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

by C. S. Poe

  I tucked my magnifying glass into my front coat pocket. “Would that mean you know Frank Newell?”

  Her eyes widened a little. “Dr. Newell?”

  “Doctor, yes, sorry.”

  “Have you heard from him?” she asked, her voice dropping low and eyes darting around the hall.

  I had to tilt my head to the side to catch her words, they were so quiet. “Not… exactly. I’m looking for his supervisor. I guess that would be the division’s head curator?”

  “Dr. Logan Thyne,” she answered.

  “Dr. Thyne,” I repeated with a quick nod. “And is he around?”

  She cautiously shrugged. “Maybe? I mean, he’s always here…. He could be in a meeting or hosting an educational class or—”

  I put my hands up to stop her. “I understand. He must be very busy. But I’m here because….” I hesitated to throw out too much information. I didn’t know who any of the potential suspects were or what details Calvin shared with anyone prior to his disappearance, but she had made it very clear she was at least aware of him being MIA. “I’m concerned. Regarding his extended absence.”

  “Are you a friend of his?” she asked but with a sympathetic tone that hinted she was more than ready to believe me.

  So I lied.

  “Yes.”

  She pressed the binders to her chest, cast her eyes to the ground for a moment, then said, “Stay right here. Let me see what I can do.”

  I watched her hurry through the hall and vanish among the crowd at the entrance of the room. I began to sweat in my winter coat, and the weight of the messenger bag flung over one shoulder was giving me a weird ache on that side. I focused on those minor annoyances to distract myself from instead counting each wasted second via my heart slugging against my rib cage, threatening to burst right out of my chest.

  The fear, adrenaline, excessive warmth, and lack of breakfast were really starting to make me light-headed. I glanced around for a place I might have been able to sit for a moment, when a strong, booming voice said, “A man waiting by the Stegosaurus wishes to speak with me. Who? Who’s here to waste my time? You?”

  A man in a dark suit, spectacles a bit too small for his face, and jowls at odds with his age—like he’d never smiled once in his life—stopped before me. My spunky young friend came to a halt behind him and took a deep breath, as if she’d been chasing him the entire way.

  “Am I looking for you?” he asked me.

  “Dr. Thyne?” I countered.

  “Yes. I know who I am. Who are you?” he impatiently prodded.

  I thrust my hand out quickly. “Sebastian Snow.”

  “Your name means nothing to me,” he answered, not bothering to shake.

  “Yours isn’t all that impressive either, buddy,” I shot back.

  Thyne’s eyes grew. He sniffed loudly and began to walk away.

  “Wait! Hold on.” I dodged a visitor and skidded in front to cut the good doctor off. “I’m sorry,” I said, swallowing my pride. “Let me start again. My name is Sebastian Snow, and I’m looking into the disappearance of Dr. Newell. I believe he works for you?”

  “Let me see your badge.”

  “Well… I’m not a cop.”

  “Then how are you investigating anything?”

  I hesitated, but that split second of silence gave Thyne the opportunity to move around me and continue walking. “Sonofa—” I darted to the side and blocked him for a second time.

  “I am not looking to have a dance with you. Move aside. I am a very busy man.” Thyne looked over his shoulder. “Ms. Gould, I hope next time you’ll fully consider the definition of emergency. Perhaps you need a copy of Merriam-Webster?”

  “Dr. Gould,” she timidly reminded him.

  Thyne snorted. “We’ll see.”

  Oh, good. A bully. I knew how to deal with those sorts. I snapped my fingers at Thyne. “Hey. Have you been interviewed by the NYPD?”

  Thyne startled and looked at me. “Did you snap at me, Mr. Snow?”

  “Was it Detective Winter?” I continued without pause. “Red hair and freckles?” I raised my hand up over my head. “About this tall?”

  Thyne’s expression, once an impassible wall, began to show cracks. “How do you know that?”

