by Rickie Blair
“Maybe another time. Forgive me for asking but—did the police believe you? I mean, believe you met Randall after he disappeared?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“Sorry. I had to ask.”
“Naturally, they believed me. One of the park’s security cameras is aimed at the bandshell. The police reviewed the tape. They saw us. There was talk about charging me as an accessory to—something, but it came to nothing.”
“Did they suspect you knew about the fraud?”
“There was no fraud. I told you.” Frowning, Brenda placed the ashtray on the coffee table with a clunk.
I backpedaled furiously. “Sorry. I was confused. Can I change the subject?”
She nodded curtly.
“Do you remember a graduate student by the name of Claire Hawkes? I came across a reference to her while researching that dig.”
Brenda’s expression blackened. She rose to her feet and stood over me. “You liar. You’re not writing an article for the faculty magazine. You made that up.”
Hastily, I deposited my espresso cup on the table with a shaky hand. “What makes you say that?”
“Now I know why you look so familiar—you’re Claire’s daughter.” She gestured angrily to the exit. “You’re not welcome here.”
Sheepishly, I rose and followed her to the door. On the threshold, I tried one last question. “Brenda—where is your husband now?”
The door closed in my face with a resounding thump.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I turned into Rose Cottage’s driveway, Frank was sitting on the porch steps, hands thrust into the pockets of his field coat, watching me. His rental sedan was parked near the house.
I considered backing out and driving away. It had been a long day, and the last thing I wanted was another argument. But that would only delay the inevitable. After slipping the Anne pencil case into the pocket of my jacket, I got out of the truck and headed for the front door.
As I passed Frank’s rental car, something caught my eye. I swiveled my head to see a spiderweb of cracks on the windshield. I halted, bending with my hands in my pockets to peer at the glass. It was smeared with something. My eyes widened. Was that—blood?
I straightened, pointing to the windshield. “What happened?” I called to Frank.
He got off the porch, then slowly made his way toward me.
My jaw dropped when I saw him up close. His eyes were black, garish stitches closed a jagged cut on one cheek, and medical tape spanned the bridge of his nose.
I gasped. “What happened to your face?”
He gingerly touched his nose. “I fell.”
“Against the windshield?”
“That’s right.”
I issued an exasperated sigh. “You did not. Somebody rammed you up against it.” Stepping nearer, I studied his injuries. “Your nose is broken, isn’t it?”
He winced. “Can we not talk about this now?”
“When are we going to talk about it?”
“Verity, I must have that box. I’m happy to open it in front of you, if that’s what it takes. But I have to see what’s inside.”
I hesitated.
“Please. I’m running out of time.”
He was shivering. That field coat wasn’t keeping him warm. Blast. Why couldn’t the man drop by Canadian Tire and buy himself a pair of gloves like a normal person?
After glaring for a bit, I relented. “Okay. Come inside and we’ll talk about it. But first, I’m phoning Jeff to tell him about this.” I pointed to the cracked windshield.
“There’s no need. I tripped and fell, that’s all. Your boyfriend won’t be interested in my little mishap.”
I doubted that. In fact, I was sure Jeff would be extremely interested. But my call could wait until we’d opened the box. After my visit to the museum, I was more determined than ever to find out what was in it.
As I stepped through the door, Boomer came running up, pawing excitedly at my leg, hoping for a head pat. And a treat, should I happen to have one in my pocket.
Then he saw Frank. I wasn’t sure if it was the bulky nose bandage or Frank’s general air of uneasiness, but Boomer was having none of it.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf.
“Back off, mutt,” Frank yelled.
“Hey,” I said. But before I could fully express my disapproval of his rude remark, Boomer lunged in his own defense.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf.
He escalated his assault with a few well-placed nips.
“Ow.” Frank hopped on one foot, then the other. “Stop that.”
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf.
I grabbed the terrier’s collar to drag him off. “Sorry. He doesn’t usually—”
Rrrrrwwwwhhhh.
I froze at that sound.
Aroused by Boomer’s racket, the General had crept out to the foyer for a look-see. Recognizing his former nemesis from their earlier back-of-the-sofa encounter, he crouched, tail swishing. Then he attacked.
“Get off me,” Frank yelled, darting out of the way. But with his eyes on the cat, he didn’t see the ottoman—the one he bruised his shin on during his earlier visit. When he tripped over it and hit the floor with a thud, the General moved in for the kill.
Rrrrrwwwwhhhh.
Still trying to hold back the dog, I covered my face with one hand, wincing at the sound of ripping cloth. Unable to resist, I peeked between my fingers. Ooh, that was going to leave a mark.
The old tom plunked himself on Frank’s chest, glaring at him with his one good eye.
“Please get these animals under control,” Frank whimpered.
“I’m trying. I’m— I’m—” I bent over, unable to smother my laughter any longer.
