River Bones (Sara Mason Mysteries Book 1)

by Mary Deal

  “I'll stay in Walnut Grove. Fredrik can take you home, can't he?”

  “Hey, maybe we can ride in ET's Jag,” Daphine said, animated and dancing around.

  Sara backed her SUV in to load the pet carriers. Tripp suddenly appeared from behind the garage. His long-sleeved white shirt and jeans were clean and pressed. Sara wondered why he wore long sleeves considering the hot sticky climate of the day.

  “Can I help you, Miss Sara?”

  Chills ran down Sara's spine. She felt repulsed. What could Tripp be doing back there in that narrow space between the garage and the tall evergreen hedge? It would be only a few steps back to his cabin if he urgently had to pee. She had no choice but to be cordial. “Thank you,” she said, allowing Tripp to lift the large containers.

  “Been meaning to ask,” he said. “You'll be needing someone to tend your yards. I could use some extra work, and… and I already know the property.”

  The least he could do was look hopeful. His ulterior motive showed through his all-too-congenial demeanor. She needed to think of some way to get the point across nicely that she had no interest in seeing him on a personal basis. With his menacing stare, saying the wrong thing just might set him off again.

  Pierce hobbled over in the nick of time, not walking too badly, but ready to leave. “You grow some of the heartiest flowers I've ever seen,” he said to Tripp as he offered his hand.

  Tripp did not offer his hand in return and nearly fell backwards over himself trying to leave. Was he that jealous? Sara wondered what he might do if he knew someone else had captured her heart.

  Chapter 41

  “Is nothing sacred anymore?” Sara asked.

  “'Course they'd print it,” Daphine said. She hung a new painting on the shop wall and then repositioned the lighting. “People knew that cat's neck would be wrung.”

  Sara couldn't remember ever having the habit of buying newspapers. Now it seemed she scanned them daily. One article reported that a farmer named Fletcher Grable wore size sixteen boots. “How did they find that out?”

  “Probably from other farmers who'd like to see him lose his land.”

  “They wouldn't do that, would they? Doesn't he own large patches out on Ryer Island?”

  “Patches, yes, here and there from the Howard Landing Ferry back to Miner Slough.”

  “And the bigger landowners want to buy off his small fields?”

  “Yeah, and because of that, he's sometimes offensive, but he's never hurt anyone.”

  “With size sixteen shoes, he must be one big guy.”

  “You mean with hands strong enough to snap a hyoid?” Daphine asked. “Says here the police interviewed him.”

  “Read that already,” Sara said. “He gave a worn out pair of wading boots to a church rummage sale. Someone at the church remembers them because they were so big.” She continued to read quietly.

  It was the church's practice to allow shoppers to fill a large grocery bag with as much as could be stuffed into it. Each bagful cost a dollar. Anyone could have purchased the boots. Fletcher Grable was not considered a suspect.

  A small article at the bottom of the page said:

  Twenty-seven year old John Glosser from Fair Oaks, a suburb of Sacramento, was declared missing yesterday. His family did not notify authorities for several days because Glosser fished along the American River and sometimes camped out over weekends. Once found, his campsite showed no signs of foul play. Authorities believe he might have fallen into the sometimes raging currents of the American River and been washed away. Rescuers continue to search downstream.

  #

  Pierce released his live-in nurse. He spent the Labor Day weekend visiting backyard picnics around Clampett Tract. Daphine spent time at her shop neurotically rotating art pieces. Esmerelda's time was taken with two new patients requiring admission and logistics.

  Sara remained sequestered at the Alden's working on the computer. Unable to get the man out of her mind, she clicked into the MIA Web site where she first learned about Betty Talbot. She ran a search for Huxley Keane.

  “Got him!” she said, coming up out of her chair. His name popped up highlighted beside a photo of him with his brother in younger years. Sara read nonstop, totally unaware how much time had passed. Her suspicions had been confirmed.

