Riddle in Bones: An Abishag’s Third Mystery (The Abishag Mysteries)

by Michelle Knowlden

  I stared at the mango relish sulkily. “I know I ask…”

  “You ask very time. No, Les, he’s not waking up. He has little time left.”

  “Does the doctor think he could live longer than a few weeks?” I might have whined just then like Donovan, but my senior year at UCLA started at the end of September. Only seven weeks from now. I felt ashamed of myself, glancing at the man lying so still just a few feet away. As an academic, he would understand.

  “Whatever happens, we’ll figure something out,” Dog said. Affection washed over me. He and Kat had literally followed me to death twice before. Now they had committed to a third time.

  “We’ll figure something out, yes, but you’re in medical school and can’t start late.” I waved off his response. “You’re right. Let’s not worry about it now. I’m glad Henry’s not fading fast. He should have comfort his last days.”

  “I’ll talk to Kat…”

  I shook my head. “I’m serious, Dog. We’ve seven weeks to help Henry, so let’s not talk about it for at least a month. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said dubiously.

  Inspired, I added, “You and Kat should see a movie in Palm Springs tonight. My treat. If you both behave yourself with Donovan.”

  “She’s been in the car all afternoon,” he grumbled. “No way will she want to get back into a car again.”

  Too late, I remembered that I hadn’t told Kat what cover story I’d invented for her disappearance. Oh well, they would work it out.

  “Try her,” I said. “She may want some alone time with you.”

  He nodded but waited till he was nearly out the door before adding, “Being nice to Reid is impossible. Sorry.”

  Poor Donovan. At least I could count on Dèsirèe to treat him well.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After I finished dinner, I laid the tray in the hall, knowing that magic, in the guise of the French girl, would sweep it away before she left. Down the hall, I heard the rumble of Sebastian’s voice fading in and out. “That’s what the vet said…little possibility it’s congenital or developmental dysplasia…usually due to femurs being of different sizes or…suggests checking terrain…ask Elaine to contact a local farrier or the blacksmith for mule shoes, could be…” Someone started the dishwasher, and I heard no more.

  I pulled up a chair, leaned close to Henry, and extracted his last fall’s Frauds, Fakes, and Forgeries seminar tests from my computer bag under his bed.

  I pulled out Sebastian’s first and read it to Henry, marveling at both the quirky intelligence of the questions and Sebastian’s response in the same vein. I didn’t understand half of what he said, but I found beauty in the logic of his answers. For the meta-portion of the test, he had surmised from the seminar title that none of the samples were true: that one was a fraud, one was a fake, and one was a forgery.

  Doc T had only commented “Interesting!” next to Sebastian’s suggestion that none were true artifacts but each an example of the seminar’s themes. I suspected Sebastian had been correct which made the test both interesting and true to the course’s curriculum.

  Although none of the students had been allowed physical contact with the samples, they could suggest tests to determine the accuracy of their suppositions. Sebastian detailed why he predicted that the saint’s heel bone was a fraud, the twisted finger a fake, and the burnt femur a forgery. Reading his answer about the femur out loud made me ponder my dream of Henry holding the sparking femur like a sorcerer.

  I slipped my hand into his and told him about the dream. Only half joking, I asked, “What spells will you cast tonight?” Only the shell of Doc T remained, and it seemed light as air and fairy dust.

  By the light of his medical monitors and still holding Henry’s hand, I read Sebastian’s “proof” that the femur was a forgery. He’d found a journal entry about a burnt femur from an Alpine skeleton. The article’s photo matched the shoebox bone splinter by splinter, scorch mark by scorch mark. Since the original was displayed in a Glasgow museum and authenticated, then the shoebox femur had to be a forgery. The red ink next to the proof declared, “Well played, Sebastian.” Almost an admission that he had nailed it.

  I kissed Henry lightly and patted his hand as I released it. “Now let’s analyze the paper that upset you, husband. You can’t die without us discovering why, okay?”

  After trading Sebastian’s test for Chris Mayfield’s, I leaned back in the spindly chair, one bare foot hooked into the medical bed’s undercarriage for support. Fortuitous, because the chair wobbled dangerously when I discovered what had pole-axed Henry last fall.

