The Blessed Bones

by Kathryn Casey

  “Relax and be grateful, like Doc says.” I finished the sentence for him. “I caught an earful from him this morning, all about not looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Max chuckled, and I thought of the sparkle in his eyes when he laughed. I shook my head and refocused. The shelter loomed ahead. I needed to clean up and get to the office.

  “When will the autopsy be done?” Max asked.

  “This afternoon. I’ll call and you can meet me at the morgue for the results, okay?”

  “Sure. The way that woman died, the baby… Something we do agree on: she wouldn’t have been buried like that unless someone was trying to cover up something very wrong.”

  I hung up and parked in my usual spot. At the shelter’s door, I stepped back to make way for a cluster of women and children, each talking over the other. One, a woman who’d only moved in the day before, smiled and nodded at me, but the rest eyed me and kept walking. A dozen steps down the walk, the others whispered to the newcomer, and when they finished, she flashed a suspicious glance my way. I felt certain that based on what her friends had told her, in the future, she’d be less friendly.

  The encounter left me saddened. As much as I told myself I didn’t need friends or to be accepted, I considered yet again that I must be a masochist to remain in Alber working for folks who would prefer I took the highway out of town and kept driving. Not only that, I lived with them. A lot of them.

  Women came and went from the shelter, many with their children beside them, as they fled violence, like I once had. Or they ran out of money and stayed a while as a transition before moving on, most heading to other polygamous towns in the area, Salt Lake or a big city where they thought they could find shelter and work. The women quickly bonded, brought together by their hardships. I had a lot in common with them. But because of the way I’d left, my disavowal of polygamy and the faith, I would always be an outsider.

  As I walked into the parlor, I considered that Max might be right; I might be happier if I found another place to live. There were a bunch of houses on the market, including the one I’d grown up in. I’d heard that the mainstream Mormon family who’d bought it at the foreclosure auction had decided that they didn’t belong in a polygamous town where the locals weren’t particularly welcoming to outsiders.

  “Hannah!” I shouted, when I saw her bustling through the living room heading toward a wing of bedrooms.

  “Oh, Clara, you’re home. Where have you been? I was going to report you missing to the police, but you are the police.” At that, Hannah Jessop, the woman who’d founded the shelter and kept it running, laughed as if she’d just told the funniest joke. She whispered in my ear, “I thought you and Max would drive back yesterday. You stayed over an extra day at the cabin? This must be getting very serious.”

  I almost didn’t correct her; it appeared that the prospect made her happy. But I have this thing about telling the truth.

  “We drove from the cabin directly to work yesterday morning. I was…” I hesitated, and my friend cast me a curious glance. We’d been tight years ago and had grown even closer since my return. If the rest of Alber viewed me as an interloper, Hannah considered me a good friend. “I spent the night with Mother. She’s in the hospital. A stroke.”

  “Oh, Clara.” She grabbed me and held me, and at first, I started to pull back, but then, it felt so warm, so good, that I leaned into her and rested my head on her shoulder.

  “I stayed in her hospital room overnight. Doc is bringing in a neurologist to consult this afternoon.”

  Hannah understood the realities of my family life, and she asked, “Ardeth didn’t send you away?”

  “She was unconscious.” I pulled back, looked at Hannah, and I couldn’t help myself, I released a short laugh. She looked just a touch taken aback. “Oh, Hannah, think about it. It is funny. Poor Mother. If she’d only known I was the one at her bedside, she would have fought through the meds they had her on to stand up, point at the door, and order me out.”

  At that, Hannah shot me what looked to be the unhappiest smile I’d ever seen, as she again pulled me toward her and held me tighter. “She’ll be okay, Clara. Ardeth isn’t that old. I bet she’ll recover well.”

  I cleared my throat to try to dislodge the lump that blocked me from speaking. Then I remembered what I’d wanted to talk to her about: Danny Benson, the kid with the black eye in the folder out of the Tombs. “Hannah, do you know the Benson family? Clyde and his wives, the one who owns the service station outside of town.”

