The Mystery of the Bones (Snow & Winter Book 4)

by C. S. Poe

  “You say that word, and I’m going to come kick your ass for an hour,” Quinn warned.

  Realizing what I’d nearly said out loud, and with my father standing only a few feet away, I grasped for something—anything—to counteract the bad luck I was about to bring down upon the NYPD.

  “F-fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you,” I quickly said. A theater superstition, but lucky Shakespeare was lucky Shakespeare, right?

  Pop was staring at me curiously.

  The tension over the line was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  “I’m going to let you go,” I told them both.

  “Please find another method of self-entertainment,” Calvin replied.

  “Jack off and take a nap,” Quinn called.

  Calvin sighed a little at that, then added, “I love you.”

  “Love you too,” I mumbled before ending the call.

  Pop walked to the coatrack, pulled on his jacket, and asked, “What’s with The Merchant of Venice?”

  “Warding off some misfortune,” I said. “Where’re you off to?”

  “Maggie and I have a lesson at Exotic Animal Haven around one o’clock.” He looked at the still-closed curtains by the dining table, as if to judge the weather. “With the snow, I want to leave a bit early. Afterward, we’ve got some socializing to do at Puppy Pals. I should be back around five….” Pop put on his scarf and gloves. “Will you still be here?”

  “I suspect that’ll be the case,” I answered.

  Pop nodded. “I’ll pick us up something for dinner.”

  “No, no. I’ll cook something.”

  “Twist my arm,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ll be okay alone?”

  “Sure. How much trouble can I get into?”

  Houston, we’ve had a problem.

  Chapter Three

  TO ANSWER my own question: a lot.

  I could get into an excessive amount of trouble, sitting at Pop’s with zero, zilch, and nada to keep me occupied. I did try working from home. I had shop emails to answer, calls to make, and some research to do, but hunched over my laptop with an internet connection seemed like a rabbit hole of bad ideas. I supposed I could have more seriously done wedding prep, but to be honest, I’d have rather stuck a fork in my eye. Not that I didn’t want to get married. That I wanted very much. I simply didn’t have the sensibilities to give a crap about all the details that were apparently supposed to make the big day even more magical.

  I mean, color palettes? Mood boards? Lighting designers?

  For Christ’s sake, I’d marry Calvin standing in my skivvies out front of Macy’s.

  Romance I could do. I thoroughly enjoyed syrupy-sweet declarations of love. Hell, after a year, I still practically swooned when Calvin called me his baby or sweetheart. And I liked flowers and candlelit dinners and hand-in-hand walks through the park in the rain with the best of them. But there was something about weddings that didn’t feel all that romantic. More like an obligation. Fulfilling a civic duty. I liked date nights with my fiancé because it was just us. We did it for no one but us.

  Weddings meant company. It meant in-laws. And if that reason alone wasn’t enough to kill the mood… weddings meant a whole lot of folks staring at the happy couple through a magnifying lens as we went through preplanned and rehearsed motions. It didn’t seem spontaneous and loving in that respect. It seemed tedious, if the planning was anything to go by.

  I don’t know. I found the act of being married romantic. The mere thought of spending my life with a guy who gets me was an actual dream come true. And I’d pay serious cash to see Calvin dressed to the nines. But weddings themselves?

  Meh. My planner was full of more doodles than actual plans, and it was bumming me out.

  Max had suggested more than once over the last two weeks to give in and hire a planner, which, yeah, was probably a smart move if we wanted to get hitched sometime in the next decade… but it brought me to my other problem.

  Money.

  New York City wedding planners came with price tags that gave me hives. This hoopla was already going to be expensive enough, but to shell out how many more thousands for someone else to make the phone calls and decide between periwinkle or lilac? I supposed I could tell them to do the entire thing in shades of gray so we could skip the color details entirely….

