Bone Yard Part 2

Suddenly the dogs outside the kitchen door started to bark. Cis...o...b..oke his down-stay so violently that his head hit the table. I hadn't even noticed until then that he had scooted his way across the kitchen floor to lie under the table. I twisted in my chair, half rising, as I heard a voice call from the front of the house, "Raine? Raine are you here? Are you okay?"

"Sonny?"

I left the table and pushed my way through a bevy of barking, circling dogs who were excitedly trying to herd me-with the exception of Cisco, who was bouncing along like a maniac beside me, his happy grin a.s.suring me that, in the world of dogs, at least, all was well. I reached the front hall to see my friend Sonny, her eyes big and her hand pressed to her throat, sag back against the wall. Her big yellow lab Hero leaned protectively against her legs.

"Oh my G.o.d," she breathed. "You're alive!"

I responded, completely inappropriately, "Oh, no. Herding lessons."

Sonny Brightwell was an environmental attorney who had made her name by defending the Southern coastal wetlands, and who had moved to our little corner of the Smokies only a couple of years ago. She had immediately and without hesitation taken up the fight to protect our wilderness and our way of life, and I admired her for that. But we became friends when she adopted a sweet little Border collie named Mystery that I had literally rescued from an abusive home. Sonny is only ten or fifteen years older than I am, but she suffers from a debilitating form of rheumatoid arthritis that is slowly crippling her. Last month she had adopted Hero, a retired service dog, who was already living up to his name with the dozens of small tasks he performed, making life easier for Sonny every day. He withstood the boisterous greetings of my unruly mob with a dignity that was nothing less than regal, his every thought directed toward the person for whom he was responsible-Sonny.

Sonny and I had planned to drive over to Scottsville today to talk to a herding instructor about lessons for my two Aussies and Sonny's Mystery. It had completely slipped my mind.

Sonny stared at me as though I were speaking Latin. "I had to wait for the coroner's van to pull out of your driveway before I could get in," she said, in a deliberately calm, very controlled tone. "There are five police cars in your driveway. It's not as though you live an uneventful life. I don't think it was exactly hysterical of me to be concerned, especially when I saw the dog running loose-"

"Dog?" I was already running for the door. "Which dog?"

As any dog owner knows, trying to keep up with your dogs when strangers are in and out of the house all day is one of life's most stressful situations, especially when those people-construction workers, plumbers, inconsiderate police officers-aren't pet owners themselves. Still, I had never lost dogs twice in one day before, and I was ready to plunge once more into the cold without a coat when I swung open the door and Majesty, looking a little put out, strolled in from the porch.

I stared at her. Majesty was the most well behaved of all my dogs, and she never left the house without permission. Now she done so twice in one day. "What is going on with you?" I demanded. I took her collar and led her inside, closing the door firmly behind her and testing the latch. "How did you even get out, anyway?"

Sonny said with barely controlled patience, "Raine...."

"Oh, I'm sorry." I dragged my puzzled attention away from Majesty and spoke sharply to the two Aussies who were wiggling around Sonny's feet. "No one's dead. At least no one we know. I'm sorry you were scared. I should have called, but it's been crazy around here. I completely forgot about our plans."

"What do you mean, no one we know?"

Sonny had argued cases before the Supreme Court and stared down some of the toughest prosecutors in the state, but I had a feeling she was about to lose her cool with me. I shooed the dogs back into the temporary kennel room, and quickly summed up the events of the morning. Hero relaxed, and even sat at Sonny's feet. But Sonny's eyes grew bigger with every word I spoke.

"A dead body?" she repeated. "Buried under your kennel? Do they have any idea who it is-was?"

"It wasn't exactly under the kennel," I explained. "More like under the site of the new kennel... or at least where the new kennel is supposed to be if I can ever get back to building it. And no theories yet about who it might be, or how it got there."

"Creepy," she said.

"You're telling me," I agreed glumly. Then,"Do you want some lunch? I don't think today is going to be good day to drive over to Scottsville. Maybe this weekend?"

"Yes, you've clearly got your hands full here. No thanks on lunch, but I'll take a cup of coffee. I guess the police are looking back over their open case files?"

We started toward the kitchen, but hadn't gone more than a couple of steps before I was stopped by an awful wailing from the kennel room. Cis...o...b..rked and scratched at the kitchen door. The two Aussies began a back-up chorus. Majesty, who never complains, let forth another heart-wrenching howl. Hero's ears slicked back and he pressed protectively against Sonny's leg again.

I said sharply to all dogs in general, "Quiet!" The Aussies obediently hushed, Cisco gave one more hopeful bark, but Majesty just howled again.

