Old Bones Never Die

by Lesley A. Diehl

“Okay. I’ll have a coke.”

  The foreman took another long draw on his bottle. “Lotta trees around that area.”

  What was he trying to tell me?

  “So someone could have been watching from the cover of the trees?”

  He shrugged and took a long guzzle of his beer.

  “You’d tell me if you saw anything, wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure, if it would get you off my back. Don’t look good having a cop following me in here. Especially a girl cop.” He looked around the bar at the tables, now beginning to fill with other workers.

  I’d gotten all I could from him. At least for today. I laid my business card on the bar next to him. “Thanks a lot, Lenny. You’ve been very helpful.” I tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar and started to leave.

  He glanced at the card. “Hey, you ain’t no cop. Says here you run some kind of a store.”

  “I’m kind of undercover. You know.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then turned his attention back to his beer.

  I waved at him and exited the bar to the sound of some whistles and a few comments of a sexual nature. I took it all lightly, a bunch of tired working men letting off some steam over cold beers. I smiled, and they hooted, offering to buy me drinks if I’d join them.

  Not tonight, boys. I was in hot pursuit of a killer.

  I drove up to the shop just as Grandy and Madeleine were closing up.

  “What trouble were you getting into today?” asked Grandy.

  I hauled dresses, other clothes, and shoes out of my trunk and held them aloft. “I was working. See?”

  “We were supposed to be planning a wedding,” said Madeleine. She handed one of the twins to Grandy while she opened her car door to put the other twin into the baby seat. “I’ve got to get home. I’ll let Grandy hand out your punishment for not being here.”

  I knew she wasn’t really mad because she grabbed my arm and planted as kiss on my cheek. The twin in her arms began to cry.

  “I think he’s jealous of you giving me attention.”

  “That’s Eve, and she, like her namesake, wants to be the center of attention. Someone said boys are easier. I thought that meant when they got older. With Eve, she’s been a pip since birth.”

  I smiled. “Better my personality than your clumsiness.”

  Madeleine always took teasing about her lack of coordination well. “We don’t know that yet. She’s not crawling or walking. She might be like a pigeon-toed moose.”

  “God, let’s hope not,” said Grandy.

  We waved Madeleine and the twins off and went into the shop.

  “Okay, Eve, if you think I don’t see through this,” she indicated the load of clothes, “you’re mistaken. I may be old, but I’m still as smart as you, maybe smarter, and I know this is just a cover for what you were really doing. How long did it take you to get this stash? Ten minutes? You were gone the entire afternoon.”

  “Several hours. It required an abundance of schmoozing to obtain these treasures.”

  “Well, before you start to beef up the lie about what you were up to, let me tell you Frida called and would like you to call her back.”

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier? And why didn’t she call me directly?”

  “I think you’ll find the answer on your phone. Look at it.” Grandy headed for the backroom.

  Oh, yeah, I had put the phone on vibrate after listening to it ring all afternoon. There were twenty-three messages. I scrolled through to find the ones from Frida. They began with, “Call me,” then “Call me, dammit,” followed by “Call me when they arrest you for whatever laws you are breaking,” and finally “Call me or I’ll never tell you another thing about this case.”

  Apologizing to Grandy or Madeleine for doing something I shouldn’t have is one thing, but with Frida, there was no apologizing, only retribution.

  “It’s Eve,” I said after connecting with Frida.

  “Eve who?”

  I decided to go on the offensive. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got some important information for you. You’re gonna love this.”

  “Eve Appel?”

  Now she was making me mad.

  “No, Eve from the planet Mars.”

  “Is that where you’ve been? So what have you got for me?”

  “You first.” I thought she’d want to play the you go first, no you go first game, but clearly she was too excited about her information to hold back.

  “We’ve got prints.”

  “How unusual. Prints in a police department.”

  “Eve, I’m warning you.”

  “Prints from where and from whom?”

