“Well then, shall we get started? Sheriff Larson prepped me on the details of where you found the remains. I’m assuming this is our person?” He moved toward the table.
“Yes, this is her,” said Nick.
“Or him,” corrected Dr. Payton.
Emily handed him a black apron and box of latex gloves. “Nick—Sheriff Larson—will be taking the photographs. I’m here to assist if you need anything at all.” There’s that willowy kid voice again.
“Thank you both. I’ll need measuring tools and forceps,” he said, moving into place at the top of the skull. “And if you wouldn’t mind taking notes, it goes much faster. If you don’t feel offended by that.”
“No, of course not.” Emily’s voice jumped ahead of any judgments she might have had about being treated like a glorified secretary.
For several hours the three of them went meticulously through every centimeter and crevice of the remains. Emily was fascinated with the process and the level of detail Dr. Payton put into examining the bones. There were areas of the bones she hadn’t realized had names. The science of anthropology took human anatomy to a new level for her that afternoon.
There were nine places where they collected hair remnants. Emily had, of course, noted this upon excavation, but she’d left the hairs to be collected during the official autopsy. She placed them individually in glass vials, marking them with the exact location they had been found on the skeleton. Most were found attached to minuscule skin remnants on the skull. There was one lodged under the third fingernail of the left hand.
After all the measurements and notes were recorded, Dr. Payton stepped back and removed his mask to reveal a calculating face. They all remained quiet as he processed the exam, flipping back and forth between notes and rechecking the surface of several bones. Finally, he spoke.
“The victim is Caucasian in ancestry. Probably between fifteen and nineteen years old. Height estimated around five feet.
He paused. Emily waited on pins and needles. She glanced over to Nick. The color had again washed from his face, and she knew what he was thinking. So far, this sounded like a description of Sandi Parkman.
“There is blunt-force trauma to the neck, right ribs, and skull. It’s clear to me that this person was the victim of trauma resulting in homicide.”
Emily had also noted that when they were retrieving the bones, but had held back from saying anything to Nick about it. She hadn’t wanted to feed any worry he already held until it could be confirmed by someone who had more experience with skeletal remains.
Nick pressed against the wall of the morgue for support. “It’s her. I know it.”
“I’m not entirely sure this skeleton is a she.”
“What? Why not?” asked Emily.
“Sex is determined by looking at size and architecture of the bone structure. For instance, the pelvis of a male is more oval shaped, while the pelvis of a female is more heart shaped. The angles are different because females give birth. And ninety-two percent of the time, males have larger bones than females.”
Nick’s pressed lips told Emily he was agitated by the doctor’s answer.
“Well, what can you tell us now? Heart or oval?” Nick said.
“I can’t say definitively without more time to measure and compare,” Dr. Payton said.
“We’ll be eagerly awaiting your results,” said Emily.
“How long will that take?” asked Nick.
“A week or two.”
“At the rate you’re charging, is there any chance you can speed it up?”
Emily shot Nick a look: Stop it. Then she turned to the anthropologist. “Thank you, Dr. Payton. Is there anything else we can do for you before you head out?”
“I’m awfully hungry. I hear Delia Andrews runs a great bakery here. Care to join me?”
“How do you know about Delia Andrews?” Emily said with surprise. Delia was a former FBI agent and longtime friend of the Hartford family. During Emily’s impromptu death investigation just a week earlier when she had been torn from her surgical residency in Chicago to tend to her father after his first heart attack, Delia had helped Emily and Nick identify the rare tool used to kill Julie Dobson.
“I’ve read a lot of her papers. Her work with the FBI on tool identification is landmark. But I’m sure you know that already. I suspect she’s a bit of a local celebrity.”
Only for her cinnamon rolls and bear claws.
Delia had kept a low profile during her FBI years and had traveled a lot internationally during her years on duty. In retirement, Delia didn’t talk about her FBI experiences. Emily assumed those cases were still classified.
Several years ago, Delia had left the FBI and slipped back into small-town life in Freeport, where she had elevated pastries to a mouthwatering, edible art form. She was definitely better known for those than for her academic articles.
“Yes, she owns Brown’s Bakery. On Main Street. I can take you there,” said Emily. Did I really just offer that? “I mean, not that you can’t find it on your own. Freeport’s small, and there aren’t any other bakeries in town.”
“I’d love for you to show me,” said Dr. Payton with a look that lingered on Emily. Twitters and tingles jumped through her insides as if she were a star-struck thirteen-year-old. What’s wrong with me?
“Then let’s get this body put back to rest for safekeeping,” said Emily, trying to keep it professional.
“Do you still need me, Em?” Nick said from the corner of the room as he packed up the camera equipment. Emily’s eyes jumped to his. She had almost forgotten he was there.
“I think we’re good here. Thanks for your help,” her voice chirped at him.
“Sheriff, I was wondering if you could download those pictures and put them on a jump drive for me,” said Dr. Payton.
“Make a copy for me, too,” Emily added as she and Dr. Payton covered the bones with a protective tarp. She didn’t mean for her request to sound condescending. “Please.” But Nick snapped a glare at her.
“Just to confirm, Emily, you aren’t releasing the body yet?” asked Nick.
