Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  Todd jumped in. “Maybe he tithes to his church annually or gives to a charity once a year.”

  Billy rolled his eyes. “Just keep writing, Todd. We’ll ask the questions. You just don’t have the knack for this. As I remember in the case of the missing page, you had this whole Genesis, chapter eight, verse seven thing going for you. You were looking for someone who owned ravens in the class. But no Edgar Allan Poes could be found.”

  Todd didn’t even look embarrassed. He just shrugged.

  Rachel tapped on her laptop while I nibbled on my lower lip.

  “I think we have enough questions to get us started,” Billy said. “Why don’t we leave Phillip House for now, and I’ll look into some of this later tonight and tomorrow morning. We could meet for brunch at nine in the morning before I have to work on my other story. I do need to keep my day job, but I have a lot of sources that could help me find some answers. Tabloid stuff—a reporter’s dream.”

  “So what did Dacia Stewart and Tim have in common?” I asked the question I’d been itching to figure out. “Other than Tim was looking into Dacia’s disappearance.”

  Shawn replied, “The only two things I know for sure are that they were both at Highland High in the spring of 1982, and they both knew Craig Haskell.”

  “Well, it doesn’t really count that they knew Craig because they didn’t know him at the same time. They were both killed at the end of May, and they were both killed in Anderson.”

  “Is there any way to find out if they were part of the same group, maybe a role-playing game, or maybe they invested in the same stock, or subscribed to the same magazine—some connection like that?” Shawn’s mind was going a mile a minute.

  “Too obvious, Shawn, plus computer role-playing games hadn’t been invented yet.” I got up and pulled another Dr Pepper from the fridge. It seemed Shawn and I were the only ones participating in this discussion. “Since there’s a thirty-year gap between their deaths, it would be hard to find a viable connection for that reason alone. But maybe they both saw something back in 1982, something that Tim didn’t even realize he had seen until a couple of weeks ago. Maybe he talked to the wrong person and got killed for it.”

  “So many questions, so few answers.” Rachel looked around the table, finally engaged in the conversation. “I really think that Tim’s death is totally unrelated to Ms. Stewart’s death. They were killed differently, years apart, and they moved in totally different circles. I think Tim was killed because of money, mistaken identity, or some business-related thing.”

  “Let’s take mistaken identity out of the mix,” Billy said. “Whoever killed him followed him to church. You might accidentally kill the wrong person in a crowded bar, but surely not in an empty parking lot. It was either someone who was stalking him, or it was someone he confided in. Why would anyone even know that he went to church? Jamie didn’t, and he left her ten million dollars.”

  “Good point,” Todd agreed. “Plus church didn’t even start until nine thirty, and he was killed between seven and eight thirty, which means he had to have been followed. Or it was someone he confided in who was lying in wait.”

  “That’s it, that’s the connection,” I said. “Ms. Stewart was also being stalked, or was confiding in someone. There was no way that someone would have known she was going to the park after school that day. She hardly ever did that. Remember, she always stayed in her room late in case anyone needed help. Someone had to be following her.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Rachel said, “but that’s a pretty weak connection. If I wanted to kill someone, I would follow them too. I would follow them until they were in an isolated place and then do the deed.”

  “I agree it’s a weak connection. But it’s the first sign to me that the deaths could be related. It’s the first sign that the MO had similarities, even though the weapons were different.”

  “MO. Listen to the fancy lingo. You need to come work for me,” Scott said, laughing.

  “I think our killer is the same person.” I spoke emphatically, ignoring Scott’s good-natured ribbing. I checked the time. “I also think we should go. It’s ten o’clock, and we each have things to do tonight and tomorrow morning before brunch. Who all can make it?”

  “The lady speaks, so we’re done?” Billy asked in amazement.

  “Yeah, we’re done,” Shawn said.

  “About tomorrow?” I reiterated.

  “Count me out,” Todd said. “I’ve got the pigs and other morning chores to do. I won’t be available until three in the afternoon at the very earliest.”

  “I can make it for about an hour, then I’ll be working the rest of the day,” Billy said.