  Hannah let go of me and pulled a few steps away, curious. “Not well. But we have a niece of his here. Do you need information on the family? Should I get her?”

  With so much intermarriage between the families, I’d expected as much. It seemed that Hannah, who could have done a family tree for the whole town out of memory, nearly always knew someone who knew someone when I needed a lead. “Yes, if you could. I’ll go upstairs and change. It won’t take me long. Say fifteen minutes.”

  I showered, changed into clean clothes, and grabbed my bag, not taking time to button the long sleeves on my uniform shirt. At the foot of the steps, Hannah waited with a young woman, maybe mid-thirties, faded brown hair and eyes that looked older than they should at that age. Her nose jutted a bit to the left, as if it may have healed wrong after being broken.

  “This is Krystee. She’s Clyde Benson’s niece,” Hannah said. “Krystee, this is my very good friend Clara Jefferies, the police chief in Alber. She wants to ask you a few questions about your Uncle Clyde.”

  Krystee bobbed her head. Although she’d agreed to talk to me, her sullen look made it clear that she wasn’t happy about it.

  “You two can use the parlor,” Hannah suggested. “I think it’s empty.”

  We seated ourselves in a corner in two overstuffed chairs that had been donated by a Salt Lake ward house. I leaned toward Krystee. “I’m looking for Danny.”

  “Danny?”

  “Danny Benson. He’s your Uncle Clyde’s son. Should be about twenty years old. Do you know where he’s living? How I can find him?”

  Krystee sat as far back as possible in the chair, extending the distance between us. “I don’t think you can. I mean…”

  “I have to find him, Krystee. It’s important.”

  I pulled down my left sleeve and fumbled with the button on the cuff. I noticed Krystee focusing on the three-inch eagle tattoo on the inside of my right forearm. Women in Alber never had their arms uncovered around others—it was considered immodest. They certainly didn’t have brightly colored tattoos. Watching Krystee stare at it, I wondered how long the news would take to spread through the shelter and out into the town—another example of my brazen behavior.

  Drawing her attention back where I needed it, I said, “Krystee, I asked about Danny. I need to talk to him.”

  If her expression had initially been noncommittal, maybe a touch inquisitive, the sight of my eagle had turned her dour. “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Danny is gone. He left years ago. When he was a kid. I barely remember him. He couldn’t have been more than kindergarten age. He and one of his older sisters ran off together.”

  As soon as she said it, I knew, but I asked to be sure. “Which of the older girls?”

  “Lynlee. She and Danny, they were close, and one summer, I don’t remember the year but Danny was just a little kid… they both disappeared. Lynlee was young, too. But Uncle Clyde said that she’d run away with Danny. Taken him and left.”

  I thanked Krystee, and she wandered off. As I got ready to leave, I saw Hannah again, this time shepherding a clutch of the younger children into the dining room for studies. The kids were chattering and jostling one another. Hannah stopped to give me another hug before I walked out the door and asked, “Was that helpful?”

  “It was.” I thought for just a moment, then asked, “One more thing, have you heard anything about any girls missing from town, maybe accompanied by rumors
that they were pregnant?”

  Hannah stood back, curious. “Why?”

  “Just a question. We’re working on something, and—”

  Hannah’s voice rose at least two octaves. “Those bones they found yesterday, up near the lodge, it was a girl, and she was pregnant?”

  I took a deep breath. “I can’t answer a lot of questions yet.”

  Hannah didn’t hide her disappointment. I would have liked to tell her more, but this wasn’t technically my case. Max had called me in because of the Bradshaw girl. It wasn’t my call to decide what information to release. And although I trusted Hannah, anyone could slip and say something she shouldn’t. A comment made to the wrong person could ruin an investigation.

  “Hannah, I’m sorry. That’s all I can tell you.”

  At that, she nodded. “Okay. I understand. No. I don’t know of any missing girls. But I will ask around.”

  In the Suburban on my way to the station, I realized that I’d missed a call while I was in the shower. Doc had left a message to say he’d finished cleaning the bones and wanted me at the morgue to go over the autopsy. I thought about Danny and Lynlee and considered what to do.

