Anne Marie Duquette

by She Caught the Sheriff

  In a situation like this, he relied more on intuition, on discerning motive, than on fact and analysis. The woman before him seemed just the opposite. In a strange sort of way, they made a good team. They might just solve this case—but first he’d have to find out what Morgan’s keys were doing inside an unidentified skull.

  “I’m well aware of that, ma’am.” He held out his hand for the key chain. Caro, however, was still studying it.

  “His jewelry is… different, isn’t it?”

  “Morgan’s experimenting with styles. He wants to develop his own design. One of these days he’ll hit on the right thing.”

  “I guess.” It didn’t sound like a compliment at all—more like a polite comment. Caro turned away and headed toward her toolbox, keys in hand.

  “What…?”

  “You live on a ranch and you drive an official vehicle. You won’t need these keys. I’ll dust them for prints, then tag ‘em and bag ‘em.”

  “But… you said you didn’t think I was involved.”

  Caro’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “That’s true. And it does seem logical and probable that you simply lost your keys. However, I’m keeping them—just in case there’s something else going on here. They were found at the crime scene. I don’t know how you do things in Tombstone, but I go by the book. Evidence is evidence. No exceptions. Period. I don’t care if you are the sheriff.”

  Caro Hartlan didn’t flinch one bit. Wyatt admired her principles, but cursed them, as well.

  “Of course you’re right.”

  She studied him for a disconcerting moment, while Wyatt bemoaned his brother’s foolishness. Then her seriousness was gone, and she was her easygoing self again.

  “Glad you agree, Sheriff. Not that it would’ve made any difference to my decision.” She placed the keys in a sealed plastic bag and carefully slipped them into a separate evidence pack. Next, she reached for the lid to the transport box, set it in place and fastened it down tight with her personal seal. “I’ve decided to go ahead with setting up my lab at your ranch, Sheriff. Hope that convinces you that I think we can work together. Now, I’m all finished here, so I’ll see you later.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m catching a ride into town with Catfish after I load my tools in your truck.”

  “I can give you a ride.”

  “Don’t you have to wait for the undertaker? Or are you bringing the victim back to the ranch yourself?”

  “I can get someone else to do it. I wanted to go into town, anyway, to check in with Kimberly.”

  “Kimberly… Wasn’t she supposed to be here this morning to learn more about forensics?”

  “I’m sure she has a good reason for being absent. I asked her to run a computer check on any missing persons in this area. Maybe she’s working on that. Or maybe the computers are down.”

  “I’m guessing this body is too old to be on the computers. Either way, I already have a ride into town—and some business to take care of.”

  “Like what?”

  She frowned at his question.

  “I’m just worried about you carrying the evidence bag around,” he added. And my brother’s keys.

  “Oh, that.” The frown disappeared from her face.

  “Let me take it back to the ranch for you.”

  “Not yet. I’m going to separate the stuff in these bags later. I’ve halved most of the evidence, so I can mail out some samples for safekeeping.”

  “But what about the stuff you can’t halve?” Like turquoise-and-silver?

  “I’ll store that at your ranch when I get there. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of it. I’m just going to run a few errands and look after some personal business. Maybe I’ll even pop into your brother’s jewelry store and look around.”

  “He doesn’t open until noon,” Wyatt told her. “Better make it another time.” Like after I’m through talking to him.

  “Okay.” They both turned at the sound of a horn honking. “Oh, there’s my ride. See you later, Sheriff. Your brother, too. I have a few things I want to ask him.”

  He watched the slight sway of her shapely, jean-clad hips and thought, Take a number, lady… and stand in line.

  “THANKS FOR THE RIDE, Catfish!” Caro slammed the truck door and waved goodbye to the grizzled old man.

  “Anytime, missy.” Catfish’s truck backfired, kicked up some dust and chugged off around the corner.

  Caro stood in place, absorbing the atmosphere. Despite yesterday’s interruption, she was finally here in downtown Tombstone. She’d visited the historical site once before, when her parents had taken her and Desiree as children. Now she was here as an adult—and a professional.

