Walking the Bones

by Randall Silvis

  “I’ve developed an empathy for the sheriff,” DeMarco said. “I understand how he feels.”

  “Right,” Jayme said. “See you downstairs.”

  Ten minutes later they walked out into the searing heat together. “Sheriff is having his men look into Burl’s credit card purchases back in the nineties, see if any records still exist. Anything to put him in the towns where the girls disappeared. In the meantime he’s happy to let us get some intel on Burl from his employer. Even offered to deputize us.”

  “Yippee,” Jayme said.

  “I declined the honor,” DeMarco told her. “We have more freedom as civilians.”

  “Plus you can’t stand the idea of working for him.”

  “This is true,” DeMarco said. “But I do like his poonchkey.”

  ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE

  The millionaire chiropractor’s estate consisted of over eight hundred acres atop a bluff high above the West Fork of Mayfield Creek, a tributary of the Mississippi River. From the road along the creek, only the main house was visible, and, a hundred feet below it, the scarred cliffside of the quarry from which the massive sandstone building blocks had been carved. Jayme and DeMarco stood outside the car on the driver’s side, peering up at the building while sporadic traffic passed in both directions, every vehicle washing a warm, rumbling breeze over their faces.

  “When was it restored?” DeMarco asked.

  “I stopped spending full summers with Grandma when I was sixteen. So some time after that.”

  “The girls started disappearing in 1998.”

  A shiver ran down Jayme’s spine. She rubbed her arms.

  DeMarco said, “What do you know about the owner?”

  “Not much,” Jayme said. “I do know that he’s very reclusive. Almost nobody ever sees him. I remember Grandma mentioning that he got married several years after he moved in. Went away somewhere and came back with a wife. She has some kind of spinal condition and needs a wheelchair to get around. Supposedly—and this is just what Grandma heard; she never saw them herself—a few times every summer he drives down to the Dairy Queen with her riding in the backseat, and he buys a couple chocolate cones at the drive-through. That’s sweet, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” DeMarco said. “Any idea on his age?”

  “In his seventies probably.”

  DeMarco pulled out his cell phone and checked the time. “Four seventeen,” he said. “You think Burl gets off at four or at five?”

  “Depends. Does he work with the animals or just the buildings? I hear they have llamas and miniature goats and peacocks up there.”

  “A little Garden of Eden,” DeMarco said.

  “Don’t be jealous,” she teased.

  He said, “What’s the difference timewise? Between animals and buildings?”

  “I was just thinking the animals probably take more attention. Fed, watered… I don’t really know.”

  “Let’s wait until after five. I’d rather he doesn’t know yet that we’re poking around. How far is it to that Dairy Queen?”

  “If you’re thinking Rocky Road Brownie Blizzard, you’re thinking twelve hundred calories, babe. That’s twelve miles of jogging. Can you do that with a crutch?”

  “I’ve been piling up the miles lately.”

  “Motorized miles don’t count.”

  “I climbed a mountain,” he said. “Spent three days in the woods. Almost no food. Got shot at. Was nearly eaten by a wolf-dog. I’m running at a calorie deficit here. Eight thousand minimum.”

  “Oh boy,” she told him. “I’ll drive. You need to save your strength. Those plastic spoons are heavy.”

  ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR

  Jayme pressed the intercom button on the security gate a half mile from the main house. Four minutes earlier, parked within view of the private lane where it joined with the highway, they had watched Burl’s blue pickup truck emerge onto the highway and proceed toward Aberdeen. Now the intercom clicked and a woman’s voice said, “Yes? Hello?”

  “Hi,” Jayme said. “My name is Jayme Matson, and I’m here with Sergeant Ryan DeMarco. We’d like to get a few minutes with Dr. Friedl if we could.”

  “Is there something wrong?” the woman asked.

  “No, ma’am. We’re just gathering information about a case we’re working on.”

  “Oh,” the woman said. Then, a few seconds later, “William is out at his workshop, I think.”

