by Chris Seaton
It would have been quite a lovely moment, but Darlene and Bernice, the aunt and niece owners of Lollygagger's Acres were just too crabby with each other to truly enjoy it.
Darlene, stubbornly proving that she was actually capable of holding her tongue, took her mood out on a bowling ball sized boulder. She kicked at it repeatedly with her foot until she found the sweet spot, and it gave way. Unfortunately, she didn't take the laws of physics into account, and her side of the pile began to slide down with the boulder like a tiny avalanche.
Bernice saw it coming and grabbed Darlene's arm, pulling them both off balance. They wound up falling backwards down the other side. Thankfully, neither got hurt, but landing in the mature bed of burdock was not met with enthusiasm.
As they trudged back out, it was evident that the prickly little pom-poms clung like barnacles to whatever exposed sock, shoelace, or strand of hair available in hopes of colonizing a new home elsewhere.
Regrettably, this was not the first time either of them had dealt with such an infestation. They left the barb-covered orbs intact for the moment, knowing full well that disturbing them only encouraged the little bastards to fall apart on contact. It would make the complete removal of the seeds that much more tedious.
Darlene's tolerance had hit its breaking point. “I've had enough,” she proclaimed haughtily. “Let's get this shit over with and go home.”
Bernice surveyed the results of their unintentional land slide. “Looks like we got enough here anyway. Let's gather a few more up and head back.”
“'Bout God damned time,” Darlene grumbled.
Instead of reacting negatively, Bernice smirked at her aunt. “Ah, you're just pissy 'cause Cameron's missing your play date this weekend.”
“Hey, I understand he's got a job to do,” Darlene defended her bad mood. “Don't mean I gotta be happy about it.”
Cameron Sparks was a large, dark, fifty-ish blast from their past. Bernice had worked with him when she was a reporter for Action 18 News in Minneapolis. He was a veteran camera guy. Cameron got re-acquainted with the ladies when the remains of a man long forgotten (by most accounts with good riddance) were discovered in the neighbor's barn.
Cameron and Darlene reawakened old passions which quickly turned into something deeper. He was fast becoming a fixture at the farm. With his expertise in the kitchen, Bernice's therapeutic walks were also required to work off the extra calories.
Unfortunately, duty called him away that particular weekend. He was off shooting footage of tornado damage in Northeastern Minnesota.
They began to make quick, steady work of picking up all the rocks laying into the grass. “Hopefully, I get to have the house to myself for a change,” Darlene remarked, sending a skeptical eye in Bernice's direction, “unless he cancels again.”
“If he does, he does.” Bernice rolled the rock onto the tail gate and bent down to grab another. “I just hate wasting reservations. That's all.”
He was Evan Wyatt, Special Agent in Charge from the Madison office of the Wisconsin Department of Criminal Investigation. So far, he'd been unable to locate and apprehend a certain serial killer. As a result, he'd been working obnoxious amounts of overtime to keep himself in marginally good graces with his higher ups and hopefully keep his job.
Agent Wyatt and Bernice's initial meeting was about as prickly as the burdock barbs digging into her ankle. Even so, they somehow managed to forge a tentative partnership to expose that killer. Overcoming mounting corpses and subsequent attempts on their lives, the attraction between them was undeniable. It eventually won out over emotional obstacles and practical common sense.
Bernice had been spoiled in her previous relationship with the convenience of a local entrepreneur who made his own schedule. Agent Wyatt lived and worked on the other end of the state. His job was unpredictable and time-consuming.
After four hastily canceled dates Bernice had resorted to bringing the mountain to Mohamed. She showed up at his office for a late evening appointment with a gift box of fudge. Following the pleasurable destruction of his pretentious desk, the last reminder of his ex-wife, the rest of the date had continued in his apartment where they shopped for a new desk from his laptop in bed. Bernice had never realized how much better fudge tasted when one was naked.
