by Molly Macrae
Although, if Clod hadn’t seen me yet . . .
“Evening,” he called before I could turn and creep away into the shadows. “Why don’t you come on up and sit a spell?” He followed the invitation with a warm chuckle. Points in Clod’s favor—he didn’t hold a grudge, and he amused himself.
“Hi.” A point in my favor—I knew when to be wary. I climbed the steps but stayed on the top one, and I put the back of a hand to my forehead where I hoped to feel that headache popping up any second.
“It’s a warm one.” He was still in uniform.
“Sorry,” I said, wondering if the uniform was good news or bad, “I know I should offer you tea, but I don’t have any made . . .”
Clod stood up. I tittered nervously. Drat.
“A glass of something cold would be nice, but don’t worry about it. I’m not here for refreshments.” He hooked his thumbs on his belt and didn’t say anything else.
“Okay, um, why are you here, then?” Maybe not sounding as gracious as I imagined.
“I thought you’d like to know, so that you can spread the word to your gang, and you don’t have to waste any more of your time, especially your evenings, nosing around—”
“You thought I’d like to know what, Deputy?” Graciousness went right out the window.
“Grace Estes was arrested tonight.”
I crossed my arms. “It was on the news.”
“I thought you’d like to know on what grounds.”
Now the porch light wasn’t being any more kind to him than I was. Even though it wasn’t terribly bright, it highlighted his wrinkled uniform and tired eyes. The light didn’t have anything to do with his voice, but his syllables were less starched, too. Less . . . abrasive. He stepped closer. A hint of cigar surrounded him.
“She told us where to find the weapon.”
“You smoke?”
“Didn’t you hear me? Or are you ignoring me?”
“I heard. But remember what you said this morning? You said I’m nosy. Do you know what else I am? I’m also a skeptic. So, what is it and where was it?”
He tilted his head, as though that made it easier to read my face or my mind. But he didn’t answer my questions. “You and your bunch up there at Ms. Buchanan’s tonight, you can call them off, tell them to stand down. There’s no need for you to mount your own investigation.” He sucked in a huge and noisy breath before continuing. “I will admit,” he said, “that you have, upon occasion, found out the truth before the department did.” The pain behind that admission worked for a few seconds on his face. “But not now. Not on this one. We have it covered. We are satisfied and the D.A. will be satisfied, too.”
“But not yet?”
“Pardon?”
“You said the D.A. will be satisfied. Does that mean she still has questions?”
“No.”
“It kind of does.”
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Are you saying I twisted your words?”
“Yes, because you did.”
My anti-sarcasm program flew out the window after my graciousness. “You mean that can happen? Words can be twisted to mean something else? To prove something? To satisfy someone’s need for an easy answer?”
He started to growl.
“And what we were doing at Ms. Buchanan’s tonight, Deputy Dunbar—and I’d love to know how you know where my friends and I were—what we were doing was taste-testing a new dessert for Mel. And if you don’t believe me, here.” I shoved the paper plate at him. “Try it yourself.” The paper napkin fluttered off, and he gazed down at those two luscious slices of galette sitting side by side. Under the porch light they appeared to be one huge, heartbreaking helping.
Clod accepted my belligerent generosity with a surprised blink.
“And now, Deputy, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long day. A long day that started out badly for me, but even worse for someone I liked. And nothing about the day has, in any way, improved, because now someone else I like has been accused of murder. Good night. Enjoy your galette.”
“My what?”
I pointed at the plate, then turned my back and fumbled for my keys in my purse so I wouldn’t be tempted to grab it away from him.
“Well, thanks. Good night.”
Dratted man.
* * *
I desperately wanted to know what the weapon was and how Grace knew where to find it. And to know if she’d confessed, a detail Clod hadn’t included in his goodwill visit. I was almost desperate enough to scan the darkened street for sneaky, loitering patrol cars, and if the coast was clear, to hop in my own car and drive over to the jail to ask her. But if the jail had visiting hours, they were probably over. What time was it, anyway? Going on nine. Was I desperate enough to hop in the car and drive over to Mel’s to see if the galette’s visiting hours were over? No. I might have lost the sarcasm battle at the end of the day, but surely I had some self-control. Also, I had a recipe for one-minute chocolate cake in a mug—invented by some desperate genius for just such moments of sudden deprivation.
A call from Nadine Solberg saved me from myself and a one-minute mugging.
“I hope I’m not catching you at an inconvenient time,” she said.
“Not at all, Nadine. I heard about Grace.”
“In regards to that, I’m calling to let you know nothing has changed from this morning. Hands on History will take place tomorrow as planned.”
“Oh, gosh, I hadn’t even thought—” Or had I?
Nadine interrupted my words and distracted thoughts. “Students will arrive at nine. I’d like volunteers to arrive at least half an hour before their units are scheduled to start.” She sounded as though she was reading from a script. Under the circumstances, who could blame her?
“Thanks for calling. I know you’ve had to make some quick changes to the program.”
“The program will take place and continue as planned,” she repeated. “We’ve made some personnel adjustments—”
“Adjustments?”
My outburst finally jogged her loose from her rehearsed content, but not in a useful or friendly way.
