Anne Marie Duquette

by She Caught the Sheriff

  Dangerous to the searchers. Dangerous to Morgan. Caro was deeply worried about him and Wyatt, and the atmosphere in the truck was not reassuring. She was glad to be dropped off at the hotel. Luciano politely offered to take her back to the Silver Dollar, but Caro had, no less politely, refused.

  “Perhaps you could have someone pick me up in a couple of hours?” she suggested. “I have some things to take care of first.” She wanted time alone to collect her thoughts—and the suitcase full of evidence.

  Caro finished dressing, ran a quick brush through her freshly shampooed hair and then turned on the heat in the room. The ride back had been cold.

  She needed limber fingers for what she was about to do.

  Caro was deep in her work when she heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. She looked up as Marta walked in. “Welcome back, stranger. I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Any word on Morgan?”

  “Afraid not. The rain’s keeping everyone grounded. Even Wyatt.”

  Caro nodded, then returned to her task. “So they kept you a long time?”

  “Not really. Catfish and I stopped for a cup of coffee, then we decided we might as well order dinner since we hadn’t eaten, then—”

  “I meant, did the clinic and Kimberly’s doctor keep you a long time?”

  “Oh.” Marta blushed. “Them.” She left her wet purse and too-large raincoat—a raincoat Caro suspected had come from Catfish—in the bathroom.

  “How is Kimberly?” Caro prompted.

  “Calm. Unhurt. At home. And milking her experience for all it was worth.”

  Caro raised one eyebrow.

  “Oh, all right, I’m sorry. She had a tough time of it, but she’s fine now. She needs some backbone.”

  “Like yours,” Caro said over her shoulder. “You’ve got more backbone than just about anyone I’ve ever worked with.”

  “Good thing, too,” Marta said briskly. “Or my husband would’ve driven me crazy years ago. He sure isn’t…” She paused.

  “Catfish?”

  Caro didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Marta, I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

  “He’s in his seventies. That’s a good twenty years older than me!” Marta said indignantly. “Besides, I’m a married woman. Just because my husband cheated on me doesn’t mean I intend to stoop to his level.”

  “Looking never hurt anyone, married or not,” Caro replied.

  “I’m a little too old to be staring at some sheriff packed into his jeans. Not like some women.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the sheriff.”

  “Well, I wasn’t talking about Catfish.” Marta deliberately changed the subject. “So, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m organizing the few remaining tools I have and repacking the evidence.” Caro gestured toward the open suitcase. “I’m heading back to the Silver Dollar and what’s left of my lab. My ride should be here in fifteen minutes. I think it’s about time we found out exactly what our mystery man looks like.”

  Marta reached for her purse. “Count me in.”

  It was Catfish himself who came to pick up Marta and Caro. The rain was still falling, and the two women were glad to be back in the snug confines of The Silver Dollar’s ranch house. A friendly fire was going, just warm enough to dispel the damp and welcome the three wet travelers.

  Wyatt was waiting for them. A quick cup of coffee in front of the fire to dry off, then all four trooped up to Caro’s makeshift lab.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” Caro murmured to Wyatt as they climbed the stairs. “Any word on Morgan yet?”

  “Not a thing. Not one damn thing.”

  Caro gently placed her hand on his arm. He let it rest there until they reached the landing, his face still grim. She could think of nothing else to say.

  Once in the room, Caro took a seat and got to work.

  “I tried to fix or replace as many of your tools as possible,” Wyatt said. “If you need anything else…” He looked so dispirited, with such an uncharacteristically defeated air about him, that Caro impulsively suggested, “Why don’t you stay? Marta’s going to help, and there’s enough room for you and Catfish if we move the table.

  Wyatt—and Catfish, as well—didn’t need to be asked twice. A few minutes later, the four were comfortably situated and watching Caro begin her work with the clay.

  “What are you doing?” Catfish asked. “Packing the skull in clay? I thought you used plaster to protect the evidence.”