  “I go where Jamie goes,” Rachel said. “Her wheels.”

  Scott and Shawn decided they could both make it by nine.

  With hugs and handshakes, we said good-bye. Rachel and I were out the door first. I was anxious to put in some thinking time in peace and quiet. Judging by the weary look in Rachel’s eyes, I figured the day must have felt like an extra-long marathon. I pulled onto the highway, heading back to Anderson proper. A parade of headlights twinkled behind us. Looking in the review mirror, I made a mental note to tell the driver of the first vehicle behind us that they had a headlight out. It was too dark to see the outline of a car, but I knew no one had arrived on a motorcycle.

  Rachel turned to look at me in the dim light inside the SUV. “How do you do it? How do you get everyone so excited about a project and keep everyone on task? You’re really good at this.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not so good. I just love mysteries. It’s been a long time since I’ve done something that isn’t church related. I’m not so crazy about this mystery though,” I confessed. “The last time I saw Tim was after graduation. He left me millions of dollars, and in the last thirty years, I haven’t even made time for him. Or you, for that matter. How did I get this way? So self-absorbed, so into my own little world that nobody else mattered?”

  Rachel was good with questions that didn’t have answers. She sat in silence, not making light of or excusing my behavior or feelings.

  I was grateful.

  I turned the SUV into the parking lot at the Holiday Inn, and the one-eyed car zoomed on down Scatterfield without so much as a honk or a wave.

  Back in the motel room, Rachel headed straight for the computer while I removed my makeup, slipped into Bears pajamas, climbed onto the bed, and picked up my Bible. I hadn’t taken much God-time since this ordeal began, except for the frantic one-line prayers I’d sent heavenward. Tears slipped out of my eyes, and I brushed them away, hoping Rachel was still concentrating on her laptop.

  Oh Lord, what have I become? Help me find an answer to all this mess. Help me find an answer for who I am. I’m so sorry for the blanket of comfortable ambivalence I’ve wrapped around myself.

  Long after Rachel turned off the computer and her light, I stared at the ceiling tiles. Not because I found them particularly interesting; my mind just wouldn’t be still. My hand trailed across the pillow and down the bedspread. The emptiness I felt without David was incredible. How I needed him. He was such a rock. So solid, so reassuring, so confident. I could use a little of that confidence right now. Rolling over to my side, I brought the extra pillow down and put my arms around it, hugging it tight. Not the perfect spoons David and I made, but better than empty arms. It was funny how I hadn’t realized how important he was to me until he wasn’t there beside me.

  I felt so inadequate. I knew I was in over my head and that the chances of uncovering the killer’s identity were practically nil. Not that I didn’t have good people around me, but if the police couldn’t find Tim’s murderer, what made me think the Cliffhangers could? Missing page 187 was not the same as finding a killer. I tried to relax, but thoughts of insignificance, loneliness, and grief trudged through my mind like little soldiers going off to war—relentless and determined.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  August 10, 1987

  It w
as muggy and hot. Oh well, that was Bloomington, Indiana in the summertime. It had been nice to have the weekend to relax. Keeping tabs on the Stewarts was exhausting. Not because they were active. Just the opposite. Watching little or no movement required more concentration because it was easy to get distracted and lose focus. But today was different. The plan was in place. The careful watching and arranging would finally pay off. And then back home for a while where the weather was dry instead of this humid stuff. Even so, it wouldn’t last long. There would be others. Some people just never learned. Vigilance was the key. Always watching, always preparing, always on the ready. A good motto to live by.

  Driving around the city felt pointless. The Lady in Red was playing on the radio for the umpteenth time, and the lyrics didn’t get any better with multiple broadcasts. But it was a time killer and time needed to be killed—along with a couple of nuisances living on Griffin Street.

  Minutes stretched into meaningless blocks of time. Nighttime couldn’t come too soon. The task ahead required the cover of darkness. Once the police started investigating, they would canvass the neighborhood for eyewitnesses to any unusual activity around the Stewarts. You could always count on people not noticing unusual activity once they went to bed.

