by Molly Macrae
“I’m cool.”
* * *
Jerry Hicks was cool, too. After an intense minute of staring into Zach’s eyes so that Zach couldn’t have misinterpreted a single nuance of his feelings about people who messed with his site, Jerry climbed down into the pit to see the bones for himself. Then he pulled out his cell phone, made a call, and climbed back out.
“Here’s the drill,” he said. He’d rubbed a broader smear of dirt down his nose, but that didn’t stop the rest of us from standing straighter at the authority in his voice. “The excavation is off-limits until further notice.”
“But we can help dig it up,” one of the students said.
“And you can teach us the proper methods, so we don’t screw it up,” another one said, aiming a pointed look at Zach. The look was wasted. Zach was still cool.
“Not an option,” Hicks said. “There’s legal procedure to follow anytime human skeletal remains are accidentally exposed. I’ve called the site director. She is placing the required calls to the medical examiner and the sheriff’s department. This guy”—he pointed at Zach—“needs to stay here and answer questions when the authorities arrive. And you”—he pointed at me—“will take the rest of your students out of this area. Back to the visitors’ center will do fine.”
There were disappointed noises from most of the students, and I felt like adding my own. But Jerry was right. When the authorities arrived, they wouldn’t want the site cluttered with two dozen curious teenage extras. Besides, a couple of the students had been looking peaky since hearing about the bones.
But I didn’t want to go. Part of me was excited about the possibility of uncovering—literally—more about Geneva. The other part of me felt as though I’d be abandoning her if I left. That was a fairly off-the-wall reaction considering that even if these were her bones, she wasn’t here. She was back at the Weaver’s Cat, haunting it more or less happily. Even so, I could imagine the conversation we might have about the situation later, if she decided that I should have stayed to keep some kind of vigil. And because I had a decent imagination, I could imagine the volume of Geneva’s end of that conversation as wide open and her tone as fully aggrieved. So much so that I cringed in real time.
Phillip saw and gave me an interesting look. I pretended not to notice.
“That’s okay. The students are my responsibility,” he said, to my relief. “We’ll take a short break for refreshments, but then there’s no reason we can’t continue the tour and see the rest of the site. We have the house, the summer kitchen, and the outhouse all waiting for us. Plus the gardens. My friends, you have not lived until you’ve pulled weeds in a historically accurate herb garden or explored the charms of a nineteenth-century privy.”
The students were back under Phillip’s spell. He made gathering motions and they fell into a neat group, ready to follow him to an outhouse or to outer space. Before they left, he crooked a finger at me.
“I know the kid isn’t your responsibility,” he said, “but can you stay and keep an eye on him until Nadine gets here?”
I glanced at my phone. Still time before I needed to be back at the shop. “Sure. He isn’t in any kind of trouble, is he?”
“Nah. Hicks is just crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s in his legal procedure. But they’ll have to do a complete excavation to find out what we’ve got going on here. With luck, we can be part of that, so we’ll be back in the digging business in a couple of days. And that’s going to make it a much more interesting project than we planned. Oh—” He snapped his fingers. “That name.”
“What name?”
“You mentioned her. Geneva, right? We need to talk.”
* * *
Phillip swirled the students away, and after they were gone, I let myself blink. We needed to talk about Geneva? He knew about Geneva? What did he know? He couldn’t know anything about her current nonexistence. But maybe he’d run across the name in site records. Maybe I would have, too, if I’d spent more time digging around. Digging around. Geneva would love that. Or be insulted—it was hard to say which.
* * *
“If someone’s been found dead, could you be far behind?” Deputy Cole Dunbar was the first of the authorities to arrive, and his greeting illustrated why he would always be “Clod” Dunbar to me—although only in my mind. Besides carrying a gun, he was built like a bull and acted like a mule. He joined me where I’d moved into the shade of a poplar, his fists on his hips and his sunglasses shielding his eyes as effectively as blinders. He had enough starch in his uniform and in the lines of his face to meet the world at his own specified level of safety.
