Waking the Dead

by Kylie Brant

  Coming to a sudden decision, Cait took the camera picture of some of the images she’d blown up that had been found on male E. Handing the sheet to him, she watched his expression closely. “Actually, I’m looking for something along the lines of this art work.”

  His expression went from curious to scholarly. “Shows aptitude, undoubtedly. There’s uniqueness to the line movement. The technique is solid. Originality is hard to determine since he or she has chosen familiar objects. But this artist hasn’t had formal training.” He handed the sheet back to her.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Several reasons.” Russo slipped his hands into the pockets of his shorts and sent a quick glance at his fiancée before returning his gaze to Cait. “The materials used in the paintings are subpar, for one thing. Garish rather than soft or bold. It’s difficult to enter into the work, as the over-specificity of content lacks individualization.” Her expression must have been blank, because he explained, “Even in the rendition of familiar objects, something of the artist should be imbued in the work. Whether in the lighting, brushwork, spatial relationships . . . if the objective is to paint exactly what you see, one may as well use a camera.”

  As if suddenly realizing he may have insulted her taste, his expression became arrested. “But of course if you enjoy this artist’s work, if it speaks to you on some level, don’t let my opinion sway you. The most important thing about a piece is how it makes you feel.”

  Dark humor filled her. How these particular images made her feel was hardly appropriate subject matter to be discussing with the professor. But if he was correct about the UNSUB being untrained as an artist, that, too, helped her get a handle on the offender.

  “I appreciate your insight.” She tucked the page back into the folder.

  Russo began to move away. “Looks like Candi is ready. I hope you find more of that artwork you’re interested in.”

  Cait murmured a good-bye and strolled closer to the ladies manning the front of the shop. Despite the warmth in the shop, the professor’s parting words gave her a chill.

  Because she found herself hoping exactly the opposite. She was hoping the person responsible for this particular work was finished. That they’d catch him before he “created” again.

  It was nearly twenty minutes before she was able to speak to one of the women running the store. It was the elderly of the two who waited on her with a wide smile and a discreet glance that took in the fact that Cait had no store items in her hands. “How can I help you?”

  Handing her the two photos, she said, “I’m wondering if you recognize either of these people. Both have been tourists in the area in recent years.” She stopped, a bit bemused as she caught sight of the woman’s nametag. MOONBEAM. Either the woman’s parents had hated her when she was born or she’d changed her name for her own incomprehensible reasons. Whichever it was, the woman was studying the pictures intently.

  After a few moments Moonbeam tapped the picture of Recinos. “She has such a tragic aura,” she murmured before lifting her gaze to Cait. “Who is she?”

  “Do you recognize her?”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t think she’s been in here this year. Him, either, for that matter. I have a pretty good memory for people. Always recognize our return customers. Some people vacation here every year,” she explained, leading Cait a little to the side so clients could make their way more easily to the cash register. “Or at least return for a weekend or two. We get folks from all over the country and every once in a while from overseas. That’s why we keep the guest-book. It’s sort of fun to figure how many states have been represented here each year.”

  Spying the large register-like notebook on a table to the side of the door, Cait moved toward it, interest sharpening. She waited impatiently for the girl signing it to finish before moving in front of it and flipped through the pages. “Do you put a new book out every year?”

  “No, only when one gets filled.” Bending down, Moonbeam opened a cupboard below and indicated the three other ledgers on a shelf.

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Not at all.” The woman’s smile was wide. “It’s a wonderful way to connect with those whose paths have intersected ours as we travel parallel courses on the planet, isn’t it?”

  Moonbeam, Cait was willing to bet, had smoked a bit of weed in her day. Or a lot of it. But she was content to flip through the pages, looking for the years Livingston and Recinos had been in the area while the older woman turned to a couple waiting to ask her a question about some stained glass.

  The first entry in the register was a couple years ago, so Cait reached for the other books in the cupboard below and hauled them out. Looking at the last page of each, she was able to put them in chronological order fairly quickly. She looked through the next most recent one, finding the dates corresponding to the time Livingston had been in the area. Many customers had not only signed the book with their names and states but also left little messages to the storeown ers or about their experience in the shop. The messages were overwhelmingly positive. Cait imagined the people who’d left unhappy didn’t feel compelled to linger long enough to write about it.

  Livingston’s signature wasn’t to be found. But she did find Marissa Recinos’s near the front of that same register. She stared at the signature for a moment. Wondered at the mood of the woman who’d written it. A woman who’d just gone through a messy divorce and had come to a vacation she was ill suited for with a bunch of friends. There was no message under her name. Just a silent testament that she’d been here. Happy, perhaps. And blissfully unaware that eight months later she’d be dead.

  Something compelled her to keep looking. She reached for an older book and began scanning the dates. But even though she was consciously looking for it, she still experienced a jolt when she saw the nearly illegible scrawl dated September, six years ago.

  Bill Bentley.

  She stared, nonplussed for a moment. Then her heartbeat picked up pace as adrenaline spiked. William Bentley from Boise, Idaho. Disappeared five months after the date on the record, almost to the day.