  Huxley's brother was a member of the same group of prisoners that included Betty Talbot. They died in the jungle in Vietnam. Since the war ended, Huxley devoted his life to searching for his brother's remains. Surely, he was helping Esmerelda as well. He had written numerous articles and updates on the problems encountered, including governmental and geographic extremes. His efforts attracted the support of influential people.

  Sara forced herself back to work. The two computer programs she started just after returning to the Delta were nearly finished. She returned to Talbot House during the daytime to upload the programs into the larger computer to verify they were actually what she was wanted to produce. The buyers of the programs would, indeed, be surprised. Her marketing manager had practically sealed the deal with the company that purchased her first two games. If they didn't like the new ones, Sara's obligation to them was not binding. Another company waited impatiently to have a crack at the huge revenue potential that could be realized during the wake of Star and Black Hole.

  Though the carpenters' strike was long over, many smaller companies had been forced out of business. Unemployed skilled workers looking to make a buck were plentiful. Sara's contractor chose to use Delta employees first. With the availability of laborers, finally, work progressed rapidly. Walls were moved or new ones built to accommodate three bathrooms, and for the upgrading of electrical wiring and plumbing. Larger closets were installed, unfortunately claiming some space in each bedroom. The interior of Talbot House was a mess, a situation only she appreciated. Out on the front lawn, the rebar and concrete footings for the gazebo stood curing in the hot sun.

  That afternoon, Sara shopped for imported foods from a deli in Sacramento. Finally returning, as she neared the Clampett Tract house, the green Jaguar had backed out. It turned and parked at the curb while Sara pulled into the driveway.

  Esmerelda climbed out from behind the wheel. “Well, I can still drive,” she said, calling out across the yard.

  “I wish I knew you were coming,” Sara said. “You could've come to Talbot House to see the progress.”

  Esmerelda opened the passenger door and Mimie jumped out, her fluffy tail all a-blur.

  “Where are the pups?”

  “In Sacramento.” Esmerelda flicked her eyebrows and looked disappointed.

  “That couple's house can't be anywhere near finished.”

  “I convinced them to take the pups before they got too old.” Esmerelda shrugged, again showing disappointment. “Besides, Fredrik's family is staying at least another month and I'm up to my ears.”

  “Are the pups adjusting?”

  “They're being kept at the girl's parents' home, since the kids are still in their apartment.”

  “That doesn't sound too bad.”

  “I shouldn't have pushed,” Esmerelda said. “The parents don't know the first thing about pit bulls. They're letting them run loose in the back yard. Their neighbors have already called the police to complain about the barking.”

  “These dogs were supposed to be exposed to people,” Sara said doubtfully. “Guess they're meeting their share.”

  “I'll be glad when Fredrik gets back. His absence has forced me back to work.” She joked, being absurd.

  “Hope he's able to show his family a good time.”

  “Ha! You know what they're doing? First, they went up to pan for gold. And get this. His parents are my age. They're sturdy Swedes, you know? They spent a few days tubing down the American River.”

  “That's pretty rigorous.”

  “They love it, even camped out on the riverbank for a week. They really enjoy roughing it.”

  “The American River?” Sara asked. “Why would anyo
ne camp out there with the investigation of that missing Fair Oaks man still going on?” Sara held the front door open as Esmerelda and Mimie entered. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

  “How's it working out with Pierce?”

  “The nurse started him walking a lot before he let her go. He's more robust now.”

  “It's this house, thanks to you, Sara. I understand from Daphine that he needed the change.”

  “He started a new book, about this recent experience.” Nothing is wrong with the man's mind.

  Esmerelda glanced around quickly and would have walked herself through the house to take a peek, but Mimie began to bark louder than normal. That was not at all like Mimie.

  Sara looked out the open doorway, thinking someone may be coming up the sidewalk, but saw no one. Mimie continued to dance around and bark at the wall.

