Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  Rachel squinted at the picture. “How can you tell? That was thirty years ago.”

  “I know it’s her. Look at the eyes. I remember her now. She was a guest science teacher or something. She helped me with some questions on my microbe project our senior year. Think back.”

  “I didn’t do science projects. I was too involved in the new computer stuff to worry about science. After ninth-grade science and biology I was done.”

  “Cynthia Gilmore. I know that’s Volvo Lady. Can you find her address on the Net? I think I need to pay her a little visit. I would say the plot thickens, but that sounds corny. Don’t you think it’s odd that she’s right next to our prime suspect?”

  “Yeah, Jamie, I appreciate your deductive powers, but you might notice that H always comes after G in the alphabet. I don’t think that makes the coincidence so startling.” The sarcasm was definitely not veiled in Rachel’s response.

  “Oh, come on, I know the alphabet. I’m talking about the fact they were both teaching in 1985, and that’s when Ms. Stewart disappeared, and the accident yesterday, and then her following me this morning, and—”

  “Slow down. You’re gonna have a stroke.”

  “I’m just saying it’s all pretty weird after my morning.”

  “Whoa, you didn’t tell me anything about this morning. What happened this morning?”

  I recounted the details of my early morning walk.

  Rachel grabbed her laptop and connected to the Internet. Minutes later, she had a report. “There are 207 hits on the name Cynthia Gilmore in the country’s white pages. None in Indiana. With a credit card I could search deeper, but that would cost $45.95.”

  I pulled a Visa card out of my purse.

  Two minutes later, Rachel subscribed to People Finder. The search was fast but produced no Cynthia Gilmores in Indiana.

  “What about school records?” Rachel asked. “Do you know anyone in the administration who would give you a look at the old teacher files? She could still be on staff for that matter. I could look in the SSA sites if I had a number.”

  “SSA sites?”

  “Social Security Administration, Jamie. Where have you been?”

  “Craig might be willing to help. He’s still in town and probably over at the school by now. If he won’t look up Cynthia Gilmore’s social, I’m sure Scott can help. That would take more time, but technically, this Cynthia Gilmore is a perpetrator of a hit-and-run. If I were to press charges, I think the police could get a search warrant for the files.”

  Rachel handed my cell to me. “Try the school.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Observant. But with graduation and the reunion, maybe someone’s at the office.”

  I grabbed the cell. “Okay, look up the number.” Why not? What did I have to lose? As she read the number to me, I tapped it into my phone, expecting nothing but the constant buzzing of an unanswered ring.

  “Highland High School, home of the Tartans. How may I help you?”

  After the initial surprise that someone was actually in the office on a Saturday, I recovered. “Yes ma’am. This is Jamie Waymire Storm, and I’m here for my class reunion. I need some information.”

  “And that would be?” I could hear the snapping of gum.

  “I had a teacher, a guest teacher I think, who helped me with my senior science project. Her name was Cynthia Gilmore. Does she still teach there? Do you know how I could get in touch with her?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope what?” I worked at keeping the frustration out of my voice.

  “Nope, we don’t have a teacher here by that name.” More gum popping.

  “Are you sure? Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

  “I’ve worked at the school for seventeen years, and I don’t remember any teacher named Cynthia Gilmore.” Irritation sparkled in the secretary’s voice.

  “Could you search the database for teachers who worked in 1985?” I pleaded.

  “If she taught here in ’85 I have access to the files, but that would take time, and I don’t have time today. With the reunion and graduation, my hands are full. Sorry.” She didn’t sound the least bit sorry, just miffed that someone would dare intrude on such a busy person. Snap, crackle, pop.

  “Could you connect me to the principal’s office?” I was unwilling to give up.

  “He won’t have any more time than I do. Besides, this is only Mr. Haskell’s second year at the school. He may not even be in his office. This is Saturday morning, you know.”

  I could almost see the eye-rolling at the other end of the line.

