by Nero Blanc
Having just finished dinner, the three were sitting on stools around the work island in Belle and Rosco’s kitchen. And although Abe Jones was well aware of what they wanted to talk about, the subject had yet to come up. Rosco and Abe had been such close friends, for so long, that conversation until this point had focused mainly on handball, Abe’s long list of lady friends, when was he ever going to settle down and get married, the Patriots’ chances of getting into the Super Bowl again, the dismal finish of the Sox’s season, the best places to pick up inexpensive second-hand furniture, et cetera.
Abe set his coffee mug down on the butcher block work island and picked up a large unopened can of tuna fish that sat on the counter next to the refrigerator. “Maybe this is the reason,” he said. “You’re using Chicken of the Sea. I think my mom might use a fishier-tasting brand than this.”
Belle took the can from him and gave Rosco an odd look. “Did you buy two cans of tuna?”
Rosco shook his head, fearing the worst. Belle opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the recycling bin. She began pawing through the empty soup and dog food cans.
“Forget it,” Rosco said. “That’s the only can I bought.”
“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I forgot to put in the tuna. I can’t believe it.”
“Well, it did lack a certain amount of … chewiness,” Abe said—as politely as he could. “The noodle and cream part and the mushrooms were all great, though … if you think about it.”
The three of them erupted in laughter; after they settled down, Abe said, “Great coffee,” and they began laughing again.
“Look at the bright side,” Rosco said, “we still have something for lunch tomorrow.” He took a long swallow of his coffee. “I do want to yak a little bit about this skeleton, before you hit the road, Abe. Have your tests yielded anything more specific?”
“I have definite DNA samples, but that doesn’t do me a heck of a lot of good at this point.”
“Why not?” Belle asked.
“Unless I can match my samples to a family member, I can’t make an I.D. And I have no idea where to start looking for matches. We’re not about to start taking DNA samples from everyone in Taneysville to see if they might be related to our mystery woman. Which, to be honest, I don’t see happening.”
“Right. I think consensus—at this point—is that her body was dumped there. The odds of the woman coming from Taneysville seem to be nonexistent,” Rosco muttered.
“I’m having trouble with the ‘dumped there’ theory, though.”
Belle cocked her head slightly and said, “Why’s that, Abe?”
“Where’d the remains come from in the first place?”
“Grave robber?” Belle said, somewhat unsure of her answer.
“No, that doesn’t work for me. I’ve got major organic decomposition samples from inside the rib cage, skull, and pelvic area—basically, the worms had a field day with her; and clothing samples were next to nothing. Meaning she was never buried in a casket—ever. Ergo, her body wasn’t stolen from any cemetery … And it would also mean that someone would have had to remember where this homicide victim’s body was hidden, then gone and dug it up and transported it to the Gordon property. Why? If you think about it, there’s only one person on earth who knew of the whereabouts of this lady’s skeleton—the person, or persons, who murdered her. And by moving the body from another location, and then reinterring it on the Quigley site, that person only brings a forgotten murder to the light of day. What criminal’s going to risk that? … Unless we’re looking at the psychology of the killer who wants to get caught—like an arsonist camping out at the scene of the fire …”
“Whew,” Belle groaned. “I had this theory that it might have been Gordon’s first wife. I guess there’s no way the body could have belonged to a twenty-seven-year-old?”
“No. This woman was in her late teens … Possibly twenty or twenty-one, but that’s it.”
Rosco opened the freezer. “Didn’t we used to have some ice cream in here?”
“I put it on my cereal this morning.”
Abe gave Belle a strange look, and she uttered a blithe: “It was vanilla. That’s the same as milk and sugar, right?”
“Ooohh-kaaay … I guess that makes sense. Anyway, all I’m saying is that I don’t believe the body was put there recently.”
“And you have no read as to when our young woman might have died?” Rosco asked.