“I have more calls to make, Kath. I don’t have time to discuss decisions or vocabulary. If my choices have offended you, then you should be aware that volunteers who wish to withdraw may also do so at this time.”
“Has anyone withdrawn? Students or volunteers?”
She didn’t answer.
“Nadine, I’m asking so I know how to plan for tomorrow, not because I’m backing out. If I need to, I can rustle up more quilters. I wasn’t offended, and I didn’t mean to offend you. I’d like to help in any way that I can.”
“Five students have withdrawn. Well, no. Let me rephrase that. Their parents withdrew them.”
“That’s a shame.”
“But understandable.”
“It is.”
“I do have more calls to make, Kath.”
“I’ll let you go, then. But Nadine? Try not to worry. Do you know what my grandmother would have said? She was a great one for working through problems. She would have said ‘Go for the smooth.’”
Nadine responded with a short, exasperated snort. “I’m sure your grandmother was a wonderful person, full of wise country ways, but I have no idea what that means. I need to go.”
She disconnected before I could say anything pleasant like See you in the morning. Just as well. Something unpleasant about her dismissive opinion of Granny might have come out instead, and she didn’t need my snippiness added to her problems.
* * *
The next morning started out feeling like a replay of the day before—gathering my notes and courage for the first textile and quilt session with the teenagers, driving to the edge of town through a soft summer morning toward the mountains and the Homeplace. As before, the
gate stood open and I drove slowly through, crunching along the gravel. I didn’t realize how tense I was over this rerun until I felt the relief of seeing four other vehicles already parked in the lot beside the visitors’ center. My hands relaxed on the wheel, and I rolled to a stop beside a car twice as big and ten times shinier than my trusty, dusty Honda.
The relief was short-lived. Two of the vehicles were sheriff’s cars. Their presence probably wasn’t unusual—deputies were surely still investigating Phillip’s death and tying up loose ends. But as I got out of my car, a third sheriff’s car rocketed down the drive and braked into a short skid. There’d been no siren, but from the way Shorty jumped out, slammed the door, and took off running toward the barn, it was clear something else had happened. I left my notes and materials behind and took off after him.
Chapter 12
Shorty ran like a jackrabbit. I followed, but not with any hope of catching up or keeping him in sight if he didn’t slow down. It didn’t matter. When I rounded the barn, he’d joined a tableau posed along one side of the newest excavation square—a tableau of tan, brown, and starch. Shorty, Darla, and Clod, Smokey Bear hats in place, stood in a row at the edge of the pit, fists on hips, bent forward at the waist, staring at a feature Jerry and Zach were pointing at like proud parents. Jerry was on one knee, one long arm and index finger extended. Zach looked electrified. He stood, legs spread wide and with all ten fingers of his palms-up hands splayed toward the feature. The tableau became vivant when Zach said something I didn’t hear, since by then I was winded and puffing. It sounded as though he said, “Bite me.”
I did hear Shorty’s disgust when I panted to a stop on the adjacent edge of the pit.
“I friggin’ don’t believe it.” He took his hat off and slapped the brim against his thigh.
Zach fairly danced as he turned to make sure I appreciated their work. They’d dug down to the level of the elbow, only deep enough to see, not enough to rescue—the elbow connected to the arm bones, the shoulder bones, pretty much the whole shooting match . . .
“Was she shot?” I asked. None of the “grown-ups” answered my question. Zach shrugged and bent to brush dirt from a scapula. I stared and couldn’t stop staring at the back of the skull, the framework of bones emerging from their pit. Thin. Fragile. Exposed after years under clay and unknowing boots and hooves and bare feet crisscrossing through lush grass above. They lay in the warm morning sun. Why didn’t they shiver?
“You had insider information,” Shorty was saying. He straightened and looked over Clod’s still bent back at Darla. “Had to be.”
“No, she did not,” Jerry Hicks said. “There is no insider information possible in an excavation like this. Darla won the bet fair and square.”
“Darla was here.” Shorty shot a finger at the pit. “And I was stuck looking for—”
Clod laid a hand on Shorty’s shoulder, and then he used that shoulder as though it alone helped him rise to his full height so that he looked down at the top of Shorty’s head. He took his hand off Shorty’s shoulder and took a moment to readjust Shorty’s sleeve. Shorty tightened his lips and made no further comment.
“What Shorty means to say, Deputy Dye, is that he’ll be happy to pay up. He’s a man of his word. And that’s the end of it.”
“What were you betting on?” I asked.
Darla gazed off into the trees to her left. Shorty clapped his hat back on his head. Zach, eyes bright and wide, looked from one to the other of the four and started to open his mouth.
Clod’s voice bulldozed right past Zach. “That’s the end of it. Nothing more to discuss. How much more time do you need, Hicks?”
“Until there’s nothing more to dig.”
“Two so far,” Zach exploded. “Darla guessed more than one and wins twenty bucks.”
“What?” I asked. “Two what?” But I already knew. “Where?”
“Second skull.” Jerry showed me the rounded bone breaking the surface of the clay not more than a foot from the first skull. Occipital lobe? Parietal? Zach probably knew. “Deeper than our first guy,” Jerry said. “Maybe partially beneath. Too early to say.”
