“There’s a news flash.” Tucker glanced over, and Mason caught sight of his reflection in the lenses of his friend’s aviator shades. His eye was turning an interesting shade of purple, but at least it wasn’t puffy. Hooray for green ice. “So what happened in the cemetery?”
“That,” Mason said frostily “is none of your business.”
“I’m not talking about Allie, you idiot. Although I suspect you’d be a lot more jovial this morning if things in that area had gone well. I want to know about the grave that was tampered with.”
“What about it?”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“More unusual than the fact that someone was apparently digging up a two hundred year old grave?”
“You know what I mean,” Tucker said, pausing at a stop sign to look both ways.
“Considering the fact that by the time I’d realized what it was I’d stumbled over, Allison’s brother was blacking my eye, mostly what I saw were stars. What –” Just then, a large, furry shape darted in front of the truck and Mason called “Look out!”
Tucker swerved and hit the brakes, but wasn’t entirely able to avoid a collision.
“Shit,” he said as the smell of burnt rubber filled the air, along with a pitiful wailing of the cat in the backseat. “Thank God I buckled him in,” he said, leaning over the seat to double check the carrier’s vocal occupant. “What the hell did I hit?”
“I don’t know.” Mason opened his door, walking around to the front of the hood while Tucker approached from the opposite side.
“Ah, hell,” Tucker muttered, squatting down. “Hey pal. Hey buddy.”
The dog, a large shaggy creature of indeterminate breed, thumped its tail, then whined as it tried to get up.
“No.” Tucker laid his hand on the animal’s side. “How about you just stay put.”
“Looks like a broken leg,” Mason murmured, looking the animal over. The back left appendage lay at an awkward angle. “Luckily you weren’t going very fast. It could have been much worse.”
Tucker sighed. “Well, at least we’re headed to the right spot. Help me get him in the bed of the truck and I’ll see what the vet can do for him.”
Tucker got a rag from the cab of the truck, tying it around the animal’s muzzle so that he couldn’t bite when they attempted to move him. “There’s blood on his mouth,” he said, frowning. “Though it doesn’t seem to be his.”
“Maybe he caught a rabbit or something. He could have been chasing some sort of prey when he ran into the road.”
Lifting carefully, they managed to get the animal into the truck with minimal damage to any of them. Mason’s shirt was smeared with blood from the broken leg, but that was hardly worth noting. They settled him on an old blanket Tucker kept for protecting the paint when he was hauling wood and whatnot.
“Nice dog,” Tucker said, stroking the shaggy black head, guilt in every line of his body. “I wonder who he belongs to.”
You, Mason thought with a wry twist of his lips, after catching Tucker’s expression. Unless the animal was already spoken for, of course.
As he walked back around to the passenger side, something lying in the tall grass at the side of the road caught his attention.
He paused, looking closer, then froze.
“Um, Tucker?”
“Yeah?” Tucker looked across the bed of the truck, his hand resting on the door he’d just opened.
“You might want to take a look at this.”
“What is it?” He sounded slightly annoyed. “That dog is in pain. I’d like to get going.”
Mason studied it again, wanting to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “I think,” he said, suddenly glad that he hadn’t taken the time to eat breakfast. “That it’s a human arm.”
KNEELING, Will pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to dispel the ache that had begun to throb there. Spring had taken its sweet time this year, meaning that the pollen which had normally come and gone was still thick in the air, covering everything in its path like a fuzzy, allergy-inducing blanket.
Including the mangled remains of the human arm lying at his feet.
And that, he was forced to admit, was a much bigger headache inducer than any allergen he’d ever encountered.
“You don’t think the dog did this, do you?”
Will looked up at Darryl Tolliver. The young officer’s face was pale beneath his coffee-colored skin. “You mean do I think the dog killed the victim and ripped off his arm? No.”
“There’s blood on its mouth,” Darryl pointed out.
“Yes, and you’ll notice that despite the teeth marks here and here,” he gestured with his penlight “the wounds are remarkably blood free. Also, look at the point at which the limb was severed. Tell me what you see.”
Darryl swallowed visibly, but leaned closer. “It’s not jagged,” he said after a moment, professional interest overcoming his instinctive revulsion. “Like it would be if a dog had bitten it, I mean. It’s… clean.” He hit the side of one hand against the opposite palm. “Like a chop, instead of a tear.”
“Very good.” Darryl was relatively new to the force, and didn’t have a lot of experience with dead bodies. He was, however, observant, with a keen mind. “Now, see how the tissue looks bloated? If I were to guess, I’d say this limb has spent some time in the water.”
“You think somebody killed… him? It looks like a man’s arm. The muscles, I mean. And the tattoo – it’s hard to tell what it is, but it seems masculine. You think somebody killed him and then chopped him up and tossed him in the river?”
“That’s one possibility.” But dear God, he hoped not. “Another is a boating accident. He could have fallen out of the boat, gotten caught up in the engine blades.”
“Wouldn’t somebody have reported that?”
“If he was with someone, maybe. Unless there were extenuating circumstances – alcohol, a disagreement that got out of control, whatever – that might make whoever was with him reluctant to place that call. Or, he could have been on the water alone. Fishing, maybe.”