  “Prints from that construction company car. I mean, there were a load of them, including those of our favorite lawyer, Danny Cypress.”

  I interrupted her. “That’s to be expected. He’s one of the employees.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s not his prints I’m interested in. Well, maybe I am, but it’s a set of unexpected prints.”

  “Whose?”

  “Connie Russo’s”

  I was silent. I hadn’t expected that.

  “Here’s the interesting part. The prints are only on the passenger’s side of the car.”

  “Someone else was driving.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m pretty certain those prints had to come from the day that car hit Walter Egret. Russo’s not on the construction payroll, never has been. I guess someone could have picked him up as a hitchhiker, but I think he was in that car for nefarious reasons.”

  “Nappi said he worked for the mob in Miami. And so did someone else we know.”

  “Danny Cypress.”

  “I asked Nappi to find out more about the relationship between Danny and Connie when they were mob-connected in Miami.” I knew Frida wouldn’t be happy about using Nappi for information, but it seemed the fastest way to find out about Danny and Connie.

  “You know your friendship with Nappi bothers me,” said Frida.

  “Yes?”

  “But he is useful at times. So where does this take us?”

  “Without too much speculation, it takes us to Danny Cypress and Connie Russo in a car running down Walter Egret. Do you still think the hit-and-run was an accident?”

  Chapter 20

  Frida let out a groan. “Mob stuff. God, I hate mob stuff when it impacts events around here. It looks to me as if the construction company is up to its ears in something it wants hidden out at that construction site. Why would it bring in a mob operative like Connie Russo to silence Walter Egret? That’s heavy stuff to hit some Indian backhoe operator.”

  “Walter saw something at the site. Maybe more important is that he felt something.” I told Frida what the foreman had said about Walter’s proximity to the bones. “And he also said Walter was uneasy that entire week, believing that someone was watching out at the site.”

  “I wish Connie Russo was still alive. He was such a nervous little twit …. I know I could sweat the truth out of him.”

  “But he’s dead. His death bothers me,” I said.

  “A mob killing, that’s for certain.”

  We ended the call after more puzzlement over how and why the mob was involved in all of this. Frida was right. The company was eager to hide something about that site and those bones.

  I was standing with the phone still in my hand when Grandy came out from the backroom.

  “You look troubled, my dear.” She placed her hand on my arm and looked up at me with her sympathetic blue eyes.

  I was wound up from the conversation with Frida and had to will my body to let go of the tension. Rubbing my neck, I said, “Walter’s death is all about those bones. If we could find them it would clear up a lot of things—his death, Sammy’s father’s disappearance, why the bones are important, the pocket watch, and how it traveled from Sammy’s father to a pawn dealer, to a body and then to another pawn dealer through Connie Russo, a man killed in a mob hit.”

  The three boys were with their cousin tonight. We
had begun the paperwork for their adoptions, but it would not be complete until after Sammy and I were married. For now, the boys were temporarily our foster children.

  “It’s good for them to be with their cousin so they can have contact with their Seminole relatives.” Grandfather had started a fire in the fire pit outside his cabin. The night was cool, the wind had all but died away, and the flames kept the mosquitoes from chawing us to pieces.

  “Seminole? But you’re Miccosukee,” I said.

  “Walter’s wife was from the Brighton Seminoles,” Sammy explained. “The boys are fortunate to have both Seminole and Miccosukee blood in them. They will grow up speaking three languages, English, Mikasuki—which is our language and that of most of the Seminoles—and Muskogee, spoken by the Brighton Seminoles.”

  “I guess I always wondered about the difference between the Miccosukees and the Seminoles,” I admitted. “I should learn more so that I understand the boys’ heritage. I don’t want them to lose their roots.” I knew I could never replace their mother, but I wanted to be the best adopted mother I could be.

  “I’ll teach you,” said Grandfather, stirring the fire.

  Sammy smiled his approval, and we sat warming ourselves in a comfortable silence.

