Arizona Homecoming

by Pamela Tracy

  “Care to help?” she said to him.

  Sam half smiled. He wasn’t overly fond of dead bodies and happily turned them over to her or immigration—usually immigration because this area had more than its share of illegal immigrants hurrying through and falling victim to the weather or bad circumstances. He was much more comfortable dealing with the mundane.

  He’d already cordoned off the area around the skeleton. Both he and Donovan stood by the edge of the tape, talking. Judging by the looks on their faces, they’d been discussing her.

  “When did you find the remains?” she asked.

  “About five thirty this morning,” Donovan answered. She wouldn’t exactly call him welcoming.

  “I was roughing out a circular drive,” he continued. “There was an upheaval in the dirt bothering me so I decided to smooth it out. Took me over twenty minutes to get about four inches dug. That’s when I started unearthing bone shards. Next thing I knew, I had a skull.”

  “You touch anything?”

  “Just the shovel. Once I’d uncovered enough to realize what I had, I called the police.”

  Sam Miller added, “Jamal Begay was here.”

  It took Emily a few seconds before she responded, “Jamal was here?”

  “He got here a few moments before I found the skull,” Donovan stated.

  “Bad timing.” Emily knew Smokey. He was a good man, with a family, and superstitious as all get-out.

  Both Sam and Donovan nodded.

  It was a very clean site. The dirt was packed hard, no footprints. Then, too, this skeleton had been around awhile, so even if there were any disturbances in the area, chances were they’d be recent. She took out gloves and removed two baggies from her jean pockets. Sam came to stand beside her. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing at the moment.”

  “Aren’t you going to wait for the medical examiner?” Donovan asked.

  “Why?” Emily looked up at him. He couldn’t be more different than Sam. He was taller than she was, but then, who wasn’t? She put him at five-ten, all muscle and what her father would call a scrapper. His honey-brown hair was cut short, and he had an impish smile.

  Usually. He looked a little pale right now. Finding human bones tended to have that effect.

  “You think I can’t handle this?” She rather liked the displaced look on his face.

  “I told you Emily is who we call,” Sam said.

  “In case the remains prove to be Native American,” Donovan agreed. “Tell me they’re not.”

  She stepped over the cordon tape and bent down next to the remains. “Too soon to tell.”

  “But don’t we need a medical examiner to—”

  Sam interrupted, “We’re too small to have our own medical examiner. If this turns out to be a crime scene or not a Native jurisdiction,” he nodded toward Emily, “we’ll call the Maricopa County medical examiner’s office.”

  “What have you done so far?” Emily asked Sam.

  “Photos and call you.”

  “What’s next?” Donovan’s voice implied he didn’t want to know.

  “Finish digging up the body, take more photos, probably call in an entomologist, sieve the grave, search a grid for belongings.”

  “Entomologist?” Donovan queried.

  “I’m not skilled enough nor do I have the tools to determine the true postmortem interval. We’ll want to know the time of death.”

  “How long will that take?”

  Emily smiled. “Oh, you’re going to be stuck with me for a long time.”

  * * *

  Gloating, that’s what Emily Hubrecht was doing. Turning to Sam, Donovan again asked, “You sure she’s the one you had to call?”

  Sam nodded as they watched Emily head back to a Lost Dutchman Ranch truck that rivaled Donovan’s in size. One foot on the back bumper, she hopped twice on the other foot in order to swing her body over the tailgate. Emily might claim to be five foot four, but Donovan knew better. He’d put in enough cabinets to gauge who could reach the top shelf and who couldn’t. Emily was a footstool short, making her a hair over five foot three.

  She opened the tool chest that stretched across the bed of her truck, pulled out a large black canvas bag and tossed it to the ground before jumping down to retrieve it. She handled it with ease and was already standing beside the skull before Donovan thought to offer to carry it for her.

  “She worked up in South Dakota restoring an Indian burial ground that grave robbers had desecrated,” Sam said. “She has a degree in cultural anthropology and knows more about bones than anyone else in town.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Small town?

  “And why—”

  Sam interrupted, “It also makes her qualified to help work a crime scene. If we have one.”

  “Might not be a crime scene,” Emily said. “Could be somebody who just lay down and died of old age.”

  Donovan looked at the area that had already been cordoned off. “Why here? It’s the middle of nowhere.”

  She gave him a look only a female knew how to form. “This wasn’t always the middle of nowhere.”

  Of course she’d bring up her supposed village and how the home he was building encroached upon the remnants. Those had been her words.

  “She’s especially good with old bones,” Sam said. “The department keeps her on retainer.”

  Oh, how Donovan wished he’d found a dog.

  They watched her for a moment as she took photos and drew a few pictures in a small notebook. There was something intimate, respectful in her movements. But just the thought of working so closely with a skull, let alone the makings of a whole skeleton, gave Donovan the heebie-jeebies.

  He cleared his throat—no way did he want Sam to think him a wimp—and quietly asked, “So, Navajos avoid the dead?” He wasn’t really thinking about Smokey; he was thinking about Emily. She was Native American but must not be Navajo because she wasn’t leaving. It didn’t surprise him that she was the one who Sam had called.