That had been three weeks ago. For their latest rendezvous Bernice had gone online and found a deal on a swanky hotel in downtown St. Paul, complete with dinner reservations. For the last week she had called in almost daily to make sure some other crisis hadn't cropped up. There were no new stings on meth houses, no sudden raids on suspected pot farms, and no new dead bodies. So far, so good.
Darlene glanced over at the fieldstone and stopped, perplexed. Investigating, she removed some rubble out of her line of vision. It was hard to make out, but there seemed to be more soil in the newly exposed part of the pile. The additional earthworms squirming indignantly at having been exposed made it clear something was different. She pulled their protesting bodies aside and began to recognize what she was looking at. “Hey Bernice, I think there's an animal buried in here.”
Bernice looked up and frowned. “Ew, you mean like a dog or something?”
Darlene shifted her head, looking at the newly excavated piece of bone. “No, it's bigger, more like a cow.”
Bernice let her eyes take in the entire pile of rocks and shook her head in disagreement. “No, can't be a cow. The rock pile's not big enough for a whole cow.”
Darlene leveled a knowing glare, remarking, “You of all people know firsthand that a body will fit in a smaller space if you cut it up enough.”
Bernice reacted with a very distasteful expression when her pocket rang. She looked at the caller ID and noted, “Someone else who knows that first hand.” She started the conversation with, “please tell me you are taking me away from all this.”
In response there was a chuckle followed by a sad sigh. It didn't sound promising. “Please don't hate me,” was Agent Wyatt's pleading response.
“What now?” Bernice didn't bother hiding the disappointment in her voice. Darlene discreetly busied herself with the rock pile.
There was another sigh. “Trouble down at the UW Platteville Campus.” He didn't elaborate. He simply said, “I'm really sorry.”
Now it was Bernice's turn to sigh. “You know, I have a good mind to go all by myself and call you from the huge, jetted tub in our hotel room.”
“Would it be one of those kinds of phone calls?”
She smiled. “I don't know. Would you have me arrested for sexting?” She liked the frustrated groan she got in response. “Well, if absence makes the heart grow fonder...”
“It makes other organs ornery and uncomfortable,” Agent Wyatt countered. “How about another visit to my office, Ma'am?”
“See, I knew you were getting spoiled,” Bernice teased. “I can wait.”
“Suit yourself. Gotta go. Later, Bunny.” He mocked her with the dreaded nickname.
“You're gonna pay for that,” she warned and hung up her phone.
When Bernice turned around, she was completely taken off guard. Darlene was standing on the rock pile and holding a large long bone over her head like it was some sort of primitive trophy.
“See,” Darlene pointed out, “Look how big it is. Definitely gotta be a cow bone.”
Bernice couldn't help but giggle. “All right, Mrs. Flintstone, you've made your point.”
The giggling subsided almost as quickly as it had begun. Bernice felt a tightness of apprehension creep into her as she approached the newly exposed part of the rock pile. It increased until her scalp felt like it was pricked with painful needle points. She blinked a couple of times, hoping to God her mind was playing tricks on her.
“Darlene,” she cautioned in a low voice, “I think you should put the bone down. Now.”
Darlene knew the tone and didn't like it. She immediately dropped the bone like it was on fire and launched herself off of the pile, catching her balance in a
couple of steps after her ungraceful dismount. She briskly wiped her hands on the ground, twisting her face with appalled revulsion. “Good God, don't tell me.”
Bernice pointed to the grimy heel of the exposed tennis shoe and simply said, “Call the cops.”
Exert from...
FEMUR
in the
Fieldstone
Dairyland Murders Book 2
by Chris Seaton Copyright 2011
Don’t miss a single book in the Dairyland Murders Series:
Book 1: Head in a Haymow
Book 2: Femur in the Fieldstone
Book 3: Cop Incognito
Book 4: Torso in the Torrent
Book 5: Blonde in the Backwaters
Find out more at www.dairylandmurders.com