Digging Up Bones (Birdwell, Texas Mysteries Book 1)

by Aimee Gilchrist

  "Really? Does he own it still?"

  "I believe he passed away a couple of years ago. He used to own a couple of rentals in Birdwell. That's how Vi and I met. We were both home from college for the summer. I think I was nineteen. Her father brought her up to look at the house next to ours. She was a pre-law major at Yale. It was hormone rush at first sight."

  "That's a beautiful story." I laughed. I was dying to ask him what had taken him nine years to study in college. Whatever degree he had, it was an advanced one. Which probably explained all the conferences he'd admitted to attending earlier today. I didn't want to alienate him again though. His career was clearly something he didn't enjoy talking about.

  "Thank you. It was certainly touching to me at the time."

  "Yes, I'm sure it was. Especially the actual touching part."

  He smiled wickedly, the sight of it heading right to my nerve endings. "Right on the first guess. I was fairly ignorant about girls, totally ignorant about sex, and Vi, bless her promiscuous little heart, was more than willing to be my study partner."

  "Maybe you aren't perfect."

  He gave me a dark look, and I was sorry I'd said it, even if I had been teasing. "Believe me—I've done much worse things than raunchy sex. Everybody makes mistakes. I've done good things for bad reasons and bad things for what I thought were good reasons." He seemed determined to put the subject behind us. "What were you doing the summer of nineteen?"

  I decided to tell him about it. After all, I had already admitted that I had been engaged before. "Actually, I was visiting my parents in upstate New York, attempting to recover from discovering my fiancé, Eric, in his bedroom wearing my lingerie and made up to look like Liza Minnelli." I decided to leave out the part where I was relentlessly being pursued by David Ford, future president.

  "Well… I guess that's why you broke up."

  "I guess," I agreed. "We're still good friends. He's a dog groomer in Denver."

  Whatever Aodhagan might have said was cut off by the arrival of Junior and Marian, looking wet and harried. After our food had arrived, we ate fairly quickly and set off in two separate cars, after a brief explanation of what had happened to Aodhagan's car, to the campus of Texas Tech. We figured it would be easiest to have Marian look at Dennis Strinton through the high hallway window while he was in lecture. That way, she could easily see without risking being seen.

  After we found the room, she peeked in quickly and then pulled back out. "That could definitely be him."

  "It could be?" Aodhagan clarified.

  With a sinking stomach, I pointed at a young African American man in jeans and an orange jersey. "What about him? He's also a suspect."

  She furrowed up her face, examining him. "I guess that could be him too."

  Aodhagan and I exchanged looks. "Okay, thank you, Marian. You guys enjoy the rest of your day." He ushered them off, and we trudged back to the rental.

  "Well, I don't see what else could go wrong today." I made sure my seat belt was extra secure, in case we had another unexpected off-road adventure. "We've been nearly murdered. We've learned absolutely nothing, except that Addie Arnett was not using the word cover-up lightly and that Penny hung around some really unpleasant people in high school."

  I sat back in my seat and let him drive in silence, thinking about our long afternoon and the fight at the college. I wondered at the bizarre dimensions of our relationship, such as it was. I liked him as a person, and he appeared to like me as a person, and yet we were always disagreeing.

  In Manhattan, if I had spent five or six whole days with him, I would have already known him two or three months. And yet, in all that time, all we would really know about each other would be that I liked art, furniture, clothes, and the theatre, and he liked music, cooking, swing culture, and science. Our irritating idiosyncrasies, so apparent in our unnatural enforced intimacy, would have been revealed little by little, in a way that made them bearable, rather than all at once in inescapable closed quarters.

  I was somewhat comforted by the revelation. At least we weren't losing our minds, even if there wasn't much hope for the longevity of our friendship.

  Aodhagan's precious music system was in the wrecked car, and I listlessly changed channels looking for something decent. The choices seemed to consist mostly of country and farm reports. I actually caught Lloyd Granger on one channel. With a sigh, I left it on a top-forty station out of Lubbock. "I think that both of those men were having some sort of sexual relationship with Norma Jean."

