Murder Bone by Bone

by Lora Roberts

  “You still have to prove it, don’t you?” I silenced him with that. “And I’m sure everything is right. I just don’t understand about Doug bashing Richard. I know Doug was mad about the sailboard thing. But what happened?”

  “Doug told Stewart,” Drake said, “that he had followed Grolen the previous night, found out where he was staying, but he was with some other people, and Doug didn’t want to confront him in front of strangers. He went back early the next morning and found Richard just driving off toward the Baylands. Doug was really overcome by that—he didn’t go near the water anymore, according to Stewart. He waited for Richard to drive back down Embarcadero afterward and followed him to Bridget’s before he tackled him.”

  “He tackled him? Right away?” Melanie asked.

  “I mean, he went up and started talking to him. Grolen just denied it all, and told Doug that he knew the bones were Nado, and he figured it was Skipper’s good friend Fritzy who put Nado there. He said if Doug pressed him about the sailboarding royalty, he’d have to turn Stewart in for Nado’s murder. Evidently,” Drake said, “he was quite nasty about it. He turned away, and Doug just heaved up a chunk of concrete and dotted him. Then he thought Grolen was dead and bolted back to his backhoe. Stewart arrived for work, and Doug told him about it, almost incoherent with fear and remorse. Stewart went and covered up Grolen to buy time before the body was discovered, time for Doug to compose himself. He says he thought Grolen was dead, too. Maybe he did.”

  “You think he—wanted Richard to die?” Melanie covered her mouth with her hand.

  “I think that would have been fine with him, if it never involved him or Doug.”

  We were silent for a moment, and then Drake stretched, yawning hugely. “And now ladies, I’ve told you far more than anyone would approve of, so keep it under your collective hats. And don’t go messing around with this stuff anymore.”

  “Don’t be so patronizing,” Claudia said disdainfully. “If it hadn’t been for Melanie, you’d still be fumbling around with this.”

  “You said it much better earlier, Claudia.” I grinned at her. “You said he was sniffing around like a bloodhound on a bad-hair day.”

  Drake grinned, too. Claudia blushed.

  “Well, it is late,” she said, standing up. “I’ve got to get going. And you should get some sleep, Liz. Those kids get up early, you know.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  “Maria will be wondering what’s become of me.” Melanie stood up too, reaching for her Coach bag. She glanced at Drake’s bulging briefcase. “Be careful with that album, Detective. It’s not some cardboard throwaway.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  I saw them to the door and locked it after them. Barker, stretched out impossibly long on the living room floor, sighed deeply. Drake echoed the sigh.

  “You must be pooped.”

  He winced. “Please, don’t use that word so cavalierly. I’ll be afraid Moira is going to wake up.”

  “They’re down for the count, if all this commotion didn’t get them up.” I hesitated. “Why don’t you take Bridget and Emery’s bed? I’ll make do with the couch tonight.”

  “No way.” He pulled me toward him for one of those almost-chaste kisses on my forehead. “I’d be intimidated by the action that bed’s seen. Four kids!”

  “It is a little nerve-racking.” I put my arms around his neck.

  He went very still. “You’ve never done that before.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course I have.”

  He shook his head. “Not without prompting from me. Not without me doing it first.”

  I realized he was right. “Well, then, let’s try for another first.” I put my hands on his cheeks, felt the scratchy stubble against my palms, and tugged until his mouth was close enough. It felt good to be in charge of the kiss. It just felt good, period.

  “Well.” His voice was a little unsteady. “There’s some other stuff we haven’t done yet, too.”

  “Later, Drake.” I smoothed back his wild hair. “Paul. I’m only Temp Mom for a few more days.”

  I hadn’t known before that gray eyes could be so warm. After a moment, he turned away and started taking cushions off the sofa.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” was all he said.

  Chapter 29

  Moira and I were listening to John Hiatt the next morning when the phone rang.

  “Liz.” It was Janet Aronson’s gravelly voice. “I just wanted you to know that I went to the Senior Center early this morning and spoke to the program director. She’s not about to take action on anything Carlotta said.”

  “That’s good to know.” I hadn’t realized I was so concerned about retaining my class until something tight in my chest loosened on hearing her words.

  “So just ignore her,” Janet went on.