  Mayfield’s answer about the femur didn’t cause me to quake. He maintained that the femur was a true artifact. His research into alpine skeletons excavated in the Inner Hebrides detailed how they matched the burn marks. He hadn’t considered forgery, as “counterfeiting an obscure, but readily available artifact was ridiculous.” Doc T had been kind in his comments and gave him almost full marks.

  Nor did his answer about the finger cause a quiver. Like Sebastian, he called it a fake. Figuring that a present day finger bone with a common sports injury had been used, Mayfield included methods for aging the bone and altering its mineral profile to mimic a 14th century, central Mexican environment. Presto—one authentic Aztec fake finger bone.

  Which left the heel bone of the Estonian saint. Again like Sebastian, Mayfield had also stated that the artifact was a forgery, but then his response had been shocking in the minute reasons why it was: bizarre, intimate details.

  He explained that the heel bone had been used to unmask an adulterer. Chris Mayfield laid the groundwork, stating that the Estonian saint was one Virokanas, known for his prophecies against village philanderers. Eventually the saint was martyred for his earnest work for preserving the sanctity of marriage, but the dead saint’s efforts didn’t end with his death. When any adulterer approached his churchyard grave, the buried bones would shriek his infidelity to all.

  Eventually the harried villagers dug up his bones. While none felt destroying the relics a redeemable solution, sending the bones to the ends of the empire might do the trick.

  The saint had the last word or, I should say, the last verse. Any bone handled by an adulterer would be permanently imprinted with Sir99 or, as more accurately invoked today, Sirach 9:9. Jewish canon and most Protestant bibles didn’t include the book of proverbs by Joshua ben Sirach, a Jewish scribe. Mayfield found it in the Roman Catholic Old Testament.

  I read the verse silently, the paper rattling in my shaking hand.

  With a married woman dine not, / Recline not at table to drink by her side, / Lest your heart be drawn to her / and you go down in blood to the grave.

  I stared aghast at Henry. Is this what your Guinevere cost you? Death? Doc T left no comments on Mayfield’s heel bone answer. Only a gaping, white silence.

  I had been right after all. In a twisted way, so had Kat. Love, forgery, and a bullet had sent Henry Telemann the long way to his grave.

  The large, bronze wall clock ticked towards midnight, late to begin my duty as Henry’s bed warmer. Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I rounded Henry’s bed and slipped in behind him wearing the satin kimono. He felt dry and as light as an empty tent. I rested against him, his heartbeat against my cheek, uniquely Henry in its self-effacing thrumming.

  We were in the bloody aftermath of Henry’s Camelot, the story ending in parts, continuing in others. While still considering Mayfield’s test answers, I sang all of The Seven Deadly Virtues and Fie On Goodness! before I realized it. I quickly switched to Guenevere. Though it too was of wretched content—all talk of executions—I sang it over and over till it became a meaningless but companionable hum in the room.

  I really did have an awful catalog of music in my head.

  We continued through the night till the bronze clock’s hands edged towards six. Dawn light filtered pinkly through the heavy shutters, and I become convinced of two things….

  We had to talk to
Chris Mayfield and locate Frankie DiToro.

  * * *

  Yawning and his hair mussed, Dog relieved me at six and handed me a welcome cup of coffee. As I’d done the day before, I changed into my bathing suit, grabbed a beach towel and the coffee, and headed for the pool. Although early, the patio thermometer read in the 90s. Swimming laps in the cool water cleared my head. From a lounge chair afterwards, I watched the pink dawn evaporate and sipped coffee.

  Back in the house, I found Kat studying the contents of the fridge morosely.

  “I have a plan.” I looked furtively around the kitchen.

  “Goody.” She pulled out a pitcher of orange juice and set it on the counter.

  Usually at full boil, this morning she seemed barely simmering. I didn’t pick up on any physical cues, so I asked cautiously, “Are you sick?”

  “No.” She pulled a stool out, scraping it across the slate floor, and sat carefully, wincing painfully.

