego was only one of the reasons he was best served in small doses.
“I took the liberty of contacting Agent Jakes’ field office supervisor, and we should have the exhumation orders for the other graves within the hour.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the office, and the tension skyrocketed, but Lawrence was clueless as usual. Hank whistled silently between his teeth.
“Let’s take a walk, Lawrence,” Jakes said, grabbing the man by the shoulder and pushing him out the door.
“I’m quite tired,” Lawrence said. “Maybe we could talk after I’ve had a bit of shut eye.”
Jakes squeezed harder and Lawrence’s knees buckled.
“Or now is good.”
Chapter Eight
All in all, it was good weather for grave digging. Agatha sat on a blanket next to Hank and enjoyed a second sandwich. The Taco and Waffle had made up a batch of chicken salad, and they’d treated everyone working the scene.
“What’s on your mind,” she asked Hank.
“Just wondering how Andrew is sitting,” Hank said. “You got to imagine his behind is on fire after that lashing Jakes gave him.”
“I doubt Bacon even noticed he was getting a lashing. He tends to live in his own world, and other people’s feelings aren’t even a blip on his radar.”
“Why do you call him Bacon?” Hank asked.
“His family has called him that since he was a kid because he’s always been somewhat of a nerd. After Sir Francis Bacon.”
“Who?”
“The scientist who developed the scientific method.”
“His family must’ve been a barrel of mo
nkeys. You spend much time with them?”
“No, but to be fair, I didn’t spend much time with him either. Our work was more important than each other, and honestly, I knew I made a mistake from the moment I agreed to marry him. He drove me crazy. He’s socially awkward, and he’s self-absorbed and selfish. But he’s brilliant.”
“I guess that’s good enough for me,” Hank said, finishing his sandwich and wiping his hands on a napkin. “I got a message from Deputy James that he’s investigating a burglary that has tool marks similar to what we found on the coffin. It might be worth sneaking out of here and checking it out.”
“What about the biker?” Agatha asked.
He sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just projecting, but I’ve got a feeling in my gut it’s not something to overlook. Deputy Springer is as useful as a cop as Lawrence would be in a Judo match. So, it depends on whether the biker was a kid on a Moped or one of the Rattlers on a HOG.”
“What would the connection be between these women and the Rattlers?” Agatha asked.
“Money is always a motivator, even back then. And there’s a lot of Confederate gold that was never found.”
“Huh,” Agatha said. “What if those graves are part of a treasure map, and now someone is digging them up so they can hunt for the booty.”
“Are we talking about Agatha’s hips again?” Lawrence said, taking a seat next to them on the blanket.
“I will stab you with this plastic fork,” Agatha said, holding it up so he could see it.
“You’ve become quite violent,” he said, frowning with disapproval. “I don’t think I like that. I remember you were always shooting those horrendous guns.”
“Yes, and if you mention my hips again, I’ll use you as target practice,” she said.
“Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands. “I just came to tell you that I’ve narrowed down the possibilities of the women who might be in the other graves.”
“Assuming they’re women,” Hank retorted.
“Fair enough, old boy. But you’ve worked enough cases to know that multiple crimes are based on impulse or patterns. It’s obvious to see that these five graves were not dug on impulse. It’s also a statistically significant probability that the other remains are women.”
“Okay,” Hank agreed. “So, who are they?”
“I’ve had my team running multivariate regression models to factor in the same era that these ladies disappeared, other women in the same age grouping, reports of missing, dead, or arrested women in the region, and information from the Social Security Administration’s database of the deceased.”
“And?” Hank asked.
“I believe I’ve narrowed it down quite handily. One of the women owned a speakeasy and made sure her customers got all the drinks they wanted. Another was an exotic dancer. She was apparently quite skilled. And the last…” Lawrence smiled slyly. “The last was a nun from the Franciscan community of Poor Clare Nuns of Perpetual Adoration in San Antonio.”
“A nun?” Agatha asked. “Why in the world would you narrow it down to a nun? The bootlegger, the madam, the speakeasy owner, and the exotic dancer, I get. But a nun?”
“She’s the outlier,” Lawrence said.
“Explain in English,” Agatha said.
“In quantitative statistics,” he said in his best lecture voice, “there are often outliers in the data that can skew the outcome or analysis. There are regiments to account for those factors that sit at the far ends from the average’s middle.”
“I’m about to fall asleep,” Hank said.
Lawrence sunk his teeth into his second chicken salad sandwich. Of course, a dollop of dressing plopped on the crotch of his navy trousers. He looked up with a boyish smirk.
“If five women of questionable character go missing within the same time period, a red flag should go up somewhere. But if you throw in a nun, it evens out the hysteria of a pattern of bad girls gone missing.”
“I don’t know,” Hank said. “It’s a stretch considering law enforcement back then in no way had the sophistication to correlate crimes across town much less across the state.”