“Him?” I asked. “Male?”
“A guess.”
Our words clattered, as spare as the bones, but in my case that was because the images and possibilities the bones conjured ran wild and I had trouble holding them back.
“How many . . .” I waved my hands to finish that sentence.
“As I said.” Clod didn’t move, but his words crossed their arms and lowered their brow. He waited. When we were all looking at him, he said to Jerry, “Keep me informed.” Then he looked at me. “I meant what I said. There is nothing more to discuss. When we do know more, the sheriff will issue a statement. I’d appreciate your discretion in this matter. That goes for you, too, Aikens.”
Zach brushed dirt from between two ribs, bending close.
“You’re Ty Aikens’ boy, aren’t you?” Clod asked. “And Isaac’s little brother? Your daddy’s still in for misdemeanor theft, isn’t he? Third offense? But I hear Isaac got out last month. My advice? Stay away from both of them.”
Jerry got down on one knee and faced Zach on the other side of the skeleton, his broad back making an effective barrier between Clod and the teen. “Let me show you how a professional does it, dude.” He took his own stiff brush from a back pocket. “Concentrate on the surface and the shape.” He brushed around a kneecap, speaking loudly enough for the three deputies behind him to hear. “Be aware of what’s going on around your artifact, but focus your attention here. After a while, it’s like the rest of the world goes away. Been my experience, anyway.”
If a smile touched Zach’s lips, it disappeared before Clod or Shorty saw, when they passed him on their way back to their cars. I waved to Darla, who remained on excavation sentry duty, and followed Clod and Shorty.
Clod had said he’d appreciate my discretion about the second set of bones. I understood his request. Of course I did. That’s why I waited until he and Shorty were far enough ahead that they couldn’t hear me. And then I made a discreet call to Ardis.
“Two,” Ardis said with a disbelieving cluck. “Will this make it easier?”
“Or twice as hard? I don’t know.”
* * *
When I got back to the parking lot, two of the sheriff’s cars were gone. The day looked brighter already. I carried my materials inside and dropped them off in the education room, then went to find Nadine. Her office door was closed and she didn’t answer a knock. Yet she must be in the building. The front door wasn’t locked. The lights were on.
I stood in the long hall listening and heard muffled voices. In the auditorium to my left? Or down the hall to the right? Down the hall, to the right, in Phillip’s office? Without much effort, I convinced myself the voices might be coming from Phillip’s office. And I should go check. Make a security check. As a good volunteer.
Hesitating only slightly, I turned my back on the more obvious voices in the auditorium and walked quickly to Phillip’s office door. Nothing stirred. I put my ear to the door to be sure—quiet inside—then tried the knob. It turned. I cast a clichéd look left and right, slipped inside with another scan of the hall over my shoulder, and pulled the door shut behind me.
Clod sat at the desk.
“Oh.” I could be remarkably eloquent. Eloquent enough to stun Clod, anyway, because he didn’t say anything. Or maybe his silence was due to my sudden, not to say sneaky, appearance in the office of a dead man. Clod looked at home behind the desk and oddly academic, pulling a pair of half-lens reading glasses to the end of his nose. He almost looked safe. “You should wear those more often,” I said. “Suspects will probably relax and tell you more.”
“Is there more you want to tell me?”
“Oh. No.” I tried to look and sound offhand. “I came to check on the copier. Because I’ll n
eed to make copies later. For my quilting program.” I pointed to the machine I’d seen sitting on the filing cabinet the day before. I followed my pointing finger over to it. “Ah. A copier and printer combination. That’s a nice feature. Looks standard. We shouldn’t have any problems.” While I driveled, I glanced down the front of the filing cabinet. Nothing about the labels on the three drawers jumped out at me. Loan documents in the top drawer . . . But what did I think I’d find? A label pointing me in the direction of a letter marked “In the Event of My Murder”?
“Now that you’ve hunted down the elusive copier, can I help you find anything else?”
“No, thanks. I’m good. This should work.” I lifted the lid of the copier in a last effort to lend verisimilitude to my terrible acting. A document lay on the glass. It took all my willpower not to react, not to pick it up, to lower the lid, and turn around.
The long arm of the law intervened. “Interesting,” Clod said. He’d moved fast, coming up behind me. His arm reached over my shoulder. His hand kept the lid from closing. “Were you looking for this?”
“No. But people leave things in copiers all the time.” He was standing too close. I moved sideways. “What is it?”
“Did you know your voice gets tighter and higher when you’re telling stories?” He turned toward me and held his hand up. “Before you go off on me, I did not say ‘lying.’ Your song and dance about looking at the copier might be true enough. But what you said about people leaving documents in copiers? That’s when your voice sounded normal for the first time since you broke in here.”
“I didn’t break in.”
“And now you’re showing honest, spontaneous emotion. Makes your voice huskier.”
He still hadn’t taken the paper off the glass. He looked from me to the copier, then smiled and closed the lid. “It’s probably not the clue you’re looking for. A document left in a copier? Not usually a case-breaker.”