  Finally I broke the silence to share my confusion about what was happening with the events surrounding Walter’s death.

  Grandfather cleared his throat and tossed another chunk of wood onto the fire. The dancing flames lit up his face, deeply lined from years of living, the color of old leather, with kindness in every pore. “I believe the connection is Danny Cypress.”

  “I do too, but unless Frida can break him somehow, there is absolutely nothing to connect him to Walter’s death or those bones.”

  “Our father’s bones,” said Sammy.

  Grandfather stirred the fire again. “Maybe not.”

  “You believe your son Lionel is still alive, don’t you?” I asked. I had my suspicions about those bones, but Grandfather knew something I did not.

  Grandfather nodded. “You will think this is just the silly delusion of an old man, but sometimes I feel him near me. Once I thought I saw him on the other side of the canal.” He pointed beyond the airboat business to the stand of palms. “There. Hidden among the sabals. Watching me, watching Sammy.”

  “That sounds like what Walter told the foreman just before he died.” I repeated what the foreman said about Walter thinking someone was watching him.

  We let the silence encompass us as the fire burned down. The night was surprisingly quiet, no birds calling or frogs chorusing. Even the cows in the far field had stopped their bellowing. Then, in the distance, a train blew its whistle as it crossed the county road. The coyotes began yipping to one another to warn of the coming of the iron beast, its whistle and ground-shaking roar disturbing the pack’s evening hunting. The whistle faded away and the yipping ceased, replaced by a loud splash at the edge of the water near our fire.

  “Gator,” said Grandfather.

  “Why did Lionel leave?” I asked Grandfather. Everyone was so puzzled by his disappearance. Sammy had carried the guilt of it with him since he was little, believing that his father had abandoned his family and rejected his sons. Yet, knowing Grandfather Egret, I couldn’t believe he had raised a son who would leave his family, at least not without a compelling reason. If Grandfather knew more than he had said these years, now was the time for him to speak the truth—not simply to take away Sammy’s pain, but to put to rest the idea that those bones belonged to Sammy and Walter’s father. If Sammy continued to believe the bones were his father’s and they were never rediscovered, the family could have no closure. Was Lionel Egret still alive? If so, why didn’t he reveal himself?

  Grandfather spoke with hesitation, reaching his hand out to his grandson, who watched him without moving. “Lionel left us to find himself in the swamp. He is always with us, but cannot be here. He’s a man damned by what he did.”

  Sammy’s eyes in the light from the dying fire reflected the red of its coals. His unwavering gaze held hope, disbelief, and anger.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “He killed his best friend.” Grandfather’s words were spoken in a whisper, as if he could hardly bear to say them out loud.

  “You’re saying he’s wanted for murder and is hiding out?” asked Sammy. “What is he afraid of? Getting arrested? Serving time? Cowardly.” Sammy got up and grabbed one of the logs meant for the fire. He threw it into the flames with such force that sparks jumped out of the pit and caught the dry grass on fire near our feet.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. “There has to be more to this story.”

  Grandfather nodded. “Sit down, Sammy. I promised your father I wouldn’t talk about this to anyone, but I see now how foolish that promise was.”

  Sammy sat, though he clearly didn’t want to hear what Grandfather had to say. He turned his face away and looked toward the canal.

  “Your father and his best friend Howard Coolie grew up together. They spent much of their youth in these swamps, knew them as well as they knew the rhythm of their own heartbeats. They loved taking each other out into the swamps, blindfolded, dropping off the blindfolded one to see if he could find his way out. They timed each other to see who could do it the fastest. It was a game. I warned them the swamp was not to be disrespected by their sport, but they continued the competition even into adulthood.”