  “Hurt?”

  “Some.”

  I paused. Social strictures about allowable health questions hampered one, but Kat assured me that she would always answer mine. “Friends do that,” she’d said.

  I found bowls of Greek yoghurt and fruit in the fridge. She laid her head down on the counter as I passed her a bowl and spoon.

  Instead of asking her if she’d injured her tailbone, I left it to the more general. “What happened?”

  Sitting up, she picked a blackberry from the bowl. “We saw a movie last night.”

  Usually a safe thing to do, but leave it to Kat to make a contact sport of it.

  She sighed heavily. “Donovan insisted on going.”

  Foreboding electrified me. “Did you kill him?”

  She muttered under her breath, “He asked Dèsirèe to join us.”

  That surprised me. I know he had been taken with the French girl yesterday, but he wouldn’t normally include someone in the service industry. Donovan was very class conscious. I worried that Dèsirèe misunderstood his kindness for something else. “Did she quit?”

  Kat shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “She very nicely declined his invitation. Sebastian dropped her at the bus stop and met us at the theater.”

  Avoiding my gaze, she told the Greek yoghurt, “There was an incident, a fight.”

  Thinking of Henry and the shooting, I felt the blood drain from my face. “Was anyone shot?”

  A look of remorse crossed her face. “Sorry, Les, I forgot about our PTSD. It wasn’t that kind of fight. A couple of punches thrown, but no guns, no blood.”

  “Someone hit you?” Okay, I know I didn’t really believe in the honor of men or that anyone actually lived by the code of knights, but which of our men would actually strike a woman?

  “Did Donovan hit you?” I sounded furious. Surprised too. He was the least physical man I knew.

  She shook her head. “I slipped on the floor and landed on my butt.” She grimaced.

  “Were you…?”

  “After I hit Donovan.”

  Rendered speechless for a moment, I finally choked out, “Why?”

  “Sebastian took exception to something Donovan said and asked him politely to retract it. Donovan said something worse, so Sebastian started for him. I got to Donovan first and slugged him.”

  She studied her hand ruefully, and I saw Dog’s handiwork with band-aids on her knuckles. “Dog didn’t stop you?”

  Her lips twitched. “I was a force to be reckoned with.” Her grin widened. “And he was getting popcorn at the time.”

  “This happened in the theater?”

  “In the lobby. They asked us to leave. We don’t need to talk about this anymore. I’m only telling you so when you see Donovan’s black eye…”

  “You gave him a black eye?” I couldn’t seem to take this in. This is what happens when you introduce a French girl to impressionable American boys.

  She said firmly, “I’m only telling you, because Donovan will probably be sensitive about the black eye.”

  I hoped Dèsirèe would be pleased she had caused such a fracas. For pity sake, we had poor Henry dying down the hall, and lawyers and students engaging in public displays of fisticuffs.

  “This can’t happen again,” I said firmly. “I appreciate you hitting Donovan rather than Sebastian as I’m sure he would have done more damage, but…”

  “Not why I hit him,” Kat said with satisfaction. “If you strike a lawyer, you can expect to get sued. Sebastian’s got zillions in his trust fund, and I’ve got nothing. And no way does Sebastian hit harder than me.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “I don’t understand why anyone had to hit anyone, but whatever. It won’t happen again, right?”

  Spooning yoghurt and fruit into a bowl, she mumbled something.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Now to the case. I read the tests. We gotta talk to Chris Mayfield.”

  “Done,” she said promptly. “He’s coming for lunch. I arranged for Sebastian to be sitting with Henry while Dog tracks down some solvents I need.” She grinned wickedly. “Won’t be easy to find a store open on an August Sunday in Palm Springs.”

  “Good,” I said. “We also need to interview Frankie DiToro too.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think…”

  “The police are looking into him. He’s the only one left who knows what happened when Jennifer’s husband was shot in Idaho.”

  “Look, that shooting happened too long ago to matter now, but I figured you’d say so, so I tracked him to Indian Wells. His appearance in town at the same time the professor was shot seemed suspicious to the police too. He’s been ordered not to leave till told otherwise. He’s registered at a resort not far from here.”