“Of course not. We don’t even know who it is,” said Emily. There was that tone again.
Nick breezed by and handed her the camera with one word. “Here.” Then he exited promptly.
Emily hoped Dr. Payton hadn’t heard the tension between them.
Dr. Payton turned around from where he was washing his hands, shaking the water off.
“Where did Sheriff Larson go?”
“Emergency call,” Emily fibbed.
“I owe you for bringing me such a fascinating case study. It’s not often I get out onto the field anymore, given my teaching load and lab responsibilities.”
Emily smiled and removed her apron and hairpiece. Bringing him a case study. Interesting choice of words. To someone in this community, these remains had once been their daughter or son. Not an academic study.
A text pinged Emily’s phone. Cathy. Darn!
“Ah, hey, about that offer,” she said to Dr. Payton. “I forgot I promised a good friend that I’d help her with something today.” Cathy had hired a moving truck and was moving back into her apartment above the funeral home a few days sooner than planned.
“I’m sure I can find Brown’s Bakery on my own,” said Dr. Payton, peeling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash bin. “But I was looking forward to it. Hopefully our paths cross again soon.”
Emily nodded. “Enjoy your lunch. And be sure to take some bear claws back to your department.”
“Good tip. It’ll keep me in their good graces.”
“They’ll consider you a hero,” she laughed.
“Hope I don’t get too used to the view atop the pedestal,” he joked in return, but there wasn’t a shred of pretention in his tone.
He opened the door for her, and Emily noted a twinge of disappointment forming. It might be nice to spend a little more time getting to know a forensic anthropologist, especially one thi
s easy on the eyes.
10
“It must be strange to be back in your old house,” said Emily as she lifted a box labeled kitchen appliances onto a countertop in Cathy Bishop’s Victorian apartment above the funeral home.
“Doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right here anymore,” said Cathy, exhaling as she set down a weighty box.
Emily opened bare cupboard after bare cupboard. “Where do you want the dishes? By the sink? Or maybe closer to the kitchen table?”
“It doesn’t matter. I won’t be here long.” Cathy stopped and looked at a surprised Emily. “I’m selling the business. House and all.”
Emily’s mouth gaped. “You can’t. It’s been in your family forever.”
“My heart’s not in it. Your father’s funeral was my last. A beautiful bookend to end a satisfying career.”
“That’s so sudden.”
“Not as sudden as you think. Your dad and I were starting to talk retirement. This just seals the deal for me.”
“What will you do?” asked Emily.
“We had been entertaining the idea of going to Arizona. And I still like that plan. I talked to Ben when he was here for your father’s funeral, and he and Lily will host me for the winter. They love it there, and I think I could handle three hundred and sixty-five days of sun.”
Ben was Cathy’s oldest son and Lily was his wife. Ben was five years older than Emily. When her mom had passed, he’d already been a couple of years into college across the country, so they didn’t know each other all that well.
“I can’t see you sitting poolside every day, Cathy.” Emily smiled.
“I’ve always wanted to take up golf. Or tennis. Or—”
“Please don’t say shuffleboard.”
Cathy laughed. “I was going to say aqua aerobics.”
“I am trying to imagine you with a pink swim cap and a bunch of blue hairs splashing around to eighties pop.”
Cathy laughed again and handed Emily a box labeled fridge magnets.
Emily gawked at the label. How many magnets could one fridge hold, exactly?
“Put them back into the moving truck.”
“We just took them out.”
“I know. But I just had a wild hair of an idea. I’m going to drive straight to Phoenix. Today!”
“Cathy, are you sure?”
“What am I waiting for?”
“This is a really big decision to make after just … well, you know what they say about making a big decision after …”
“I know. And I say it all the time to grieving family members. And yet here I am, not taking my own advice. It feels right, Em. Feels like time for a change. Especially with winter setting in soon. I don’t want to be boarded up and gloomy the next six months. Your dad wouldn’t have wanted that either.”
Emily nodded. Come to think of it, she was facing the same plight. She was alone, too, now that Brandon and nuptials were no longer part of her future. This winter she would either be boarded up in her father’s home or all alone in some gloomy studio apartment in Chicago. Neither sounded too inviting at the moment. “Are you going to list it or put out word at the mortuary school?” Emily wondered how difficult it was to sell a funeral home business.
“Hmm, mortuary schools. I hadn’t thought of that. Grab a newbie grad ready to spring fresh into the field. ‘Freeport, perfect place to bury the dead and raise a family.’ This ad is writing itself,” she said, humor lifting her voice. “Great idea, Emily.”
Emily wasn’t pleased that her brainstorm had helped Cathy get one step farther out of Freeport. The Bishop family had been a staple of Freeport for three generations. Why had Ben broken the chain? She wondered if Cathy felt resentment over his choice to become a software engineer at a tech company.
“Now, what’s this about having a new sister? Anna something- or-other?”
“Johnson. So, I take it you didn’t know?”
Cathy shook her head. “Your father never said a peep. I wish he would have. I supposed she might have liked to attend the funeral.”
Emily hadn’t thought of that.
“What does she look like?” asked Cathy.
