Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  Tim, oh, Tim. My mind struggled to keep up, but it was failing.

  Johnson jumped in, friendlier, not as caustic. “The Anderson Police Department called and asked us to talk to you. Manter left everything to you.”

  This must be the classic good cop/bad cop scenario.

  “As I said, we haven’t seen each other since high school. This doesn’t make any sense.” My mind reeled, trying to latch onto the reality that Tim was dead.

  “Do you or your husband own any guns?”

  More to myself than the officers, I said, “Who would kill Tim?”

  “I couldn’t really answer that question, ma’am, I just need to—”

  I interrupted again, remembering something. “I have a friend on the force in Anderson. His name’s Scott Walters. Call him. He’ll tell you I had nothing to do with Tim’s death.”

  “Walters is the officer who called us, ma’am.” I felt a huge fist grab my insides and twist. “We need to see any firearms you own, get copies of bank statements dating back a year, phone records for the same period of time, and we need to know where you were on the morning of May 27. We’ll check out your alibi and forward the bank statements and phone records to Anderson. If everything checks out, we’ll be out of your hair in no time and you will be a very rich woman.”

  Scott Walters sent them after me? I wanted to laugh and scream all at the same time. This was as close to hysterical as I ever wanted to get. Things like this don’t happen to a pastor’s wife. You go to church, you come home, you help with the Easter pageant, you bake pies for bake sales, and you teach Sunday school, for Pete’s sake! You don’t become a suspect in a friend’s murder, and you sure don’t become a millionaire overnight. You don’t even become a thousandaire. You’re lucky to score a parsonage as part of the pay package.

  Officer Johnson tried again. “About the guns, ma’am?”

  I took a deep breath and rubbed my temples. I needed to stay calm. What would David do? I’d never seen a situation that could unnerve him as completely as I was unnerved now. Why did this happen now while he was away?

  David had left town this morning for a fishing trip to Alaska. The trip had been planned since I told him about my class reunion. He dutifully offered to attend with me, but I declined. I knew his heart wasn’t really in it. Besides, I reasoned, I would be busy with old classmates, and he rarely got away except for the occasional preaching seminar or denominational meeting. A fishing trip might be just the relaxation he needed.

  For the last three months, my husband had been under incredible stress. The chairperson of the trustees’ board had started picking apart his sermons. The church’s youth pastor had died in a horrendous car accident, leaving behind a young wife and two small boys. And his mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. His usual whistling in the morning had fallen silent. He planned on being gone for a week, and I didn’t want to spoil it for him.

  All he needed now was a wife accused of murder. I glanced at my Seiko, a fifteenth anniversary present from David. He had spent more than we could afford, but I loved it. Thankfully, it was too late to reach him. By now he’d be thirty-nine thousand feet in the air somewhere over Canada.

  “Did we lose you, Mrs. Storm? May 27? Guns?” McCready’s mouth curled into a cocky grin.

  I suppressed the sarcastic comeback that immediately popped into my head. Instead, I barked out the information like a drill sergeant giving orders. “Of course we own guns. This is Montana. On May 27, I was teaching a women’s class at 9 a.m. At 10:30, church started and I was listening to my husband preach a sermon on how the church could experience God corporately. On Monday I cleaned house, ran errands, bought groceries, and today I’m bak ing pies. I can give you a list of the people in the Bible study.”

  “Phone numbers too,” McCready said.

  “House smells good,” Johnson said to no one in particular.

  McCready and I both ignored him.

  “I haven’t been in Anderson since January 15 when I took my two youngest boys back to school after their Christmas break. They go to the university there and live with my mother. In case you don’t have a map handy, it’s a twenty-six hour drive to Anderson. I couldn’t have been there on the twenty-seventh, killed Tim, and gotten back here to teach Sunday school.” I made no attempt to disguise the sarcasm that fell heavily on the last sentence.

  McCready changed the subject, but not his derisive tone. “You said you e-mailed Manter. Care if we take a peek at your computer?”

  Johnson winced.

