Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  “This looks like one of those brain teasers in the crossword puzzle books,” Billy said. “You know, the deductive thinking puzzles.”

  I took a small sip of Dr Pepper and said, “I still like Phillip House for it. His name appears the most times, and we have yet to find out what the payments are for around Mother’s Day. Also, he’s a general sleaze. I think there has to be a connection between him and Cynthia Gilmore. She could be a private investigator working for him, she could be a hired killer, or she could be . . . who knows?”

  Shawn shifted in his seat. He swallowed a good-sized bite of his ham-and-cheese omelet and then stated his observations. “I don’t know if it means anything, but most of the dates are in May. Again, death seems to follow Craig Haskell, and I noted that three of the deaths took place in years that Cynthia Gilmore had income. But I don’t think she was paid to kill anyone, because the amounts she made aren’t nearly enough to justify contract killing.”

  Scott nearly choked on his water. “Do you really think contract killers report their income to the government? You’ve been in Israel wa-a-a-y too long.”

  “Good point. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Movement outside the cubicle caught my eye.

  “Could you use a slightly emotional Cliffhanger at this booth?” Rachel appeared at our table, trying to grin. Her nose was red and her eyes puffy. She scooted into the circular booth next to me.

  Shawn answered her. “Of course we could. Just don’t offer any thoughts that aren’t logical, or you might get skewered for your efforts.” He shot an exaggerated dark look at Scott.

  “How are the folks?” Billy asked.

  “Actually, I’d rather not talk about them,” she said quietly. “I haven’t seen my parents since I left high school, and my dad had a stroke ten years ago. He can’t speak, or walk, and I hardly recognized him. Mom has had a lot on her shoulders, and I haven’t been much of a daughter.” An uncomfortable silence followed. “So if you don’t mind, just update me on the case.”

  I pushed the spreadsheet of dates and names over to her. “Right now, we’re just discussing our observations about what we see on the timeline Todd made for us. He’s back on the farm, but will join us tonight for the banquet.”

  “Did you tell the group that Craig is leaving after graduation and plans to take an extended leave of absence?”

  Scott looked up from his plate where he had been scooping forkfuls of splattered hash browns into his mouth. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Craig’s leaving town? What if he’s our killer? Rachel, is there anything else you found out in his background check?”

  “Not that I didn’t already mention. I think if we want to know any more in-depth about him, we need to interview friends or family. A computer search can’t tell us everything.”

  “But the problem is, from what I can see, he doesn’t have any family or friends. They keep dying off.” Billy grinned when he said it.

  I felt excitement course through my body. This was going to work. We were going to find out who killed Tim. We were going to clear my name.

  “You said Craig was adopted. Do you know his birth name?” Scott asked Rachel.

  “Not yet. I’m still trying to find that out. His birth records are sealed.”

  “Did he have any brothers or sisters? This is top priority if he plans to leave after graduation.” Not waiting for Rachel to answer, Scott wiped his mouth with his napkin, took a big gulp of coffee, and pushed his wheelchair away from the table. “I’m going to interview him right now. Jamie, can you and Rachel take a quick trip up to Bloomington and talk to Stewart’s parents—see if they know anything about Craig’s background?”

  “Sure,” I answered.

  “Maybe go to the school there and see if he left under suspicious circumstances. Billy, I know you’re busy, but if you have time, could you take this address and run over to check on Cynthia Gilmore? See if she was following Jamie.” Scott was in his element now, shelling out orders.

  “I’ll do it on my way to the studio,” Billy said.

  “Shawn, I need you with me.”

  I looked at my watch. “Okay, its 9:45. Rachel and I will be gone at least four—maybe five—hours. Can we meet again at three o’clock to compare notes?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it,” Scott said. “I think we’d better just stay in phone contact. We’re all going to see each other tonight at the banquet. We can talk then.” Scott seemed in a hurry to get started.

  Plugging her laptop into the printer provided at the table, Rachel said, “Everyone, give me your cell numbers.” As we called them out, she typed them in bold and hit print. She handed out the sheets to each person.