“I’m not sure.”
“You haven’t Facebook-stalked her, huh?” Cathy asked.
“I’m not on Facebook.”
“Oh, that’s right. Your generation is more into Instagram.”
“I’m not on any of it.”
“Good for you. Waste of time. Have you tried calling her?”
“Working on it,” Emily fibbed. She wondered how quickly she could change the subject.
Cathy turned to face Emily. “You need to call her. Soon.”
“I’m waiting for the right words.”
“The right words, huh? In these kinds of situations, it’s best to be honest and clear. ‘Hi, Anna. I’m your sister Emily. I have something for you from our father that I think you’ll want. When do you want to meet?’”
“Ah yeah … something along those lines.” Emily had always known a more couth Cathy, but she kind of liked this freer version.
“I’m losing my filter, dear. Probably another reason I should retire.”
“You’ve been through a lot.”
“We both have, but I get to walk away from it. You have your whole career ahead of you,” said Cathy, looking out the open kitchen door into the driveway. “I assume you’ll be heading back to Chicago. So, it looks like with your father’s death, both his legacy and mine are coming to a close.”
“I haven’t decided.” Emily followed her gaze to where the moving truck stood open, stacked floor to ceiling with boxes and furniture. Thank goodness they hadn’t unloaded all of that before Cathy made her declaration to skip town.
“If you leave now, who’s going to take care of the funeral arrangements while you’re waiting on someone else to buy the business?” Bishop and Schulz was the only funeral parlor in Freeport.
“I’ve got a friend who owns a mortuary association in Rock River who might be able to cover,” Cathy said, heading out the door with a box to reload into the moving truck. Emily trudged after her with the magnets.
“I’m gonna give Ben and Lily a call right now and tell them I’m on my way.” Cathy tucked the box securely between two taller ones and wandered back into the house, her cell phone pressed to her ear.
Emily crawled into the back of the truck and found the perfect crevice to nestle the precious magnet collection into where it wouldn’t get smashed. She scanned the boxes of Cathy’s belongings. The world she had grown up with was shifting fast, right out from under her. She knew her father would have supported Cathy’s decision. He would have wanted her to be happy.
Just as Emily was about to jump from the back of the moving truck, her phone rang from the pocket of her jeans. The screen said No Caller ID, but curiosity prompted her to pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hi? Is this Dr. Emily Hartford?”
“Yes, this is she,” she answered in a professional voice. “How may I help you?” Was this one of her patients in Chicago? She tried to place the voice. It was female. Sweet. And a bit apprehensive. In fact, the voice sounded a bit like … her own.
“This is Anna Johnson.”
Emily’s throat went to her gut.
“I’m your … your dad was my … this is so strange. I don’t really know how to put this.”
“I do,” Emily spit out. “You’re my sister.”
11
Two days later, Emily slid a watch box across the café table to Anna, who was more petite than Emily and had her long auburn bob smoothed into place.
“He wanted you to have this,” she said, lifting her fingers off the box and folding her hands in her lap.
Anna’s wardrobe was straight from Bloomingdale’s. A Chanel bag hung from her chair. She crossed her legs so that one of her cropped leather boots stuck out from under the table. Emily felt awkward and tomboyish in her fleece sweat shirt and jeans next to her sophisticated—and clearly old
er—sister.
Anna took the box with her taupe gel-painted nails and turned it around in her hands for a moment. She jiggled open the box and looked inside.
“It was his father’s. Our grandfather’s. He got it in Germany during the war. I guess I’ve often wondered if maybe he stole it from a German soldier.” She released a nervous laugh.
Anna smiled at the contents. “It’s quite lovely. A beautiful token. But I don’t feel very attached to it. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have it?”
“It’s not mine to have,” said Emily. “Neither is this.” Emily handed her a white envelope that held Anna’s inheritance.
Anna gave her a quizzical look as she unfolded the papers. She skimmed over them, but her face registered the same expression. “Sorry, I’m not really sure what I’m reading here.”
“Oh, well, it’s my—our—father’s stock portfolio. He willed it to you,” said Emily, looking for Anna’s reaction. “His attorney told me it’s worth about half a million dollars.”
“Oh. My.” The papers slipped from Anna’s hands, and her eyes grew wide. “It’s … I didn’t even know the man.”
Emily wasn’t sure what to say. She actually felt the same and had struggled to quell the resentment that kept surfacing.
Anna slid the paper back across the table to Emily. “You must feel really resentful about this. I can’t … I can’t be the cause of that.”
“I don’t. I’m not,” said Emily. “Legally it’s yours. I can’t take it back.”
“We don’t need the money.”
Clearly! Emily caught a glimpse of Anna’s three-carat diamond wedding ring that matched the one-carat studs in each ear lobe. She slipped the envelope back toward Anna and laid her own thread-worn wallet between them so Anna couldn’t slide it back.
“I wonder … is it guilt money? For never showing up that day.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you know your father and I had been communicating for about a year before your mother died? I searched him out when I was twenty-three. I was newly pregnant with Flora, my oldest, and I was feeling those strong maternal feelings and was desperate to know more about my biological parents. I was placed for adoption when I was a baby.”
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