  Enough already. “I think you need a search warrant for that.” I didn’t really care one way or another if they looked at my e-mails, but McCready’s barely veiled accusations really irked me. “Add the bank statements, guns, and phone bills to the warrant too.”

  Flipping through the pages of the church directory, I hastily scribbled down the names and phone numbers of the Sunday school class participants, and then with a flourish, I handed the list to Johnson, pointedly ignoring McCready’s meaty, outstretched hand.

  “Now I need to check my pies, and unless I’m under arrest, you know the way to the door.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Turning my back on McCready and Johnson, I stomped into the kitchen before I went into full-scale meltdown. A moment later the front door slammed. I slumped into the nearest kitchen chair and exhaled a deep breath. Apple pies? Apple pies were the least of my worries. If the church’s resident busybodies wanted fodder for gossip, now would be the time to fill up their buckets.

  I tried to clear my head. The wall clock ticked off the seconds and then minutes as if it was business as usual. I wanted to scream that nothing was the same. Tim was dead. Not just dead—murdered. I was no longer a pastor’s wife. I was a suspect, a suspect in a murder case. Somewhere in the distance I heard a phone ring. Probably Abigail Thornbush with more bake sale wisdom. Just what I didn’t need.

  Snatching the phone off the hook, I hissed, “Abigail, I don’t have time for this right now.” Go away!

  “Hello, is this Jamie Louise Waymire Storm?” Not waiting for a response, the masculine voice continued. “This is Stephen Prager of the Prager, Prager, and Adams law firm in New York. My firm represents Timothy Manter.”

  My knuckles whitened, tightening around the receiver.

  “Hello?” The male voice asked again.

  “Um, yes, this is Jamie Storm,” I said, stammering over the words.

  “I don’t know if you are aware of it, but Mr. Manter was killed early Sunday morning—shot to death.” The voice paused before continuing. “I am deeply sorry for your loss—and ours. Tim was a valued client of the firm’s. He left strict instructions that in the event of his death, we were to hand deliver a package to you. My plane arrived in Great Falls late last night. I’m at the Sheraton. Could we meet today at your home?”

  Could this day get any weirder? I sighed. “Sure. Come on over.” I gave him directions to the parsonage and hung up.

  Distracted by thoughts of Tim, I switched to autopilot, wiping the remaining flour and bits of stuck-on piecrust off the counters. The kitchen timer interrupted my turbulent thoughts, reminding me to take the last of the pies out of the oven. Pies. It seemed like a year ago since I’d put them in the oven. I had finished the cleanup and tossed the rolling pin on the top shelf of the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. A pavilion of butterflies fluttered in my stomach.

  I opened the door to a tall man who smiled and offered me his business card. Stephen Prager. He stood six feet four, at the least, with salt-and-pepper hair, and smelled of 212 Cologne. His snowy-white mustache was neatly trimmed. Dressed in jeans, a red plaid, long-sleeved shirt, and cowboy boots, he looked more like a ranch hand than an attorney.

  “Come on in.” I led the way to the butcher-block dining table and pulled out a spindle-back chair for him, then took the seat across from him.

  “Mmm. I haven’t smelled anything that good since I was a little boy. Pies?”

  “Apple. Church
bake sale.” I picked at the table with my thumbnail. A man in my house from a New York law firm, Tim dead, David gone. I wanted to wake up to my normal, boring life.

  “Churches still doing fund-raisers? It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to church.” I sat motionless and said nothing, hoping he would get to the point. He didn’t. “Is May always this cool in Montana?”

  Making small talk was the last thing I wanted to do right now. Under normal circumstances, fine, but chatting about weather and church fund-raisers now seemed absurd.

  “It varies. Listen, can I get you a piece of pie or a cup of coffee?” My voice held all the warmth of a frost-covered iceberg. It clearly conveyed toe-tapping, arms folded impatience.

  He looked at his watch. Regret laced his voice. “Sounds tempting, but I have a flight to catch.”

  He opened the briefcase and handed me an envelope with my name scrawled on it in Tim’s handwriting. The next thing he pulled out of the case was a bulging, manila, clasp envelope sealed with clear packing tape. It also had my name on it. He set it on the table, then handed me a check for $25,000 drawn on the firm’s account.