  I rubbed my eyes, overwhelmed with all that needed to be done today: talk to Chris Mayfield about the saint’s heel bone and to Frankie DiToro about the Idaho shooting 20 years ago, check on Donovan and his black eye, talk to Sebastian about fighting with Donovan over the French girl, and sit with my dying husband.

  An Abishag wife can juggle many things. We could surely work out who shot Henry Telemann by day’s end.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Reluctantly, Kat agreed to the strategy I outlined for finding the shooter. Not reluctant to do the detective work, not Kat. Nor reluctant to schedule Doctor DiToro when the others weren’t around. Although she didn’t consider Frankie a credible suspect, she lived to interrogate.

  She did not want to call Donovan to ask him to stop by this evening so I could do some relationship mending. At first she laughed at the idea that I could do a mediation. When she saw I was serious, she turned sullen. She only agreed when I threatened to call Donovan myself. I thought about doing it anyway, but we both knew the strictures about an Abishag wife talking to a single man. Especially when they had a personal relationship, past tense. Maybe future tense. An awkward situation for an Abishag wife.

  I told her to invite him to tea this afternoon and to wake me when Dèsirèe arrived. I’d talk to Dèsirèe about preparing something for the meeting since the French girl’s food seemed to soothe Donovan. We needed to discuss a lunch menu with Chris Mayfield attending and maybe something later for Frankie DiToro too. That sounded like a lot to ask her to do above her regular duties, but Dèsirèe was responsible for two guys fighting over her.

  Besides the French had loads of experience coping with drama.

  Heading for my bedroom and a morning nap, I hesitated outside Sebastian’s door. My fist poised to knock, I heard his even breathing within and retreated instead. Somehow talking to him about his confrontation with Donovan over Dèsirèe seemed unbearable for an early Sunday morning. Later would be fine. Later I would remember that Sebastian was the beloved younger grandson to my first husband. Later I could talk to him calmly about the litigious consequences of confronting lawyers in love.

  I slept soundly, until wakened the same way as yesterday—Dèsirèe rapping on my door and poking her head inside.

  “What?” Okay, not so gracious, but in
the light of yesterday’s riot, understandable.

  “That detective from yesterday has returned. He asks to speak with you and Sebastian. I waked Mister Crowder also.”

  I lay staring at the ceiling. Of all my weighty concerns today, what bothered me most was wearing that Juicy Couture spangled top again. Salinger would think I had nothing but lab coats and that pink shirt. Since the likelihood of me making a run to Los Angeles anytime soon was nil, maybe I’d better order something online.

  “Shall I tell him you can not be waked?”

  I sat up in bed. “No.” Not knowing why, I confessed, “I’ve nothing to wear.”

  She perked up. “You could wear something of the wife of Duarte. The family leaves clothing here, and you two are the same short form.”

  She made us sound like a tax filing, but the possibility of a fashion coup galvanized me. “Where...?”

  “I bring it to you,” she said. “While you make up your face.”

  Taking the hint, I stepped to the bathroom in Henry’s room as the other one was occupied with (presumably) Sebastian. I made up my face with the little make up I had. In the past week, the Detective Salinger had seen me at my worst, and my best recently had been barely passable. He had been the only man interested in me lately. I didn’t count Chris Mayfield’s ogle yesterday or Donovan’s half-hearted offer to date me again if I married Doc T.

  I wondered if Donovan would hold to that if Dèsirèe agreed to go out with him, but he probably would. When we dated last fall, we never agreed to be exclusive. Although considering my situation and no other men in the offing, the point had been moot for me. I assumed he saw other girls—the guy was a successful lawyer and extremely good looking so it seemed a safe bet. If the detective did ask me out, I wondered if Donovan would care. My heart beat a little faster.

  Dèsirèe rapped on Henry’s door. Not waiting for Dog to tear himself from his medical books, I opened the door to find her holding a Nordstrom ruched tank dress in emerald green, a color that matched my eyes and looked particularly hot on me. Exchanging triumphant grins, I reached for it.