  He glanced at me quickly. "Why do you say that?"

  "I don't know. Just something about the way they talked about her. It was intimate. I don't know how to explain what I mean."

  "It doesn't matter. You're probably right. From the way that everyone describes her, she was at best a tease. At worst, she was a neighborhood commodity."

  "And yet Penny cared enough about her to give her life over it. She must have known she was in danger."

  He shrugged. "Maybe she didn't. Dooley said there's no sign of forced entry or a struggle, so she must have voluntarily gone into the shed with the killer. That probably means she wasn't afraid of them. Either she must not have known they were Norma Jean's killer, or, for whatever reason, she didn't think they would hurt her."

  "That doesn't make any sense. If they had killed before, surely she would worry that they'd do it again. And that leads us back to the original perplexing hypothesis that we're dealing with two different killers."

  He sighed heavily. "Maybe we've been on the wrong track all this time."

  I slammed my hand against my leg. "I don't believe that. We have to be on the right track. I have to trust my instincts on this one. Penny asked me here for something, and it wasn't to help put on a photography exhibit for the fall pageant."

  "We don't have a fall pageant."

  "See, there you go."

  He smiled widely at me, infusing me with a sudden burst of energy, but it faded quickly. "Irrefutable logic, Helen. You've sold me."

  If only it were a real answer. We desperately needed one.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  We drove the rest of the way to Birdwell, talking very little and trying very hard to stay awake. In the window of Thelma Sue's Hair Extravaganza, I could see Thelma Sue talking animatedly to the waitress from the Home Cooking Café. I couldn't remember her name. I was searching every part of my brain, oddly fixated on finding that one small detail, as though doing so would make me a better person. The kind who remembered the name of everyone she met, even waitresses and shop clerks.

  I nearly jumped out of my seat when Aodhagan suddenly spoke. "I think that I can get a copy of Norma Jean's autopsy report. It should have been filed both with the police and with the county coroner's office. Obviously, the police copy is gone. I don't know what the other might tell us, if it still exists, but still, it's something."

  "Yes, but that's a county office. I thought that the God-like name of Aodhagan MacFarley didn't stretch that far."

  "It doesn't, but Dr. Floyd was an old fishing buddy of my father's. He may or may not give it to me, but it couldn't hurt to ask."

  As we pulled into the driveway, I was sure I'd never been so glad to see a single place in my life. I couldn't wait to get upstairs and take a nap. "Man, am I glad to be home." As soon as I realized what I'd said, I amended myself. "Such as it is."

  He smirked. "Yes, such as it is."

  He disappeared into the back of the house, and even in the foyer I could hear his answering machine cranking out no less than a half-a-dozen messages that I either couldn't hear well or just didn't understand. Finally, I heard a man's voice detailing that my aunt's body would be released the next day.

  On Aodhagan's cell phone, I called the funeral home, which was about to close for the day. By the time that I got off the phone, Penny's viewing, funeral service, interment, and wake were all planned for Friday. He suggested an open-casket viewing, which I wasn't too sure about. Not only had she been a murder victi
m, but also she'd been autopsied, which to my understanding meant her head might no longer be on exactly the right way. The funeral director, Flexner the younger, guaranteed me that they had ways to cover those little peculiarities, and if it was at all possible, an open casket was always best for those grieving. I deferred to his judgment on that one. I'd never even been to a funeral.

  After I hung up, I sought out Aodhagan, who was still on the landline. From the nature of his conversation, I assumed it was with Dr. Floyd, the ancient, limp-legged county coroner and apparent fishing enthusiast. He ended the conversation quickly and turned to face me. "What's up?"

  "I heard the message about Penny, so I called the funeral home in Tallatahola and set it all up for Friday at ten. So we have tomorrow and Thursday to get the word out. I just wondered if you could contact Lloyd Granger about the service. I don't believe he'd care to hear from me again. Also, maybe you could see if your friend Jamie could tell the others about the funeral, as well as the reading."

  "It's as good as done."

