Disturbing the Dead

by Sandra Parshall

  So do I. God, so do I. Tom didn’t say it aloud because he knew the sheriff wasn’t inviting him to share a mutual grief. Willingham seemed to believe he’d personally suffered the most from the death of his longtime friend and second in command, and he played chief mourner even when John Bridger’s son was standing right in front of him.

  His voice level but flinty, Tom said, “You’ll have to make do with me.”

  Willingham met his gaze for a moment, and Tom saw accusation and resentment in the sheriff’s pale blue eyes. In the end, though, Willingham relented grudgingly. “Well, you can’t tie up every man we’ve got on a cold case.”

  “Just give me Brandon Connelly. He seems pretty sharp.”

  Willingham waved a hand, agreeing, but his face hadn’t lost its belligerence. “You watch your step with Pauline’s family. And I don’t mean the McClures. She was a Turner from Rocky Branch District, and those people don’t like cops poking around in their business. You might be half Melungeon, but they won’t forgive you for wearing a badge. Remember you’re not in—”

  “—Richmond anymore. Yeah, I know.”

  “And don’t believe everything you hear, either. Well, I’m going on back to town.” As Willingham started down the mountain, he said over his shoulder, “Stop standing around with that woman’s head in your hands.”

  Tom kept an eye on the sheriff’s slip-sliding descent, ready to spring to the rescue if Willingham fell. “What does he mean,” Tom asked Gretchen, “don’t believe everything I hear?”

  “Oh, good heavens,” Gretchen said, “don’t ask me to explain Toby.”

  She said it a little too lightly, and Tom was about to press her on it when somebody yelled, “Hey, Captain!”

  Two young blond deputies, the Blackwood twins, hustled out of the woods into the clearing. In the gloom the brothers’ wide grins made them look like Cheshire cats.

  “We found this.” Kevin held one of the cardboard boxes the deputies were using to collect evidence. “We thought it might—”

  Before Kevin got all the words out, Tom looked to Keith for the rest of the sentence.

  “—tie in somehow,” Keith finished.

  Tom handed the skull to Gretchen and pulled an ax head from the box. Thick rust coated the iron wedge, but he thought he detected a darker stain along the cutting edge. No. Not possible after so many years. But his pulse quickened and he barely caught a jubilant laugh before it escaped. “Oh, yeah, it might tie in. Good work, guys.”

  Keith and Kevin beamed.

  With a glance at the sky, Tom added, “The snow’s getting too heavy to work in. Go string the tape at the foot of the mountain before you take off.”

  “Will do,” the twins said in unison.

  Gretchen tilted her head to look beyond Tom. “Here comes Brandon. He’s got something too.”

  Deputy Brandon Connelly trotted toward them with a cardboard box clutched against his chest. He’d come hatless, and his short sandy hair dripped with melting snow. “Hey, Boss,” he said, holding out the box, “look at this.”

  “Good God,” Tom said.

  The box contained another skull, stained brown and coated in spots with mud and dark green moss.

  Gretchen peered at it and gasped.

  “Is it human?” Tom asked her.

  “I’m very much afraid it is.”

  Tom glanced at the skull in Gretchen’s hands, looked back at the one in the box. “If that’s Pauline McClure, who the hell is this?”

  Chapter Two

  Rachel Goddard adjusted her stethoscope and leaned into the cage to check the bulldog’s heart and lungs. She got a sloppy lick on the chin in greeting. “Oh, yeah,” she said, laughing, “I think you’ve fully recovered, lover boy.”

  Tom Bridger’s English bulldog, Billy Bob, was ready to go home after his teeth cleaning, but Tom hadn’t kept his pickup appointment. Delayed at work, Rachel assumed. Clients had been telling her all day that something mysterious was happening on Indian Mountain north of town and the whole Sheriff’s Department was up there. Couldn’t be a lost child—thank God—because if it were, the whole county would have been alerted and half the adults would be helping with the search. What, then? A dead body? A murder victim? With a shudder, Rachel shook the thought away.

  “Dr. Goddard?” Shannon, the chubby young receptionist, stood in the doorway. “You’ve got a call. A woman named Leslie Ryan. She said it’s urgent.”