  Anyway. Point was, owning a business with as niche a market as mine, I wasn’t a millionaire. I was well off and successful, all things considered, but I sure as fuck didn’t have extra Benjamins hanging out in my wallet. If I did, I’d be paying off the excessive hospital debt a lot faster. My dad had offered to help pay for some of the wedding, but he was a retired college professor—he wasn’t bringing in the cash. And that left Calvin, who was absolutely not footing even one penny more than what I could meet him at, differences in our salaries be damned.

  I shut the notebook a bit more forcefully than intended. I turned in my chair, pushed my glasses up, and stared at Dillon, fast asleep on Maggie’s bed. I could abide by the rules of dog—when in doubt, take a nap. But I wasn’t tired. I could tell Quinn I took her up on the suggestion of jacking off, but doing it alone was no fun. Not when I had a brick wall of man to play Adult Twister with.

  So what was I left with?

  Human toes at the Museum of Natural History.

  “No,” I said firmly. “No, no, no.” I stood up. “It’s Christmas. Focus on that. I could make myself useful and order a tree.” I picked up my phone from beside the notebook, typed in Christmas trees NYC, and dialed the first business that came up.

  “Skippy’s Trees,” a man said, half the greeting already spoken before the receiver had been fully moved into position.

  “Yeah, hi, do you offer delivery on Christmas trees?”

  “Complimentary delivery and installation to Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens,” he quickly spouted off, for what I’m sure was the hundredth time today, alone. “Additional fees required for delivery to Staten Island. No delivery available for Long Island and Jersey.”

  “I’m in the East Village,” I supplied.

  “So you want a tree or what?”

  “Er—yeah.”

  “Fraser firs are available from four to twenty feet. Except we’re sold out of five footers.”

  “Six feet, I guess.”

  “You want tree-removal service too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Hang on.”

  I hung on.

  A printing calculator whirred and buzzed over the line as the man added up the fees owed. “Two fifty.”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars?” I clarified. “You know the tree will be dead in a matter of weeks.”

  The seller ignored that and responded with “One sixty for the tree, eighty for removal, and then miscellaneous taxes. You want the fir or not?”

  I sighed and rubbed my forehead. “Sure.”

  “I got delivery availability tonight.”

  “That wo—oh no. I’m not home tonight. Maybe.”

  “Don’t work with maybes, buddy. Either tonight or… I got Friday night open.”

  “I should have gone into the tree business,” I answered. “Sounds like it’s booming.”

  “Better fuckin’ believe it,” he said with a laugh. “Tonight or Friday?”

  “I guess it’ll have to be tonight.”

  I gave Skippy’s Trees our address, paid over the phone, and promised to meet his van by 7:00 p.m. on the dot. After ending the call and checking the time again, I was thrilled to see I’d managed to waste a cool eleven minutes.

  Now I needed to keep myself out of trouble for at least another three hours until Pop returned.

  The clock on the wall was the only thing making noise in the apartment.

  Ticktock.

  Ticktock.

  Ticktock.

  I sighed dramatically.

  I DIDN’T last until 5:00 p.m.…. I understood that Calvin didn’t want me alone until he had a grasp on the homicide situation
, but unless he was going to get me some hired muscle, it simply wasn’t a reasonable request. Pop had his own commitments, and more to the purpose, what was my sixty-four-year-old father going to do if shit hit the fan? I’d be protecting him, not the other way around. And since I’d been climbing the walls by four o’clock, I made the decision to step outside and do something more constructive with my time.

  The dog needed a walk. I had to pick up some groceries for dinner with Dad. And then there was the tree delivery later in the evening. The way I saw it, no matter where I went, there were people. Help. Witnesses. I’d be safe from whatever Calvin was unsure of.

  Dillon loved exploring outside of our immediate neighborhood. There were new trees—apparently better trees—to leave doggy communication on. After a very thorough investigation of every available trunk on Bleecker Street between Mercer and the Bowery, he was satisfied enough to let me do some quick food shopping. The stores I used to frequent with my father as a kid were no longer in business. The city ebbed and flowed with the comings and goings of trends and who could afford the leases on business properties. Unfortunately it was the mom-and-pop shops that ultimately suffered under change—quaint storefronts that once supported a hardworking family had been replaced with high-end clothing or jewelry boutiques that I never saw customers in, yet somehow they remained open.