“So, what, the arm washes up and the dog finds it, carries it off? Then where’d the blood come from?”
“That’s the question. Could be any number of scenarios, but this is all just speculation until the state lab does an examination and determines the origin of that blood.”
“If this was just a boating accident, you’d think somebody would have reported him missing.”
“Hopefully it’ll be just that easy to identify him, but since things are rarely easy, I’m not going to hold my breath. Given the damage wrought by the marine life to his fingers, I’m not counting on getting a usable print, either, but maybe we’ll have some luck with this tattoo.”
It was partial, the top half of it probably having extended up and onto the victim’s shoulder, but there might be enough there to give them an idea of what it had looked like whole. Not a lot to go on, but if it was distinctive enough, there was a chance it could help them make an identification.
Will stood up, glanced around. One of his investigators had already photographed the arm in situ, and he had two officers scouring the surrounding vegetation, looking for other pieces of the victim.
“I want you and Barger to check out the river,” Will said. “See if there’s any sign of an unattended craft floating around. Stop by the marinas, ask if they’ve rented a boat that came back with one fewer occupant than it went out with. And call the Coast Guard. If the rest of the body is indeed in the river, there’s a chance it, or parts of it, may have washed out to sea. They’ll likely know if it’s washed up on a beach somewhere.”
Tolliver nodded. “What about the dog?”
“I’ll take care of that.”
When the young man strode off, Will nodded toward the coroner, who’d been waiting patiently while he’d instructed Tolliver.
“The boy looked a little green about the gills,” the older man said with a touch of amusement.
“He’ll do.” Will
was feeling a little green himself, but luckily he’d learned to control it. While the other man started preparing to move the severed limb into a black bag for transport to the state crime lab, Will turned and squinted toward the squad car turned sideways to block the road. Both Mason Armitage and a rather irate-looking Tucker Pettigrew stood behind it, the latter glaring in Will’s direction.
Resigned, Will headed that way.
“Tell me you’re not going to have that dog put down,” Tucker said.
“I’m not going to have that dog put down,” Will agreed. “Unless,” he held up a hand when Tucker started to protest the caveat “he turns out to be rabid or other evidence indicates he’s a threat. From the looks of things, I sort of doubt it, but I do have to take the animal into police custody. He’s got a mouth full of DNA evidence.”
“And a broken leg.”
“I already contacted the vet,” Will said, seeing that Pettigrew was feeling the weight of his role in that situation. As a fellow dog lover, he sympathized. “We’ll get the leg taken care of.”
Slightly mollified, the man looked toward where another officer was watching over the injured dog. “You’ll let me know afterward? How he’s doing, I mean. And if he’s chipped, and you locate the owner, I want them to know I’m prepared to pay for his care. ”
Will nodded. “I’ll let you know.”
He glanced toward Armitage, whose face – in addition to the assorted purples and blues – was looking slightly gray. “You okay?”
“Bloody fantastic. You?”
Will ignored the sarcasm. “I’m going to need you both to come down to the station, give an official statement.”
“I have to get Sarah’s cat to the vet,” Tucker said. “We’re late for his appointment.”
Will glanced at the carrier sitting at Pettigrew’s feet. “You use Doc Briggs, right? How about I have her pick up the cat when she comes to get the dog. Then you can just go ahead and follow Officer Sanchez to the station.”
Relief flooded Tucker’s face, followed immediately by doubt. He looked warily at the crate. “Only if you swear to me you will not tell Sarah. And that you won’t hold me liable for any bodily damage he might inflict.”
“This is Useless we’re talking about here, right? The feline equivalent of a couch potato?” Will stooped down, peered into the crate. And drew back sharply when the animal bared his teeth.
“If you have mitts available, you might want to wear them,” Mason said helpfully, indicating the scratches on his hands and arm. “Or barring that, holy water. I’ve heard it repels his sort.”
Will sighed, and grabbed the handle on the carrier. This day just kept getting better.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ALLIE stretched up on her tiptoes, but the book she was after remained frustratingly out of reach.
“Darn it,” she muttered. This was the plight of being petite. Well, one of many, she amended. Finding clothes that fit that hadn’t been designed for twelve-year-olds being another. She was either going to have to ask a librarian for help, or head over to the children’s section and borrow one of their stools.
Which wasn’t the least bit humiliating or anything.
Eyes narrowed with determination, she decided to give it one last valiant effort. Maybe if she stood just on the edge of the bottom shelf.
When her fingers brushed against the spine, Allie did a mental fist pump. She managed to slide the heavy volume out a fraction of an inch. Just a little more… just a little…
Her foot slipped, and Allie made an abbreviated sound of distress. The book teetered at a forty-five degree angle, then started tumbling through the air.
A hand shot out, grabbing it before it could hit her on the head.
Embarrassed, but grateful, Allie turned to thank her johnny-on-the-spot.
The whiskey eyes that met hers had the words clogging in her throat.
“Yours?” Mason said, handing her the book.
Tongue-tied, Allie seemed unable to think of what to say. On a stage, Mason was magnetic. Up close, he produced his own gravitational field that sucked you in and squeezed until you were little more than a quivering puddle of hormones.