  Aware of her suddenly racing heartbeat, Rachel gave the bulldog a quick scratch on the head and closed his cage. What on earth could Leslie be calling her about? She strode up the rear hallway to her office, and as she walked she brushed her auburn hair off her cheeks and smoothed her lab coat, almost unconsciously putting herself in order to face bad news.

  In the office, she stood for a moment looking out the window, her attention caught by the procession of deputies’ cruisers moving up Main Street in the snow. Whatever had happened, it must be over now. She would find out what was going on when Tom picked up Billy Bob.

  She was procrastinating. Pick up the phone and find out what this is about. She ran her tongue over dry lips and lifted the receiver. “Leslie?”

  “Hello, Rachel. How are you? How are things going at the new animal hospital?”

  Definitely bad news, if the straightforward assistant prosecutor couldn’t bring herself to get right to the point. Rachel envisioned Leslie in her spartan office in Fairfax City, clad in a plain suit, her blonde hair restrained in a severe twist at the nape of her neck. “I’m very busy,” Rachel said. “Most of my staff’s out with the flu. But you didn’t call to ask how I am. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She heard Leslie sigh. “Perry Nelson is petitioning for unsupervised weekends with his family, and his doctors are supporting the request. The hearing is week after next.”

  The news hit Rachel like a kick in the gut and left her breathless, light-headed. “My God, he’s only been there seven months. They can’t turn him loose. He could go anywhere, do anything.”

  “My reaction exactly,” Leslie said. “It’s absurd. The doctors claim that trips outside the hospital are essential to his recovery, but the man is a menace to society in general and to you in particular. I wanted you to know that I’ll go before the judge and oppose the request in the strongest possible terms.”

  Rachel sank into her desk chair and closed her eyes for a second while she breathed deeply. It couldn’t happen. The thug who’d nearly killed her had no right to walk free again. But Nelson was a good enough actor to persuade a jury he hadn’t been responsible for his actions when he’d shot her. Now he’d apparently conned the doctors at the state hospital into believing he was no longer a danger. He might be able to win over the judge. He might get out. Then he would come after Rachel.

  “Rachel? Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not all right. I’m mad as hell.” An alarming thought struck her. “Has this been on the news?”

  “If it hasn’t yet, it will be by the end of the day.”

  She didn’t want her sister to hear about it from a news report. Right now Michelle would be at work, unreachable while she was busy with her young autistic patients, but Rachel would have to catch her as soon as possible. “I knew he’d try to get out someday,” Rachel told Leslie, “but I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.”

  “I hate to say it, but this is only the beginning. If we’re going to keep him locked up, and keep you safe, we’ll have to fight him every inch of the way.”

  Keep me safe. What a laugh. Six months before, Rachel had left Northern Virginia—and a man she loved—because she’d thought the peaceful countryside would make her feel safe. But violence could follow her anywhere.

  She stared out the window at the bleak day. The last of the police cars had moved out of view, and snow was already filling in the tire tracks on Main Street.

  Chapter Three

  The search team retreated to the Sheriff’
s Department headquarters, a low concrete building in Mountainview that hunkered behind the imposing neo-classical Mason County Courthouse like an outhouse attached to a mansion.

  They had no idea who the second skull belonged to, but Gretchen Lauter compared the teeth in the first skull to the dental records in the old case file and assured Tom that they’d found Pauline McClure’s remains. The discovery would be the talk of the county within hours and Tom wanted to reach Pauline’s mother, Sarelda Turner, before she heard the news from an unofficial source. He and Brandon Connelly grabbed a couple of burgers for a late lunch and ate them in the department’s old Explorer as they set out in the storm.

  Mrs. Turner lived in western Mason County, where the narrow roads twisted like spastic snakes around the mountains. Most of the county’s poor, and its dwindling population of Melungeons, lived in the hills and hollows of Rocky Branch District.

  Brandon, excited over being involved in a murder case, chattered nonstop for half an hour. When he suddenly shut up, Tom was surprised enough to glance over at him.