I shook my head apologetically at Sonny. "I'd better check on her. She's never like this. All the upset in the routine, I guess."

Sonny said thoughtfully, "She's looking for something."

"What is she looking for?"

She frowned a little. "I'm not sure."

I should explain that Sonny claims to occasionally have flashes of insight into the thoughts of animals. And I guess, if you were being completely objective, she has probably been right more times than she's been wrong. But I am still skeptical.

I hesitated for a polite moment, then said, "Be right back."

Majesty was lying on the floor with her head between her paws, so close to the door that she had to scramble to her feet to avoid being smacked by it when I came in. I quickly scratched around in the toy basket, which I kept on top of my father's roll-top desk so that the Aussies wouldn't shred the stuffed toys and swallow the squeakers. I found two bones and a quilted felt octopus that was advertised to be indestructible, and distributed the toys among the three dogs."Okay, can you guys relax for a minute? Can you just do that, please?"

The two Aussies happily tucked into their bones, but Majesty just looked contemptuously at the octopus I placed between her paws, and walked away.

I looked at her helplessly for a moment, but, unlike Sonny, I couldn't read my dogs' minds, and had never pretended to be able to. As far as I could tell, the only thing wrong with Majesty was boredom, too many strangers in her house, and possibly too few roast beef treats.

I took another bone from the basket, placed it on the floor for Majesty in case she changed her mind, and closed the door firmly behind me when I left.

Sonny was settled at the table with a cup of coffee when I returned to the kitchen, deep in discussion with Buck and Uncle Roe about the "case", as I was starting to think of it. Hero was curled around her feet, and Cisco rested his chin on her knee while she stroked his feathered ears and he gazed at her adoringly. I sat down and picked up the remainder of my sandwich.

"There was a case in Was.h.i.+ngton," Sonny was saying, "where this guy strangled his victim, and then transported the body in one of those construction-weight plastic bags to the freeway overpa.s.s, and tossed him out. A friend of mine prosecuted it. The body was so damaged in the fall that they had a hard time determining cause of death, but the bag didn't break."

Buck said, "This wasn't a construction bag, though. That's what's got me puzzled."

"Wait a minute," Uncle Roe said, reaching absently for the bowl of chips. I surrept.i.tiously slid it out of his way. "Didn't that case turn out to be connected to a serial killer?"

"They thought so at first," Sonny said, "but they couldn't make the case."

"That's it!" My uncle brought his fist down on the table hard enough to rattle china and send Cisco scooting under the table for safety. "That's what I was trying to remember!" He turned excitedly to Buck. "You remember that case just over the county line in Bullard about eight, ten years back? They found all those bodies in that ma.s.s grave when they were excavating for the new highway?"

Buck frowned. He would have been a new deputy then, and we would have been still married. "Wait. They were in garbage bags, too, weren't they?"

I let my sandwich drop to my plate and sank back against my chair, my appet.i.te completely gone. My horrified gaze moved from my uncle to my ex-husband. "You're not talking about a serial killer. Not here."

Buck said, "I don't remember ever hearing that case was solved."

"I don't think it was," Uncle Roe said. "But if we're right in thinking these bones were buried some time before the kennel was put up, the time line would match." He was already taking out his telephone and rising from the table. "I'm going to give Sheriff Slater over in Bullard a call."

Sonny looked at me in alarm. "I am not liking the sound of this."

"There is no serial killer," I said firmly. I felt Cisco press his shoulder against my leg, and I reached down to stroke him rea.s.suringly-for my rea.s.surance, not his. "They're just talking like policemen."

Buck pushed back his chair. "I think I'll go back to the office and get on the computer."

For some reason I wanted to protest being left alone with a bunch of state troopers and an open grave in my back yard. It felt a little like dereliction of duty to me.

Uncle Roe flipped the phone shut. "He's going to call back."

There was a knock on the back door, and Cisco gave an obligatory bark of alertness, but settled down immediately when I laid calming hand atop his head. Most of his attention was on my half finished sandwich anyway. Buck, who was closest, opened the door. One of the state men stood there with something round and mud-stained between his gloved hands. "Thought you'd want to see this, Sheriff," he said.

Immediately Uncle Roe came forward."Yeah, what've you got?"

I saw the muscle in Buck's jaw tighten, and he shot a sharp look at Uncle Roe.

Wordlessly , the policeman held up the object for examination. I stood for a better look. It was a human skull, perfectly pierced with a hole in the center of the forehead.

I heard a clattering sound behind me, and turned in time to see Cisco happily gobbling down the remainder of my sandwich from my plate.

________________.

FOUR.