  “I’m not protecting the skull. I’m recreating the face of the man this belonged to.”

  Everyone stared, fascinated, as Caro measured the thickness of clay she’d used to re-create a facial muscle with her calipers. “This is a fairly new science. What happens is that—”

  “—Forensic experts re-create the victim’s face using precise, gender-adjusted formulas for muscles, cartilage and teeth,” said Marta. “And it’s all done in the same layers as the muscles are found, only in reverse, of course.”

  “You know about this?” Caro asked in amazement when Marta stopped for a breath.

  “Oh, yes. I loved Gorky Park. Saw it twice.”

  “You and Catfish…” Wyatt murmured.

  “What about us?” Marta bristled defensively.

  “Catfish likes crime movies, too,” Wyatt said.

  Marta swiveled toward Catfish. “I always read the books first. For instance, much as I liked the movie, I preferred Gorky Park as a book.”

  Only half-listening, Caro studied the skull’s face, frowned and added a pinch more clay around the eyes. “Like to help, Marta?” she offered.

  Marta backed away. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I didn’t go to college. I was just a mother and homemaker.”

  “A good, honest profession,” Wyatt said.

  “And one that probably taught you more about life than my classes ever did, so don’t sell yourself short,” Caro said.

  “Baked many pies?” Catfish asked.

  Caro grinned. He’s not here to watch my technique, that’s for sure.

  “I’ve won ribbons for my pies,” Marta said proudly. “They’re all homemade, too. None of those box mixes.”

  “Then you’re hired.” Caro tossed Marta a chunk of modeling clay. “Go ahead and work that for me until it’s soft. Pretend you’re kneading bread dough.”

  “Do you know how to cook?” Wyatt asked Caro.

  “Yep. But I don’t do it often.”

  “Whyever not?” Marta’s voice was curious.

  “Same reason I don’t watch crime movies. I just don’t have time.”

  “What do you do for meals?” Wyatt asked. “Go out for dinner with your boyfriend?”

  Caro almost blushed. It appears Catfish isn’t the only one not interested in my clay.

  Catfish winked at her. “I think the good sheriff’s fishing, Doc.”

  “And I think you and I should have another cup of coffee,” Marta said firmly, rising to her feet and pulling Catfish with her. “Just holler if you need anything, boss.”

  Marta tossed the lump of clay to Wyatt, then the older couple left. Caro continued with her work.

  “To answer your question, Sheriff—no, I don’t often go out for dinner. I mostly raid my parents’ house for leftovers.”

  “That’s not very appetizing—especially when you’re eating alone. Are you eating alone?”

  “Subtlety isn’t your strong point, is it,” Caro said, secretly pleased at his question.

  “No, it’s not. So—are you?”

  She looked him squarely in the face. “Most of the time, yes. I’m afraid my job frightens some people off. Especially guys who don’t work in law enforcement. You know what one of my dates told me? He said dating me was like dating an undertaker.”

  Wyatt’s eyes glittered with anger. “Then he was a fool, and a mannerless fool to boot.”

  “Well, I had to forgive him. I’d come home that day smelling of formaldehyde.” She shrugged. “Face it, I don’t have a pretty job. B
ut it’s mine, and I’m not giving it up.”

  “I’d never ask you to give up anything.”

  Caro didn’t know what to say to that. Is he trying to tell me something? But we’ve only known each other three days.

  She held out her hand, and Wyatt passed her the lump of softened clay. “Were you able to ask Kimberly anything?” Caro asked.

  “You mean like why she was lying? No. If she lied to us before, she’ll lie to us again. I’d prefer not to tip our hand.”

  Caro found that she liked the way he said “us” and “our.” It seemed final proof that they were a team now. She sliced off an excess portion of clay with her scraper, then carefully smoothed over the area with water from a bowl. “My guess is that she’s protecting someone—either an Ellis or a Bodine. Someone’s hiding a secret—one I suspect goes all the way back to Tombstone’s Wild West days. And I’d bet my last pair of boots that this old skeleton holds the key.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “I’ll have to see how Marta’s doing with those background checks I asked for.” Caro added a little more water to the lump, then tossed Wyatt a clean, wet hand cloth.