  I quickly took my cell phone from my pocket. I opened the photos folder and chose a picture after a moment of consideration. I turned the screen toward Thyne. Gould craned her neck to look over his supervisor’s shoulder at the image—a selfie of Calvin sitting comfortably across the length of the couch and me between his legs, leaning back against his chest. I’d caught Calvin midlaugh, so he was a bit blurry. I wasn’t much of a photographer, even with a phone that’d cost a grand and boasted having a state-of-the-art camera. But still. Unadulterated joy on Calvin’s face was a picture to be cherished.

  “Here. This is Detective Winter, do you agree?”

  “Yes,” Thyne said, drawing the single word out.

  “He’s my fiancé and has been investigating the murder involving your coworker.” I lowered the phone.

  Thyne took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked around us, watching the crowd move like the coming and going of ocean waves. “I fail to understand what I have to do with this.”

  “I need to ask you some questions. It’ll take ten minutes.”

  “Mr. Snow—” he began, the frustration returning.

  “My fiancé has disappeared,” I said, voice catching, despite trying so hard to keep it together. “Like Frank. And I’m afraid something very bad might have happened to your colleague. Detective Winter is a good man. And I don’t have much time.”

  Gould’s mouth formed an O, and she put a hand to her chest.

  The stiff line of Thyne’s shoulders eased a little, and for one second, I thought the terrible lizard might have been warm-blooded after all. “If a police officer has gone missing—”

  “He was kidnapped,” I corrected.

  “The NYPD must intervene immediately.”

  “They are.”

  “Then why are you getting in their way?” Thyne shot back.

  I glared behind my sunglasses. “I told you why. He’s my—”

  “Fiancé, yes, I heard you,” Thyne replied. “I do hope the detective comes home safely. But seeing as I have already told the police everything I know about Dr. Newell, this is not a conversation I need to repeat. Especially with someone who isn’t a cop.”

  “Dr. Thyne!” I tried.

  “And might I also suggest that you allow the professionals to do their job. That’s why we pay city taxes.” Thyne sniffed again. “Good day.” He began walking away, adding over his shoulder without sparing a glance, “I believe you have work to tend to, Ms. Gould?”

  I looked at Gould, still standing in front of me without Thyne to block her, an expression of heartbreak on her face. “Thanks,” I said coolly. “For trying. I hope I haven’t gotten you into trouble.”

  “That detective,” she began, scratching nervously at the skin below her collarbone, visible from the V-cut of her blouse. “He’s really been kidnapped?”

  I nodded, silently pocketing my phone.

  “He was really nice,” Gould murmured. “When he was here to help Dr. Newell.” She smiled that cute sunshiny smile from earlier. “My colleagues seem to forget half the time that I have a PhD just like theirs…. That detective used my title, though.”

  “He’s good like that.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  “Calvin.”

  She stepped closer and whispered, “Do you think Dr. Newell is… dead?”

  “I don’t… I don’t know,” I replied.

  “But you don’t think it’s good.” Not a question.

  “No.”

  She pulled back the sleeve of her sweater and glanced at her wristwatch. Gould looked up at me again. “I don’t know if I’ll be of much help. Your detective spoke with Dr. Thyne and Dr. Newell in private. But I’ll
tell you what I know.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Meet me outside in about fifteen minutes by the food carts.”

  “I’LL HAVE a hot dog!” Gould said cheerily to the man operating one of the dozen carts strategically parked outside.

  “Pretzel,” I said, when he looked to me next.

  I took out my wallet and dropped a five on the cart shelf. I knew my street food, and that covered both orders and left a small tip. I wasn’t about to get robbed by a shady, dirty-water dog operator thinking I was a tourist. We took our food, thanked the vendor, and sat on the freezing-cold steps outside of the museum.

  “Thanks for the early lunch,” Gould said before taking a big bite.

  “Sure. I’m all about cheap dates.”

  She chuckled and asked around the dog, “How long have you been engaged?”

  “Two months.” I broke off a piece of the hot pretzel and forced myself to eat. Despite my stomach growling and hangry tendencies beginning to show, it was hard to get the food down when my guts were in knots.