  “Yeah, I know, and I also know this is a busy day at the school so he might be there just as you are. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m a friend of Mr. Haskell’s and I was hoping to touch base with him while I’m in town for the reunion.” I winced as the lie rolled off my tongue. But it was for a good cause, I reminded myself.

  With a few more snippy words and loud popping sounds, the secretary, who clearly felt her territory was being invaded and authority questioned, put me through to Haskell’s office.

  Just as I thought, he was in his office and picked up on the second ring.

  “Craig, this is Jamie. Thanks for the yearbook,” I said quickly. “Listen, I think I stumbled onto something. I need to find a woman who taught back in ’85. Cynthia Gilmore.”

  “Never heard of her,” he said. “What are you looking for?”

  “She may have had something to do with Tim’s death. Can you check in the old files? I need a forwarding address or social security number, something, anything that might help locate her.”

  He hesitated momentarily. “Okay, I don’t see any harm in that. The old personnel files are on disks by years. It’ll take a few minutes. Can I call you back?” Craig cleared his throat.

  “No problem.”

  “One more thing. I’m doing this for Tim, not you, not anybody else. Tim alone. After this I’m done. Don’t call me again.”

  I was surprised by his sudden abruptness, but I couldn’t blame him. The Cliffhangers hadn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet of friendship to him. I hit the red end button on my cell.

  “I need to shower,” I said. “My morning walk didn’t exactly bring out the best in me. I won’t be long, but ignore the phone if it rings. Don’t open the door for anyone either. I don’t trust House for a second.”

  I longed for an extended hot soak in a tub to relax my already tight muscles I’d sent into shock from overuse, but I knew there wasn’t time. Drying off from the quickie shower, I dressed in casual black capris, matching sandals, and a long black-and-white checked top. I chose the capris for comfort. Applying a light touch of mascara and lipstick, I hoped I was ready for the day and whatever else it might bring.

  Rachel, looking nervous but determined, shut down my phone when I walked out of the bathroom. “I just called Mom. I had to call. I need to see her. At least I think I do. She’s coming to the restaurant this morning at nine.” She regarded me with a look that said, I hope I’m making sense here.

  “It going to be hard, but we’ll be right there if you need us.”

  “She sounded old and tired. She was shocked when she heard my voice, but she knew instantly it was me. She cried when I told her I wanted to see her.”

  “Oh, Rache, I’m so glad.”

  “She’s bringing Dad.”

  A thick silence permeated the room.

  The ring shattered the stillness. I don’t know who was more relieved, Rache or me. I grabbed my phone. “Hello.”

  Craig rattled off Cynthia Gilmore’s social security number. “I’m breaking the law doing this, you know. She didn’t have a forwarding address listed on the exit interview, and she only worked that one year at Highland. Best I can do.”

  I thanked him, hung up, and handed my note with her social to Rachel. “See what you can do with this.”

  She looked grateful for the change of subject.

  Within minutes, Rachel prin
ted out a social security statement. The heading read: PREPARED ESPECIALLY FOR CYNTHIA GILMORE. Flipping to page three she read the YOUR EARNINGS AT A GLANCE COLUMNS. “Look at this. This is really weird. It looks like she only earned money during five of all the years listed.”

  I looked at the listing. “1982, 1984, 1985, 1992, 2004, and then nothing. It lists the years up through last year, but nothing was recorded on those years. We know what she did in 1984 and l985. She taught school at Highland, but how did she live all those years she didn’t work?”

  “I suppose she could have inherited a bundle and doesn’t really need to work. Or she could be married to a Mr. Gilmore and is a stay-at-home Mom like you. Maybe in the years that the statement lists earned income, she was bored and tried her hand at different jobs. It’s obvious she didn’t teach in 1982, 1992, or 2004,” Rachel said.

  “Why is that obvious?”

  “Because those years don’t have a consecutive year listed either before or after them. A teaching contract goes from August to May, doesn’t it? It’s always a two-calendar-year period of time.”