  “Captain,” Brandon said, a new tentative note in his voice, “can I ask you a question without you taking offense?”

  Taking offense? What on earth— Oh. That. Has to be. “You want to ask me something about Melungeons?”

  “Well, uh—” Brandon stopped to clear his throat. At twenty-one, he was the youngest member of the department, a deputy for only a few months, and he seemed painfully wary of getting on the wrong side of his superiors.

  Tom laughed. “Spit it out, Bran. Ask me anything you want to.”

  “Well. Okay.” He sounded relieved to have permission to speak freely. “Mostly, I was wondering how a girl from Rocky Branch ended up married to a McClure. I mean, the McClures are snobs with a capital S.”

  “I have to agree with you on that,” Tom said. “The way I’ve always heard the story, Pauline went to work at Mason National Bank in some low-level job right out of high school. Adam McClure had just become president of the bank, after his father dropped dead from a heart attack. Adam spotted Pauline and the rest is history. A bachelor in his thirties and a girl like her—you saw her picture, it’s not hard to understand.”

  “Man, she was really something. It’s hard to believe one of those skulls we found is the same person.” Brandon was silent a moment, then said, “You know, I can see why the McClures wouldn’t want their son to marry a poor girl. They probably thought she was after their money. But I heard they hated her mostly because she was Melungeon, and I don’t understand that.”

  “Come on, Bran,” Tom said. “Things are a hell of a lot better than they were thirty-five years ago when Pauline married Adam McClure, but there’re still plenty of people who need somebody to look down on. Are you telling me you never knew any kids in school who treated Melungeons differently? Called them wild or peculiar—or niggers?”

  “Well, yeah, that happened sometimes,” Brandon admitted with obvious reluctance. “But look at you. You’re half Melungeon, and you’re a cop, your dad and your brother were cops, and you were a big basketball star in high school.”

  “My dad got his job because he saved Willingham’s life in Vietnam. And I had to be a great player to get on the basketball team at all. The coach used to call me a half-breed, and he didn’t give a damn whether I heard it or not. My father threatened the Board of Education with a lawsuit and they ended up firing the bastard.” Tom’s hands tightened around the steering wheel as the old, aching anger spilled through him. Christ, why was he dredging up this stuff?

  “Wow,” Brandon said, and for a moment he seemed at a loss for words.

  Through the billowing curtain of snow, Tom saw the evidence of poverty in the little houses they passed. Tin roofs, peeling paint, sagging porches. His father’s family had once lived in this district, but they’d become tenant farmers in another part of the county when John Bridger was a child. He’d never lost his connection to the area, though, and its residents had trusted him to settle their disputes because he was one of their own. They didn’t know Tom, never sought his help, and when he came out here on the job he was just another cop, unwelcome and resented.

  “Your mother’s family didn’t try to stop your mom from marrying your dad, did they?” Brandon asked.

  “No, the McGrails are great people.” They were the ones Tom meant when he used the word family. His Bridger relatives had left Mason County long ago in search of work. Occasionally Tom wondered if he still had distant Melungeon relatives in Rocky Branch District, but somehow he’d never gotten around to finding out.

  “How come Pauline McClure had blue eyes?” Brandon asked. “If Melungeons are Portuguese and Indian—”

  “And other things. They’re all over the mountains, and they’ve married whites, blacks, Indians. There’ve always been some Melungeons with blue eyes, or green, even if they had dark skin. These days they’ve mixed in so much that a lot of them don’t have dark skin anymore and they might not even know they’ve got a Melungeon background.” Tom smiled ruefully. “But you’ll still see plenty like me. When I was working in Richmond, I just let people think I was Cherokee. It was easier than trying to explain what a Melungeon is.”

  A tire bumped into a pothole, and the front end of the vehicle dropped to the left. Tom gunned the engine and bounced in his seat when the Explorer lurched back onto solid pavement.

  Brandon had braced himself with both hands on the dashboard. “Don’t get me killed. Debbie’ll be even madder at you than she already is.”

  “Why’s Debbie mad at me?” Tom asked.