  I'd heard that story before, but with him I could really trust it was true.

  "Dr. Floyd said that we could come by tomorrow morning and look at Norma Jean's autopsy report if we can find it."

  "How do you do that?" I was mystified. "I swear you could get anyone to do anything. You have the power to rule the universe."

  His slow smile was sizzlingly sexy, robbing me of breath because I hadn't expected it. "I wouldn't say I could get anyone to do anything."

  I needed to be away from him, even for just a little while. "I think that I'm off the case for a few hours and into bed. I'm really tired."

  "Yeah, me too. I'm going to look a few things up online about all our new friends, and then I think I'll take a nice long shower. Maybe I can wash off the memory of this day. What do you think?"

  He, of course, was asking if I thought he could manage to rid himself of the day. I was certain he didn't actually want to know what I was thinking, since it was unquestionably inappropriate, and at any rate, I had no doubt he was very capable of soaping himself. I just shrugged.

  "I thought we'd hit the Café for dinner, so we can start to spread the word about Penny's service."

  I hadn't particularly enjoyed my last run-in with the food at the Café, but I was interested in talking to a few more of the locals. We agreed on two hours, and a few minutes later I crawled into bed with a defeated mind and an aching body.

  I probably should have taken a shower too, but I didn't really care if I looked like a drowned weasel compared to how much I cared about my soft mattress and cool sheets. I fell asleep so quickly I couldn't even remember the process, but I was aware of the phone ringing. The caller was not giving up, and I stumbled down the stairs and picked up the receiver to the landline.

  I was too tired to consider that it wasn't really my business to answer Aodhagan's phone. "Hello?" I murmured groggily.

  "Is that you, Helen?" It took me a minute to reason out that the caller was Marian. I don't know exactly who else she expected would be answering Aodhagan's phone. Then again, for all I knew he had some girlfriend who was vacationing on Martha's Vineyard or some crap like that.

  "Yeah, it's me." I rubbed my eyes.

  "I just wanted to tell you that I remembered something else I saw when that man came in about the papers." That woke me up a little. "As he was leaving, I looked out the window and noticed he was driving a dark blue Ford. An F-250."

  For me, that was the clincher. It had to be the same killer for both women. I found it interesting that Marian could identify objects like cowboy hats and pickup trucks but not even the man's race. I was grateful for the information anyway. At this point in the game, any little bit of information was vitally important. It also made me feel like maybe, just maybe, we were getting close.

  "Thanks, Marian. I'll let Aodhagan know."

  "Let Aodhagan know what?"

  To give myself credit, I didn't scream when Aodhagan spoke directly into my ear. Not just from surprise but also from alarm that he was standing so close to me. I jerked around and found that I was cornered against the desk. Though he'd clearly showered, he hadn't shaved, and he was close enough that I could see every rough hair in his five o'clock shadow.

  The fine wrinkles around his eyes and where his dimples would be if he were smiling were visible this close. The spattering of light brown freckles over the bridge of his nose and on the tips of his ears was unbearably cute. He didn't smell like anything more erotic than soap, but it was doing funny things to my insides anyway.

  I tried to back up a little, but of course I couldn't. "Uh…that was Marian. She said she saw the man's truck. It was a dark blue F-250." I was proud of how normal my voice sounded.

  "Really?"

  Why was he standing so close to me, and why did he have to have such amazing lips? Seriously. His mouth. I was panicking, but he seemed unfazed by my squirminess, as he was by everything. Maybe he stood so close to all the girls.

  My breath caught while my heart thumped out a desperate, erratic rhythm. I marveled that what I was feeling, imprudent and fruitless though it may be, was totally one-sided. I clearly did not affect him at all. I refused to let it be depressing.

  "So"—he put his hand down on the desk, bringing him a fraction closer. Too close, my mind screamed out in fear—"if you're not in the mood to go out, I could make us something."

  His gaze was far more intense than the comment required. Somehow he managed to get closer. The tips of his fingers barely brushed against mine on the back of the desk. I struggled for an answer that not only made sense but also one that would make him back away enough to let me catch my breath.

