Digging Up Bones (Birdwell, Texas Mysteries Book 1)

by Aimee Gilchrist

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wednesday morning started the same as all the others. Aodhagan disappeared at the crack of dawn, no doubt running in an attempt to keep his girlish figure. Everybody in town started calling at six AM sharp, leaving messages I was probably blessed not to be able to hear.

  I took care of my morning ministrations and dressed in one of my very last outfits. I hadn't brought much in the way of clothing, and I had used most of it in Denver. I didn't hold much hope for finding a dry cleaner in Birdwell, and my clothes would never touch a washer or dryer. By the time I came downstairs, Aodhagan was showered, dressed, and in the kitchen making omelets.

  "Morning." I perched on the edge of the breakfast nook.

  "Good morning. I thought you might be interested in knowing that Dwight called earlier. He said that they would be opening Penny's house later today. Starting tomorrow, it won't be a crime scene anymore. It's all yours."

  "Why would I be interested in knowing that?"

  His eyebrows rose slightly. "Aren't you even a little interested in looking around?" I felt like an idiot for not coming up with that one myself. "What are you going to do with Penny's house anyway?"

  I shrugged. "I guess I'll use her money to fix it up and sell it. Or I'll just have it demolished. I haven't really given it a lot of thought. What is it with you and breakfast anyway? Don't you ever just, like, have a bowl of Cheerios or something?"

  His look was one I hadn't seen since I'd misidentified Birth of the Cool however many days before. It seemed like an eternity. Embarrassment and a hint of disappointment. "You're living in the country now, honey. We don't eat Cheerios for breakfast. We eat artery-clogging, cholesterol-filled piles of fried pig fat, potatoes fried in fried-pig-fat leavings, and eggs. I eat the 'I don't want to die of a heart attack at forty-five' modified version."

  He smiled, a fleeting peek of teeth, dimples, and utter charm. I was of the mind most of the world's injustices could be greatly softened by a really nice set of dimples, and if I was noticing so much about him, I really, really had to get out of Birdwell.

  After breakfast, he looked at his watch. "We'd better head for town, or we'll never get to the morgue by nine."

  Next to our ill-fated trip to Lubbock, the forty-five miles to Tallatahola seemed like a trip down the street. We reached Dr. Floyd's office in no time. Unfortunately, his office was attached to the county morgue and smelled strongly of cleaning fluid and formaldehyde. The scent of cleaning fluids was stronger, and I wondered if the Q-tip queen from the police department moonlighted over here.

  Aodhagan's relationship with Dr. Floyd seemed to be civil but not warm. I was surprised he even had a gray area. I had only seen him speak of people very warmly or with clear dislike, and that was only Doc Holiday. Dr. Floyd, favoring his hobble-y leg, led us to the back office, where a good hundred years of files appeared to be tucked away in long rows of ubiquitous brown.

  "Here's the room. If you can find it, you can read it, but don't take it out of here, and don't make any copies." He banged his cane against the ground for an extra measure of emphasis.

  After he left us to deal with his primary visitors, the dead, we were left with their final diary entries, the autopsy report. The rows and rows of identical folders were shoved together so tightly it was hard to see where one ended and another began. They seemed to be filed by year but not in alphabetical order. It took us nearly an hour to find Norma Jean Frederick's file, even with both of us looking. At least our trip wasn't in vain, and the thing actually existed. We were already doing better than we had at the sheriff's office.

  Of course, I couldn't read it except for the barest essentials, but Aodhagan seemed to be able to. Or at least he seemed to think that he would get something out of reading the words, even if he didn't quite know what they meant.

  I wandered around looking at all the names on the folder tabs. People who had passed on before me. Every one of them had their own story. Some of these people had been old and sick, some had been young and tragic, and a very few of them, like Norma Jean and Penny, were the victims of a violent crime. I was struck that all of these people had come from somewhere and gone somewhere. They had truly existed, and I had never known them.