  The Cliffhangers left the table with the same excitement we felt when we were back in high school about to solve some mystery. Rachel and I jumped in the SUV and headed south to Bloomington.

  I looked over at my passenger and laid a hand on Rachel’s arm. “How was it really?”

  “I don’t really know. It was scary until I actually saw Dad. He looked so pathetic in his wheelchair, his head lolling to one side. Mom had to keep wiping drool off his chin. He’s not strong or frightening any more, just pitiful. It was horrible. I feel bad for Mom. She has no life outside of taking care of Dad. She’s more trapped than I ever was, because she won’t ever get to move out. Now I don’t know what to think or feel.”

  I kept my thoughts to myself. The early morning rain had vanished as quickly as it had come. White, puffy clouds drifted aimlessly in the blue sky, and vibrant greens streaked past the window at sixty miles an hour. No matter the turns, no matter the highway, I would never be able to make it right for Rachel. Listening and loving was all I could do, and even though I hadn’t done a good job of it in the past, I was determined to do it better in the future.

  It wasn’t long before I brought our conversation back to Tim’s murder and the timeline that Todd had worked on. “Rachel, did anything jump out at you at all?”

  Before Rachel could form a reply, her cell phone rang. After listening for a minute, she said, “I’m not surprised. Thanks for calling. Keep us posted.”

  She turned and looked at me. “The address the DMV has on record for Cynthia Gilmore is a non-address. Just a vacant piece of property with no house on it at all. We are back to square one with her. This doesn’t necessarily put her at the top of my list, but I am beginning to think she’s involved somehow. I just need to figure out how. My computer knowledge hasn’t been all that helpful in tracing her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  November 13, 1989

  It was the perfect setup. No one would ever suspect foul play. No one had even heard of HPS or Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome in the United States. Of course, there had been outbreaks of it for decades in Europe. Russia, Scandinavia, and Finland were hit with it, but no cases had appeared in the US. This was so perfect. Luckily, there had been a recent case in Edmonton, Alberta, which was a reminder of the disease and the spark that created the lightbulb idea. It wasn’t always easy to come up with new ways to eliminate a problem.

  The first symptoms of HPS are general and flu-like—fever ranging anywhere from 101 to 104 degrees, headache, stomach pain, pain in the joints and lower back, coughing, and sometimes nausea and vomiting. Nothing much to worry about. Probably wouldn’t even warrant a trip to the doctor. The main symptom is difficulty breathing as the lungs fill with fluid. Getting to the doctor now will probably be too late. It can quickly lead to an inability to breathe and, in severe cases, death from suffocation. That is the goal. The average time between contact with the virus and the onset of illness is two to three weeks. So much the better. Who would ever connect an electrician to an illness that happened weeks later? No one.

  The plan had gone off without a hitch. “Ma’am, this is Pat Island from Indiana Power and Light. We will be in your area around ten this morning. There seems to be a short in some of the wiring in your neighborhood. Both the house on your left and right have experienced proble
ms. We need to chase down the problem.”

  “Why would that affect me?”

  “Well, I don’t know that it will. But if it was wired by the same electrician, and it seems likely since you’re side-by-side in the same subdivision, it could be a problem. Your neighbors smelled something burning and called us. They were lucky. It could have caught their houses on fire.”

  “I’ll only be home for another hour. I’m meeting my husband for lunch.”

  “I kn . . . It will only take a few minutes.” Almost a mistake, a slip of the tongue, but a quick recovery. And that was all that was needed.

  “Okay. I definitely don’t want the house burning down.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  After a quick survey of the house, the nursery seemed the appropriate place to spread the contents of the little black box. It appeared to be a nursery, although there was no furniture in it. The walls had gotten a fresh coat of light celery-green paint. Baby booties, rattles, and giant diaper pins were stenciled on the walls in muted Easter colors. Evidently, they didn’t know whether it would be a boy or a girl. No solid pinks or blues. Not that it mattered. The baby would never see the light of day.