  Jayme said, “We just have a few questions. It won’t take long. Would you mind giving him a call?”

  “He doesn’t carry a phone,” the woman said. “Stop at the house and I’ll give you directions.”

  “Thank you,” Jayme said. A moment later the security bar lifted.

  They drove slowly past an open field and pond, then a forest of red pine, then hardwoods on both sides of the asphalt lane. Then the land to the right of the lane began to slope downward, with the lane riding a low ridge above a barn and a corral with six llamas grazing. A side road attached to the lane led down to the front of the barn. Also visible spread out below were a long, narrow greenhouse, a smaller barn, and several other picturesque buildings of stone or red brick or plank, all relatively new and in a peculiar mix of architectural styles, including a small fortlike building, an aviary, a freestanding tower complete with gargoyles, a carriage house, a rose garden gazebo, a tiny chapel, and other unidentifiable buildings, all linked by a maze of flagstone paths and shrubbery.

  In front of the main house a wide circular drive enclosed a manicured lawn of low grass. To the right of the mouth of the circular drive was a paved parking area, empty but for a compact red coupe. The house, a three-story mansion made of polished sandstone blocks, sat just behind the drive, its white Roman columns and wide portico furnished with several wicker chairs in bold Caribbean colors. The nearest side of the house was bordered by a row of well-maintained rose bushes; a profusion of other bright varieties lined the front wall.

  Jayme pulled the car in beside the red coupe, slipped the gearshift into Park, and shut off the engine. DeMarco continued to look in the direction of the small woman in an electronic wheelchair waiting underneath the portico’s vaulted roof.

  He said, trying not to move his lips, “She’s black. You didn’t tell me she’s black. Is he?”

  “I didn’t know,” Jayme said. “And no, I don’t think he is.”

  They both climbed out smiling. He left the cane in the car, and moved gingerly at first, left leg still stiff, still wrapped tightly from ankle to above the knee.

  Mrs. Friedl watched with her eyebrows knitted in puzzlement. DeMarco guessed her height at maybe five two, weight not more than a hundred pounds. Only her face showed her age, which he guessed at early forties. Her skin was a light-caramel color, hair raven black and cut short in ragged bangs over her eyes. She sat crookedly in her wheelchair, a small protrusion visible at the top of her spine.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here,” she said. “I probably should have asked for some kind of identification.”

  They showed her their state police credentials. She said, “From Pennsylvania?”

  Jayme said, “We’re working with the local state police and the county sheriff’s department.”

  She blinked once at Jayme, once at DeMarco, her small hands resting on the wheelchair’s armrests, thin legs and feet motionless.

  She gave a little nod toward his injured leg. “Are you okay to walk?”

  He smiled. “Just not in a straight line.”

  She returned his smile. “If you follow that path,” she said, and pointed to her right, “the workshop is the third building. I expect he’s there, but you might have to search for him some.”

  “Thank you,” DeMarco said.

  As he walked away, Jayme said, “Would it be all right if you and I spoke for a few minutes?”

  “If
you’d like,” the woman said. “Would you prefer we go inside?”

  “It’s lovely here,” Jayme said. “I can smell the roses. Would it be okay if I sit in one of those chairs?”

  “That’s fine,” the woman said.

  Once Jayme was seated and the woman had maneuvered her wheelchair to face her, Jayme said, “I understand that Todd Burl is an employee of yours.”

  “He left here not ten minutes ago,” the woman said.

  Jayme nodded. “What can you tell me about him? His demeanor? General personality? What kind of relationship do you have with him?”

  “I don’t have many dealings with him myself. He works outside the house.”

  “But you’ve had occasion over the years to form an impression, am I right?”

  The woman cocked her head a little, appeared uncomfortable. “You should probably speak to my husband about him.”