  So far she hadn’t even had time to take a single hard-earned vacation breath or do her research on early forensics. She intended to make up for that, starting immediately. She’d already put in most of yesterday at Boothill, not to mention the hours this morning. She needed a break and couldn’t think of a better way to get one than by pursuing her hobby.

  She pivoted and set off at a brisk walk. She’d had Catfish drop her off at the Tombstone Chamber of Commerce and Visitors’ Center on the corner of Fourth and Allen. Allen was Tombstone’s main street and the location of the O. K. Corral. Most of Allen Street’s buildings kept true to the original structures and locations of the 1880s. The whole town, complete with raised plank boardwalks and dirt sidestreets made it seem almost as if she were stepping back in time.

  But her thoughts remained in the present. Strange, the sheriff’s reaction to that set of keys. If it had been my lost set, I’d be thrilled to find them. But Bodine didn’t seem thrilled at all. Maybe he was just embarrassed—or upset to have his possessions in an evidence bag. Still…

  Caro allowed herself to consider a thought she’d suppressed earlier. Was someone trying to make it look as if Wyatt was involved? Or worse yet, were her instincts about him wrong? Was he involved?

  She shook her head. He couldn’t be. She didn’t want him to be!

  “Son of a…” she muttered. For the first time in ages I actually find a man I’d like to get to know better, and his keys turn up at the crime site.

  Her pleasure in the beauty of the morning faded, but Caro forced herself to put her current case—and the town’s sheriff—to the back of her mind. She would focus on the present and herself; after all, she was supposed to be on vacation. And she was in Tombstone. It would be easy to tour any of the famous areas on foot. Tombstone’s northsouth streets started with First Street and ended with Seventh, while there were only four main east-west streets running through the historic district.

  Safford and Fremont Streets were northernmost, then came Allen Street, where the Earps, Doc Holliday, Bat Masterson and the Clanton gang once walked. Below that lay Toughnut Street, named after one of Tombstone’s original silver mines.

  There was so much history—so much to see and do!

  She hurried to the Visitors’ Center, eager to become reacquainted with the town. She pulled at the door; it was locked. Caro glanced at her watch, then at the posted hours. It was still early—not even nine—and the Chamber of Commerce wasn’t open yet.

  That’s what happens when you rise with the sun, she thought. Well, no problem. I’ll have breakfast and come back.

  Caro remembered seeing a sign for the Longhorn Restaurant. It opened early for breakfast and was only a block away on the corner of Fifth and Allen. She’d get some coffee and eggs, read a morning paper and take a breather.

  That wish was not to be. It was summer, peak tourist season. Care walked into a crowded room where she had to be seated at a table with another woman. Caro blinked. She’d seen the woman before. It was Mrs. Sunburn from yesterday at Boothill. Only this time she was crying.

  Skeletons and sobbing didn’t exactly make for easy introductions, but Caro didn’t hesitate for an instant. She set down her newspaper and her camera pack, then gently touched the other woman’s arm. “Are you all right?”
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  Mrs. Sunburn raised red-rimmed eyes. They were gray, set in an ordinary, weathered face beneath salt-and-pepper hair that had an attractive, professional salon set. Her makeup was blotchy and tearstained. Caro judged the woman to be in her midfifties.

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine.” Mrs. Sunburn raised a tissue to her eyes, obviously embarrassed. “Go ahead and order your breakfast. Don’t mind me.”

  Caro removed her hand from the woman’s arm. “I’m Caro Hartlan. From Phoenix.”

  “Marta Wenkert, from Paradise Valley.”

  Caro would have held out her hand to shake, but the woman was still clutching her tissue. Instead, Caro gave her a friendly smile. “Why don’t we both order?” she suggested, flagging down the waitress. “I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a cup of coffee.”