Jones shook his head. “No. The problem I’m having is this: If she was buried a number of years ago, the decomposition rate is completely up in the air, because the plot was used as a garden. Normally, textile samples can be a fairly reliable indicator, but with a vegetable garden, you have to factor in how often the ground was watered—you can’t just analyze average rainfalls; and then, what type of fertilizers were used, and with what regularity. All of that information died with the Quigleys. She could have been down there for fifteen, twenty, forty years.”
Belle spoke up again. “But the coincidence of these two situations occurring on what is now Gordon’s property seems extreme, Abe—despite everything you’re telling us about the remains and the risk of reinterring them. After all, somebody torched Gordon’s house last night.”
“Most probably, the two situations are unrelated …” Jones mused. “Or at least perpetrated by different people—”
“On the other hand,” Rosco said, “they might be very closely related. What if the house contained some scrap of evidence, something hidden within the walls, so to speak, that would have shed a light on our mystery woman? Maybe even identified her murderer?”
“There’s no question the Quigley place held a lot of secrets,” Belle added. “And now they’re all gone …”
“Any other theories you two would like to run past me before I pack it in?”
“Mike Petri?” Rosco said.
“Who?”
“Just another piece to the puzzle. I only wondered if you’d heard of him?”
“The jumper up in Boston, right?”
Rosco nodded.
“There is something familiar about his name. I felt it when I read about him in the paper this morning. Can’t put my finger on it, though. How’s he involved?”
“Can’t put my finger on it either.”
CHAPTER 26
“I’d call that a fairly inflammatory allegation, Congressman Spader,” the late-night TV newscaster responded, her smile incapable of disguising her steely tone. It was becoming obvious that she was hoping to push the legislator into increasingly contentious statements. “Some voters might even suggest your words were provoked by the fact that you, the incumbent, are now trailing Mr. Hoffmeyer by nearly ten percentage points in the latest poll. Certainly not an enviable position to be in—with the election only nine days away.”
Refusing to take the bait, the congressman leaned back in his chair while his face assumed a smug and placid smile. “All I’m saying, my dear, is that no unclothed bodies of eighteen-year-old girls have been dug up in my backyard.”
“Arrrgh,” Belle nearly screamed as she reached across Rosco to the nightstand on his side of the bed, grabbed the remote, and shut off the TV. “I can’t stand that guy! ‘My dear’—hah! My dear, you make me want to puke … And ‘unclothed’? How can he say that? Come on, everyone knows that the woman’s clothing decomposed long ago. And where does he get off with this ‘backyard’ business? Whose backyard?”
Rosco watched his wife, an amused smile slowly lighting up his face. “I gather this means we’re not watching the news anymore? At least, not long enough to catch the sports report and find out who won today’s all-important football games? Or maybe even see the highlights?”
“It’ll all be in the newspaper tomorrow.”
“Somehow highlights aren’t quite as exciting in black-and-white still photographs as they are on a color TV. I don’t know why that is …”
Still caught up in her state of righteous indignation, Belle
failed to detect the tongue-in-cheek humor in Rosco’s voice. “That self-satisfied smirk of Spader’s? It makes you want to throw something at the TV. Don’t tell me you could bear to look at him for another second?”
Rosco shifted his position in the bed slightly, so that he could face Belle. “You’re right. I’d much rather be looking at you.”
She leaned into him. “More than football highlights? Or basketball or whatever it is?”
Rosco didn’t answer quickly enough, so she sat up a little straighter.
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he said. “Yeah, you’re even better than watching the highlights. Although …” He placed his arm around her, and they fell into a long and loving kiss.
“You know what I was thinking?” she said after their lips parted.
“I hope it was the same thing I was thinking, but I suspect it might not be.”
“Your brain only revolves around one subject, Rosco.”
“You’re right; I’ve never been much of a multitasker.”