  “Something about the good leaving with the soul and the evil remaining with the body.”

  She spoke matter-of-factly, clearly honoring what Smokey and a few of the other construction workers believed. He wondered if it was what she believed, and if so, why she’d chosen such a career path.

  Come to think of it, he wasn’t quite certain what her career path was. At first, when she’d been all over him with petitions and threats of cease and desist, he’d thought she was some sort of activist. But, when she had finally handed him a business card, it stated that she was a “storyteller.” Whatever that was. Then, he’d found out she was also the curator at the Lost Dutchman Museum. Two weeks ago he’d gone to the Lost Dutchman Ranch for dinner, and she was waiting tables. If not for her, he’d have made it his favorite stop. The locale was perfect, the food great, and he liked Jacob, the owner and Emily’s father. But, quite frankly, he didn’t trust her not to put really hot sauce in his food.

  “Who are you today?” he asked.

  She blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Curator? Waitress? Storyteller? Pseudo medical examiner?”

  “Civilian forensic consultant to the Apache Creek PD.”

  He almost chuckled, almost asked her if she was old enough. Wisely, he didn’t. He was already on her bad side, and annoying her wouldn’t get him back to work any quicker.

  Donovan knew exactly what Emily hoped to find. He just couldn’t remember the name of the tribe she was so enamored with. He thought a moment. It wasn’t one of the common tribes. He’d never heard it until she’d started poking around, getting in his way, insisting that Baer was building on a historic gold mine.

  At least that’s how she’d put it after she accused him of
encroaching on her remnants.

  Sam’s phone sounded, and Donovan heard just enough to know that the police officer had obtained some sort of search warrant for excavating the body.

  This was going to turn into a major hassle, Donovan just knew it. He headed back to his company truck and snagged a bottled water from his cooler before leaning against the door to study Emily. To think, just an hour ago he’d been happy because everything was on schedule. Now, he was down to a... Donovan tried to stop thinking the term skeleton crew.

  He couldn’t.

  Smokey, acting as if he was late for an important meeting, had left the premises not two minutes after the bones surfaced. He’d called his two cousins, coworkers, and they weren’t coming back any time soon. Only one of Donovan’s team showed up. John Westerfield had arrived ten minutes before Emily. He’d spent most of the time sitting in his truck, talking on the phone and no doubt trying to convince his wife that it wasn’t his fault he wouldn’t be working today. This wasn’t the type of job that paid if hours weren’t put in. He’d not been a happy man when he drove away.

  Donovan would have to ask Emily how to get his crew back and working.

  “So,” Sam Miller said, hanging up his phone and going to one knee by Emily, careful not to disturb anything, “you find any personal effects yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve just begun.”

  “You find bodies often?” Donovan asked. George Baer had extolled the lack of crime in Apache Creek. It was one of the reasons he and his wife were retiring here.

  “Enough,” Sam said. “We’re what you’d call a high-intensity drug trafficking area.”

  “Marijuana?”

  Sam shrugged. “Along with whatever else will sell.”

  “So,” Donovan said, “I might not be looking at a burial ground but instead a drug deal gone wrong?”

  “Could be. I’ve never discovered a burial ground. I’ve also never discovered a whole skeleton. When I find drug deals gone wrong, they’re usually a bit more ripe.”

  Emily made a face. Donovan looked over at his camper. All one would need was a pair of scissors to break in. Not something he wanted to think about. He decided to change the topic somewhat. “Would Smokey be just as put off by Anglo remains as Native American?”

  “Pretty sure,” Emily said. “Good and evil don’t care the race.”

  Donovan nodded, took out his cell phone and walked toward the home. The sun followed him, burning his arms and reminding him that it was high noon and well past break time. He’d been doing nothing but standing around the past hour or so. No reason to be tired.

  Stepping inside he took in the fresh-paint smell, the hint of wood and the white dust particles that were everywhere. Sometimes when he got off work and showered in his camper, the top of his head looked like the before commercial for a dandruff shampoo.

  Yesterday he’d been inside the house working on baseboards with a portable evacuative cooler blowing on him. His crew, all locals, had been painting and making fun of him. Didn’t bother him. They didn’t turn red three minutes after working in the sun. Three of his crew were Navajo and then he had John. They were all good workers, talented and easy to get along with. They all thought the house going up at 2121 Ancient Trails Road a bit extravagant for the parts, but didn’t care. They were working.

  Exactly what Donovan wanted to be doing at this moment. Usually, when it got to this stage in the process, he relaxed.

  But, he realized, he’d not relaxed at all during his time in Apache Creek. It had been one thing after another. Thanks mostly to Emily Hubrecht.

  Quickly, he called George Baer and told the man about the skeleton. George’s only questions were “Can they halt progress?” followed by “Can they reclaim the land?”

  “I’m pretty sure they can halt progress, temporarily. You’ll need to contact a lawyer for more information. The officer in charge of the case doesn’t think they can reclaim the land. You might, however, be responsible for the cost of moving the body and anything else discovered.”