“Who’s Hicks got in the hole?” he asked.
“We don’t know. It’s just arm bones so far.”
He turned the sunglasses and a condescending nose toward me. Of course he hadn’t meant the bones. Zach was in the pit watching Jerry Hicks take pictures of the wall.
“Sorry. Zach Aikens is one of the students. He found the bones.”
“And what’s your part in all this?” he asked. Annoying connotations dripped off his question onto my—admittedly—easy-to-push buttons. “Meddling civilian” was chief among them, followed by “little lady.”
“Phillip Bell, the assistant director, asked me to stay with Zach until Nadine Solberg gets here,” I said, proud of myself for letting his connotations roll off my buttons without causing a short circuit. “I’m a volunteer.”
“Not if he told you to stay, you’re not.”
I should have known Clod would be the first to arrive, and knowing that, I should have apologized to Phillip and hightailed it back to the Weaver’s Cat. That way I could have avoided annoying conversations like the one we were having.
“I’m a volunteer for the Hands on History program here at the site,” I said as pleasantly as I could through clenched teeth. “Zach is one of our students. Phillip thought you might want to talk to him.”
“Huh.” Clod rocked on his heels a few times, but otherwise showed no inclination to move. I was tempted to ask him what his part in all this was, other than standing around, but my better judgment wasn’t that foolhardy.
“Are you expecting the medical examiner anytime soon?” I asked.
“I thought I’d wait for him,” Clod said unhelpfully. “This shouldn’t take long, though. I’m hardly going out on a limb when I say ancient arm bones aren’t going to be a front-burner case.” He followed that with a stiff “heh-heh.”
I was wondering where Nadine was and what the heck was taking her so long. What could possibly be more important than unexpected human bones? Or than letting me get away from Clod? I finally saw her coming across from the visitors’ center with a man I didn’t recognize. By the time they arrived, I must have been flushed from containing Clod-based irritation.
“Kath, you should go back inside and get a glass of lemonade or iced tea,” Nadine said, putting her hand on my arm. “There’s plenty. But before you go—” She moved her hand from my arm to the arm of the man with her. “I want you to meet Wes Treadwell. Wes is our newest board member.”
Wes Treadwell looked as polished as Nadine, with the kind of shiny veneer that success and plenty of money provide. He wasn’t as tall as Clod, and he was bulkier, but it looked like well-toned bulk. Interestingly, he and Clod wore similar sunglasses.
“Kath Rutledge,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” The hand I shook was softer than I expected.
“Kath who knows quilts and coverlets,” he said. “I’m a complete idiot about that kind of thing.” He dropped my hand and looked toward the excavation. “I am interested in these bones, though. I’d like to get over there, take a look.”
“And this is Deputy Dunbar, Wes,” Nadine said.
Clod and Wes nodded their sunglasses at each other, and then Wes turned his attention back to the excavation.
“What do you think, Deputy?” Nadine a
sked. “I told Wes that we should wait for the medical examiner to arrive before going closer. That’s appropriate, isn’t it? Do we have any better idea how old the remains are? And is it acceptable for the student to be down there with Jerry?” She smiled at Clod and it was his turn for her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, I’m asking too many questions at once, but the situation is new for me and for the site. I can’t help running worst-case scenarios through my head. Jerry said it doesn’t look like a Native American burial, but we don’t want to take any chance of stepping over a line, if that could possibly be the case.”
“We’ll be fine,” Wes said, his eyes still on the excavation. Then, as though to soften what had sounded curt, he gave Nadine a quick smile over his shoulder. “Any problems that crop up, the board will handle.”
If Wes’ smile had come with more than a glance, he might have seen Nadine’s frown. But the frown was quick, too. I got the feeling Clod caught that interplay. It was hard to tell, because of the sunglasses, but he stepped into the slightly awkward silence that followed, with an offering of stolid reassurance.