Belle flopped onto her back. “What I was thinking was that I should go out to Taneysville tomorrow and do some snooping around. The newscaster’s correct. With the election only nine days away, things can only get nastier. And until this mystery body’s identified and the case put to bed—”
“No pun intended, I take it?”
Belle narrowed her eyes. “This is definitely a two-man job.”
“And who would the other man be?”
“Okay, person … A two-person job. Don’t split hairs. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Rosco. I couldn’t stand it if I had to look at Spader’s mug for another term. And if we don’t learn who the dead woman is, and who killed her, Hoffmeyer’s lead will evaporate. Mark my words. Spader’s going to bring it up in every ad and every interview; just like he did tonight. No dead bodies in my backyard, my dear.”
“Okay …” Rosco agreed, although he sounded unconvinced, “what did you have in mind?”
“Well, one place I should investigate is the library. A lot of these smaller towns devote major space to local information: homegrown publications, self-published volumes by neighborhood history buffs, collections of community newsletters, clippings from Boston and Newcastle papers that deal with the area, something like that.”
“And this is a task you think I’m incapable of doing—walking into a library?”
“No, but you’re supposed to be the building inspector, this Bill Parker person, whereas I … well, I could walk in and no one would pay any attention. I’d be anonymous. And if anyone questioned me, I could invent a phony name and say I’m thinking of buying a house in Taneysville and want to get to know the area a little better.”
Rosco shook his head slowly. “Aren’t you forgetting the fact that you’ve had national exposure in the way of magazine and newspaper photos …? Besides, even if the entire town of Taneysville doesn’t have a single crossword addict or gossip column devotee, a number of people saw you at the fire last night. They’re bound to remember. It’s a small town, Belle.”
“I didn’t speak to anyone … And even if I was noticed, no one has any idea who I am … Also, it was pretty dark …”
“But saying you’re looking to buy property puts you into Alex Gordon’s category. We all know what they think of him. No one’ll give you the time of day.”
“Not if I say I’m looking for a tiny house. I can pretend I’m a nurse or something, tired of living in the city.”
“Hmmm. Florence Nightingale, no doubt.”
“I’m serious, Rosco, no one will recognize me. I can stroll into the post office, Hoffmeyer’s General Store, anywhere. I may be able to pick up something. Where’s the harm? Besides, you once referred to me as a subcontractor of the Polycrates Agency, remember?”
“I know … and I realized it was a huge mistake the moment it came out of my mouth.” Rosco slid down in the bed a little and kissed Belle’s neck. “Okay,” he finally said. “Why not? But I want you to stay in public places. Don’t get into any cars with strangers, and don’t go snooping around anywhere all alone, okay?”
Belle laughed. “What do you think I am? Ten years old? Besides, what can happen?”
Rosco seemed to think this over for a moment before answering. “Nothing … I suppose. I was hoping to go out there myself tomorrow. I’d like to talk with the two construction workers who found the skeleton, but I have to contact Sean Reilly first. Ideally I’d like to meet them at the Quigley site, although from what I understand, he and his crew are based up in the Boston area. Even if I can arrange to meet them, they wouldn’t get to Taneysville before noon.” Rosco thought. “Why don’t we take separate cars—and remain completely unconnected to one another.”
“Well, that settles it,” Belle said as she snuggled up to Rosco, “I guess we’d better get some sleep.”
“Ahhh, as bad as I am at multitasking, I haven’t forgotten the first thing I had on my mind …”
She rolled on top of him, turned out the light, and said, “Neither have I.”
CHAPTER 27
“I know who you are.” The person who uttered this definitive statement was attired in oil-streaked, brown canvas coveralls; a navy blue knit ski hat was pulled low on a brow also dabbed with oil and grime. Belle believed the speaker was a woman but didn’t have anything to go on except instinct. And her instincts, as she well knew, could be less than reliable.