  Marta managed a nod, but showed no willingness to talk once the waitress had served their drinks and taken their orders. Caro didn’t try to force conversation. By the time their food arrived, Marta had regained her composure.

  “Sorry about earlier,” she apologized. “I usually don’t fall apart like that.”

  Caro buttered her toast. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “It’s nothing earth-shattering… I guess the experts call it empty-nest syndrome. My youngest daughter graduated in the spring with her engineering degree. She found a great job and just moved into her own apartment. And my oldest left two years ago. She flies helicopters for the Navy.”

  “You must be very proud of both.”

  “Oh, I am. But they grew up. You know how it is.”

  No, I don’t. I don’t have any kids—just cases.

  “For years I took care of them. Now that they’re gone, Frank—he’s my husband—and I decided to travel a little. And then I’d planned to go home and look for a job.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I thought so. But Frank—he’s my husband—well, he doesn’t want me to work. He wants me to stay home and take care of him! And now he’s even complaining about this vacation. Said he’d rather be golfing in Tucson than walking around this dusty hick town. Said my idea to come here was the worst I’d ever had.”

  “That must be upsetting,” Caro said tactfully.

  “Tell me about it! I don’t even play golf! Thirty years of marriage, and Frank’s always had things his way. Well, the kids are gone and now it’s my turn. I told him that. And you know what he did?”

  Caro shook her head.

  “He left me!”

  “Left you?” Caro gasped.

  “Well, left the hotel for Tucson to go golfing,” Marta qualified. “Threw, actually threw money at me, then drove away in our car and stranded me! He told me I can catch a bus and join him when I’ve come to my senses.”

  “It seems to me that perhaps your husband could use a little sense himself.”

  “You can say that again. If Frank thinks I’m running after him, he’s got another think coming. It’ll be an icy day in Tombstone before I let him do that to me again…” Marta’s voice wobbled and trailed off. She viciously speared a forkful of egg, but didn’t bother to eat it.

  Caro’s heart went out to her. “Are you going to be okay?”

  Marta closed her eyes, then opened them again. There was strength and determination in them now, not tears. “You bet I am. I’m sorry, Ms. Hartlan. I don’t mean to bore you with my problems.”

  “Please, call me Caro, and it’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m sure you have enough problems of your own—what with the skeleton and all.”

  “You remember me?”

  “Yes. And that skeleton.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Between old bones and Frank, this has turned out to be the vacation from hell. So, any leads on the case?” Marta asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  Caro took the hint.

  “Nothing definite. Of course, it’s still early in the investigation. I was just at Boothill, and…”

  Caro filled Marta in on some of the forensic-collection details. Even though she kept her information very general, Marta asked shrewd questions, especially about the photography.

  “You’re so lucky. You actually get paid to use your camera.” Marta sighed and finished the last of her coffee. “It’s been a hobby of mine since I was a kid. I love taking photographs—too many, according to Frank. Sometimes he takes away my camera bag to—and these are his wordssave money on film. I’m glad I got it back before he left.” She patted her camera bag. “That’s why I came here. Tombstone’s the home of Camillus Fly.”

  “The photographer? The one who took the photos at the surrender of Geronimo?”

  “That’s him. He took photos of almost everyone and everything in Tombstone—miners, saloon girls, lawmen, cowboys, hangings, shootings, buildings, even dogs. Fly had the largest studio between California and Texas, thanks to all those miners with money to burn. I can’t wait to tour his old studio.”

  Caro smiled at Marta’s enthusiasm, quite a contrast to her earlier despair. Obviously this was one subject Marta loved talking about—unlike, apparently, the absent Frank.

  “Photography isn’t a part of the job I particularly care for,” Caro admitted. “It’s simply documentation for me, and of course my subjects aren’t very pretty. Usually I just get it over and done with so I can get down to the real business.”

  “But photography—even forensic photography—should be an art, not a job!”

  “It takes a very strong stomach,” Caro said. She started to signal the waitress for more coffee, but something in Marta’s eyes—a hunger that had nothing to do with food— stopped her.