  It was a sudden, stunning revelation to me. I had lost my symbiotic oneness with the Universe. The understanding that we were all part of the same unit. My desire to turn off the demands of my parents and peers had led to all-encompassing self-involvement. When had that happened? Why had I let it? I turned off the thought. I didn't need more guilt. That's why I'd let it.

  Aodhagan suddenly closed the folder and replaced it with reverence.

  I had to clear my throat of any remnants of unwanted emotion before I could speak. "Did you find anything?"

  "Some things." He led me out of the building with a hand on my elbow, stopping to say thank you and good-bye to Dr. Floyd.

  "So, what?" I asked when he opened the door for me. "What did you find out?"

  He crossed around the Jeep and got in too. "She was pregnant."

  "What?" I was stunned, though I probably shouldn't have been, considering all I had learned about Norma Jean Fredrick.

  "She was just about two months pregnant, which makes it double homicide. Everything else looks pretty much like I expected. Although, it does look like she sustained the worst of her injuries as much as two hours before she died."

  "So, someone beat her up and then killed her later?" Why? That didn't even make sense. Why had no one noticed she was beat up in those hours in between?

  He shrugged. "I guess that two different people might have done it, but it seems unlikely. It seems more likely to me that the same person was still angry a couple hours later, wanted another go at her, and then killed her by accident."

  "So, do you think that's why she was killed? Could someone have done it because she was pregnant? Someone who felt jilted or the person who got her pregnant in the first place?"

  "I don't know what to think. I only know the facts."

  While we drove back to Birdwell, we talked the autopsy report over in more detail, although it didn't really afford me any insight. The only person left to talk to was Kathleen Audbergen, and if she couldn't help us, I couldn't see any other ending to our investigation except failure.

  It was around two when we got back to Birdwell, and it looked like rain again. It was also so windy that I could feel the resistance against the car. Tumbleweeds rushed past us in huge piles, their race up the street largely obscured by the dust kicked up in the wind. Until Texas, I had never seen a real tumbleweed before.

  Aodhagan was clearly deep in thought, and after lunch he murmured that he had some meeting or another and wandered off in a cloud of dust. I tried to accumulate some notes on potential cases for my next book, but I couldn't concentrate. Then I tried to take a walk, but the wind was too strong. I went into Aodhagan's den and stuck in my own choice of CD, Sting's Ten Summoner's Tales. I sat in his big comfortable chair and considered the case for the millionth time.

  Maybe we were going about this the wrong way. Maybe we should have been trying to figure out who killed Penny, and we'd find Norma Jean's killer too. The only problem with that was I suspected Aodhagan was right. It was Norma Jean's murder that had the real motive. If we were on the right track, Penny was killed just to keep her quiet. It didn't give us much to go on, but I felt that if we could even figure out why Norma Jean was killed, we would know who had done it.

  So why? Because she was pregnant? There were probably millions of sixteen-year-old girls who had babies every year. As far as I was aware, most of them didn't end up having their necks broken at 4-H dances.

  She had clearly been the worst kind of manipulator and brat. What had Billie Jo called her? A piece of work? But I'd known girls like that all through school. I knew a lot still. And even though there were plenty of people who no doubt wouldn't have minded giving them a swift kick off a riser, most of them were still alive. So why was Norma Jean different? Cle
arly, she wasn't different. The person who killed her was.

  Aodhagan was gone a long time. Long enough that I started to get nervous. I sidled up to the window and pushed the curtain an inch or so to the left. Dusk was falling, and a light spattering of rain was smacking at the window, so my visibility wasn't great, but there was nothing alarming out there.

  Well, that wasn't exactly true. Across the street, in front of a weathered pale green house, I could see Earl, the eyebrow-less deputy, barbecuing under a Felix the Cat umbrella. Aside from him, however, I didn't spot anything unusual.

  I had just released the curtain and was turning around when the den door flew open with a crash. My scream was loud enough that I shocked Aodhagan into dropping the box he was holding. He snatched up a few scattered cans that were rolling away and put them back in the box.