Boomer, who had been straining to join the fun, wagged his tail so vigorously his entire hindquarters shook. I was laughing too much to maintain my grip on his collar, and it slipped out of my grasp. Boomer raced over to Frank and skidded to a halt, licking his face enthusiastically.
“Oh, come on,” Frank muttered from behind his fingers.
Meanwhile, the General had hopped off his quarry. Once Frank surrendered, all the enjoyment went out of it for the old warrior. He sat on the floor to leisurely smooth a patch of ruffled fur on one paw, then sauntered off to the bedroom without a backward glance.
I stifled my snickering. “You can get up now, Frank. Boomer, sit.”
Miraculously, the dog obeyed. Long enough for Frank to stumble to his feet and limp stiffly to an armchair. He sank into it with a heartfelt sigh. “Why do I get attacked every time I set foot in this place?”
“Can I help it if I have overprotective pets?”
“What are you feeding those animals—cocaine?” Leaning forward to rest his face in his hands, he groaned.
I choked back a crisp retort, since he really did look awful. “I’ll get you some ice,” I said, heading to the kitchen.
When I returned with an ice pack, Frank was slumped back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. Boomer sat at his feet, watching intently, no doubt hoping for more games.
I sat on the coffee table, then handed Frank the ice. “Put this against your face. Let me see your hands. Did the General scratch you?”
He pressed the ice against his forehead. “I’m fine. Never mind about my hands.”
“You’re not fine.” I stared at the bruised fingers holding the ice pack. “Did you punch somebody?”
He groaned. “Leave it, Ettie. Please.”
Ignoring this advice, I gathered hydrogen peroxide and bandages from the bathroom. “Hold out your hand.”
Clucking my tongue at his bruised knuckles, I sprayed disinfectant on the cuts and applied Band-Aids. “Give me your other hand.”
He switched the ice pack and obeyed.
I applied more hydrogen peroxide. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“I did tell you. I tripped.”
With a shrug, I got to my feet. “If you’re going to lie about
it—”
“Look—it’s better you don’t know.” He dropped the ice pack on the floor. “Where is it?”
Wordlessly, I retrieved the box from its hiding place and placed it in front of him. He picked it up, weighing it in his hands.
“Wait. I’m not letting you take that unless you open it in front of me first.”
“Verity—”
“No.” I raised a hand. “I’m not giving in on this. You said you could open it. So do it. Otherwise—it stays here.”
He stared at the box for several moments before replying. “Okay,” he said. “But then I have to take it with me. Agreed?”
“That depends on what’s inside.”
Our eyes met. Without looking down at the box, he gave it a forceful twist with both hands. One end popped open.
My mouth gaped. “How did you do that?”
He grinned—more lopsidedly than usual. “You really don’t remember?”
Furrowing my brow, I stared at the opened box. Something tugged at my memory. “Wait—I had one like this. When I was little. It was in my bedroom.” I struggled to remember. Was this a false memory fragment created by Frank’s suggestion? Or had that box really existed?
“You did. Claire took it away because she worried you’d get your fingers caught in the mechanism. I don’t know what happened to it after that.”
“It’s not this one?” I gestured at the box in his hands.
“No. This is one of the others I made.”
“You made them?”
His grin faded. “It’s amazing how much you’ve forgotten. While I remember… everything.” He set the opened box on the coffee table with a sigh. “I think your way is better.” He stared at it a moment before straightening up and continuing. “We used to sell these puzzle boxes, Claire and I, at the flea market in the village. Every Sunday. Course, you were little then. A toddler, really. You wouldn’t remember that.”
I reached out to finger the box’s intricate carvings. “Why didn’t Adeline recognize it?”
He gave a sniff. “What makes you think she didn’t?”
I withdrew my hand. “You really hate her, don’t you?”
“No,” he blurted. “I don’t. We made choices, and I didn’t agree with hers, but that’s not for me to say. She did what she thought was best. And—if I’m being honest—she’s always done everything she could to protect you.”
He bent to retrieve the ice pack and slumped in the chair, holding the ice against one eye. “And let’s face it,” he muttered. “I was a failure at that.”
This was patently obvious, in my opinion. But I didn’t care to discuss it, so I changed the subject. “There are some things I’d like to forget—like the sight of Irina Lasher’s body.”
“The woman who died at the university?”
I nodded. “I’m a prime suspect in her murder.”
He frowned. “Nobody thinks you’re a killer, Verity.”
“Why does everybody keep saying that? What about the police? You don’t know what they think.”
“If the police actually thought you’d murdered someone—you’d know it, believe me.”
I drew in a breath. This was my chance to ask him about Randall Dignam. “Are you speaking from experience?”
He hesitated before lowering the ice pack and meeting my gaze. Those blue eyes—their power somewhat diminished by his garish purple bruises—bored into me. “Do you really believe I could do something like that?”
“I don’t know what to believe. I don’t really know you, do I?”