  The missing person in the case Sergeant Hal Cross of the Boise Police Department still hadn’t gotten back to her about.

  Chapter 17

  “Sergeant Cross.” Cait gritted her teeth as she left yet another message for the man on the sidewalk outside the gift shop. “This is Caitlin Fleming of Raiker Forensics calling again. I may have a lead for you on the William Bentley missing persons case. The only way to be sure, however, is to return the damn call this time. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

  She disconnected and dropped the phone back in her purse with more than a little impatience. The desk sergeant had assured her the officer was on duty, so there was little reason he couldn’t at least reply. But it wouldn’t be the first time she’d crossed paths with cops who could be complete jerks. Some of the time she even had to work side by side with them.

  And after her conversation with Andrews and Barnes this morning, she wasn’t excluding the two from those ranks.

  She had no more taken a step when her cell rang. In one quick movement, she grabbed the phone and answered it, hoping, half-expecting, to hear the detective on the other end of it.

  “Fleming.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, “That’s such an unattractive way to answer your phone, dear. Although I suppose I should count myself lucky you answered at all.”

  Cait’s eyes slid shut in frustration. The absolute last thing she needed right now was a dose of Lydia Fleming Smythe Regatta. “Mother,” she began flatly, staring blindly at the people strolling by on the street. “I don’t have time for . . .”

  “. . . for your mother? I’ve been trying to reach you for days, Caitlin. After always being there for you, I had the erroneous assumption I could count on you for support.”

  So caught up was she in the irony of the first part of the statement, that it took Cait a moment to comprehend the
latter. “What’s wrong?”

  She heard her mother’s voice hitch. “It’s Henri. He’s . . . he’s . . . left me.”

  With a feeling of inevitability, Cait found an unoccupied bench situated off the sidewalk on a grassy area between buildings. And sat there for long minutes while she listened to a litany of Henri DuBois’s shortcomings. His miserliness. His sheer audacity. As a matter of fact, she reflected, as she interjected a few noncommittal sounds into the occasional breaks of conversation, if the man were as bad as Lydia let on, one could ask what she’d seen in him in the first place.

  One could. Cait wouldn’t. Instead she checked her watch. Eight minutes. “It sounds like he doesn’t deserve you.” A remark guaranteed to elicit another four minutes of agreement from her mother. And she knew it was mean-spirited of her, but she was grateful that at least this time she didn’t have to listen to Lydia wheedle her about going back to modeling.

  The stray thought had her feeling petty and low. So she said, when she had a chance to interject a word, “I’m sorry about Henri. After this job, I’ll see if I can fly down and spend a couple days.” And damned the immediate flood of dread that washed over her at the words.

  “That would be lovely, Caitlin. I very much appreciate the thought.” Lydia was much calmer now, but then she wasn’t the type to lose control. Not really. She might just have finished railing against her faithless lover, but she’d never raised her voice in the process. She could slice and dice a person with no more than an icy tone and a carefully arched brow. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll let you go now. Please contact me when it gets closer to the time so we can arrange the details of your visit.”

  “I’ll do that. Good-bye, Mother.” She disconnected with a familiar feeling of relief, one that was too familiar to feel guilty for. Their relationship was what it was. And accepting the parameters of it was far easier than trying to dissect and reform it into something different. Something it would never be.

  She stood, aware for the first time of a man loitering near the curb, giving her a once-over that he was taking no pains to hide. When she caught his eye, he began to grin, then froze at the unblinking stare she fixed him with. Turning, he hurried away.

  Wise choice. Getting up, she retraced her steps to the gift shop. There was nothing like the prospect of a visit with her mother that made her want to kick someone’s ass.

  Neither Moonbeam nor her daughter could shed any light on the sheet of images she’d brought with her, so Cait tried showing the victim photos at the next store lining the walk, The Sweet Shoppe. And topped off her day nicely when she discovered the owner was none other than Sharper’s former squeeze, Shellie Mayer. Given the fact that Cait’s relationship with Zach had reached Andrews’s ears, it was too much to hope for that Mayer wouldn’t have heard of it. Needless to say, the woman didn’t trip over herself to be cooperative.

  The scene didn’t exactly improve Cait’s mood.

  When she left The Sweet Shoppe, she noted Joanie Barton hurrying down the street toward JD’s and briefly considered heading that way. But then she saw that Al’s Taxidermy appeared open today. And without another thought, she veered toward it.

  The shop was old, vaguely musty smelling, although both the door and the windows were open. There was no one at the front, but she heard Kathy’s voice call out, “Be right there.”

  Cait took the intervening time to poke around and give the animals in the window a closer look. Although the fur on the beaver closest to her looked like it had been cleaned recently—Vacuumed? How the heck did they keep the things dusted?—there was dust on the base the feet were attached to. She found herself wondering how many of the animals were leftovers from Al’s tenure at the store and how many were Kathy’s handiwork.

  A woman came bustling out from a door that led to a back room wiping her hands on the white butcher-style apron covering her clothes. Although she was wearing jeans and a man’s old denim shirt, Cait immediately recognized the woman from Ketchers the other night.