“The ME should be here any time, Ms. Solberg. In the meantime, the situation is under control. Hicks and I have worked together on previous recoveries of unexpected remains.”
“Have you?” Nadine asked. “How interesting.”
Clod showed the extent of his interest with a shrug. All in a day’s work, apparently.
Work. Oh no. I pulled my phone out and looked at the time. Barely enough to make it back for a meeting I’d scheduled with a sales rep.
“Nadine, I’ll see you tomorrow morning. The TGIF quilters are raring to go.”
“Not sticking around to give a hand with the arm?” Clod asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “Appointment. Already late. Must dash.”
“Well, then, watch your speed,” he shouted after me.
Chapter 4
Clod Dunbar had issued my first—and only—speeding ticket six months earlier. That was also the first time we’d met. The ticket was humiliating, but really only a minor blip of an experience, and it would have been nice if Clod would let the memory of it slink away. He liked bringing it up, though, saying it was for my own safety, as well as the public’s. Because I’d been brought up to be polite, I never told him what I thought every time he delivered his public service announcement.
I made it to the Weaver’s Cat in good time, without going so much as a hair over the posted speeds. When I turned onto Main Street, I got stuck behind a tourist bus, so speeding wasn’t an option, anyway. Funny, I thought, if I still lived in the big city of Springfield, Illinois, poking along behind a bus would have had me fuming as much as the bus. But this was a hybrid coach, clean and quiet, letting several dozen folks loose in town. And their pocketbooks would carry them in and out of the shops, including mine, and there wasn’t much about that to make me fume
Ardis Buchanan, longtime friend and longer-time manager of the Weaver’s Cat, made an art of our front window displays. She knew how to combine colors and textures that drew eyes and then feet through our front door. I enjoyed looking at her displays as much as our customers did, but recently I’d started bypassing them and taking the less scenic route down the alley behind the shop, to go in through the kitchen. It was all about the door. Our new electronic chime didn’t ring—it bleated. “Baa” was what most people heard when they opened the door, but to me it sounded like “welcome home.”
One of the reasons I loved that chime was the guy who made it for us—Joe Dunbar. Joe was something of a Renaissance Blue Plum man. He could paddle a canoe, knit a baby hat, and toss a pizza. He painted beautiful miniature watercolors, had an open and curious mind, enjoyed old movies, and read contemporary mysteries. Parts of his life were still a mystery to me, but I was working on that. One unfathomable mystery was how he could possibly be the brother of the lamentable Deputy Clod. That relationship wasn’t something he could help, though, and it would have been unfair to hold it against him.
Ardis, Geneva, and Argyle, the cat who’d retired from a rough life to live at the shop, were waiting for me in the front room, each in her or his own way. Argyle made happy cat eyes, then curled into a skein of orange tabby fur near the cash register for another appointment in his never-ending schedule of naps. Ardis sat on the tall stool behind the sales counter folding a stack of fat quarters she’d cut from a new line of printed cottons. The fabrics reproduced 1920s patterns and were proving popular with quilters. Geneva perched on top of the button cabinet, watching Ardis and kicking her ghostly heels. There was no sign of the sales rep.
“Good, she’s not here yet?” I gave Argyle a kiss between his ears, then moved around to the front of the counter so that I was more or less facing both Ardis and Geneva. Ardis might not know Geneva was there, but she was, and it seemed a simple courtesy to make her feel included. Especially because she didn’t like being snubbed—didn’t like being a euphemism for became weepy, petulant, huffy, and louder than was necessary or pleasant. “I didn’t want to miss her.”
“The rep?” Ardis asked. “She called. She had a flat on the way out of Asheville.”
“Bummer.”
“She said she’ll try to reschedule in a week or two.”
“Mm.”
“It could’ve been worse. She could’ve had the flat up there on that bridge with the mile-high legs in Sams Gap.”