  Luckily there was still Wheeler’s Deli. It’d been open since the seventies. The little sun-faded awning and subtle window decal were nearly lost from view in the current scaffolding of constant city construction. I was mildly surprised, upon stepping inside, that the shop owner recognized and remembered my name, even though I hadn’t made it a habit of buying groceries there since leaving the family nest. Must have been the eyebrows and nose. Pop’s “best features,” as he called them.

  I stayed long enough for the usual chitchat of “this fucking weather” and “how’s the family” and “really, they’re still alive?” before purchasing a loaf of freshly baked bread, an onion, and a bag full of decent tomatoes. When I got back to my dad’s place, using my copy of his key to get inside the building, I had enough time to chop the onion, peel tomatoes, and start tossing spices into a pot before he walked through the door with Maggie.

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Welcome home.”

  “Smells good. What’re you cooking?” Pop asked, unhooking Maggie’s leash before removing his winter clothes.

  “Thought I’d make some tomato sou—Maggie!” I shouted when she nearly took me out with a fifty-pound run-and-jump sneak attack.

  “Down, girl,” Pop ordered, not even needing to raise his voice for her full obedience. She turned, trotted back to his side, and slobbered his hand affectionately. “We’ve talked about this. No jumping,” he chastised quietly.

  I pointed a wooden cooking spoon at her. “You’re not a princess—you’re a devil.”

  “Hey,” Pop said with a smile. “She just likes you.”

  I grumbled and stirred the bubbling soup. “Neither of these dogs listen to me,” I said, inclining my head absently to where Dillon was in the living room.

  “You need to be more assertive.”

  “I should have pushed you to get a cat,” I corrected. “A big fat one that does nothing but lie on the windowsill all day and cast judgment from afar.”

  Pop was chuckling as he joined my side. He picked up the loaf of bread, made a sound of appreciation after inhaling the yeasty freshness, then fetched a serrated knife to begin cutting smaller portions for our meal. “You sound hangry.”

  “I get grouchy when I’m bored.”

  “What did you do while I was out?”

  “Rearranged your spice cabinet.”

  Pop paused. He opened the cupboard in front of him and stared at the hanging rack on the other side of the door, where he did his best to keep all of his spices in a centralized location. “So you did.”

  “It’s done by theme.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Calvin did it in our kitchen. He does most of the cooking anyway—did I tell you a few months ago that I accidentally put chili powder in a recipe instead of cocoa powder? Because they were alphabetized at the time. The texture looks the same to me. I guess the colors aren’t.”

  “That’s true,” Pop said with a simple nod. He shut the door.

  I turned the burner off, grabbed the ladle on the counter, and poured soup into two bowls. “I’m heading home after dinner. Warden hasn’t called with an update, but I have a hostage situation to negotiate at seven o’clock for a Christmas tree.” I picked up the bowls and walked to the dining table. “Oh. I cleaned your record collection too.”

  “There’s over a hundred vinyls,” Pop protested from behind me.

  “Yeah.”

  SKIPPY’S TREES ran their delivery and installation service with an efficiency that was impressive even by the New York standards of needing something yesterday. I’d barely turned the key in the lock of the front door when someone called from the street, “You waiting on Skippy’s?”

  Holding the door open, I looked over my shoulder. A van was double parked, hazard lights flashing like a lighthouse in the dark. “Yeah. Are you delivering for Snow?”

  The driver checked what I thought was probably his phone. “Sebastian? 4B?”

  “That’s me,” I confirmed.

  The driver went around the back of the van and was joined by a second individual from the passenger side. They removed a huge, tightly bound pine and started across the sidewalk toward me. I pulled Dillon out of the way, opened the door wide, and let them enter the building first. I heard something crinkle on the floor as they walked through the threshold, and upon following them inside, I stepped on whatever they had. Bending down, I retrieved a small padded mailing envelope with a few dirty, wet shoe impressions left on it.