  “I’ll get her,” he said. “Would you like some more coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Shortly after Marta and Catfish rejoined her, Wyatt reappeared with a fresh pot of coffee and a hot plate. While he set that up, Caro asked Marta about the background checks.

  “No skeletons in the closet yet. I mean—” Marta broke off and stared at the clay-and-bone mosaic. “I think I’ve been listening to your bad jokes too long.”

  “They do tend to rub off,” Caro said with a quick smile. “But there has to be some dirt somewhere. Skip the financial checks for now. I’ll have a friend of mine in Phoenix do them by computer.”

  “I can easily handle those,” Wyatt said.

  “Thanks. That’ll free Marta—”

  “And me!” Catfish chimed in, his eyes on Marta, not Caro.

  “All right.” Caro continued, “I’d like the two of you to go four generations back and get me whatever photos you can find of the Bodines and the Ellises.”

  “You think this—” Wyatt pointed at the skull “—belongs to one of our families?”

  “It has to. It’s the only thing that makes sense. If we can match a face to a photo, we might be able to make a dent in this case.”

  Marta’s eyes glinted with comprehension. “There are all those Camillus Fly photographs. I saw hundreds of them— in Fly’s Photography Gallery. Plus, I’ve looked through lots of the books publishing his work. And of course there’s the display of his photographs at the Old Court house. There’s even before and after pictures of criminals sentenced to die by hanging.”

  Caro shivered. “And people say I have a grisly job. So, how many photographs do you think we’d have to search through?” she asked.

  “Fly was a prolific photographer even by today’s standards.”

  “That’s right,” Wyatt put in. “He took over five thousand photographs just of Geronimo and the Apaches.”

  Caro was flabbergasted. “Using those old cameras?”

  Marta nodded. “He and his wife developed thousands of photographs of Tombstone and the old mines around here.”

  “I’ve seen some of those, Marta, but I need shots of faces, not old mines. They won’t help.”

  “They might,” Wyatt contradicted. “Fly was a would-be miner who never had the luck with silver that he had with photographs. Even though he built his business into the largest photographic studio between San Francisco and El Paso, he never lost his fascination with miners.”

  “You think this poor old guy is connected with The Silver Dollar Mine?” Catfish asked.

  “Yes. And I’d bet Fly had photos of The Silver Dollar Mine,” Caro said.

  “It’s going to be a lot of work, looking through all those photographs,” Wyatt warned, but Marta wasn’t discouraged.

  “At least we’re here in Tombstone. What better place to buy collections and reproductions of his work? Or to look through the archives? I can start as soon as you say the word.”

  “You mean as soon as I finish the skull.” Caro dipped her fingers in the water bowl again. “It’s going to take me most of the night.”

  “Then I’d better get us something to eat,” Marta said briskly. “Sheriff?”

  “Help yourself to the kitchen. Catfish, you know the way.”

  The sandwiches and fruit arrived about twenty minutes later. Marta also took responsibility for the coffee, making a third pot and then a fourth. All the while, the skull beneath Caro’s fingers slowly and steadily took on a life of its own.

  She stopped only once to rub her stiff neck. Wyatt stepped in and kneaded her shoulders—which Marta and Catfish seemed to find inordinately interesting, to Caro’s annoyance.

  “Hey, he’s doing it for therapeutic purposes only,” she said.

  “Sure, Doc.” Catfish sniggered, but one dark glance from Wyatt shut him up.

  “Of course she won’t get a good recreation if her arms are stiff,” Marta said loyally, although her eyes were twinkling, as well.

  “Be quiet, both of you, and let me get back to work,” Caro scolded, but she let Wyatt finish, enjoying the sure touch of his hands. They were gentle and supple with a restrained strength and an instinctive feel.