  “Sergeant DeMarco will be doing that. I’d love to hear your opinion.”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “I really can’t discuss that right now,” Jayme said, smiling as always. “How about if we start with you telling me what his duties are here?”

  Mrs. Friedl looked away and seemed to be staring at a spot on the grass inside the circular drive. Her brow remained furrowed.

  When the screen door to their right suddenly opened, both Mrs. Friedl and Jayme flinched.

  Out stepped a young woman in her early twenties. Jayme sized her up at a glance: faded blue jeans and T-shirt, five eight, sturdy, brown hair pulled into a short ponytail held in place with an elastic band. She looked briefly at Jayme, then to Mrs. Friedl.

  “I’m sorry, Dee; I don’t mean to interrupt,” the young woman said.

  “It’s fine,” Mrs. Friedl said. “Are you leaving now?”

  The young woman nodded. “I finished the laundry and started up the dishwasher. You’re getting low on almond milk and English muffins.”

  “Would you mind picking up a bunch of fresh basil too? William wants to make pesto tomorrow night.”

  “Will do,” the young woman said and, with a quick smile, headed toward the red coupe.

  Jayme waited until the young woman was inside the car and pulling away. “One of your employees?” she asked.

  Mrs. Friedl nodded. “Susan. Comes by for a couple hours every afternoon. Such a sweet girl. She’s putting herself through college. Her home life is…not ideal.”

  Jayme nodded. “So your first name is Dee?”

  “Diamond. But, in my husband’s words, diamonds are hard. He started calling me Dee right from the start. I’ve grown used to it. Prefer it, actually.”

  Jayme smiled. “It’s such a big, beautiful place you have here. It must take a lot of people to maintain it.”

  “Not so many as you’d think,” Mrs. Friedl said. “We try to keep it to a minimum. Most are part-time.”

  “Except for Mr. Burl?” Jayme said.

  Again Mrs. Friedl paused, and looked into the near distance. “He’s the grounds supervisor,” she said. “His job is to make sure everything’s as it should be. He tends to the animals, supervises the gardener and any of the building crews we hire. If something goes wrong in one of the outbuildings, he either fixes it or hires a specialist to do it.”

  “And are you happy with his work?”

  Another pause. “My husband seems to be.”

  “Am I wrong,” Jayme said, “or do I detect a certain discomfort when you talk about him? Is it fair to say you aren’t exactly fond of him?”

  The woman took a long time forming her answer. “He’s…” she said, then stopped. “I don’t like speaking ill of anyone. Especially when they’re just feelings I have. Nothing concrete.”

  “It’s your feelings I’m interested in,” Jayme said.

  “He has a certain…air about him,” Mrs. Friedl said. “Proprietary, I think is the word.”

  “In what way?” Jayme asked.

  “I often feel unwelcome in his presence. As if this is his home, and I am a visitor here. An intruder. He and William have lunch out here sometimes. I’ve learned not to join them. He makes me…anxious.”

  “I understand what you mean. I met him once. Very briefly.”

  “And you had the same feeling?”

  “I did.”

  “I once made the mistake of rolling up close to the flowers after a rain. The man barked at me. He literally shouted at me that I was damaging the sod. Of course he apologized profusely as soon as he heard himself. Begged my forgiveness. But I’ve felt ever since that the incident gave me a glimpse into the real man.”

  “Did you mention it to your husband?”

  The woman shook her head. “Around William, he’s always nodding and agreeing, no matter what William says. Too much, do you know what I mean? Too agreeable. William doesn’t see it.”

  “They have a close relationship?”

  “I suppose,” she said. “Mr. Burl was already here when I came, so I hate to say anything about him to William. But sometimes I get the feeling he’s been in the house. Without William, I mean.”

  “What do you think he would be doing in there?”

  “I try not to think about that.” The woman gazed down the path toward her husband’s workshop.

  “William is very susceptible to flattery,” she said a few moments later. “Everywhere he goes, people ask him for a contribution to something. I can’t tell you how much he’s given away. Even our accountant has told him—he has to be more careful with who he trusts.”

