Whisper of Bones

by Leigh, Melinda

  ALSO BY MELINDA LEIGH

  Morgan Dane Novels

  Say You’re Sorry

  Her Last Goodbye

  Bones Don’t Lie

  What I’ve Done

  Secrets Never Die

  Save Your Breath

  Scarlet Falls Novels

  Hour of Need

  Minutes to Kill

  Seconds to Live

  She Can Series

  She Can Run

  She Can Tell

  She Can Scream

  She Can Hide

  “He Can Fall” (A Short Story)

  She Can Kill

  Midnight Novels

  Midnight Exposure

  Midnight Sacrifice

  Midnight Betrayal

  Midnight Obsession

  The Rogue Series Novellas

  Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River)

  Walking on Her Grave (Rogue River)

  Tracks of Her Tears (Rogue Winter)

  Burned by Her Devotion (Rogue Vows)

  Twisted Truth (Rogue Justice)

  The Widow’s Island Novella Series

  A Bone to Pick

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Melinda Leigh

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  e-ISBN-13: 9781542042512

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  “The kayakers found the body on the northwest beach of Camilla’s Island,” Deputy Tessa Black yelled over the wind and the roar of twin outboards. She tugged her sheriff’s department cap lower on her forehead as the state park ranger boat sped across the bay, leaving Widow’s Island behind them.

  At the wheel, Logan Wilde shouted back, “The current dumps a lot of debris there.”

  Tall, lean, and still military fit, he was dressed in tan cargos, boots, and a dark-green Washington State Forest Ranger jacket. He spread his feet for balance, and his blue eyes narrowed against the bright December sun shining on the water. They’d both recently returned to the Pacific Northwest island where they’d grown up. They’d only been dating a few weeks, but watching him now, Tessa felt the connection that came from a lifetime of shared history.

  The hull slapped on a few whitecaps as they left Widow’s Bay. Tessa grabbed a railing as the deck pitched and rolled through Breakneck Strait, the narrow passage between the two islands.

  Widow’s Island was shaped like an inverted horseshoe, with the huge Widow’s Bay filling the center. Camilla’s Island was located near the southwestern point of the horseshoe. Tessa, Logan, and five thousand other people lived on Widow’s, while Camilla’s Island was a wildlife refuge managed by the state park system.

  They approached a no-wake sign, and Logan eased back on the throttle. As the boat puttered into Camilla’s Cove, Tessa grabbed the bowline and positioned herself on the starboard side. Logan steered past two mooring buoys and drew the boat parallel to the single skinny dock. Tessa climbed over the gunwale and hitched the bowline to a dock cleat. Logan tossed her the stern and spring lines, and she secured them as he shut down the engines.

  Logan grabbed her backpack, jumped off the boat, and handed her the bag. Tessa shrugged into the straps, adjusting them so the pack didn’t smack into her duty belt. Then she zipped her uniform jacket to her chin as they walked up the ramp onto solid ground and passed the notices billboard and the self-pay receptacle for moorage fees—a metal box with a slit in the top. A handful of rough campsites were available on the island, but there was no trash service or potable water. Visitors had to pack in what they needed and carry out their garbage as part of the island’s “leave no trace” policy.

  Tessa followed Logan to the hiking trail that led down to the rocky beach. Three tiny black-tailed deer lifted their heads and approached them, looking for a handout. Feeding wildlife was strictly prohibited, but the island deer had learned that people were suckers for their big brown eyes.

  A few minutes later, Tessa and Logan emerged from the dense forest onto the narrow beach. They skirted a tide pool and rounded a bend in the shoreline.

  Logan pointed. “There they are.”

  A hundred yards ahead, Tessa saw two figures huddled between the skinny strip of packed sand and a clump of trees. A yellow sea kayak listed on the sand nearby. A body was sprawled on the sand. The surf broke and rolled up the beach, lapping over the corpse’s legs and shifting its position.

  “The tide’s coming in,” Logan said. “How long until Henry gets here?”

  Dr. Henry Powers was a newcomer to Widow’s Island, having bought the sole doctor’s office. To Henry’s surprise, the job of coroner had come with the practice.

  “About twenty minutes. He was finishing up with a patient when I called him. Kurt is bringing him over.”

  When the call from the kayakers had come in, Tessa had been in the small satellite sheriff’s station on Widow’s Island, writing up a report from an early-morning fender bender. The other deputy on duty, Kurt Olson, had been tied up with loose alpacas on Bishopton Road. Since the body had been found on state park ground, Tessa had called Logan to ferry her over to the neighboring island.

  The kayakers, a middle-aged couple, walked forward and met them on the sand. Clearly experienced, they were dressed for winter paddling in full-body dry suits and neoprene gloves.

  Introducing himself and his wife, the man extended a hand to Tessa, then Logan. “We saw him from the water.”

  “Did you touch the body?” Tessa removed her backpack and took out a camera.

  The man nodded. “Just his shoulder. I rolled him over to see his face. I thought he might be alive.” He swallowed as if nauseated. “He wasn’t.”

  “Of course. You had to make sure.” Tessa nodded in empathy.