  “How’d you meet?” Gould asked next.

  I glanced sideways at her.

  “I’m a romantic,” she said with a serious expression.

  “We met during a homicide investigation.”

  Her eyes grew. “Oh! Different strokes for different folks. Isn’t that the saying?”

  Sure. I guessed. I supposed it was better than saying I took out a personal ad to find the love of my life.

  M4M.

  Turn-on: Victorian America, cake, mystery, handcuffs, men w/ badges.

  Turn-off: Decaf coffee, PPE, being arrested.

  “So what can you tell me about Frank?” I asked, redirecting the conversation to the matter at hand.

  Gould nodded, munched another bite of hot dog, and said, “Assistant curator. He is—er, was?—a nice guy. Really smart. Passionate.”

  “And last Wednesday morning, he received a package with human remains?”

  “Toes,” Gould confirmed with a shudder. “I deal with bones all day that are millions of years old. Not fresh, still all squishy and bloody.”

  “And then he got a second one. With an ear inside.”

  She shot me a quick look, and a passing gust of wind blew the ends of her light-colored hair into the ketchup-and-mustard-splattered hot dog. “He did?”

  Oops.

  I cleared my throat. “Uh… did Frank ever say who he thought might have sent those packages? Or… who… was in them?”

  Gould shook her head. “God, no. He didn’t say anything to me, at least. It definitely spooked him, though.”

  “Did Frank have any enemies?”

  “No. I mean, I can’t imagine he would. He was a really sweet guy. Dr. Thyne squabbled with him a lot, but you met him. He can be a… difficult personality.”

  “That’s diplomatic.”

  Gould took another bite.

  “Were their arguments ever severe?”

  “I’m still new. Dr. Newell and Dr. Thyne have been here for a decade at least.” Gould finished her hot dog and crumpled the wrapper in her hands. “But Dr. Newell had been working on details for a visiting exhibit. His pet project. Dr. Thyne wasn’t impressed with all of the artifacts. They’d been… discussing it since the day I was hired.”

  Discussing. Sure. We’d go with that.

  “Did you know Frank’s girlfriend?” I continued. “She reported him missing.”

  “For a few days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She used to work here,” Gould said, like I should have known that. She leaned close and murmured, “She was let go.”

  “Really.”

  Gould nodded. “Angela London.”

  “Why did she leave the museum?”

  “Everything I’ve heard is hearsay.”

  “I won’t say anything,” I promised.

  “Well….” Gould was frowning. She shivered a little and admitted, “She might have been stealing.”

  “Money?”

  “Artifacts.”

  “Stellar,” I grumbled.

  “You know,” she started, “now that I think about it, Dr. Newell might have had an enemy.”

  “Who?”

  “Angela.”

  “Did he… catch her stealing?” I asked, confused.

  “No, no. Again, this is hearsay,” she declared. “My second week here, after Angela was booted, I heard from down the grapevine that Dr. Newell had been caught—by Dr. Thyne, no less—fooling around with his intern. If I heard about it, Angela must have.”

  Sex, backstabbing, and the pursuit of scientific and artistic truth. Gotta love the academics.

  “Can I have her name? The intern?” I asked.

  Gould bit her lower lip. “Him. Dr. Newell’s intern is a him.”

  “I see.”

  “Daniel Howard. He’s a student at CUNY.”

  “And how is he? As an intern, I mean,” I said, quickly rewording the question.

  “He’s a good kid,” she said politely.

  I looked at my pretzel, tugged another chunk free, and took a bite. “But?” I prompted.

  “But… he came as a recommendation by Dr. Hart, a very well-respected field paleontologist. I figured Dr. Newell owed him a favor by taking Daniel when CUNY has more… erm… overachieving students. But he’s nice!” she insisted again. “Maybe kind of gaga over Dr. Newell, now that I think about it. I’m of the opinion that an academic should date outside their field. Less controversy.”

  I kind of understood that, actually.

  “Is Daniel working today? I’d like to talk to him if that’s possible,” I said.