  “He has a reputation for being quite the philanthropist.”

  “Half the time, he doesn’t even know where the money is going. He just loves the praise. He says he was a very homely child, didn’t have any friends. I just worry that Mr. Burl is taking advantage of him.”

  “I can see how that would be a concern,” Jayme said. “How long have you been married?”

  “Thirteen years this May.”

  The spring of 2005, Jayme thought, then said, with a teasing smile, “You must have been a child.”

  A soft laugh. “There is a significant age difference,” she said. “But not to me. I was twenty-seven.”

  And now Jayme waited. Would she reveal more? She did not seem the kind of woman who would choose a reclusive, isolated life, but one who’d had it thrust upon her.

  She spoke while studying her fingernails, which were perfectly manicured and painted white. “For some people it was scandalous, marrying a man past sixty. But I used to tell them, ride a mile in my wheelchair, and then you can judge.”

  Still Jayme said nothing.

  “I haven’t walked since my teens. William was the first man to treat me like a human being. Like a woman. He means everything to me. I don’t like it when people take advantage of him. He had a difficult childhood too.”

  “Really?” Jayme said.

  “Not poor, like mine; his family was well-to-do. But he was a big child, awkward, clumsy, didn’t care for sports. Not handsome in the traditional sense. But he’s beautiful to me.”

  “And you think Mr. Burl takes advantage of him?”

  “Did you see the animals on your way in?”

  “Yes.”

  “His idea. Several of the buildings and other projects too. And of course William just writes out the checks, no questions asked. And some of the prices are outrageous.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Jayme said. “What do you know about Mr. Burl’s family life?”

  “I know he’s married. Two little girls. I haven’t met any of them. William and I don’t socialize much at all.”

  “Is your family local?” Jayme asked.

  “My family? I’m an only child. My father…chose to move on, well before I married. My mother comes to visit at Christmas each year. She still lives in Mobile. That’s where W
illiam and I met. I was his patient.” She smiled proudly. “And now I’m his only patient. I don’t know what I’d do without him. What a godsend he’s been.”

  ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FIVE

  As DeMarco approached the first building along the path, a long, red-brick stable-like construction, he glanced back over his shoulder, saw Jayme taking a seat under the portico, Mrs. Friedl moving in her wheelchair to follow her. He stepped quickly to his left and crossed along the side of the building, his movements hidden now behind the shrubbery. The air was sweet with the scent of greenery and flowers. Off in the distance, a peacock cried three times in a row, a sound that struck DeMarco as eerily similar to a woman screaming, “Owww! Owww! Owww!”

  The building was dark through dusty windows, but with hands cupped around his eyes he could make out a half-dozen vintage automobiles lined up in a row—long, wide, tail-finned cars from the fifties and sixties.

  The second building, twenty feet beyond a long, cantilevered pergola festooned with vines and leaves and clusters of fat, blue-black grapes, was a large windowless shed on a concrete pad. The front door was held closed by a small combination lock. Tracks similar to those made by a garden tractor led off the pad and into the grass. Day-old tread marks of crushed, browning grass lay in relief atop the concrete.

  Beyond this building stood a wooden Dutch barn large enough to house two school busses parked side by side, the double doors wide open, soft music breezing out, a snare drum and trumpets, Bobby Darin singing about Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown. A red golf cart was parked near the open doors.

  DeMarco crept up to the barn and peeked inside. The front half of the building was empty, nothing but an oak plank floor and the scent of fresh sawdust. A pair of sawhorses against one wall, a push broom and dustpan against the other. In the rear half of the room stood a long sturdy table underneath a fluorescent light. A scroll saw was bolted to one end of the table, a table saw at the other, and several tools scattered in between. On a shelf along the window were laid out several pieces of cut lumber in various sizes, plus a portable stereo tuned to an oldies station, the antenna leaning against the window.