  Well, shit. I looked back at the front door as it fell shut. The mail carrier must have forgotten this and shoved it through the old-fashioned mail slot instead of entering the building again. I placed it on top of the individual mailboxes fastened to the wall for the recipient to find—

  “Son of a….” I grabbed it and brought it close.

  Sebastian Snow.

  “Figures.” I shook the envelope lightly. No sound. I shrugged and raced after the guys, who were already up the first flight of stairs.

  Once we reached the fourth floor, I moved around them, unlocked our apartment, and went inside to switch on the nearest lamp. “Between the bookshelf and couch would be great,” I said, pointing farther into the room.

  They murmured acknowledgment and set to work removing the netting and getting the tree mounted in a base.

  I unclasped Dillon’s leash, tossed the unfortunate piece of mail on the table, and hung up my coat and scarf. I changed into my regular glasses and put my shoulder bag in its usual I’m-too-lazy-to-find-it-a-real-home place on the floor. I turned around to shut the door that’d been left open and yelped in surprise at Calvin standing in the threshold.

  “Holy—fuck, Cal. You scared the shit out of me.” I put a hand to my chest.

  He had a very distinct frown on his face as he entered the apartment. His gaze flickered over my shoulder to the fuss happening behind me, and then he said calmly, “I just came from your dad’s.”

  “I had to meet them for delivery,” I said, jutting a thumb backward.

  “Is there something wrong with your phone?”

  “I don’t think so.” I went to remove it from a pocket.

  “That was sarcasm, Sebastian. I didn’t ask you stay at your father’s for shits and giggles.” He paused when one of the guys announced they were finished. Calvin reached into his back pocket, removed his wallet, and took out a few bills for a tip. He offered the money as the men made for the door.

  “Hey, thanks,” one said with a nod. “Happy holidays.”

  Calvin was quiet until the door shut behind him. He looked at me again.

  “I meant to call,” I said. “I got distracted.”
A likely excuse if there ever was one. “Max phoned while I was walking home—he’d heard some ’90s band on the oldies radio station and was having a crisis over being twenty-three.”

  Calvin didn’t respond as he removed his winter jacket. He unbuttoned his suit coat, tossed it over one of the chairs at the table, and unbuckled his shoulder holster. He set his SIG P226 aside.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Calvin reached up, scrubbed his face briefly with both hands, then steepled his fingertips together and rested them against his mouth. He stared at a framed print on the wall of Un bar aux Folies-Bergère by Édouard Manet. An interesting painting. Firmly rooted in the Realism movement. Not my taste—I leaned more toward Romanticism and the escape its themes provided. But ever since Calvin had seen this painting in one of my reference books, he’d been fascinated by it. I’d asked him, after we obtained a print, what it was about the barmaid that moved him.

  “I’m not an art critic, baby,” he’d said with a chuckle.

  “So what?”

  He’d taken a deep breath and considered the painting for some time. “There’s a… duality in her that I relate to, I guess. Her reflection in the mirror shows her fulfilling a behavior expected of her. A public persona. But we—the onlooker, not the customer—see her emotions head-on. A moment of… resigned melancholy.” He’d stared for another moment. “The private human underneath.”

  “The play is the tragedy, Man,” I’d answered.

  “I know you didn’t want me alone,” I continued. “But I didn’t think it’d be a—”

  “He’s gone missing,” Calvin interrupted.

  I blinked, glanced around the room, then asked, “Who has?”

  Calvin looked at me. “Frank Newell.”

  “I’ll take ‘People I Don’t Know’ for five hundred, Alex,” I said with a shrug.

  “He works at the Museum of Natural History,” Calvin said reluctantly.

  I raised both eyebrows. “Let me guess. He loves dinosaurs.”

  “Assistant Curator for the Division of Paleontology. Last Wednesday he received a package with human remains inside. We’re still trying to identify the victim.” Calvin walked back to me, took my hands, and pulled me close. “Frank didn’t show up to work on Friday, and by Saturday afternoon, his girlfriend reported him missing. There’s been no ransom note, no phone call from possible kidnappers, no nothing. He’s… gone.”