  “Carlotta’s going to stay in the class?”

  “‘Fraid so.” Janet sounded unconcerned. “It ought to be fun, right?”

  “Janet, I’m counting on you to set an example in civility.”

  She snorted. “Right. See you tomorrow, Liz.”

  Before I could turn the music back up, the phone rang again. “Liz Sullivan? This is Jim Pierce.” It was a pleasant male voice. “My mother tells me you’re looking for background information on the Palo Alto scene in the seventies.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks for calling.” I hadn’t given this another thought for hours. “You know, I don’t know yet if I’ll be doing that story or not. Can I call you if I do?”

  “Sure.” He hesitated. “Hearing about that body they found under the sidewalk on the news last night, I really started remembering. Maybe I’ll jot some of it down for you.”

  “Or for yourself. You might write an article before I get to it.”

  He was quiet a moment. “Maybe. Well, nice talking to you.”

  This time, I got to hear some of “The Wreck of the Barbie Ferrari” before the phone rang again.

  It was Bridget, sounding strained. “Tell me that I’m hallucinating. I’m sitting here in my hotel room, looking at the news on TV, and I see my house with a bunch of yellow tape strung up around the sidewalk.”

  I glanced out the front window. The curb was thick with TV news vans, pointing their dishes skyward. A ragged throng of media types hovered outside the chain-linked fence, pestering the archaeological team inside the fence with incessant, whining pleas to speak for the camera. Dinah Blakely stood in an attitude of command, shaking her head coyly at all the cameras. I could see her prim lips shaping the words, “No comment.” Drake would have loved it.

  “I’m afraid you’re not hallucinating, Biddy.” I turned my back on the media circus and crouched down to hand Moira a stray bristle block. “There’s been a bit of excitement. Nothing to do with you and Emery. An old body under the sidewalk, one that had been there for fifteen or more years. It’s all cleared up now, but of course the press are making a big deal out of it.”

  “It looks like a very big deal, indeed,” Bridget said, her voice ominously even.

  “They don’t have any real news, that’s why.” I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear and stuck a few bristle blocks together on my own account. “Remember how after the last earthquake they kept showing shots of the same supermarket with all the stuff off the shelves, all over the country? Made it look like all of California had crumbled.”

  “That’s true.” Bridget’s voice brightened. “So it was pretty straightforward, huh? Old bones, no big deal.”

  “Right.” I ignored the knock on the front door. We were sitting out of sight on the floor, experience having taught me that it wasn’t safe to let the jackals see you. “Still having fun?”

  “I was until I turned on the news this morning,” Bridget said tartly. “Maybe we should come home early. Or I could come home early.”

  “Why?” I made my voice sound injured. “Aren’t I good enough to take care of your kids when some minor problem comes up? You feel like you can’t
trust me?”

  “No, no. It’s not that. Liz, I didn’t mean to imply—” Bridget stopped when she heard me laughing. “You don’t sound too worried,” she decided.

  “It truly is all cleared up. And it’s interesting. When you get back, after your vacation has run its prescribed course, I’ll fill you in.”

  “I look forward to that.” Bridget hesitated. “You sound different, Liz. Almost—relaxed. You like being a surrogate parent that much?”

  “It has its moments.” I was more comfortable with parenting. But I was also still comfortable with my own lack of wherewithal for parenthood. Being Temp Mom was fine. I would enjoy my solitude at the end of the week.

  Or at least, my partial solitude. I had another form of enjoyment in mind as well.

  For Barbara Dicks, one of the great editors of the world.

  And for Ruth Cohen, one of the great agents.

  Thanks, ladies.

  I had help with the forensic aspects of this book from Chuck Cecil of the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s office. Any mistakes are mine, arising from the dictates of my plot.

  I have taken great liberties with Stanford University, creating my own version of their archaeology program, staffing it with my imagined people, and making their procedures fit my needs. In other words, I made it all up. Same with the Palo Alto Public Works department and with everybody else in the book. Any similarities to real life mean that the reader has a good imagination, too.

  Copyright © 1997 by Lora Roberts Smith

  Originally published by Balantine Books as a Fawcett Gold Medal Book

  Electronically published in 2003 by Belgrave House

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this ebook may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  Electronic sales: ebooks@belgravehouse.com

  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.