  Okay, yes, the day could get weirder.

  I was shocked. Twenty-five thousand dollars? I examined the check. My mind refused to make sense of it. I took in a slow, deep gulp of air. I looked at the amount again and took another deep breath. I couldn’t speak.

  “The money is from Tim. He put it in a special account just two weeks ago.”

  “But I . . .” The question wouldn’t formulate.

  Prager checked his watch. “Maybe I’ll take that cup of coffee after all.”

  I walked over to the coffee pot and pulled a mug out of the cupboard. This I understood. I could do this. Getting coffee. Serving a neighbor. Perfect sense in a world that suddenly made no sense at all.

  “Are you all right?” Prager asked.

  I nodded. Huge lie, but it seemed like the only response to make.

  “Maybe he had a premonition or something, because he wanted the check and package in your hands as soon as humanly possible if he died. He was very explicit about that. The rest of his estate, of course, will take time to process.”

  I handed a mug of black coffee to the attorney. “Of course,” I mumbled.

  “He was a good man.” Prager wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip of coffee. I hoped he liked it black.

  I nodded absently. “I know. Thirty years. I haven’t seen Tim for thirty years. Why me?”

  Prager shrugged. “Maybe the answer is in the letter.” He took another sip of coffee.

  I looked at the envelope, but left it untouched on the table.

  He glanced at his watch again and scooted back his chair. “Gotta go.” Pulling a single sheet of paper out of the briefcase, he handed it to me. “Just a receipt saying you got the items I gave you.”

  I signed it and pushed it back to him. He stood up and offered his hand. I shook it.

  “One more question. Um, I don’t exactly know how to say this, but the police were just here. I’m a suspect in Tim’s murder.” Prager waited for me to explain. “I was wondering . . . could you represent me if I need it? I don’t know any attorneys here.”

  “I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I can put you in touch with one. Don’t worry, Mrs. Storm. I knew Tim and he was a good judge of character.” He took a card case from his shirt pocket and removed a card. “Here’s the name of an attorney in our firm. She’s one of the best.” He wrote the name on the back of his card, handing it to me on his way out the door.

  I nodded my thanks, still too dumbfounded by the money to say much.

  He turned back around. “In the meantime, don’t talk to the police and make sure they have a search warrant if they come back.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  After Prager left, I slid the deadbolt in place and unplugged the phone. I walked around the table, taking several deep breaths. Picking up the envelope with my name on it, I flipped it over. Slowly, almost reverently, I peeled back the flap. Afraid of what it would say. Afraid of what it wouldn’t say. I recognized Tim’s boyish handwriting, a cross between cursive and printing.

  My dearest Jamie,

  Hey there. I guess if you’re reading this I’m no longer alive, but I wanted to explain why I left my estate to you. Estate!!! Back when we were in high school, I don’t think any of us thought we would have an estate. You might think you understand why I didn’t have a family—that I was too busy making money—but that’s not completely true. Or at least it didn’t start out that way. I was in love with you, Jamie. I think I loved you from the first day we met after school when I answered your ad in the Tartan to start a Mystery Club. Remember?

  For anyone interested in starting a mystery club, we will begin by discussing the clues surrounding the Son of Sam case. Please meet me after school by the flagpole.

  Jamie Waymire—Freshman

  Being a part of the Cliffhangers was the best part of my life. I didn’t realize how quickly four years could fly by. I was so shocked when you married right out of high school that I buried myself in my work. Still, as we have kept in touch and I’ve gotten to know David and the boys through your eyes and heart, I have such thankfulness that you married him. You seem happier than anyone I know—more settled, more at peace.

  You know that I have never embraced the God thing as you have, but I respect how you and David live your lives, how you have raised your boys, and your values. Please use this inheritance in any way you like, even if it is to live in deepest, darkest Africa as a missionary. Pay off your boys’ school loans, buy a house, buy a block of houses, whatever, but know that I trust you implicitly and I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my resources than to give them to you.