  Cruising through the limestone belt of Indiana was good for reflection, but there wasn’t that much to see in Bloomington. It was a university town and alive with activity and excitement this close to school starting. Luckily, there wasn’t much action around the Stewarts’ place.

  The trunk was filled with several three-gallon cans of gasoline. It had been no trouble to obtain them. Each of the plastic jugs had been purchased at different stores with cash. The containers weren’t traceable, mostly because it had been over a year since they were bought—each procured by a kid who wanted to make a quick ten bucks. The key to not getting caught was planning and forethought. Most people sitting in jails didn’t have the patience to be good criminals. Time could be an enemy, but it could also be a friend.

  Hopefully, the deaths would be painless. Smoke inhalation should get them before the fire. It would be good if they slept through it all. Burning would be a horrible way to die. After all, it wasn’t their fault that they chose to get involved with matters that didn’t concern them. It was a pity the woman was deaf. It didn’t seem fair somehow. But neither were hurricanes, flash floods, or tornadoes. Life just wasn’t fair.

  Initially, it seemed like the two dogs would be a problem, but once again careful planning had eliminated the risks. The Stewarts always let the dogs have free rein in the big back yard, which was surrounded by a six-foot privacy fence. At nine o’clock, Mr. Stewart would come out and call them in. By ten the lights were out and the house was silent. With a little ground work laid, the dogs knew to come straight to the fence for their nightly treat of raw meat. The burger was cheap, and the dogs wolfed it down with gusto. Feeding it to them at eight thirty every night for the last week had been child’s play. It had been easy to loosen two boards so the dogs could be fed in tandem. A pound for each of them kept them coming back for more. Dogs were simple, so much easier than humans. It didn’t take much to make them happy.

  The day had not gone exactly like planned, which was worrisome, but probably just a fluke. The Stewarts hadn’t followed their daily routine. Usually they left the house around nine and didn’t get back until noon. They would bring back a to-go bag filled with fast food—burgers, tacos, or chicken. Today, they hadn’t left the house. Maybe one of them was sick. The postman delivered their mail by one thirty and no one came out to get it. Normally, Stewart opened the mailbox on the dot of two to retrieve it. Still it was nothing to panic over. It was too late to change plans now. The disturbing thing was that a young woman let the dogs out to play. She must be a granddaughter. Visiting perhaps, or maybe a caretaker.

  An hour had gone by since the last look at the digital car clock. It was time to set the first part of the plan into motion. Careful to tuck the Dramamine tabs all the way into the burger would ensure the dogs swallowed them whole. The tube contained twelve tablets, so each pound of hamburger got six pills. The dogs should sleep through anything—a stranger crawling through the boards of the fence, the sounds of splashing liquid, the strike of a match, the crackling of fast-moving flames. They were pretty big dogs, but six pills was a lot.

  Maybe the granddaughter was still there. An unfortunate casualty. The lights didn’t go out until eleven thirty, which again was unusual for the Stewarts. Not that a fire could be started until after midnight anyway. The dogs would be fast asleep and it would keep the neighbors from calling 911 until it was too late. Hopefully, the Stewarts were sound sleepers. It wouldn’t matter. There would be no way out once the blaze started. The neighborhood lights were all off when the truck pulled up. Sloshing the gasoline around the house was not difficult. Soaking the walls and wraparound porch took about ten minutes total. It took special care and silence.

  The best part was the cute little candles that had been retrieved after last’s year’s Christmas Eve service. A nice little paper protector surrounded the wax to keep hot drips off the hand. Lighting the wick and getting a good flame going didn’t shed enough light to wake up the neighbors, made no noise like a bottle rocket would have, and still provided the needed distance for protection from the puddles of fuel.

  Candles, however discreet, could not cover up the acrid odor of burning wood, paint, and gasoline. It would feel so good to go back to the motel for a cool shower, to wash away the day’s sweat and grime.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Shadowy, slow, relentless monsters invaded my dreams. My feet seemed stuck in cement. Tentacles of fear clawed at me until I bolted straight out of sleep. Breathing hard, I glanced at the clock—5:00 a.m. I rubbed my hand across my face and pushed my legs over the edge of the bed. If I wanted to make the day count, I needed to clear my head. A brisk walk should help. I shimmied into my rumpled clothes that I’d left crumpled on the chair. I left a note for Rache and slipped quietly out the door. It wasn’t quite dawn, but light enough for me to feel safe and see where I was going.