  “Shush, la Jolie!” Esmerelda said, taking hold of Mimie's collar and making her sit. Then Esmerelda looked straight up at the dream drawing and froze. “Where did you get that?” she asked, screeching as her chest rose and fell as she gasped. “How did you know?”

  Mimie continued to bark.

  “Know what?”

  “How do you know what Orson looked like?” Esmerelda moved closer and touched the glass covering the eye area. Her hand trembled.

  “That's not Orson,” Sara said. “I told Daphine about the dream I was having. I told you about that. Daphine came up with this sketch. As much as I see in the dream, that is. I'm surprised that Daphine could—”

  “It's Orson! Those are my husband's eyes, I tell you. Right down to the star at the corner of that eye.” She pointed. “Right there.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sara remembered the photo on Esmerelda's sideboard. Orson had seemed very thin.

  “Those droopy eyes, and high forehead. A bushy shock of hair protruding at each temple.” Esmerelda caught her breath and couldn't stop looking at the drawing. “As Orson aged, his face filled out and he got real wrinkled around his eyes. Had those bags underneath there too.” She fumbled around inside her purse, then stopped and pointed to the corner of an eye in the drawing. “The star.”

  “They're just age lines that I see in my dream. I'm sure Daph wouldn't draw your husband just to satisfy my curiosity about the dream.”

  Esmerelda finally found the wallet in her bag and produced a photo of her husband. “See there,” she said, pointing to the corner of Orson's eye. “Now look at your drawing.”

  Sara rocked back on her heels when she realized Daphine's drawing contained eyes identical to the photo Esmerelda held. The crow's feet contained the same cross lines forming a starburst.

  Coins fell from the wallet as Esmerelda nearly lost her grip. Her eyes went wild again. “That's him! What's he pointing at?”

  “I honestly don't know. That's all I ever see.”

  “My Orson was left-handed. He's pointing with his left hand. That's my husband.”

  “I don't understand,” Sara said. But strange occurrences only served to goad her interest. “I've been seeing this man in my dreams since… since—”

  “When?”

  She shook her head and thought a moment. “Since I went to a voodoo ceremony in Jamaica for Christmas. 1995, I think it was.”

  “Oh!” Esmerelda said. She groped her way to the sofa and sat down and covered her mouth with her hand as tears fell. Finally, she said, “Orson went missing in November of 1995. I told you that, remember?”

  Chapter 42

  A splendid Indian summer permeated the Delta and that meant good working days for the contractors before the weather chilled. It was the middle of September and the workers had made phenomenal progress.

  Sara peeked into the room that served as her bedroom-office during the intermittent periods she lived at Talbot House. A canvas drop cloth covered the floor. Her electronic equipment remained securely covered with blankets and plastic sheeting.

  Starla's photos had been removed from the wall and lay face down on the tarp covering the bed. “Oh, yes! No yellows for me,” Sara said as she realized the walls were already painted. The color was a shade of soft white that reflected hints of lavender, blue, and pink. Then she realized that her computer desk and furnishings had been moved away from the wall.

  The contractor poked his head in. “I have crews with different skills working at full capacity on every inch of this house.” He kicked back the edge of the drop cloth exposing hardwood floors beautifully restored.

  After joyfully thanking him and shaking his hand, she asked, “You finished only this room?”

  “I figured we'd better finish off this room since you'd be coming back soon. The floor crew is up in your attic right now. Big job up there.” They walked from room to room through sawdust, loose boards, and scattered tools. “We had to tear out more walls to facilitate bringing the plumbing and wiring up to code. That heating system too.”

  “What are you saying? The wiring… my alarm system is in?”

  “Up and running. But the walls—”

  “Never mind the walls. You build 'em. I'm moving back.”

  Two days later, Sara drove toward Talbot House with a load of her possessions. Buck followed in his pickup filled with storage boxes. Another friend in a flatbed truck, with a tied down load of the few pieces of new furniture she recently purchased, brought up the rear of the caravan. They carried the few possessions that presently meant anything to her. She had given away everything she owned before leaving Puerto Rico. Her present belongings would be stored under a tarp in the basement.