“I totally get it,” Agatha murmured. “But there’s also a purpose for who they chose. Maybe not by who they were, but what they did. Think about it,” she said. “Why would there be a false cemetery hidden for who knows how long out in the middle of nowhere? War heroes that aren’t heroes at all. There are dates, names, and unusual etchings on each of the gravestones. They have to mean something. I think they’re a map of some sort.”
“Oh,” Lawrence said, excitement in his voice. “Like a treasure hunt?”
“Treasure?” Jakes asked, stepping up behind them.
“Don’t mind her,” Hank said. “Her writer’s imagination is running wild.”
“Oh, yes,” Lawrence said. “I remember that imagination well.”
“Remember what I said I’d do to you with this fork,” Agatha said.
“Goodness gracious,” he said, getting to his feet and then he muttered something about Americans as he wandered off.
Jakes sighed and ran a hand through his head. “He’s a pain, but you can’t fault his skill.”
“No kidding,” Hank agreed. “And I’ve hardly wanted to punch him.”
Jakes laughed and then said, “We’re going to give everyone a break until the backhoe and truck with the crane arrives from Austin. I can’t wait to see what else is in those coffins.”
Chapter Nine
Agatha and Hank decided to wait at Agatha’s house until the equipment showed up. Mostly, Agatha wanted to do her own research on the names Lawrence had dug up. Margaret Scott and Penelope Pennywise sounded like two fascinating, liberated women from the Roaring Twenties. No way could they have ended up in caskets next to each other in death without running through adventures together in life.
Agatha had been pouring over information on her computer in the war room, and Hank had wandered off into the kitchen.
“Hey, Hank?” she called out.
“What’s up?”
“Did the mob monopolize everything during prohibition?” she asked.
Hank didn’t answer for several seconds, but she could hear him rattling around in the kitchen. “They did in the big cities, but I’m sure with all of the moonshiners out in the sticks, there were probably a lot of independent operators, especially in the south. Why?”
“It makes sense for a bootlegger, a madam, and the owner of the speakeasy to be in business with each other. But do you think they’d be associated with the mob?”
“Not necessarily,” Hank said.
Agatha narrowed her eyes. “What’s up with all the short answers? Are you eating the ice cream?”
She peeked around the corner of the kitchen and caught him red-handed. Hank stood over the sink with a pint of Blue Bell chocolate chip cookie dough and a spoon. He just grinned at her unrepentantly.
“I thought you were on a diet?”
“I am,” he said. “But when you buy stuff like this, I feel obligated to eat it.”
“Does that mean if you have to suffer then I do too?” she asked.
“Pretty much.”
“When you’re done, maybe you could come help me. I don’t think the Lone Star Rattlers are involved in this at all. I think it’s mob related.”
“Well, that’s interesting, except I don’t think this area had a big mafia influence in the day,” Hank said.
“I just think there’s more to it than dead girls and buried treasure.”
“Well, if the Rattlers are out of the picture, then I doubt the prize was treasure. Money, war bonds, or monetary instruments would’ve been the take,” Hank said.
“How do you feel about your mystery biker?” she quizzed him.
“Aggie, I’ve learned that you never discard any ideas, suspicions, or leads. The Rattlers have been around since Texas was its own republic, so don’t discount the reality that if there’s even as much as a dime to be made off of anything,
they’ll have their hands in it.”
“You’re still worried about the bounty they have out on you?” she asked.
“Nah, it’s part of the job,” Hank said.
“But you’re not on the job anymore, Hank. You’re retired. I know it bothers you.”
“Maybe just a little,” he confessed. “But I’m not backing away from them. I live ready,” he said, patting his pistol. “Tell me about Margaret and Penelope.”
“I’ll pull up what I’ve got,” she said, tapping a few keys on the computer so images appeared on the wall screen. Hank took a seat on the chaise. “I found some microfiche and old newspaper clippings.”
“Margaret Scott came from a prominent, very religious family. They got their money from oil and had a lot of power in San Antonio. But Margaret was disowned after she started bootlegging. She’d actually been accepted to nursing school and was getting ready to start her first term when she decided there were more lucrative ways to make a living.”
“She might have been trying to escape from an overly strict family life. Times were different then. Women didn’t have a lot of options.”
“I think someone gave her some options and she jumped at the chance to escape. To become her own person and be independent. She was very young.”
“What about Penelope Pennywell?”
“I’m just starting on her,” Agatha said. “But I think a visit with her family might pay off big time. They live about an hour away from here, and from what I can tell, money has been in the family a long time.”
“Oil?” Hank asked.
“Cattle for the most part, but I’m thinking there’s oil in there too.”
“Why would you think so?” Hank asked.
An image popped up on the screen. It was from a social media account linked to Penelope’s great-grand niece. It was a woman posing with what looked like her kids and grandkids. The family was gathered in an open field, and in the background was an army of land-based oil derrick pumps lined up like rusty grasshoppers.
Gone With The Sin (Book 8) (A Harley and Davidson Mystery) Page 4