While Ardis talked, Geneva floated over to sit on the shoulder of the mannequin to my right. I shifted around to keep her in the conversation, noting that Ardis had dressed the mannequin in the beautiful quilted jacket one of our customers had designed and brought in. Geneva’s damp gray form did nothing for the jacket’s predominant color scheme of watery oranges and green.
“That bridge used to give me the willies,” Ardis was saying.
Geneva yawned with noisy exaggeration and rested her chin on the mannequin’s head. Together they looked like a stumpy totem pole.
Ardis raised her voice. “But now I just close my eyes when I reach the crest, and I scream on the way down. Works every time.”
“Sorry—what?”
“I knew you weren’t listening,” she said. “You’re wearing your preoccupied and puzzling-something-out face. So tell me all about the bones.”
“Bones?” Geneva sat up straighter.
“‘The Bones in the Barnyard,’” Ardis mused. “It has a definite ring to it. And now you’re wearing your surprised and puzzling-something-out face, and if you ask me, that’s one of the reasons you’re such a natural-born amateur sleuth. You’re always puzzling things out. Even when you give me that less-than-attractive slitty-eyed look you’re wearing now.”
I kept the slitty-eyed look for Ardis’ benefit and held up an index finger for Geneva’s. In the human-to-haunt sign-language system Geneva and I were constantly working to refine, a raised index finger was supposed to mean hold on or please be patient.
“Are you scolding me?” Ardis drew back, looking and sounding hurt. “Why so touchy?”
At the same time, Geneva waved her arms wildly and shouted, “Read my arms! I want to hear about the bones!” Her contributions to our system sometimes gave me a headache.
“Sorry, sorry, there really isn’t much to tell yet.” I massaged my forehead.
“Oh, hon, no,” Ardis said, picking up on that sign immediately. “There’s nothing in the world to be sorry for. The heat of the day and unexpected human remains? They’d be enough to send anybody off-kilter.”
“Kilt her?” Geneva said. “That does not sound like ‘not much to tell.’ Perhaps Ardis is right and the shock and the heat were too much for you.” She left the mannequin and floated closer. “Would you like me to hold your hand?”
“Do you need to sit down?” Ardis asked.
I looked at Geneva, then at Ardis. Two unlikely peas in a pod, both sweetly concerned.
“
I’m okay, but I’ve got three sleuth-type questions for you, Ardis. Who, when, and how?”
“Did I hear about the bones? Oh ye of little faith in the Blue Plum jungle drums and texting service. You had two dozen teenagers, on the spot, with phones and itchy fingers. By now it might be quicker to guess who hasn’t heard about the bones.”
“I haven’t,” Geneva said.
“Good point,” I said, covering both of them, “and no telling what embellished information is flying around out there because of that. So here are the bare bones.” I paused for Ardis to groan. She sounded uncannily like Geneva. “One of the students, Zach Aikens, found an elbow joint. It might be a whole arm. It might be a whole skeleton. They won’t know until they excavate, but they can’t do that until they get the okay from the medical examiner and the sheriff’s department. That’s according to the archaeologist, Jerry Hicks.”
“How deep did he find it?” Ardis asked.
It was Geneva’s turn to groan. “Please do not turn this into a philosophical discussion, deep or otherwise. Death and bones go together quite naturally, and that is the end of the story.” She paused. “Although, as in my case, it is not always the end of the story, because here I am. Don’t you find that fascinating and worth pondering at greater length? But here are my naturally occurring super-amateur-sleuth questions. Who is this Zach and where did he find these bones?”
“I’ll run and get you a glass of water,” Ardis said. “I don’t like the way you’re standing there staring at nothing.”
“I am insulted,” Geneva said with a huff.
I closed my eyes. “Thanks, Ardis.” As soon as she was gone, I crooked a finger at Geneva.
“A secret confab?” she asked.
“Shh, yes. This might be hard, but I’d like you to be my ears and memory while I tell Ardis about the bones. Listen carefully and quietly. Think about it, and try to think back—”