  I pulled in a shaky breath and met his eyes, noticing immediately that his pupils were abnormally dilated, his nostrils slightly flared. He was having trouble breathing! Maybe I wasn't singularly unsexy. Who was I kidding? He was probably suffering from hay fever. I moved quickly in the only direction I could, sideways.

  Slamming my head into the corner of a wall-mounted shelf, hard, I gasped. "Ow, jeez." When I pressed my hand against the side of my head, it came away bloody.

  "Helen, look at me." When I finally opened my eyes, he watched me for a second then nodded. He was all business suddenly, leading me to a chair and giving me a couple tissues to staunch the bleeding. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

  I wasn't likely to move. My head was spinning, and I had to do a lot of deep breathing to stop my stomach from turning at the shock of such intense pain. My tissues were soaked through, but I held them there anyway because I didn't know what else to do. I could hear him in the kitchen, banging around, and I hoped that whatever he brought with him included a big handful of painkillers.

  He returned a moment later with a wet rag, a bag of ice wrapped in a dish towel, and a bottle of Tylenol. He handed the dish-towel ice pack to me. "This should help keep down the swelling. But first, just let me look at it." He inspected me carefully, but somehow this time his nearness wasn't quite so titillating. After he finished cleaning the wound, he led my hand up to it and told me how much pressure to apply. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and flashed it in my eyes, making a stabbing pain join the dull throbbing I already had. "You're fine. Head wounds bleed a lot. It seems worse than it really is."

  That was easy for him to say. He wasn't the one with the amazing exploding head. He sat down in the chair across from me, and a moment later, a laugh bubbled up from deep in his chest. I was torn between seeing the obvious amusement of this situation and being offended by his mirth. Since being offended was so much easier for me, I just went with it. "What are you laughing at? That really hurt."

  He stopped laughing but not smirking. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I was…" He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry." He was obviously still amused, but at least he was keeping it internalized. While I sat holding ice to my muddled head, he got back down to business.

  "I looked up Strinton, Granger, and Kathleen Au
dbergen while you were sleeping. They all have plenty of good reason to want an old skeleton to stay in the closet. Granger is worth millions, and Dennis Strinton is not just a simple university department head. He's also a very highly paid special expert witness for state prosecution cases and a nationally renowned lecturer."

  "Is that worth killing over?"

  "Anything's worth killing over for a person on the edge, but he's worth enough. If he does a couple conferences a month, he could easily be bringing down six figures on that alone. Believe me, people have killed for less."

  That was an irrefutable truth. "Money and love are the two greatest motivators for murder."

  He cocked his head in consideration. "That makes sense. It's the two things that people truly want. The things that make them feel the most alive." I was struck by the truth of that, but Aodhagan had already moved on. "Kathleen Audbergen is the kind of painter that's going to be in the history books in another couple of generations. She's raking in the big bucks right now. Plus, not one of them has a Ford F-250, any color at all. Strinton's wife drives a black Viper. Kathleen Audbergen is listed as a widow. And Lloyd Granger's website says he's never married. To devote all his time to the family of God or something like that. So that's a dead end."

  "So, what do we do now?"

  "Now"—he produced a roll of papers from his back pocket—"we take these fliers about the funeral over to the Café and have some dinner." Apparently, dinner at home was off the table. "If Thelma Sue's there, we'll just tell her, and more people will find out that way than any flier."

  No doubt that was another eternal truth.

  I cleaned myself up, and we walked over to the Home Cooking Café since the weather had improved to dry, if not perfect. Thelma Sue was indeed there, with her bloated husband, and a roly-poly tween boy who I could only assume was Bubba Dick. Aodhagan filled her in about Penny's service and taped a few more fliers around the room.

  We had a few conversations with the concerned residents of Birdwell who had strong stomachs and were eating at the diner as well. From the reaction to our announcement, I expected everyone in three counties to be at Penny's funeral. Good for her. She had smoked too much, cussed too much, and kept too many secrets, but at least people had loved her. The same could never be said of me.