  The best part of the room was the sewing machine and ironing board. Angela must be busy being Mommy of the Year and making baby clothes herself. What a waste. But on the upside, she probably used the room often. That would almost guarantee a good dose of Hantavirus would infect her lungs.

  It only took a quick glimpse into the living room to ensure privacy. Angela was chatting on the phone. Very good. Half a minute to don the gloves and mask. Another minute to spread the lovely, little, lab-infected mouse droppings in the closet and in the corners of the room, and the task was finished. A quick holding of breath, removing the mask and gloves, shoving them in a pocket, and a polite good-bye. No one the wiser.

  There would be lag time before the kill was finished, but that didn’t matter. One could keep up with the news via the daily paper. A quick smile, a thumbs-up gesture at Angela, and out the door. The entire operation took less than five minutes. The consequences would last a lifetime. The very thought was balm to the soul.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The address in Bloomington led us through a tidy neighborhood where flowers spilled out of pots, lawns sprouted no dandelions, and hedges lined property boundaries at manicured heights. Two robins flew into the next yard over in hopes of catching worms without being disturbed by the human race. A blue jay followed the robins but not before giving us a piece of his mind. They really do scold.

  Rachel and I were uneasy as we approached the small, yellow house with white shutters on Oak Street. It seemed wrong somehow to barge into someone’s grief, however old, and reopen a painful wound. I was getting good at opening old wounds. With a sigh, I rang the doorbell. Then a curious thing happened. Lights flickered on and off, both inside and out, like a warning of some kind.

  “What’s that all about?” I asked.

  Rachel shrugged.

  A short, robust woman opened the door, wearing a bib apron with splotches of flour scattered on it. Her hair was the kind of white that people envied. No yellowing around the edges that spoke of too much color, just beautiful snow-white hair, cut short, and permed into loose curls. Wrinkles laced her face, and her eyes crinkled around the corners. Not saying a word, her eyes went from Rachel to me and then back to Rachel.

  I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Stewart, my name is Jamie Storm and this is Rachel King. Could we come in and speak to you for a minute?”

  Mrs. Stewart looked quizzically at Rachel, said nothing, and then looked at me.

  I plowed on hoping to elicit a positive response. “A friend of mine was killed in Anderson last week, and we feel his death could possibly be connected to your daughter’s.” I knew the statement lacked diplomacy, but there was no easy way to do this.

  Mrs. Stewart’s hands flew into action. She signed her response after evidently reading my lips. Her voiced words were incomprehensible—just a series of nasal-sounding grunts.

  Ahh, now the blinking lights made sense. Mrs. Stewart was deaf. I didn’t know sign language, and I looked at Rachel. She shook her head.

  “I don’t know sign.” I spoke slowly, loud, and with exaggerated lip movements. My shoulders shrugged in a helpless gesture. Too late I realized she’d read my lips before. Exaggerated speech was probably an insult.

  Mrs. Stewart smiled at us and stuck up her right index finger in the universal one-minute-please gesture I did understand.

  Still standing on the porch, we waited until Mrs. Stewart came back leading a seventyish, balding man. Yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he smiled at us. “You have news of our Dacia?”

  “Not exactly, and I do hate to get your hopes up. A good friend of mine was killed, and I believe their deaths may be connected. Could we talk to you—see if you might have some information that could help? Your daughter taught my English class the last semester of high school.” Then I added, “I’m here from Montana for our class reunion. I only have a few days.”

  Mr. Stewart’s hands moved as he interpreted for his wife. “This is my wife Dottie. Call me Chuck.”

  “Rachel King.”

  “Jamie Storm,” I said and stuck out my hand.

  We shook hands with the elderly couple.

  “Dottie can read lips just fine, but I like to interpret just the same. Come on in.” He opened the door wide, gesturing for us to enter. We followed them into the living room, where the conversation continued.

  “Have the police contacted you yet?” I asked.