  “Doc, I have a stop to make on my way,” I explained, when I got him on the phone.

  “Okay. Max will be here soon, but we’ll wait for you. And I notified Marshal Crawford.”

  “Ex-marshal Crawford. He’s not a cop. He’s retired. I’m not sure why you’d—”

  “He asked me to let him know when I had some results, and I did.” Doc sounded defensive, and I knew that he’d grown tired of my stubbornness.

  It did no good to argue with him. I sighed and moved on. “Just tell me about Mother.”

  “Oh, all right.” I gave him a minute to settle down. “Ardeth’s stroke was a significant one. We’re keeping her in the drug-induced coma, and the neurologist has changed her therapy to better ease the brain swelling. He’s doing more blood work, trying to figure out what caused it.”

  One word had caught my attention—“significant”—and I realized that I’d stopped watching the road. I wasn’t sure when, but I didn’t remember leaving Alber and turning onto the highway. I pulled over to the shoulder, flipped on the flashers and put the SUV in park next to the ditch. “Go on.”

  “We believe the meds will ease the situation in the next twenty-four hours. Once it’s safe, we’ll gradually wake her. At that point, we’ll assess any damage. Maybe, if she’s lucky, she’ll come out of this relatively intact.”

  This time I focused on “relatively intact.”

  “You have any predictions, Doc? Will it affect her speech? Her ability to walk? I noticed one hand seems to be locked in a tight fist. Is that from the stroke?”

  My heart caught in my throat when he answered, “I don’t know, Clara. These are things I can’t predict. Your mother is truly in God’s hands.”

  Fourteen

  Clyde Benson was dispensing premium into a black sedan when I pulled up to the garage. The first thing anyone describing Clyde would note is that he was a big man—massive arms and legs, tall, powerfully built. He had a blond monk’s fringe and big ears, bulgy eyes and round cheeks. “Time to fill ’er up, Chief?”

  “Hey Clyde,” I said with a smile. “Sure. Let’s do it. I’ll wait until you’re finished with your other customer. No hurry.”

  The body shop had a gravel parking lot, with the only cement the platform the pumps were built on. The overhead doors were open on both bays, and Clyde had an old Chevy on the lift, maybe just an oil change but the thing looked like it could have used a complete rebuild and a paint job. In addition to new fenders and bumpers, Clyde did all manner of engine repairs. Off to the side, four clunkers rusted, weeds growing up around them. The building needed a new coat of paint, too, along with the sign on the pole with the name on it; the “B” in “Benson’s” had faded off.

  A few minutes passed, the sedan sped out of the station and on down the highway. Clyde pulled out an oily rag tucked into the pocket of his gray-striped coveralls and wiped his hands. The rest of the nation had gone to self-serve but at Benson’s Body Shop, Clyde still gave great customer service. A grin on his face, he strolled over and stuck the nozzle into my Suburban’s tank, then squeezed to get the gas flowing. “I filled up a few days ago, so probably won’t need a lot. But I was driving by and decided to stop.”

  “Always good to see you, Chief.”

  In the past, I’d kept it all business with Clyde. But this time I hadn’t come for the gas. Stef had come up dry looking for Danny and Lynlee, and I intended to do a little prospecting for information. “So, how’s the family, Clyde? Well, I hope?”

  “Good, Chief.”

  “The wives?” I would have mentioned them by name, but I couldn’t remember them. I couldn’t remember having ever met any of the women.

  “Fine, no complaints,” he said, chomping on what I assumed had to be a plug of chewing tobacco. “Nice of you to ask.”

  I’d heard Clyde had moved, but I wasn’t sure where. Before I’d fled, he’d lived in a spread on the highway near the edge of town. “Where are you living now, Clyde?”

  He gave me a strange look. “Up the mountain, Chief. Bought a farmhouse. Old place was too small.”

  I would have liked to ask more, but he looked suspicious, and I didn’t want to alarm him. I thought of his old house. When I used to drive by, he always had a sway-backed bay grazing in the front pasture. “That horse of yours still around?”