  I never quit loving you, Jamie. David’s a lucky man. Have fun and as you would say, God bless.

  Tim

  I broke down and cried then. Cried for my friend Tim, cried that I’d never known his heart, cried that he never knew my God, cried that he was killed, cried that I was a suspect, and cried that David was not here to hold me. Life was full of twists and turns, and on this day, mine had more twists and turns than I could handle. I sobbed until the tears were gone and my breathing came in occasional, short gasps. Fatigue spread through my body. I forced myself to tamp down my emotions. Self-pity would accomplish nothing. I had to do something. An idea slowly took shape.

  Looking at the $25,000 check, I said, “God bless you, Tim.”

  I wiped my nose on my shirtsleeve. Abigail Thornbush would not approve. And at this moment I didn’t care.

  The phone book held a handwritten list of names and numbers that I seldom used. Now I needed those numbers. The note taped to the inside cover of the Great Falls directory listed six people, all under the heading of Cliffhangers. Plugging the phone back in, I called the first four people on the list and told them the story. I crossed off Tim’s name and then placed the last phone call, the one that would be the hardest.

  “Yeahhh?”

  “Rachel, is that you? This is Jamie. Jamie Waymire from high school.”

  “Chammie. Chammie Waymire?” She stretched the words out like she was enrolled in a Hooked on Phonics course. Ahh—the joys of excessive alcohol consumption.

  The slurred response didn’t take me by surprise, but I hoped she would hear what I said. “I’ve got bad news, Rache. Remember Tim Manter? He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “He was killed two days ago.”

  “Wha—how?”

  “I’m going to Anderson to talk to the police. Since our class reunion is this weekend, I want to get the old gang together on Thursday night to talk.”

  “Tim’s dead?” Rachel’s voice slurred.

  “I need you guys.” I lowered my voice. “The police think I may have killed him.”

  “What?” Although her response was much slower, Rachel’s shock mirrored the rest of the Cliffhangers.

  “I need your help.”

  “Wh
y? I can’t do anything.”

  “Listen, Rache, I’ll come and get you. I’ll fly to Philly, and we can go to Anderson together.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “David’s on a fishing trip. I can’t tell the church people I’m a suspect in a murder case, and you’ve got the best computer skills of any of us. You could hack into the Vatican’s network if you wanted. Tim’s murderer is out there. We just need to find him.”

  I sounded desperate. I was desperate. Rachel had computer knowledge, skills, and software that I needed if I was going to find Tim’s killer.

  There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. She still resisted. “I don’t have the money. I can’t do it. I can—maybe I can help from here.”

  “I’ve got the money. I’ll pay for your ticket, the motel, everything. I really need you. Please, just pack what you have. I’ll be there tomorrow to pick you up.”

  I hung up without another word. Rachel would have to tell me no in person . . . if she could face me and still say no.

  I hopped into the shower and let the hot water massage my back. Any other day it would feel like heaven, but today it was just a shower. Finally, the knotted muscles in my neck and shoulders relaxed. I made a mental list of what I had to do before I left in the morning. Change my flight to arrive in Philadelphia instead of Anderson and buy an extra ticket for Rachel. Take Tim’s check to the bank and get cash for the trip—plenty of cash. Pack for at least a week. And pray. Seriously pray. I wasn’t sure anyone but God could get me out of this mess. I wasn’t sure what the cops would say when they found out I’d left town. Hopefully, they wouldn’t think it made me guilty.

  At the fund-raiser that night, Abigail just couldn’t let herself compliment my pies.

  “Well, dearie, not everyone likes apple pies, you know. It would be nice to offer a variety to our customers, but I suppose we’ll just make do. Your crust seems a little thin—probably not enough flour. I just hate pies that fall apart the minute you take them out of the tins. Oh well, young people like you will never learn the art of making a flaky piecrust. It takes a little work to be a good cook, you know, and today most people can’t wait for the microwave to heat up water, let alone learn to make a good crust. It doesn’t work to just slap ingredients together and hope for the best. It’s about finesse in baking a good crust—just like in bridge—a little finesse goes a long way.”