  The dream hangover faded when the cool, fresh air hit my face. The sky looked like rain might be in the forecast. The sound of a dog barking in the distance mixed with the repeated whoit, whoit, whoit of a cardinal made me smile. The familiar daybreak noises of my hometown wrapped around me like a soft quilt. I felt my steps become lighter.

  The breeze, the mourning doves, the quiet hush of a sleepy world spoke to me in ways that no human could. Picking up the pace, I walked with more confidence than I’d felt since this ordeal began. I would find Tim’s killer somehow. That was the least I could do—for him and for me. I wasn’t in my familiar pastor’s wife role now. I was a friend, and I would use every skill I possessed to see this thing through to the end.

  Striding past comfortable landmarks, a sense of well-being surrounded me so strongly that I almost wished David’s church was located here instead of Montana. Almost. But Montana felt like home, too, and wherever David was, my home was there. I did miss shopping with Mom and having family over for holiday dinners. People in the church always invited us out for Easter or Christmas or Thanksgiving meals, but we were the odd ones out, never quite getting the inside jokes, or understanding the right protocols for special occasions.

  With all this determination and good feelings, I felt like I could walk forever. A glance at my watch assured me it had only been twenty-five minutes. Still, it was time to turn around. Dark clouds were rolling in, and I wanted to get back to the motel before the rain started. That’s when I saw a tall woman wearing khaki pants and an olive green tunic, her blonde hair cut short. It was the woman who had bumped me from behind yesterday.

  “Hey,” I yelled.

  Volvo Lady wheeled around and started to run.

  “Hey, wait a minute. I just want to talk to you.” I broke out into a fast sprint, following the green color.

  Volvo Lady didn’t slow down. She ran all-out.
Her legs, long and muscular, took the fluid strides of a distance runner. My legs burned as I tried to keep her in sight. If my feet weren’t so busy trying to stay with my legs, I would have kicked myself for the shape I was in. Funny what comes to mind when every muscle in your body cries for relief. I made a mental note to enroll in exercise classes of some sort when I got back to Great Falls.

  I ran after the woman for five minutes, although it seemed longer. I sucked in huge gulps of air. My chest burned. My legs faltered. I felt like rubber, and I gave up the chase.

  I gasped out one more time as loud as my overworked lungs could manage. “Hey, wait up, could we just talk?”

  It didn’t help. Volvo Lady kept running like it was her life’s work. I grabbed my left side and bent over in exhaustion. My thigh and calf muscles quivered in protest from the intense labor they’d been forced into. Frustrated, I coerced my body into forward movement. It didn’t want to cooperate. I swallowed deep breaths of air, hoping to make it back to the motel before collapsing. After another five minutes of deliberate walking, my breathing returned to normal. My legs stopped burning, and I decided that I might survive after all.

  The discussion from last night came back to me. The one thing the murders had in common was that the victims had been stalked. It was too much of a coincidence that Volvo Lady just happened to take a morning stroll at five thirty in the same area where I was walking. Anderson wasn’t a huge city, but with 180,000 people, it wasn’t small either.

  Although I was no genius, it seemed as though this woman had more than a passing interest in my activities. I needed to call Scott and tell him what had happened. Maybe he could find a plausible reason that would pacify the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Nearing the motel, I froze. Pulling out of the parking lot and turning left on Scatterfield was the beige Volvo. The woman was alone in the car and clearly in a big hurry. How long had she been following me? I started to run again, hoping to get the license number before the car roared out of sight. No such luck. I did, however, manage to get a glimpse of a bumper sticker with a scientific symbol and white Arabic lettering on a blue background. I also got the first three plate numbers before the car made another left and spun out of sight. I repeated the letters from the license plate over and over until I got to the motel room.