  “Daisy?” I nodded, and he continued. “Yeah, the old girl’s still kicking. She’s getting up there in years. The kids love her, so we keep feeding her.”

  That was the opportunity I’d been waiting for, a natural opening to ask about his family. “You know, we’ve never talked about your kids, Clyde. Remind me. How many do you have?”

  “Eight.” He put one hand on his hip and his chest expanded, the proud dad. “Five boys. Three girls.”

  “How wonderful. I bet you’re really proud of them.” I came close to gushing. “What are their names? How old?”

  I’d poured it on, and Clyde appeared pleased at my interest. “Oh, now, you’re not going to hold it over me if I get an age wrong, are you?”

  “Nah. With eight, I think a year or two off on one isn’t a big deal, is it?” I laughed, keeping it light, doing my best to act friendly.

  “All right, then.” At that, he pulled the spout out of the Suburban and inserted it back into the pump. That done, he held out his fists and put the first finger out. With each child, he extended another finger. He listed all eight, ages twenty-two to six. But he didn’t mention Lynlee or Danny.

  “That’s a great family,” I said, making sure I gave him my friendliest smile.

  His grin spread ear to ear, and I knew he was eating up the attention. “Yeah, they’re pretty wonderful. Jewels in a father’s crown, you know.”

  I thought of the proverb and how it actually referred to grandchildren, but I let it go. I waited, hoping Clyde would say more about the family. But his smile faded some, and it appeared that he’d tired of the conversation. “You want I should put it on your account, like usual?”

  “Sure. That’s easiest. Say, does your family homeschool?”

  At that, he turned his head just a bit to the side and gave me an inquisitive glance. That wasn’t a question he’d expected. “Nah, well, sometimes the wives have, off and on. But most of the time, the kids go to the school in town. Why do you ask?”

  I’d wanted that bit of information, but I needed to pin it down. “You know, I taught for a while. I think I remember one of your kids. Let me think about this.”

  I stood there, silent, as if contemplating what child of Clyde’s I might remember. He glanced at his watch as he continued to gnaw on that wad of tobacco. He had that Chevy on the lift to get to. I was trying his patience. On purpose. I wanted him to talk to get rid of me. It worked, and he asked, “When were you there teaching? Maybe I can tell you which kid you might have h
ad in class.”

  “I started fifteen years ago, taught kindergarten. Then, you know, I left town going on eleven years ago. Were you sending your kids to school in town while I was there?”

  “Well, I think so,” he said, sticking his right index finger in his ear and scratching. “I am sure we sent the older kids to the school. But I can’t think of one who would have been in kindergarten around that time, though. Not sure who you might have taught.”

  At that, he turned to leave, but I followed him. “Clyde, I think I’ll buy one of those candy bars out of your dollar box.”

  “Have at it. Leave the money by the register.”

  “You bet.” I tracked behind him into the station. The place was old but well kept, and I’d always assumed that one or both of his wives cleaned a few times a week to keep it that way. I’d walked in with him because I’d remembered that there were family photos in small frames around the place. Clyde shuffled past me, and I picked up one that looked like it might have been an older picture. The glass was dusty, and I wiped it off with my thumb. Clyde sat proudly in the photo surrounded by his two wives and five children. “These must be your oldest kids?”

  Clyde had been on his way to the shop area to get busy, but he clomped over and stood next to me. I was well aware that he towered above me and had to have a hundred pounds, probably more on me. “That’s them, all right.”

  “Nice photo.” I put it back on the shelf and then scrounged around but couldn’t find my usual Baby Ruth or Mars Bar. Instead, I grabbed a KitKat and slapped down the dollar. Based on what he’d said at the pump, the ages of his children, what I knew about Lynlee from the report folder, I pointed at the oldest girl in that same photo and said, “She looks kind of familiar. Who’s this?”

  “Who’s who?” he asked. I pointed again. For a moment, his face flushed and he appeared unable to answer. Then he stammered, “Oh, why, that’s Elizabeth, my oldest.”