  Silence. Anyone else, and Donovan would assume they were assessing cost. Not George Baer. He’d be thinking about time and possibly media exposure. The man liked his privacy. Thus the end-of-the-road residence in out-of-the-way Apache Creek, Arizona. It was a custom-build situation unlike any Donovan had ever worked on before.

  After Baer told him to do what he had to do, Donovan disconnected the call and stayed in the kitchen, looking out the window at the talented Miss Hubrecht. Even on her knees digging up bones, she managed to look beautiful. Long black hair was caught back in a ponytail that swayed while she used both a brush and a small shovel-like tool to free the skeleton without damaging it.

  Nothing about this build was ordinary.

  He’d been working for Tate Luxury Homes for the past three years, mostly because he’d fallen in love with Olivia Tate. After a while, he’d realized she was a bit like the luxury home he was building for George Baer: all show and no heart.

  Donovan hoped that Olivia found the right man for her. He wasn’t that man. Before he’d even started dating Olivia, Donovan had borrowed money from Nolan Tate, her father, and now it would take at least five homes and two years to repay the debt. What was best about the current location was, while uncomfortable, it was far away from Olivia and her tantrums.

  Maybe uncomfortable was too kind a word. George Baer’s house, so far, had no electricity, no plumbing and no urban comfort.

  Emily looked up, caught him watching her and looked away. He felt a moment’s disappointment. Why? He’d be out of Apache Creek in a little over a month.

  But, unable to resist, he glanced back at her, mesmerized by the fire in her eyes and thinking that such a look shouldn’t be there because of a skeleton.

  Her hands kept moving, gently uncovering what Donovan wished had stayed buried. Then, when he could see she had dug well past the ribs, she stilled.

  He took one step in her direction, half pulled by curiosity and half pulled by the instinct to be there if she needed him.

  Sam got there first. “What did you find?”

  “My guess, based on his teeth and the condition of the bones, is we have a male skeleton between twenty-five and forty years old. I can only estimate how long he’s been buried here. I believe, though, an entomologist would agree with my findings. If I were going through missing-person reports, I’d focus on at least the last fifty years.”

  Donovan let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Not an ancient burial ground.

  “You’ll want to call Maricopa and the medical examiner, though,” Emily said. “There’s a knife next to the body.”

  Donovan breathed in. His custom-built home had just gone from burial ground to crime scene.

  At least if it had been a burial ground, Emily Hubrecht would have provided a diversion.

  Chapter Three

  “Find anything?” Jane de la Rosa asked when Emily walked through the museum’s front door.

  Emily couldn’t remember Jane or Jane’s mother not being a part of her life. Jane’s mother, Patti, used to work at the front desk of the Lost Dutchman Ranch. She’d been let go a few years ago. Jacob, Emily’s father, said it was because his girls were doing more. Emily knew it had more to do with Patti’s attempts to become more to him than just an employee.

  Jane often filled in at the museum when Emily needed someone to spell her. What Jane didn’t know about history, she made up for with enthusiasm.

  Hesitating and maybe just now letting it all sink in, Emily slowly said, “Yes.”

  “Because you look like you dug all the way to Tucson.”

  Since no cars were in the parking lot, meaning no visitors, Emily felt free to share, ending with “The skeleton was no more than two feet down right in the middle of nowhere. Not even close to the old trail
leading to the Superstition Mountains.”

  “Poor man.” Jane immediately bowed her head, engaging in a silent prayer. Emily followed her example, reminding herself that what she’d found today had been someone’s son, possibly husband, maybe father, maybe friend, and deserved respect.

  “Find anything else?” Jane asked.

  The skeleton had waited decades to be discovered. The Maricopa County medical examiner would no doubt make him wait a few more days. After all, the skeleton wasn’t going anywhere. Sam Miller hadn’t even bothered telling Emily not to talk about the discovery. Already, four construction workers knew and probably four wives and maybe even a child or two. In Apache Creek, when a girl sneezed, the bless you might come from three miles away. That’s how fast news traveled.

  “I stopped digging when I got to the pelvis, which let me know I had a male. There was a knife right next to the hip bone.”

  “Recognize it?” Jane’s eye lit up.

  “Of course not. I left it half-buried. No way do I want to compromise a crime scene. All I’d need to do is anger the wrong official and suddenly my position identifying local Native American sites would be in jeopardy. I told Donovan Russell not to build there.”

  It was true, too. Quite a few people wanted the past to be the past and let progress reign. Case in point, Donovan Russell and the absent George Baer, who’d employed him. Lately, it felt as if she and the townspeople of Apache Creek were in opposition with the mayor and a few other major players, like business owners and Realtors. Their little town was in danger of losing what Emily considered its heart. Others might call it quaintness. Not Emily. Apache Creek’s history set it apart from every other small town. How could people not appreciate it?

  “Those acres of land have been for sale since before you were born,” Jane said. “You can’t be mad because someone finally purchased them and is now building. You’ve given Donovan enough grief.”

  “You’re sticking up for him because he’s a good tipper.”