It was almost four o'clock by the time the state people splashed their muddy cars down my rutted driveway for the highway, leaving only Buck and Uncle Roe behind. Sonny had stayed to watch in fascination while the bones were lined up on a tarp and carefully photographed, then sealed in a body bag and taken away, but she had left soon after the last police car drove away. Even I could tell there was not a complete skeleton there, but we all agreed-particularly the experts-that the length of the bones suggested a person close to six feet, probably a male. And although professionals don't like to jump to conclusions, everyone also agreed the most likely cause of death was probably as a result of whatever had made the hole in his skull. Someone said it looked about the size of a forty-five caliber bullet, but it could have been a sharp instrument. No one suggested his death might have been accidental. We officially had a crime scene.

The funeral home canopy had been arranged over the site to keep the workers dry, but by late afternoon it had started to rain so hard again that little rivulets of mud were pouring into the hole, filling it almost as fast as it could be excavated. Parts of the plastic bag were still under mud, along with much of its contents, and as the weather worsened the men decided they were not likely to make any more progress that day. They did the best they could to protect the hole with plywood and cinder blocks, wrapped the area in a couple of miles of police tape, and promised to be back at first light. I had no difficulty whatsoever restraining my enthusiasm.

I was standing on the front porch, watching the taillights of the last state police car disappear around the curve of the drive, when Buck came up the side steps. His jacket was dark with rain and his hat was dripping; he looked cold and wet and miserable. He said, "I don't guess I have to tell you to stay away from back there until you get the all-clear. And keep the dogs in."

I gave him a dry look. "No. You don't have to tell me." As though I would let my dogs anywhere near that mud-pit again, with or without the bones buried there.

And then I added, my forehead furrowing with concern, "Any luck on trying to figure out who it could be?"

He shook his head, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. "A few unsolved missing persons reports have turned up-campers, tourists, and the like. But no way to narrow it down until we start getting some reports back from the lab." He lifted his shoulders, stretching some of the tension out of them, and dropped them again. "One thing. The body was wrapped in something, a blanket, maybe, before it was put in the bag. Whatever it was, it was mostly rotten, but they took a sample to the lab. Maybe that will tell something."

"But he was definitely murdered."

"Looks that way to me."

The front door opened and Uncle Roe came out, accompanied in almost perfect heel position by Majesty. I was going to reprimand her for sneaking out the door without permission, but she sat so prettily that I decided to let it pa.s.s. Inside, Cis...o...b..rked indignantly.

"I just got off the phone with Sheriff Slater," he said. "Seems that the reason that ma.s.s grave case fell off the radar is because none of the victims were ever identified-and none of them appeared to have been victims of violence. They were all down to bone, or just about, and some of the bags had more than one a or parts of more than one-body in it. Oh, and there were traces of lime on the remains."

My eyebrows shot up. "Lime as in--?"

"Fertilizer," Uncle Roe said.

"Also used to neutralize odor," Buck added.

Uncle Roe nodded. "The best theory was that they were moved from some other ma.s.s grave somewhere and re-buried, anybody's guess why."

"How many were there?" I asked.

"Fifteen, as near as they've been able to tell."

"Ten years and none of them have been linked to a missing person?"

Buck said, "It's not as impossible as all that. Those bodies could have come from anywhere in the country, or a lot of different places. You'd have to be mighty lucky to put together a puzzle like that."

"Anyway," Uncle Roe said, "it doesn't look like there's any connection between that and our guy."

"I don't see why you say that," Buck said. "Seems to me it's worth pursuing."

"Well, first of all," Uncle Roe pointed out, "that was eighty miles away. Secondly, this fellow was murdered"--- "Thirdly," Buck interrupted shortly, "I'm running this investigation and I say we're pursuing every angle. Why don't you just go on home, Roe? You're not getting paid for this anymore, you know."

He scowled as his phone rang, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his pocket. I could tell by the way his face changed that his new girlfriend, Wyn, was on the other end. "I've got to get back to the office," he muttered, and without another word to either of us he started down the steps. By the time he reached the bottom the phone was at his ear and he was speaking into it, but too softly for the words to reach us.

Uncle Roe tried to shrug off Buck's harsh words, but I could tell he was a little taken aback. "He's right," he said, "it's been a long day and I've got a chicken dinner waiting. You keep the dogs in tonight, Rainbow, and lock your doors, okay?"

I a.s.sured him that I would, on both counts. For once I didn't think he was being over protective.I tried to make him take one of the umbrellas that was in the stand on the porch, but he waved it off and hurried down the steps. By then Buck's car was already crunching down the gravel drive ahead of him.

"Give Aunt Mart my love," I call to Uncle Roe. "And thank her again for the roast beef."