  "You are the jumpiest person I've ever met! What's the matter with you?"

  "You scared me," I shouted at him, my voice coming out louder than I'd intended. I didn't need to justify how jumpy I was. But somehow I wanted to. So I was strung out. It wasn't the worst thing I could be. It wasn't even the worst thing I was.

  "The food drive boxes are heavy. I had to kick the door open. Really, Helen, were you this jumpy in Manhattan?"

  He had no idea.

  The sound of the doorbell resonated through the entire house. Aodhagan sighed. "I have to get that."

  I followed him but stayed at a distance. It was a man and a woman in their eighties. They had a low-voiced conference with Aodhagan, who led them laboriously up the stairs.

  With a sigh, I went back into the kitchen and made myself another sandwich, which was about the full extent of my culinary repertoire. Good thing he kept a constant supply of the appropriate fixings, or I'd be starving every time he went out at night. I ate at the breakfast nook and left my dirty dishes in the sink without even rinsing them, just for spite. Maybe it was for the best anyway. It almost added some life to the sterile room. I decided to retire to my room and try to work again. My failed engagement gave me some leeway, but the publisher wouldn't wait forever. I had to stay relevant, after all.

  Unfortunately, my own mystery had pushed other people's murders right out of my head. I hoped not on a permanent basis, if only just for the sake of the contents of my cute little Chanel pocketbook.

  Of course, I still had my enormous trust fund from my four very rich, and very dead, grandparents, but I couldn't use it to live on. They'd stipulated I could only use it to make my life fun. For things like clothes, theater tickets, cruises, or other frivolities. They'd gotten together and formulated their wills to save me from a life of nothing but the daily grind. The kind of life each of them had lived to make us the rich family we were. But, actually, all they had managed to do was insure that even if I couldn't afford to buy groceries, I would still be able to take a tour of Rome, if I was so inclined.

  I actually managed to eke out a page or two of case suggestions before I just gave it up. At five to eight, I heard the three people upstairs walking down the hall and making their way downstairs. They had a brief conversation, which sounded like deep rumbling to me, and I heard the door shut and the heavy dead bolt click into place.

  A minute later, Aodhagan came back upstairs, and as he passed my door, I heard him sigh heavily. I stood at my window for a long time watching the moon reflect off a little stream as it snaked its way through Aodhagan's property. I considered going to bed, but I wasn't actually tired. I was too worked up still, unable to control my natural high adrenaline. I felt like we were so close to the truth that we might accidentally be touching it and not even know.

  With my own heavy sigh, I opened the door to my room and stepped out. I could see the shadow of Aodhagan's body standing out on the balcony with the French doors standing open. I walked slowly in his direction. After the oldsters had left, he'd changed into a pair of dark blue jeans so old and worn that they hardly held any shape at all, riding low on his hips and hanging totally without form. His long-sleeved baseball-style shirt in faded blue was also so old it was threadbare and limp.

  When he turned to look at me, I could see it had the words MacFarley's Scottish Pub & Grill printed on the front. He gazed at me for a moment then turned back to the night sky. I didn't feel like I wasn't welcome, so I walked a few more feet onto the balcony. He had his elbows resting on the railing and was simply staring. His clothes hung on him in a way that was almost indecent. If it was possible, he might have looked even more provocative than he did in his underwear.

  "If you shut the door, you'll be able to see the stars better." His low, smooth voice rolled over me like all that jazz he loved so much. My mind began screaming out warning signals, but I shut the door anyway. Because that's the kind of fool I am.

  The air had cooled to a level of feeling almost nice. The night felt like a presence, dark and heavy. The scent of earth and plants, sweet and moist, hung in the air, and I could hear the sound of bugs from every direction. He was right, of course. With the hallway lights mostly obscured, I could see millions of stars, even the ones so far away they seemed like tiny white pinpricks. "I've never seen so many stars before."