  “We were supposed to see the preacher after I finished my shift and settle some wedding stuff, but I kind of told her you were making me work overtime. Better she’s mad at you than me, right?”

  Tom laughed. “Great. Thanks a lot.” The truth was, Brandon had begged to come along because he didn’t want to miss out on any part of the investigation. Tom didn’t know the boy well, but he recognized that go-getter attitude as an asset.

  Brandon tapped his window. “This it?”

  A silver mailbox to their right had TURNER painted on it in big black letters.

  Tom swung the Explorer into the snow-covered yard and parked behind a ten-year-old Chevrolet. The house windows glowed with interior light. Tom imagined Mrs. Turner going about her business, maybe cooking supper, unaware that two cops sat outside, preparing to deliver the worst possible news. She must have known deep-down for years that Pauline was dead. But knowing something in the abstract wasn’t the same as being told her daughter’s bones had been found.

  Brandon retrieved their hats from the back seat and held out Tom’s.

  Tom took a deep breath. “Let’s get it over with.”

  They mounted steps to a covered porch and Tom, finding the screen door latched, rapped on its frame.

  When a young woman opened the main door, Tom had the eerie sensation that one of Pauline’s photos had sprung to life before him. But the girl, slim and delicate with long black hair around a heart-shaped face, was eighteen or nineteen at most.

  Two mongrels pressed their noses to the screen to get the visitors’ scents. “Hey,” the girl drawled. She tugged a pink cardigan closer over her pink tee shirt. “Can I help y’all?”

  Her gaze flitted over Tom’s uniform, lingered on his holster and gun before shifting to Brandon. She seemed to find Brandon’s face more intriguing than his weapon. He stared back as if mesmerized.

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Sarelda Turner,” Tom said. “Is this the right house?”

  “It sure is.” She whispered, “My grandma in trouble with the law?”

  Tom smiled. “No, not all. I need to talk to her, though.”

  “Okay, come on in.”

  Escorted by the dogs, they walked into a small, tidy living room with walls, curtains, and rug in various shades of blue. Fragrant hickory logs crackled in the grate, and country music drifted from a radio in another room. Two intertwined ca
ts in an easy chair opened their eyes, assessed Tom and Brandon, and went back to sleep.

  “Grandma, somebody’s come to see you,” the girl called toward the back of the house.

  The woman who appeared a moment later was another version of Pauline, as she might have looked if she’d lived into her seventies. The woman had a trim figure, but sagging lids hooded her blue eyes and her hair looked like it had been dyed black with shoe polish. Wiping her knobby, arthritic fingers on a dish towel, she skimmed the two men with a bolder gaze than her granddaughter’s, but without special attention to Brandon’s charms.

  Tom introduced himself and Brandon. “We’ve got some news for you.”

  Her face registered no alarm or curiosity. “I’m busy in the kitchen. Y’all come on through, and we can talk while I finish up.”

  Tom wanted her to sit on the couch and give him her full attention, but she was already leaving the room.

  Away from the firewood’s powerful scent, the kitchen offered the aromas of vanilla and chocolate. Tom’s mouth watered, but when he swallowed he tasted the greasy burger he’d eaten earlier. Mrs. Turner moved to a flour-dusted wooden table laden with bowls and cookie sheets. The girl slipped into the room and stood next to Brandon near the door. Tom saw them exchange glances, and caught sight of her little smile and flushed cheeks before she averted her face.

  Mrs. Turner gestured with a plastic stirring spoon. “Cut off the radio, would you?”

  Tom found the radio on top of the refrigerator and silenced Dolly Parton in mid-lament. The big, new-looking fridge dominated the kitchen. The range also looked new. How could Mrs. Turner, a widow living on the edge of poverty, afford these things?

  “I always get a bakin’ spell on me when it rains or snows,” she said. “When the weather’s bad outside, I like the smell of sweet things in the oven.”

  Tom watched her drop spoonfuls of dough, bristling with chocolate chips and pecans, onto a cookie sheet. Why didn’t she ask him what news he’d brought? She probably guessed it was bad and wanted to delay hearing it. “My mother always baked in bad weather too,” he said with a smile. “My brother and I loved snow and rain—”