  Buck climbed out of his truck, stretched, and looked up at the massive structure, encased in scaffolding. “I still don't think this is—”

  “No maniac off his hinges,” Sara said, cutting him off, “and no ghost will scare me away now.”

  “That idiot who means to do you might have all of his hinges loose,” Buck said.

  Sara watched as exterior walls of the upper floors were stripped of shingles that clattered to the ground and sent up clouds of dust. The shingles would be replaced. On the outside, the house would look like the replica that it was.

  “Fletcher Grable, the guy with the big boots.” Buck said. “He once owned that farmland out at Stone Lake South, where remains were found. He also just happened to know that Rowe woman who worked in a convenience store—whose remains they recently IDed.”

  “No kidding. What else does the rumor mill say?”

  “He sold the property at a steal to a bargain hunter. Why would he do that?”

  “How well did he know Paula Rowe?”

  “Grable can't remember where he was when she went missing. Too long ago.”

  “Sounds like they need to investigate him.” The information also sounded as vague as any other clues the rumor mill kept alive.

  “Sara, no one really knows who, that is, you can't be alone—“

  “Hey, check out the new glass.” She had heard enough. The new burglar alarm would assure her safety.

  “You're replacing all the windows too?” Buck asked.

  “Actually, the glass was fine,” Sara said. “But the wood frames were dry-rotted.”

  Buck helped carry the last of the smaller boxes into her workspace. After poking through the house and talking to some of the workers, most of whom he knew, Sara heard the crunch of gravel as his tires climbed to the levee.

  She closed the office door as activities and noise of the workers continued. After hanging her clothes in the closet and filling the dresser drawers, she opened the last shoebox and stared at the Smith and Wesson. “What has life come to?” she asked, mumbling. She glanced around the room, deciding to store it in the top drawer of her dresser. Inside the drawer, the butt sticking out of the polished leather holster, surrounded by delicate lace underwear, was something she would expect to see on a James Bond poster. She grimaced and pushed the gun beneath the underclothes.

  What if she had to retrieve it quickly? If ever a case presented itself where she needed to g
rab it in a hurry, it being buttoned down inside the holster would be a detriment. She removed the gun from the holster, loaded it, and laid it, again, on the top of the clothes. She stepped back and then rushed toward the dresser, enacting how she might grasp it quickly. Satisfied, she covered the holster and box of bullets with her half-slips and the pistol with her lace panties. Now she felt ready for anything.

  Chapter 43

  Tearing down the workshop became too big an issue. Sara walked the area with a woman demolitions expert, pleased that women, especially, had the opportunity to do any kind of work they so desired. More and more women now worked on Talbot House.

  “All the exterior work needs to be finished before the weather turns cold,” she said to the muscular young woman in a hard hat. “Including getting rid of this.” She gestured toward the workshop.

  “What would look good in its place,” the woman said, “would be a covered arbor between the garage and the house.”

  The woman echoed some of Sara's earlier thoughts about the expanse. She nodded in agreement. “A broad trellis covered with lavender wisteria would make a nice gateway to the rest of the grounds.”

  “I used to know the Talbots,” one of the workmen standing nearby said. “My wife and I bought our wedding bands from him. Got to know them both.” He shook his head and stared at the ground. “Was sad, what happened.”

  “If you knew them, then you know it will break Esmerelda's heart to see the workshop go,” Sara said. She just didn't need it, but Esmerelda's feelings were important enough to consider. “I've agonized over it for days.” She decided that any memory of Orson Talbot was in the basement, the only place he worked on his jewelry. The workshop was his idea but he had never had a chance to use it. He hadn't even built it. Esmerelda felt closest to her husband in the workshop, but if the man in Sara's dreams was really Orson, and if he was the spirit haunting the house, then he wasn't associating himself with the workshop. “I've made my decision,” she said, throwing up both hands. “Tear it down.”