  "It's the city lights. They pollute the view." His voice was little more than a whisper, and I couldn't help but feel it was out of respect for the stillness around us. Still, yet electrifyingly alive. I had never known such a paradox existed, and I was almost high from it. Maybe that was why people sought out chances to commune with nature. Thus far, I'd never been a fan.

  I leaned against the railing next to him, and I could barely make out the outline of his profile. His hair was curling again from the moisture in the air. It was falling carelessly on to his forehead, and I longed to push it back into place, but even I wasn't that stupid, and there was no denying that I was pretty stupid when it came to this sort of thing.

  I decided to concentrate on the sensations around us instead. "This is so…" I couldn't find the right words.

  "Perfect," he filled in. He didn't take his eyes off the sky, and yet I could tell he was aware of my every move. "When I was a kid, I couldn't wait for dark. I had this huge telescope that I would set up out here on the balcony, and all summer long I would make these intricate star charts."

  "I had an interest in star charts too, but they all had headings like Pisces and Scorpio."

  I saw his shadow profile smile slightly. I wished that I could see him better. Then maybe I wouldn't have been able to smell so keenly the fresh scent of his hair or feel so intensely the heat coming from his skin. If I could see him, then maybe it wouldn't have seemed so easy to reach out and touch him. I laced my fingers together to keep it from happening without my meaning it to.

  "I missed these nights while I was away. The way that they smell and feel and sound. It takes me back to those days, like the time has never passed. Isn't it strange how most of your really intense childhood memories are from summer?"

  I realized that he was right. "I remember so vividly going to the summer house with Penny every year. I looked forward to it all year long."

  "She loved you very much," he whispered. It was a shock, to hear him talk about her in a personal way. He'd avoided it until now. Except to say she hadn't liked him. "When I was a kid, I hung around her all summer. She talked about you all year, until the summer came. I saw a picture of you once, a long time ago. I was like fourteen, or something. You were on the beach in this silly ruffled bikini. You were just a baby. You had this awful Dorothy Hamill haircut."

  I smiled wistfully. "I can't believe that you remember that."

  "I remember it because I was jealous. I had no relatives in America, and I wanted to go on holiday with my aunt or uncle or anyone who wasn't one of my parents. Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone. I'd decided that Penny was my aunt, and I didn't want to share her with you. I was furious that she had a real niece and spent part of my precious summers away."

  "I'm sorry." For this, something over which I had no control at all, I really did feel gu
ilty.

  He shrugged. "It was a really long time ago, and she deserved your attention. She was really your aunt."

  "No, she wasn't," I reminded him.

  "She was more your aunt than mine, and there's no denying that."

  No, there wasn't, so I fell silent. A breeze blew across the balcony, making my hair tickle my neck and my clothes brush against my body. This was the epitome of summer, and I thought maybe this one moment would make living in Texas bearable. Well, I wouldn't go that far, but certainly it ranked as one of the pure pleasurable moments in life. Nearly perfect, as Aodhagan had called it. Suddenly, I could feel his eyes on me. I didn't want to look at him, but I could tell that he was still staring.

  Finally, I asked, "Why are you staring at me?"

  His throaty chuckle just about short-circuited every nerve in my body. "I don't know. You just… You look so natural there. It seems like this is the first time that I've ever seen you look relaxed. Like you were made to stand here in this spot. Like you belong on my balcony."

  I made the hopeless mistake of looking at him. My eyes had adjusted to the point that I could make out his features, if not every little nuance. Most unfortunately, I could see his eyes. No wonder he mostly wore glasses. It was to protect the innocent, as the real thing was just too potent.

  "You make me sound like lawn furniture." I was only slightly surprised at how husky my voice came out.

  He took a step closer, and my breath caught, but he didn't try to touch me or move any nearer. We were standing so close that I could feel our clothing brushing. I swallowed hard, struggling to stay calm. "No. Not you. You're too sassy to be mistaken as anything inanimate."

  "Sassy?" I repeated inanely. That was one of the nicer words that I'd heard used to describe me.