“You’re that big-time crossword editor over Newcastle way. Your picture was in a magazine … gettin’ married, maybe … There wasn’t no photo of your hubby.” The speaker scowled, although Belle couldn’t tell whether the expression indicated a general mistrust of people whose photos appeared in national publications or disapproval over a bride appearing without her groom. Whatever the cause of the sour expression, the fact was that Belle’s many planned disguises were a total bust. If the first resident of Taneysville she spoke with recognized her, everyone was sure to learn of her identity—and arrival in town—within the hour.
Involuntarily, Belle’s chin sank a little lower and her spine curved a little tighter. Rosco was going to have a field day when he heard about this exchange. Her very first conversation as the celebrated Polycrates Agency subcontractor, and she’d blown it. Not only blown it, but paid extra for her gas. The idea behind having the attendant fill the tank rather than doing it herself was to start up a seemingly innocent conversation, thereby gathering information on the town and its denizens while pretending to merely shoot the breeze.
The man (Belle had changed her mind) finished squeegeeing the windshield, then returned to the rear of the car and replaced the gas nozzle on the pump. “Want me to check the oil?” he bellowed while Belle answered a faint but polite “No, thanks.”
As the change from her twenty-dollar bill was passed through the open window, Belle again rethought the person’s sex. The hands were muscular, the knuckles creased with black, but they definitely belonged to a woman.
“Receipt?”
Belle murmured a dejected “Sure.”
“You out here cruisin’ around ’cause of that skeleton Lonnie took out of Quigleys’? A lot of gawkers been—”
“No,” Belle interrupted while simultaneously cursing herself—again. What was she here for if not to talk about the mystery woman? “That is … well, of course I’ve heard about the situation, but … umm … this being Monday—the day I usually take a break from work—I thought I’d drive around and see some of the more interesting parts of the county—”
“And that’s Taneysville?” The woman snorted. (Belle was now almost one hundred percent certain the gas station attendant was female.) “I’ve lived here all my life … my folks before me … and I ain’t never heard nobody accuse this town of bein’ interestin’.”
Belle tried for a companionable smile. “Pretty, then.”
The woman raised her heavy eyebrows. “In the eye of the beholder—like they say. I guess you and that guy Gordon—”
“Th
at’s the gentleman on whose property the woman’s remains were discovered?”
The attendant’s mouth twitched. She ripped off a makeshift receipt.
“I suppose you know Mr. Gordon?” Belle continued. “He must buy his gas here—”
The receipt came barreling through the window. “You want to be like all those others … come out here to gawk at the rubes—go ahead. But don’t waste a busy person’s time—”
“Actually …” Belle began, smiling as hard as she could while feverishly trying to figure out how to get this problematic conversation on track. “Actually, I was hoping to do something similar … find a quiet little town, a small house—”
“And make one unholy mess of it—”
“Oh, no, I don’t intend—”
“Keep the locals off the work site. Hire a bunch of no-account foreigners—”
“But that’s not—”
“I got me a brother who couldn’t get work up there. No way, no how. A brother with a wife and little kids. Kids who need food, new clothes … How’s it supposed to make him feel if he can’t provide for his own family? How’s it supposed to make me feel scrapin’ together every spare nickel to give him and his missus? These are tough times—”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Us Bazinnes have worked hard all our lives. What do they want? You can’t get no blood from no stone!” With that, the woman turned and stormed back into the garage, leaving the gas pump and grease-speckled pavement deserted and silent.
Belle waited a moment before starting her car. Special subcontractor to the Polycrates Agency strikes out big time. She turned the steering wheel in the library’s direction, not even attempting a hopeful smile.
“Oh, that would be Jeanne Bazinne. She works for Lonnie,” the librarian answered while an expression Belle could only categorize as apprehension raced across her face. “She’s a good person despite first impressions. Like they say, after a little soap and water we’re all alike.”
Belle wasn’t so sure about this assumption, but decided not to voice another opinion. “Jeanne said her brother’s out of work—that he wasn’t able to find employment at the Gordon renovations?”