  Grandfather threw another log on the fire before continuing. “The night you were born, Sammy, a big storm rolled in. Howard said this was a great test of his skills, that he could find his way out of the swamp, even in a storm. Lionel thought he was crazy, but Howard insisted he was the better man in the swamps. That got Lionel’s competitive spirit up, and he agreed. The storm blew in with furious winds. Howard never found his way out. Lionel felt responsible. He set out in his canoe and told me he wouldn’t return until he found his friend. He was ashamed that he encouraged Howard to pit himself against the swamp.”

  “But it was Howard’s choice,” I said.

  “It was Lionel’s choice not to stop him when he knew better,” said Grandfather. “I taught him to respect the swamp.”

  Sammy stood up and looked up the dark canal that led into the heart of the swamp. “He’s out there, is that what you’re saying?”

  Grandfather nodded. “He might be, or it might be his spirit that wanders there. I do not know. Your father never approached me in all these years.”

  “He needs to be found. I need to find him.” Sammy’s gaze met mine across the fire.

  I knew what he intended to do, and I also knew I would not stop him. He left the fire without another word. After spending a short time in the house, he joined us again, the big knife he sometimes wore in the scabbard at his waist, his rifle in his hand and a leather bag slung over his shoulder. He reached out and drew me into his arms.

  “Tell the boys I’ll be back.”

  I could only nod through my tears.

  “Here, take this.” I removed the talisman Grandfather had given me as protection a few years ago. I believed it had warded off death and severe harm for me, and I trusted in Grandfather’s power to make it work for Sammy also. I placed it around his neck.

  Sammy kissed me and put his hand on Grandfather’s shoulder. The two men seemed to communicate something through their touching. Then he was gone into the night. All I heard was the sound of his canoe paddle as it dipped into the dark waters.

  “Do you think he’ll find his father?”

  “I think he hopes to find more than his father. This is a journey to shed his guilt and find himself,” Grandfather replied. “I should have spoken of Lionel’s leaving years ago, but I was afraid to tell Sammy. This is what I feared.” Grandfather stared into the dark swamp, then dropped his head to gaze once more into the flames.

  The two of us remained at the fire far into the night until the ashes were cold and the sun began to rise over the canal.

  The ne
xt morning, I told the boys Sammy had gone into the swamps to do something important. I assured them he would return soon, although I struggled with my anxiety over when this would be. Or if he would return at all—a possibility I could not share with the boys. It was because I was responsible for the boys and because I loved them that I held myself together. It was what Sammy would have expected me to do, but terror threatened to overtake me each moment of the day. If I gave into my fears, I wouldn’t find my way back to sanity. I held steady, turning my concerns to the boys’ welfare. They had lost one father. I wanted them to know they had family to turn to.

  Sammy had vacation time due him as the foreman at David’s hunting ranch, so I arranged for one of Sammy’s cousins to take over for him there. David asked no questions when I told him Sammy had business to attend to. “Business” is what I told everyone else. My tone of voice must have indicated the business was of a personal nature, so they didn’t ask questions.

  Being alone with my worries for Sammy and my yearning for his return left me time to contemplate the missing bones and Walter’s death.

  Something told me I needed to go back to the beginning. After Grandy and I closed the shop the next day, I dropped her off at the house and headed out toward the construction site. As I passed the Rusty Nail, I spotted a familiar truck in the parking lot and thought it might be the foreman’s. I stomped on the brakes and pulled in.

  Lenny sat at the bar, as he had when I’d talked to him before. This time he appeared to have spent considerable time romancing his beer. He looked up and greeted me with slurred speech and a surly manner.

  “Well, well, if it ain’t that undercover cop. Come to harass me again? Well, surprise, surprise. Go pick on someone else.” He saluted me with his beer bottle. I took the seat next to him and ordered a coke.

  “You seem a little down today,” I remarked.

  “And ish your fault, ya know.”

  “Really. How can that be?”

  “Cuz some of the guys that work for the company saw me in here talking to you that day, and they blabbed around the company that I was spilling stuff to the cops, so the company fired me. Said I was drunk on the job. Weren’t drunk, at least not always. They thought I was telling tales to the authorities.”