  He’s probably just like that in bed, Caro thought, then felt her face grow hot. She forced her mind back to business—but not without a grateful, “Thanks, Wyatt.” She took another swallow of coffee and resumed her clay sculpting.

  The hours ticked on. Catfish was the first to bow out, electing to get his “forty winks” on the couch downstairs in front of the fire.

  Wyatt left next on police business; cattle had gotten loose during the earlier storm and wandered into someone’s backyard.

  That left Caro and Marta.

  “Hey, you’re getting close to the end, aren’t you?” Marta said around three in the morning, when no bone was left showing in the face. “That’s really something. Is this the way our guy was supposed to look?”

  “Well, pretty close, if I’ve done my job right.” Caro rose from her chair, back aching. “I’ve made the eyes gray, since we have no idea what color Mr. Bones’s eyes really were. I still have to do the hair. Wish I had a clue.”

  Marta stared at the head. “Why don’t you just use black? It’s a neutral color—like gray—and the photographs I’ll be looking at will be black-and-white, anyway.”

  “Hey, that’s a good idea,” Caro said.

  “Even blondes can show up looking as though they have dark hair in old black-and-whites,” Marta pointed out.

  “You’re pretty knowledgeable about this. Lucky for me.”

  “Frank thinks it’s stupid to be so interested in old pictures.” She paused and said reflectively, “You know, I haven’t missed the louse one bit.”

  “Mmm.” Caro rummaged through her wig bag for a man’s black wig with longish hair, as it was worn in the Old West. “If you don’t mind me asking, have you made any progress with Frank?”

  Marta sighed. “He says he doesn’t want a divorce. He says the affair is over. He wants me to forgive him and come back home.”

  Something in the tone of Marta’s voice made Caro ask, “You don’t want to? Forgive him, that is?”

  “I haven’t decided if I want to go home to him. But that’s my problem, not yours. I’m here as long as you need me.” The other woman’s face was sad but determined.

  Caro reached for Marta’s hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I haven’t thought about Frank all day, until now.” Marta released Caro’s hand, and gestured her back to work. “You know, maybe I’m better off without him. This is the most freedom I’ve had in years.”

  “Trust me, being alone isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Caro picked up one of the straight pins that would anchor the hair to the skull.

  �
�Neither is being with Frank,” Marta said bitterly. “He isn’t the man I married—not anymore. He’s changed, and not for the better.” She rose and walked purposely toward the coffeepot. “You want another cup?”

  “No, I’m almost done, and then I’m calling it quits. Why don’t you get some sleep? Lie down in my room—it’s next door.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Marta yawned hugely. “What about the skull? Are you going to just leave it here, or should I take it with me tomorrow and photograph it for you?”

  “I think I’ll leave it here. It should be safe enough with Morgan gone.” She felt a new stab of fear as she said the words. Fear for Morgan—and for Wyatt. She forced herself to sound as efficient as possible. “You could photograph it once the clay’s set—not before. I don’t want to risk ruining it.”

  “Yes, the poor old thing had enough… trauma the last time, with you and the sheriff rolling around on the floor.”

  “I explained about that!”

  “Sure you did.”

  Caro paused in the middle of making one last-minute adjustment. “You know, that Catfish is a handsome man. Do you know if he’s seeing anyone? Do you want me to ask him?”

  “Oh, all right, I can take a hint. Good night, boss. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Marta.”

  Caro was left alone. She fussed a bit more with the hair until she felt satisfied with her efforts. Then she tidied the lab, cleaning up clay, cleaning her tools and lining them up on the table, since she no longer had a toolbox to pack them in.

  With one last yawn, she stretched, pushed her chair under the table and admired the head one last time. It was remarkably lifelike; so lifelike, in fact, that Caro spoke aloud. “There. All done. I don’t know who you really are, mister, but I hope I’ve done you justice.”

  “If you’d lived a couple hundred years ago, Doc, they would’ve burned you at the stake.”