His shoulders sagged. “I guess not.”
I felt as if I should apologize, but the words caught in my throat.
Frank reached for the box. “Let’s see what’s in this, shall we?” He tilted it so that the open end faced the table.
An object clattered onto the wooden surface, and Frank set the box aside. I reared back in shock, my breath sticking in my throat.
On the table before me lay—a skeletal human hand.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I stared at the small gray bones wired onto a piece of cardboard backing.
“That’s a hand,” I croaked.
“It does look like it,” Frank said.
I had once made a similar find, but that one was buried in a dank basement and bleached white in the light of my lantern. Its discovery was not one of my fonder memories.
“How did it get into that box?”
He stared at it, brows drawn. “Your mother put it there.”
“Why?”
“Crikey,” he said, dropping his head into his hands with a groan. “I don’t know. My head is pounding. I can’t think. Get me a coffee.”
My gaze was riveted to those bones.
“Please?”
“Okay.” I rose cautiously to my feet. “But don’t go anywhere.”
When I returned with two mugs, Frank was poking at the tiny bones with a pencil.
“Should you be doing that?”
He took a mug from me without looking up. After a deep swallow, he placed it on the end table. “Thanks.” He leaned over to poke the bones again. “I think this guy’s past caring.”
“That’s not funny.” I shuddered, giving the coffee table a wide berth as I sidled past it to sit on the sofa. “We have to turn this over to the police.”
“No,” he said, pointing the pencil at me. “We do not.”
“Those are human remains. Of course we do.”
“Whatever this is…” He poked it again. “Claire left it for me. It’s mine.”
“Whatever this is? What are you talking about? It’s obvious what it is. And you can’t possess human remains. It’s against the law.” I had learned this during a case involving the War of 1812 and a pompous British historian, but I decided not to elaborate. “We have to give it to the police.”
“And tell them what? That we found it in your basement? Do you realize what they’ll do?”
“No,” I said, becoming uneasy. “What?”
“Tear up the basement. Maybe the entire yard as well. The whole cottage might have to come down.”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
“Standard procedure when human remains are discovered.” He sat back, nodding thoughtfully. “They won’t give up until they find the rest of it.”
“But there’s nothing else to find—is there?”
Shrugging, he gave the bones another poke.
“Stop that. It doesn’t matter. We have to do the right thing.” I reached for my phone.
“Hang on—” Frank leaned forward to peer again at the hand. Then he leaned even closer, until his bandaged nose nearly touched one of the fingers.
I watched, holding my breath, until he straightened up with a grin.
“Call the police. They’ll laugh at you, and your boyfriend will get ribbed about it at the station, but yeah—go ahead.” Smirking, he picked up his coffee mug and took a sip, watching me over the rim.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is this a trick?”
He smirked again.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Okay. I’ll take pity on you.” He picked up the hand and flapped it at me.
Grimacing, I leaned well back.
He replaced it on the table. “It’s not human.”
“What do you mean? Is it a—fake?”
“No, it’s real.”
“Then what—”
“It’s a bear paw.”
“No,” I spluttered. “That’s not possible.”
“Bear paw bones look like human hands. Your mother and I found this on a camping trip in Algonquin Park before you were born. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. But it was a long time ago. I’d forgotten.”
I made a face at him. “Weasel.”
“No. Bear.”
“You’re the weasel. You let me believe that was human.”
“Verity, you have a real bent for the macabre. Must come from hanging around with a cop.”
“Gone. Somebody took them—probably to make jewelry—before we found the bones.”
“You have an answer for everything.”
“I’m telling you, Verity—it’s a bear paw. That’s all.”
“Why would Mom keep something like that?”
“She was sentimental.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“Is it so hard to believe Claire kept a memento of our happiest time together?” He swept the skeletal paw back into the box, then closed it with a forceful twist. His features had frozen into an expression so empty of emotion, it was impossible to see anything other than exhaustion on his battered face. My father was over fifty, but he looked decades older right then.
With a sigh, he placed the box on the coffee table.
Despite a twinge of guilt, I pressed on. “Why keep a memento locked away in a secret compartment where no one can find it?”
“I found it,” he said with visible effort.
“Because you knew where to look.”
“Because your mother wanted me to have it.”
“No.” I snatched up the box and hoisted it over my head. “This is my property.”
“Verity, it means nothing to you. Let me have it, and I’ll be on my way. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to leave?”
My hand quivered as I held the box aloft while trying to decide—did I want him to go or not?
Seriously? This was hardly the time to rekindle filial bonds.
I pushed those conflicting emotions out of my head in favor of more concrete concerns. “Do you expect me to believe you came all the way from Australia to recover old bear bones? This is the bequest you talked about?”
Frank reached for the box, but I jerked it away.
“I was wrong about a bequest, obviously,” he said. “But Claire wanted me to have that.” His voice rose. “Give it to me.”