Annoyed with herself, Allie snatched the book with far less grace than she would have otherwise. “Yes,” she said, relieved to hear that her tone was neutral. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and with that ability that seemed unique to British men – or perhaps simply to this one – his words, while perfectly polite and proper, conjured all sorts of naughty images that threatened to make her start quivering again.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted, discomfiture making her rude.
“I was on my way to the theater when I spotted your car. You left so abruptly last evening that we never had the chance to finish our discussion.”
Which had pretty much been her intent. Obviously, despite the months since she’d last seen him, Allie still wasn’t quite as blasé where Mason was concerned as she’d led herself to believe. Keeping conversation to a minimum – and that at a safe distance – seemed the safest course of action all around.
“I’m really not sure what there is to talk about,” she said. “Like I mentioned, you apologized, I accepted. And really, to be quite honest, I probably overreacted to the whole situation. I was…” Vulnerable. Destroyed. “Having a bit of a rough patch last year, and filtered everything through that lens. But I’m fine now.” She smiled, overly-bright. “So how about we just… move on.”
He stared at her for a single heartbeat. Two. “Have you ever considered,” he murmured “that other people can have rough patches as well?”
Because she saw the trouble in his eyes, Allie’s smile faded, and she reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “Are you okay? I… heard. About what happened this morning.”
“I’d be considerably shocked if you hadn’t.”
Indeed it had been a hot topic of conversation at the Dust Jacket today. A number of people had come in specifically, Allie suspected, to see if Mason or Tucker might be hanging around. Since they weren’t, the curious had pumped both Sarah and Allie for any drops of information they might have, sometimes subtly, sometimes not.
“But that doesn’t answer my question. Are you okay?”
Mason lifted a shoulder. “As long as I don’t close my eyes. What are you reading?”
“Pardon?”
He gestured toward the book tucked into the crook of her arm.
“Oh. This.” She glanced down at the forgotten volume, a book by a local historian. “It’s… research, I guess you could say.” She’d poked around on the internet, but the information she’d turned up had been relatively sparse, and the family bible seemed to have been misplaced. It was her turn to shrug, slightly uncomfortable. “I’m a history nerd. I wanted to see what I could find out about Cousin Eugene. You know. The one whose grave…”
“We tripped over while snogging?”
“Yes.” Heat crept into her cheeks, and then Allie wrinkled her nose. “You know, it’s really disconcerting to have those two, um, memories intertwined.”
“Try finding a random body part before breakfast. Believe me, it’ll put you off any uncomfortable associations between sex and death you might otherwise have developed.”
Allie stifled the truly inappropriate urge to laugh, and when she saw the humor lurking in Mason’s eyes, clamped a hand over her mouth. “It’s really not funny.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He rocked back on his heels. “I rather think it has several classic elements of farce.”
She did laugh then, a release of tension, and was rewarded with a smile.
“A-hem.”
They both turned toward the sound, only to find the new assistant librarian giving them a quelling look. “I’m forced to remind you that this is a library,” she said. “Not a comedy club.”
“Terribly sorry,” Mason said, turning up the wattage on his smile to stun. “It was my fault entirely. I hope I shan’t be banis
hed from the premises without being granted the opportunity to make amends.”
“Er…” From the look on the woman’s face, Allie could tell that she, too, had been turned into a quivering puddle by that smile, unable to process a word Mason had just said. Even with the black eye, he was jaw-droppingly gorgeous. Add the accent and the impeccable manners and… well, it would take a far stronger woman than she not to be bowled over.
She sighed. “Sorry,” she said, drawing the librarian’s attention. The woman – an attractive blonde who ordered green tea and a lemon muffin each time she frequented the Dust Jacket – blinked, seeming confused as to where she was. “We’ll keep it down,” Allie added.
“Um, great,” the blonde said, her gaze straying back toward Mason. She blinked again.
“Could you do me a favor?” Allie intervened, handing her the heavy book. “I’d like to check this out. If you could just take this up to the desk for me…?”
“What? Oh. Sure. No problem.”
Seeming to pull herself together, the librarian accepted the book. “Just bring your library card to the desk when you’re finished,” she said, and with one last sidelong glance at Mason, walked briskly away.
Allie turned a look on Mason. “You did that on purpose.”
“Did what?” He arched a single, inquisitive brow.
“Smote her brain function with your smile of ovarian destruction.”
“My what?”
“Don’t play innocent with me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” His lips pursed, clearly stifling a forbidden laugh. “Ovarian destruction, is it?”
“Only for the poor, hapless women who can’t see through your act.”
When his smile faded, Allie wondered if perhaps she’d inadvertently offended him. “Mason –”
One long finger stretched out to press against her lips. As his gaze lowered to her mouth, the tension which had fluttered away on the wings of levity became a rock solid ball in her gut.
He bent his head and touched his lips to hers in a kiss of surpassing tenderness.
“Mason –”
“Shh…” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “I have to go to the theater, and you need to do your research. Let’s let this lie for a bit, shall we? We can sort it out later.”
Admit One (Sweetwater Book 2) Page 5