  “Ooh, you’re good, girl. Did you glean anything else from the report that I might have missed?”

  “Look at this heading: WE BASED YOUR BENEFIT ESTIMATES ON THESE FACTS. It shows her date of birth as February 4, 1958. That might be useful. Other than that, unless she works a little more in the future, her social security benefits aren’t going to amount to much.”

  “Can you do anything on your computer, using her birth date, social, and name that might help us find out anything else?”

  “I can try. I don’t know how much more I can find. There are a couple of family tree and ancestry sites I can check. When do we leave for our breakfast meeting?” Rachel asked.

  “In about fifteen minutes. Find out if there’s anything else, and we’ll head out. It’s probably just my imagination, but knowing that Cynthia is also Volvo Lady is more than a little unnerving.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Billy had insisted on meeting the group at the café.com. It had opened before the age of 4G phones, but its client base hadn’t diminished. It was a coffee shop and breakfast bar, catering to white-collar business people. The booths, circular in shape for privacy, had wi-fi and curved screen TV’s with accessibility to all network and cable news channels with business, financial, crime, and sports channels. It opened its doors at 4:30 a.m. and closed at 11:00 a.m. Café.com did more business in those few morning hours than most of the regular restaurants in Anderson. Just one more way for business warriors to get ahead of the competition: work and eat at the same time.

  I put my arm around Rachel as we walked into the coffee shop. “You can do this.” A lame—although good-intentioned—attempt to make her feel as though she wasn’t alone.

  Rachel looked like she was going to be sick.

  “After you’re done talking to your mom, come over to our table.”

  The host greeted us with a smile. “Good morning, ladies. Seating for two?”

  “Actually, we’re meeting the Kings and the Cliffhangers,” I replied.

  “The Kings are seated in booth 17, and the Cliffhangers are in booth 28. Enjoy your breakfast.” After handing us each a complimentary copy of the Wall Street Journal, he looked at the couple behind us.

  “Here goes,” Rachel said, taking a deep breath as she glanced toward booth 17. She set her copy of the newspaper back on the host’s podium. I put mine back on the stack with hers, then I gave her hand a squeeze, and we parted ways.

  I wound my way through the maze of circular cubicles until I found number 28. I know the restaurant had good intentions, but the booths made me think of the giant teacup ride at Disneyland. They didn’t make me think business, on-the-go, up-and-coming professionals. On the other hand, I lived in Great Falls, Montana where up-and-coming professionals left and went to up-and-coming states with more than 900,000 people.

  Scott, Shawn, and Billy had already been served cappuccinos and were in deep conversation.

  “It’s about time you got here. Where’s Rachel?” Billy said, peering around me like he might find a pot of gold hidden behind my back.

  “Good to see you too. She’s busy. It’s just me—Chopped Liver.” I sounded more piqued than I felt.

  “Oh, come on. I just assumed you’d be together.”

  “She’s taking care of family business. She’ll be here.”

  “Todd called,” Scott said. “He’s coming after all. He’ll only be able to stay a few minutes, but he says he has a timeline of events for us. Did any of you find out any info last night or this morning?”

  Before I could open my mouth, Billy was already talking. “I have a report on James Blevins. He’s the chaplain for the reunion banquet tonight. We went out for a late-night interview.

  “The guy is squeaky clean. Or at least I couldn’t find any dirt on him. He was in New Orleans doing a three-day crusade when Tim was killed. He has about 32,000 witnesses to prove he wasn’t in Anderson on that day. He called his financial guru for the ministry and gave the guy the go-ahead to let me see the books. After the class reunion, Blevins is holding a crusade in the Indy Coliseum.”

  “Good work,” Shawn said.

  A slender waitress came over to the booth with an order pad in hand. The petite woman with wide blue eyes flashed a quick smile. “It looks like your other party has arrived. Are you ready to order yet?”

  I hadn’t looked at the menu yet, but ordered Dr Pepper, hash browns, and bacon.