  The woman patted the man’s arm. “I’m glad you insisted we invest in a satellite phone.”

  He leaned into his wife’s shoulder.

  “Thank you. Please wait here for a few minutes.” After leaving her pack in the sand, Tessa turned toward the body. Before moving to Widow’s Island eighteen months before, she’d been a detective in Seattle. Working in a city surrounded by water, she’d seen her share of floaters. Usually, they were particularly nasty, but this one seemed relatively fresh.

  Logan fell into step beside her, and they crossed fifteen feet of flat sand. Together they stared down at the dead body of a middle-aged man clothed in jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt.

  “He isn’t wearing a coat,” Tessa noted.

  The corpse lay faceup. He was at least six feet tall and burly. She could only see the skin of his face and hands, both of which were deep pink. His facial features, though discolored, were distinguishable.

  “Do you know him?” Logan asked.

  “No, but I feel like I’ve seen him around town.” Tessa didn’t want to touch the body until the coroner arrived. She had more experience with death investigation, but the coroner
had legal charge of the body.

  On Widow’s, they were lucky to have a doctor serving as coroner. Unlike a medical examiner, a coroner was not required to be a medical professional or have any training in forensic pathology. There were rural counties where the sheriff, mayor, or funeral home director held the position.

  Tessa crouched to study the dead man’s hands. The skin on the palms was wrinkled, indicating the body had been submerged for over an hour. But the skin had not yet begun to break down and separate from the fingers. This process, known as maceration, occurred when a body was exposed to prolonged moisture. “He wasn’t in the water long.”

  Standing at her right, Logan didn’t flinch as he viewed the body. As a former army ranger, he was well acquainted with death. “How can you tell? Wouldn’t the cold water slow decomposition?”

  “Yes,” Tessa agreed, “but his face isn’t bloated. Plus if he’d been in the sea for any length of time, the fish would have been at his fingers.”

  “Are his hands and face red from the cold?” Logan crouched next to her.

  “No, that’s lividity. When the heart stops beating, gravity causes the blood to pool in the lowest parts of the body, resulting in this bruise-like discoloration. Submerged bodies tend to turn facedown, with their limbs hanging. So lividity is usually concentrated on the face, upper chest, hands, and feet.” Tessa pointed to the victim’s hands. “But that doesn’t quite match here. Lividity in this body is concentrated in his palms. The backs of his hands are whiter. Also, with a body that has been submerged, I wouldn’t expect to see lividity only on one side of his face. His entire face should be red.”

  She rocked back on her heels and looked out over the water.

  Where did you come from?

  Tessa stood and began to photograph the body. As she worked, another wave lapped at the victim’s work boots. “With or without Henry, we’re going to have to move him in a few minutes.”

  Logan pointed down the beach. “Henry and Kurt are here. Cate is with them.”

  Tessa turned. Kurt was limping.

  “What happened?” she asked Kurt.

  “Twisted my knee getting off the boat.” Kurt hobbled closer. The wind gusted, and he pulled a black knit cap from his pocket and tugged it over his bald head. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  Tessa wasn’t surprised to see her best friend since childhood—and Logan’s sister—hurrying toward them. Cate Wilde was an FBI agent currently on medical leave. She was also dating the doctor.

  Cate greeted Tessa with a quick hug. “I had just stopped at Henry’s office when you called.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Tessa said. Cate’s experience with the bureau could prove valuable.

  Tessa turned to Kurt. “Do you recognize him?”

  Kurt limped closer to the body and nodded. “That’s Jason McCoy. He’s a contractor.”

  “How well do you know him?” Tessa asked. Widow’s was a tight community, and Kurt had been a deputy here forever.

  Kurt scratched his gray-stubbled chin. “Well enough to avoid him when possible.”

  Tessa turned and raised a brow.

  “I never had to arrest him.” Kurt hooked his thumbs in his duty belt and cleared his throat. “But he was kind of an asshole.”

  Tessa glanced back at the body. Kurt was easygoing. Jason McCoy must have been difficult for Kurt to not like him. She thought about the inconsistencies in lividity, and a feeling of foreboding crept over her. She shivered. “Is he married?”

  “Yeah.” Kurt nodded. “But I heard his wife—second wife—left him a couple weeks ago. She’s staying with her mother. I’ll get the address. Do you want me to do the death notification?” He shifted his weight off his injured leg.

  “I’ll do it,” Tessa offered.

  Looking relieved, Kurt slipped out of his own backpack, unzipped it, and removed a clipboard. “I’ll start the scene log and sketches.”

  Henry set his kit—a plastic tackle box—on the sand.

  Tessa turned back to the body and continued to snap pictures as Henry tugged on a pair of disposable gloves. He knelt beside her to examine the body. “When I inherited the position of coroner, they told me I’d mostly see old people who died of natural causes, but this is my third unnatural death in a month.”

  An artist had recently been murdered, and a few weeks before that, a set of bones had been discovered. Sadly, it seemed not even the remote island could escape crime.

  Henry looked the body over carefully without moving it. Then he turned the body onto its side, bent closer, and parted the man’s hair. “He has a serious head wound.”