Uncle Roe opened the car door, paused briefly to wave at me, and like a shot, Majesty was off the porch, down the steps, and scrambling into the car.

"Majesty!"

I dashed into the rain after her, and by the time I reached her she was sitting proudly in the pa.s.senger seat, panting happily.

"Well, now, pretty girl, you want to come home with me?" Uncle Roe said, reaching into the car after her. "Wouldn't my Martie like that?"

"I'm sorry!" I raced around to the pa.s.senger door, cold rain pelting my head. "Get in the car, I've got her." I opened the door and took Majesty's collar, tugging her out. She was not all that anxious to go. "Sorry!" I called again to my uncle."Bye!"

He waved to me as I slammed the car door, but I didn't linger. Holding on tightly to Majesty's collar, I hurried around the back of the car and back to the house. Majesty waited until we were inside to bark sharply at me, and then shook the rain from her coat all over my wood floors and the last dry patches of my jeans.

To say I was exhausted after the day I'd had would be an understatement. I was also cold and wet and not at all looking forward to going back out in the weather again. But in small communities, gestures matter, and my mother had spent too much time trying to teach me the basics of good manners to ignore them all now. So I fed the dogs, took them all out to the exercise yard one more time-and stood in the rain with an umbrella, watching them every minute--- got them dried off and settled in their crates, then showered, changed into a nice wool skirt and sweater, blow dried my hair, put on make- up, and was on my way to the funeral home by six forty-five for the seven o'clock visitation. I figured fifteen minutes tops would be enough of a gesture: sign the guest book, say a few words, greet the people I knew, and then home and in bed by eight.

Sutter Funeral Home was a big, antebellum style mansion at the corner of Broad and Forsythe Streets, centrally located between the three major churches and the cemetery six miles outside of town. Tonight the small parking lot was full and so was most of the on-street parking. I found a spot a block away and was glad I had worn my stylish leather boots-with thick wool socks underneath-as I splashed through the puddles toward the warmly lit building.

As cold as it was, there were a few men gathered on the porch, smoking, and I greeted them with the briefest of smiles as I hurried inside, leaving my umbrella on the porch. The interior was warm and subtly lit, with a thick floral carpet and velvet furniture. Soft organ music was piped through the over head speakers, and Lee Sutter, immaculately dressed in a dark suit and crisp, French-cuffed s.h.i.+rt, came down the hall to greet me.

"Good evening, Miss Raine," he said with a properly subdued smile. "We're in parlor two tonight. A terrible thing about Mrs. Potts. She was such a good woman. But she's at peace now."

I slipped off my coat and left it dripping on the hall tree, and we talked about what a good woman Mrs. Potts had been as he walked me to the parlor. He didn't say a word about our previous business together today, and neither did I. The man was doing his job.

The parlor was already filled to capacity, with several groups straggling out into the hall. I edged my way inside, greeting those I knew, and signed the book by the door. The flower- lined casket was flanked on either side by a row of chairs reserved for the family. Pepper's red Dr. Pepper hat hung over the rung of one of them, and I could imagine him forgetting he even had it on until he got to the funeral home, and someone pointed it out.

An elderly woman in a dark print dress stood over the coffin, dabbing at the tears that ran down her wrinkled cheeks with a tissue that was crumpled and frayed. Pepper was beside her, patting the hand that gripped the edge of the casket. I hung back, reluctant to intrude on the family grief.

As is customary when a large group gathers in a small s.p.a.ce, there was a lot of babble. People get together at funerals as much to catch up with each other as to acknowledge the life of the one who has pa.s.sed. I caught a fragment of a conversation behind me. "Roland said he was going to be cremated, funerals have got so expensive, but I told him not me, no sir, not for one minute, not after what happened to all those poor souls over in South Carolina... why, Raine Stockton, how are you honey?"

I turned into the buxom embrace of LeBelle Mannard, who had done my hair, my aunt's hair, my mother's hair and just about everyone else's hair in the county for as long as I could remember. "How's your aunt? And your poor uncle, how's he doing after that heart attack? We sure do miss him around town, we surely do. You get into the shop some time next week and I'll give you a trim," she added with a critical look at my hair. She took a wayward curl between her thumb and forefinger, examined it with squinted eyes, and added, "You could use some color, too. You're not twenty years old anymore, Raine Stockton, and a girl's got to think about the way she looks. You give me a call, and we'll set up an afternoon."

Great. Now I needed a whole afternoon.

I a.s.sured LeBelle that my aunt and uncle were in excellent health and agreed it was a tragedy to lose such a sweet woman as Annie Mae Potts."I did her hair, you know," LeBelle confided with a proud nod toward the casket. "I think she looks real natural."