  The guys ordered enough breakfast to keep a table of eight happy. The waitress grinned and went to the kitchen to place the order.

  Billy continued with his rundown of Blevins. “Unless they have a different set of books, I gotta say this guy is on the up and up. No big payouts on or around Tim’s death. Blevins and his wife take a salary of $70,000 a year, and the rest is all tied into the ministry, missions, and several—22 to be exact—small-town churches around the country. I called ten of those churches and received the same answer. Blevins supports small churches that can’t afford a pastor on their own. He dumps about $100,000 yearly into each of the churches I called. I actually think the guy is what he says he is.”

  “Don’t act so shocked,” I said. “Not every televangelist is a bad guy.”

  Billy shrugged while Scott and Shawn laughed at his discomfort.

  Todd’s entrance interrupted the chuckles and took the focus off Billy. “Sorry I’m late. I can’t stay long. I wanted to give you this.” He put a stack of papers on the table. “I have a ton of work to get done today if I want to go to the reunion tonight with a clear conscience.”

  “Before you leave, I need to ask you something,” I said. “Do you know anyone who drives a beige Volvo?”

  “Not that I can think of, why?”

  I looked around the table. “Do any of you have a headlight out?”

  “That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?” Billy laughed, but no one else found my question funny.

  Shawn shook his head.

  Scott looked me in the eye. “What happened?”

  “I think I’m being followed. I noticed a one-eyed car behind us immediately after we left Todd’s last night. It tailed me until I turned into the motel parking lot.”

  “It wasn’t any of us,” Scott said. “We stayed for another hour reliving our high school sports triumphs, such as they were. Why did you think the car was following you? And how could you tell it was a beige Volvo at that time of night?”

  I recounted the story of the dead kitten, the fender bender, the early-morning chase, the yearbook discovery that Cynthia Gilmore was a teacher in 1985, and of her current earnings. I told the story in great detail, including the numbers I’d seen on the license plate and the bumper sticker.

  The waitress brought out our breakfasts and set the multitude of dishes on our table. “Enjoy.” There was barely an inch of free table space left.

  “Describe the bumper sticker again,” Shawn said.


  “It was a molecule or atom, with these circles around the atom and Arabic-looking writing. Blue background, white atom, white writing.”

  “The bio-tech department at the University of Israel has bumper stickers something like that. But I couldn’t tell you for sure unless I saw it or you could copy the writing.”

  “Sorry. Memory’s not that good,” I said.

  Scott grabbed a pen and wrote down the partial plate number that I’d remembered and called them into the station. “I’ll hold the line while you pull up an address,” he said into his cell. “Okay, thanks.” He scribbled down the address the dispatcher had given him. Taking a big bite of ham omelet, he muffled, “Anybody want to ride with me while I go have a chat with Ms. Gilmore?”

  “I know you’re super cop and all,” Billy said, “but it’s not like she’s going anywhere in the next few minutes. Chill for a minute, and let’s finish this. I have to get back to the studios to finish my homeless piece. Some of us have regular jobs, you know.” He sounded almost envious.

  “Sorry, I can’t go with you either,” Todd said. “The farm is calling. I don’t think I’d have much to add except clever conversation anyway. I’ll see you guys tonight at the reunion banquet.” He grabbed a piece of toast off one of the many plates and left.

  “We can’t leave without Rachel either,” I said. “I think we need to look at all the other info we have and add it to the time-line Todd worked up for us.”

  Each of us picked up a copy of the timeline from the center of the table stuck under Billy’s side order of buttermilk pancakes. Maple syrup had slowly dripped on the top page. Todd had worked on the chronology of the case before he went to bed. He’d used a spreadsheet and had left adequate spaces between each entry to add other dates. I added in everything I could think of that Todd had missed.

  Our table was quiet for several minutes as the four of us ate breakfast and tried to find any clues that popped out at us from the spreadsheet.