  Gould shook her head. “He’s got a sporadic work schedule. Dr. Newell was in charge of his attendance. I haven’t seen Daniel for a few days, but I think winter break is starting, so maybe he’s gone home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Michigan, I think.”

  Fuck. That would be extremely problematic, because something smelled off about this internal drama at the museum. With a head curator probably being the individual who fired the assistant curator’s criminal girlfriend, then catching said assistant sleeping with a student, there was definitely strife, maybe even motive, to do something potentially fatal to Frank Newell. And considering someone mailed him toes and an ear, only to come to learn his intern hasn’t been seen lately?

  This didn’t sound like it’d be a happy ending.

  For Frank or Daniel.

  The fact that I had zero association or knowledge of either individual prior to today confirmed for me that it was most definitely my reputation that caused the Collector to come rapping on my chamber door. The museum staff had struck out at solving this skull mystery, so the Collector decided upon a different approach. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

  “Thanks for all of this information, Dr. Gould,” I said politely as I got to my feet. “It’s been… enlightening.”

  “I hope your fiancé is found.”

  I swallowed and nodded. “Me too.” I started down the steps and then stopped suddenly. “You said the curators had been arguing about an upcoming exhibit?”

  Gould paused midmotion in standing. “That’s right.”

  “What’s the exhibit?”

  She straightened and drew her hair from her face. “It’s about the Bone Wars.”

  “Th-the Bone Wars?”

  “Have you heard of it?”

  “Marsh and Cope.”

  “Correct.” She smiled with a nod of approval. “Dr. Newell has a fascinating lineup of fossils ready to be loaned to us—many that Marsh and Cope either discovered themselves or were responsible for naming during the height of their intense activity.”

  “Why is Dr. Thyne against such an exhibit? It’s historically relevant to paleontology.”

  “He feels Dr. Newell is—was—focusing too much on the men instead of the dinosaurs.”

  “Huh.”

  “But then there was the whole fiasco with
the skull. And now that Dr. Newell… well… who knows if this exhibit will ever come to fruition.”

  There it was.

  “Hold on,” I said. My heart pounded hard. “What skull?”

  “Edward Cope’s,” Gould stated. “It’s gone missing.”

  Chapter Nine

  I SAT in a Starbucks about three blocks away from the museum, reluctantly taking up residence in the window seat—back to the simultaneously warm sun gleaming through and the cold air leeching in. I tugged my scarf off and unbuttoned my coat before removing the wedding planner notebook from my shoulder bag. I dropped it on the table and started fishing for a pen.

  “Specify the north or south end of the block next time.”

  I glanced up as Max draped his coat over the back of the second chair. “Are there two Starbucks on this block?”

  “As well as a Dunkin’ Donuts and three Duane Reades,” he teased. He set his hands on the chair back. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

  I returned to digging through my black hole for the one thing I wanted and couldn’t find. “Nope.”

  “Want a coffee?” Max offered at length.

  I finally retrieved the pen, set it on the notebook, and put the bag down by my feet. I slouched my shoulders, staring up at Max.

  “What?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  Max hesitated. “Boss—”

  I waved my hand at the counter. “Go. Go, go.”

  Once Max had turned to fetch a beverage, I opened the notebook. I flipped through the pages and laughed dryly. Two days ago, this fucking wedding had been my only source of pain and displeasure. Two days ago, I had called a few florists for estimates on roses—prices and availability apparently varied by color and species. That had irritated the hell out of me. Not one aspect of the wedding seemed easy to plan.

  And Sunday night in bed, Calvin had sleepily reminded me I didn’t even like roses.

  “Why not use carnations, baby?”

  I was a smart man. But I lacked common sense. I knew this about myself. I was so preoccupied with the social commentary behind early and morbid Victorian Christmas cards, or the stories of arsenic-laced candies, that I forgot to shave or comb my hair or overlooked that I loved carnations, so why wouldn’t I use my favorite flower at our wedding instead of one that was cliché and overpriced?