  “Just to say they’ve recovered her body. They haven’t released her to us yet, but it shouldn’t be long before they find her killer.” Chuck’s voice was full of hope.

  Dottie started signing again, but she didn’t look as hopeful as Chuck. He voiced for her. “I don’t think the police will look any harder now than they did when she first went missing. We told them over and over something terrible had happened to our Dacia, and they didn’t so much as lift a finger thirty years ago. All those ridiculous excuses—she probably just got tired of teaching and took flight. She’s young. Young people don’t have any sense of responsibility. She’ll call when she’s ready to come home. They didn’t try then, and I don’t expect they’ll put much effort into it now.”

  Chuck put his arm around his wife’s shoulders in a protective gesture. “If you have a friend who was murdered, and they have a body, you might be more fortunate than us.”

  The loss of hope swam in Dottie’s eyes.

  I studied the floor, wishing I hadn’t come. Dredging up the past seemed pretty tough for the Stewarts and they’d been through enough. But I was here and it seemed silly to leave without getting as much information as possible.

  Rachel must have felt the same way. She continued the questioning. “Did you know Craig Haskell very well?”

  “Oh my, yes,” Dottie signed as her husband interpreted. “He was everything we had hoped for in a future son-in-law. He loved Dacia.”

  “Did you trust him?” I asked.

  “Of course. He couldn’t be over here for a minute without finding something to do. He was always helping Chuck fix up the house. They built the entire porch by themselves. It went completely across the front of the house, and then they built a huge back porch for Sassy and Molasses.”

  I didn’t remember seeing a porch when we came in. “Sassy and Molasses?”

  “Our golden retrievers. They were the best dogs. We lost them when we lost the house.”

  I decided it was none of my business how they lost the house, so I redirected the conversation. “We know that Craig was adopted. Does he have any siblings that you know of? Or do you know what his name was before he was adopted?”

  The constant signing that Chuck and Dottie conversed with began to feel normal for me. I quit watching their hands and concentrated on their expressions.

  “Why all these questions about Craig? You
don’t suspect him, do you? I can tell you, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s got more character in his little finger than most of his generation has in their whole body,” Chuck said.

  I was not offended at the aspersions leveled at my generation. I often felt the same way. I tried to soothe his concerns. “We don’t have any idea who killed your daughter or who killed our friend Tim. We figure if we ask enough questions, look hard enough in the right places, we might be able to find out what happened to our friend and Dacia.”

  Chuck looked hard into my eyes. He must have decided I was telling the truth so he opened up. “Craig didn’t talk much about his life. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think he remembered much about his birth parents.”

  “Names?” Rachel asked.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t mention names, and we didn’t ask.”

  “Brothers or sisters?”

  “I think he had at least one sister. I’m not sure though. He loved his adopted parents. It nearly broke him when they died.”

  “You knew him back then?” Rachel asked.

  “He and Dacia started dating two months before he graduated, so Dacia never met them. Neither did we, but he talked about them all the time. Very respectful.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “After Dacia disappeared, Craig spent a lot of time with us. He helped us breathe. When you lose your only child, and you can’t make sense of it, the world just stops. You can hardly move. Craig helped us keep going.” Tears streamed down Chuck and Dottie’s weathered cheeks. Neither tried to brush them away.

  “Do you still see him?” I asked.

  “Not since the fire. He just disappeared after that. We tried to call him, but an answering machine picked up. He never called back, not even once. We went to the school where he worked, but he wouldn’t see us. Maybe his pain was too much.”

  I felt a click of intrigue but was careful not to show it. “There was a fire?”

  “About three years after Dacia disappeared, Craig fell in love with a young woman. He told us about her.” Dottie’s hands were moving as fast as Chuck could interpret. “We didn’t see him as much as before, but he still came by on a regular basis, checked in on us. He never failed to send cards on Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and Easter. He still brought Christmas gifts, and even brought Angela down for Thanksgiving the year before they got married. She was a lovely girl. They invited us to the wedding. Then the fire happened, and that was the last we ever talked to him.”