  “He could have hit his head and fallen overboard,” Logan suggested. “Or had a heart attack and fallen overboard, hitting his head as he fell.”

  Both of those scenarios were very plausible. Accidental drowning happened.

  “But why would he be on a boat without a coat?” Tessa asked.

  No one had an answer.

  Henry lifted a small flashlight from his kit and shone it on the skull. “I can see multiple distinct indentations.”

  “So he hit his head twice?” Logan asked.

  “Or someone hit him twice.” Tessa was more suspicious.

  “At least twice,” Henry said. “It’s hard to tell without a magnifying lamp and x-rays of the skull.”

  “Could the wounds have been fatal?” Tessa asked.

  “Gray matter is visible through at least one skull fracture, so that’s definitely possible.” Henry rocked back on his heels. “Submersion would have washed away any blood, but these are deep and serious wounds. If they were inflicted antemortem, they would have bled heavily.”

  Because the heart stopped beating upon death, injuries sustained postmortem did not bleed as much.

  Another wave shifted the body.

  “Let’s move him away from the water,” Henry said.

  Logan donned gloves. He and Henry dragged the body out of the surf’s reach.

  Tessa leaned over Henry’s shoulder. “I’d like to check his pockets.”

  “Go ahead.” Henry moved back and gave her room.

  She put on gloves and searched the dead man’s pockets. She found a folded wallet in the front pocket of his jeans. Tessa opened the wallet and confirmed his ID as Jason McCoy. She noted his address on Orcas Road and bagged the wallet as evidence.

  Henry removed a thermometer and scalpel from his kit. He lifted the corpse’s flannel shirt, then paused, scalpel in hand.

  Tessa lowered the camera. Deep-pink blotches stained the corpse’s abdomen. Henry pointed to the dead man’s waistband. The weight of the saturated denim had caused his pants to sag. In the middle of his discolored paunch was a glaringly white oval.

  “What’s that big white mark?” Logan asked.

  “Contact blanching.” Henry pointed to the corpse’s belt buckle. “While lividity was developing, the buckle was pressed hard enough against his skin to compress the blood vessels.”

  Logan frowned. “Could that happen if he was floating in the water?”

  “I doubt it,” Henry said. “Between the contact blanching and the patterns on the hands and face, I’d say he was lying facedown on a hard surface until lividity was fixed.”

  “How long does that take?” Logan asked.

  “Six to eight hours at a normal room temperature.” Henry had had the position of coroner unexpectedly thrust on him, but he clearly took the job seriously and had been studying up.

  Logan met Tessa’s gaze. “He didn’t die in the water.”

  Jason McCoy hadn’t fallen off a boat and drowned. He hadn’t hit his head or suffered a heart attack and fallen into the sea. He hadn’t moved his own body six hours after death.

  Someone had moved him.

  Tessa had left Seattle and moved back to Widow’s Island to care for her mother, recently diagnosed with early-onset dementia, and raise her teenage half sister. She had expected some trouble adjusting to living in the rural island community. She’
d expected to be bored. She’d expected to chase loose livestock from winding rural roads, write traffic tickets, and deal with rowdy tourists who’d had one too many at the Widow Maker Brewery.

  Instead, she was looking at another murder.

  Henry made an incision in the abdomen and took the body’s temperature via the liver. He took out a pad and wrote some notes, then looked up at Tessa. “This is clearly not a natural death or a simple accident. He’ll have to go to the medical examiner on the mainland for an autopsy.”

  Even if Henry’s office had been equipped with a surgical unit, which it wasn’t, he wasn’t trained as a forensic pathologist.

  “Can you give us any idea of time of death?” Tessa asked.

  Henry pursed his lips. “He’s been dead longer than six hours but probably less than twenty-four. This is a very rough window.”

  “Understood.” Tessa shifted the camera in her grip. Her eyes swept the beach. Kurt was talking to the kayakers and taking notes, no doubt getting their statements and contact information.

  Kurt turned away from the kayakers and limped over to Logan. “I hate to ask, but would you and Henry bring the gurney from the sheriff’s boat? I don’t think I’ll be much help with this bum knee.”

  “Sure,” Logan said.

  Henry followed Logan back toward the dock.

  Cate stepped up next to Tessa. Together they stood on the beach and stared across the water at Widow’s Island. Directly across the sparkling water of Blind Bay, the cliff of Widow’s Walk rose from the rocky shoreline. Cate didn’t have to say a word for Tessa to know exactly what she was thinking about.

  Nearly twenty years ago, the third member of their inseparable childhood trio, Samantha Bishop, had gone missing. Sam’s jacket had been found at the top of the cliff, but her body had never been found. The sheriff had been convinced that Sam had fallen off the cliff.

  “When Sam disappeared, the deputies searched this beach,” Tessa said. “This is the closest point between the two islands.” She remembered Logan’s earlier statement. “The current carries a lot of debris here.”

  “I know.” Cate wrapped an arm around Tessa’s shoulders. “But the fact that her body didn’t wash up on this beach doesn’t mean she wasn’t swept out to sea.”