  “Marta, this may sound spur-of-the-moment, but if you don’t have any other plans, I could use an assistant.”

  Marta froze. “Me? Assist you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’d love it!” The older woman’s eyes sparked with excitement, only to be replaced with a look of wariness. “But why? This isn’t charity or…or some kind of therapy, is it? Surely there’s a deputy you could call on…”

  Caro took a deep breath. Marta was a stranger, and Caro almost never trusted strangers. She rarely trusted, period. In this case, though, her gut instincts told her Marta could be trusted. And Wyatt—well, she wanted to trust him, but she didn’t dare take the risk. Not right now.

  I don’t like finding Silver Dollar Ranch emblems near my crime scene.

  “Whoever unearthed that skeleton might be trying to make it look like Tombstone’s sheriff is involved,” Caro announced. “Or maybe he really is. I don’t think so, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure. According to him, this is probably just vandalism. I think it may be murder. An old murder, but murder nonetheless.”

  There was no gasp, moan or other drastic reaction. Instead, Marta simply nodded her understanding. “Go on, please.”

  The woman has backbone, no doubt about it, Caro thought. She found herself telling Marta about the keys in the skull. “First, I believed he’d lost them, but I’m beginning to suspect they were planted there. Why, though? To implicate him unjustly—or to let me know he is involved?”

  “What a mess,” Marta said quietly. “I sure hope the sheriff’s as upstanding as he seems to be.”

  “Me, too,” Caro said. Shaking her head, she went on, “I don’t like this case at all. Grave robbing, ancient corpses, planted evidence—maybe damning evidence. I’ve got to dust the keys for prints and hope I get lucky. If I do…” Caro tapped her forefinger against her lips. “Do you drive?”

  “Oh, yes, but Frank took our car. And there’s no place to rent one. There is a bus, though.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind… I don’t want the evidence kept in town if the sheriff or someone at his ranch is somehow involved in this. Neither do I want my film developed here in town. Plus, I’ll need more photos taken if I manage to discover the original crime scene.”

  “You don’t want to do those yourself?”
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  “I always take two sets with two different cameras. You’ll do one, I’ll do the other. That’ll free up some of my time. And then I’ll need help with the local research. Marta, you’re a tourist. You’ve got the perfect cover to ask questions, especially if no one knows we’re working together.”

  “They might be more honest with me,” Marta said slowly.

  “And you’d be more objective, as well. So, are you interested?”

  Marta didn’t answer right away. “You’re not just putting me on? Trying to humor a weepy lady? Because I’m not usually like that. And I don’t need humoring.”

  Caro sensed the pride in the other woman. “I honestly do need you, Marta. If I was working as a consultant for a big city with lots of employees, I’d have the luxury of requesting an assistant. But you’re here and available, so if you are interested, I’d be really grateful. Being my assistant isn’t going to be a glamorous position, but it’ll certainly be a useful one.”

  Marta nodded. “If I take this on, where can I find you?”

  “The motels are full, so I’m staying at the sheriff’s place.”

  “What if he or someone from his ranch really is involved?” Marta asked anxiously.

  “Until I have more proof than just a set of keys—keys that may have been lost or planted—I’ll take my chances. Going by experience, I’d have to say Sheriff Bodine doesn’t seem like a criminal to me, and believe me, I’ve met my share. Anyway, being out at the ranch means I’ll be able to keep an eye on things. I’ll check in with you every day.”

  “If I don’t hear from you, what should I do?” Marta was deadly serious, and Caro answered in kind.

  “I honestly don’t think there’s anything to worry about. But if you suspect trouble, call my family. My father’s a policeman and my mother’s a judge. Ask to speak with either one of them. Try my mom first. She’s calmer.” Caro scribbled down their home and work numbers on a paper napkin and passed it to Marta. “And speaking of family, it isn’t too late to catch that bus, you know. I don’t want to come between you and your husband.”