  Kathy smiled widely. “Hey, how are you? Never thought I’d see you in my place.”

  Returning her smile, Cait said, “You got me curious the other night. I had some spare time, so I’ve been looking around the town.”

  “Well, if you’re really curious, come on back. I’m in the middle of a project. You can take a look.”

  She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Following the woman through the doorway, Cait found herself in a long narrow room lined with sinks, counters, and shelves. Two long tables shoved together took up the center of the space. Spread in the center of the table was . . . Cait cocked her head. What used to be a coyote, she decided, given the size of the pelt spread fur side down on the table. The windows on the back wall were open, to very little effect. The aroma was pungent.

  “Not squeamish are you?” Kathy picked up a medium-sized deflesher and went back to work on the hide.

  “Nope.” Fascinated in spite of herself, Cait roamed freely around the room. In undergrad courses, she’d practiced technique on animals, and the workroom was a primitive copy of some of the labs she’d worked in. She recognized many of the instruments lining the shelves. Sanders, power-operated fleshers, power saws. The equipment was stacked beside supplies of chemicals she assumed were used for tanning hides and soaking bones. She stopped, disconcerted at the sight of two large clear containers of glass eyes. On one far end of the table was a plaster of paris form of the animal.

  “You’ve got something cooking.” She crossed to the old stove set in one corner and lifted the lid on the large pot to reveal what was likely the coyote’s skull. “M-mm. My favorite.”

  Kathy looked up, a quick smile of delight on her face. “Not too many have that reaction when they come back here. Mose doesn’t mind, but then, he’s seen worse.”

  Rick Moses, Cait recalled. The bartender from Ketchers. The ex-con she’d just asked Andrews about. “Does he help you out around here?”

  “Mose?” Kathy continued to scrape away tissue without missing a beat. “He’s around a lot. Actually think he’s getting pretty good at this stuff himself. He’s good help. Made a run to Eugene for me this afternoon to see if he could get me a cast mouth system for this. Otherwise I’ll have to order one online.”

  Although she doubted it would do much good, Cait showed the photos of Livingston and Recinos to the other woman. Kathy looked with interest at each of them, then shook her head. “Neither of them would have come in here unless they were avid hunters or fishermen. I can go through the old records, if you like, once I’m done for the day. See if maybe we mounted a fish and shipped it to them.”

  “Why don’t you do that.” It was highly doubtful that Recinos would have had reason to use Kathy’s services, but Cait took a business card out and scribbled her name, as well as Bentley’s and Livingston’s, and the dates each victim had been in the area. “I’ll leave this on the counter up front.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks for stopping in.” A wicked grin crossed the woman’s face. “Not many people have the guts to make it this far inside.”

  Giving a laugh, Cait started for the door. “If bones made me squeamish, I’d be in the wrong line of work.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.”

  Kathy’s voice stopped her as she was about to leave the back area. “Al’s wife called last night. They’re on their way to Louisiana. Or was it Mississippi? Anyway, she just called to nag me about the check—I’m buying this place on contract—and I asked her where Al had gotten rid of the beetles. She said he gave them to someone at the university in Eugene.”

  “Okay.” Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy. It never was. “Thanks for checking.”

  “No problem.”

  Once outside her cell rang again. This time prior to answering she remembered to check the caller ID. And when she saw the Boise prefix on the number, her heart began to thud. “Fleming.” As she answered she dodged a girl walking a Saint Bernard easily double her weight.

  �
��Sergeant Hal Cross, Boise PD.” The gravelly voice on the other end sounded like it suffered from too many late nights, bottles of Scotch, and cigarettes. “I’m answering your damn call, but it won’t do either of us any good. I closed that Bentley case a couple years ago.”

  “What?” Disappointment pooled in her gut. “How is that possible? He’s still in the system.”

  A shrug sounded in the man’s voice. “Maybe I didn’t get back into the database and clear it out. God knows his family isn’t satisfied. The man still might be missing, but it’s a pretty good probability that he’s sipping mai tais on a Belize beach somewhere while the rest of us chase our asses.”

  It wasn’t possible, she decided, to take a dislike to someone based solely on his voice. So her reaction to Cross was likely due to the disappointment blooming inside her and not his insolent tone. “What makes you think he’s in Belize?”

  “Not me, the feds. They waltzed in here about three months after Bentley disappeared asking questions. They didn’t care so much about where he went, but they were all kinds of concerned with what happened to the quarter million he moved overseas to various accounts.”

  Adrenaline spiked through her, sharp and edgy. And with it brought certainty. “So there was money missing from his account. He didn’t appear in the banks to transfer it himself. And there’s no trace of the transfers on his computer.”

  “Sounds like you wrote the story. Feds took their sweet time, but eventually they concluded he’d been laundering money. Couldn’t figure out for who and how exactly he was doing it. Or if they did, they never shared those details with me. He must have thought things were getting too hot and disappeared. Happens all the time.”

  “If they never proved or disproved their theory, how can you be sure the feds were right?” She raised her hand to return Jodie Paulsen’s greeting as he slowly drove by with his pickup loaded with what looked like scrap metal.