Dead Man's Bones

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Jane gathered herself. With great dignity, she said, “I shall have no further conversation with you. You cannot force me to talk to you unless my attorney is present.”

  Sheila closed her notebook and put it away. “You are neither under arrest at this moment, Miss Obermann, nor in custody. You are not a suspect, only a person of interest. As such, you are free to refuse to answer any questions, at your discretion.” She sat back in her chair, while we listened to the sounds of continued movement in the kitchen, the opening and shutting of drawers and cabinet doors, and the murmur of low voices.

  I gave Sheila an admiring glance. She was handling this interrogation with real dexterity. The conversation was mannered and calm, but beneath its polite surface, tensions bubbled like hot lava.

  I had learned a long time ago that silence can be as powerful a tool as words, especially if one party to the conversation has a guilty conscience. The silence in the sitting room continued. Ruby and I were quiet. Sheila said nothing. Jane thought about the kitchen noises, and Sheila’s questions, and shifted uneasily in her chair.

  “You . . . you said you had some information,” she said finally.

  “Yes,” Sheila said. She raised an eyebrow. “I supposed that, given your unwillingness to talk further, you would not want to hear it. Was I wrong?”

  Jane’s need to know got the better of her. “Well, yes,” she said reluctantly.

  “In 1983, your nephew, Andrew Obermann, was declared legally dead, at the request of you and your sister.” Sheila smiled. “Perhaps you will be glad to hear that he has been found and positively identified.”

  So Max Baumeister, Jane’s pick to play the part of her father, had managed to find those X rays. Good for him, I thought. There was probably some irony here, if I dug far enough for it.

  But Jane had heard Sheila’s statement in a different way. “Andrew has been found?” she cried shrilly. “But that’s not possible! He’s been dead all these years. I know, because I—” She stopped, biting her lip, realizing that she had been about to let the truth slip out. “Where . . . where was he found?” she asked at last, attempting to recover herself.

  Sheila was watching her coolly. “His skeleton was discovered in Mistletoe Springs Cave, south of town, by a team of anthropologists from CTSU. His remains have been identified by dental records supplied by Doctor Baumeister.” She paused. “I don’t suppose you have any information about your nephew’s disappearance that you would like to share with me?”

  Jane, finally flustered, seemed to have forgotten that she was not going to have any more conversation with Sheila. “Information? Of course not. We . . . we got a letter from California. That’s where we thought he’d gone.”

  Sheila said nothing.

  Jane shook her head, her lips pressed together. “In a . . . cave, you say? Perhaps that’s not so surprising. The boy was always one for exploring.” Her voice seemed to be trembling slightly. “I suppose he lost his way, or fell down a cliff. Or perhaps he was killed by falling rock.”

  “That’s what was thought at first,” Sheila agreed. “However, after a careful forensic examination, it was determined that he died of a gunshot wound.”

  “He was . . . shot?” Jane’s question was hardly audible.

  “In the head,” Sheila replied matter-of-factly. “From behind, execution-style. Both the cartridge casing and the bullet have been recovered.”

  That was fast work, I thought approvingly. Blackie must have sent somebody out to that cave right away, and they found the spent slug without difficulty.

  Jane opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Sheila took the opportunity to add, “It turns out that the bullet that killed your nephew was World War One ammunition, fired from a .45 caliber Colt pistol.”

  “A Colt?” The word seemed to have jerked out of her.

  “Yes. The same type of gun and ammunition that you used on Friday night, when you shot the . . . intruder.” There was a peculiar emphasis on the word. Sheila smiled dryly. “In fact, this coincidence seemed so striking that I have arranged to have the slugs tested to see if they might have been fired from the same gun. I expect to have the report first thing in the morning.”

  Jane’s face had paled and her hands were trembling. “It . . . sounds as if you are making an accusation.”

  “I’m not in a position to make accusations in this case,” Sheila said pleasantly. “Not yet, that is.” She looked up as the female officer came into the room. “Ah, here we are,” she said, sounding pleased. “It looks as if we’ve wrapped up the search. What do you have there, Officer Murray?”

  The officer silently handed her three plastic bags and a sheet of paper.

  “Let’s see,” Sheila said, taking the bags. “It appears that we are taking a large wooden-handled fork and a small wooden-handled knife. The two appear to be from the same matched set.” She looked at the third bag. “And what is this?”

  “Four muffins,” the officer said. “They seem to be home-baked. We found them in the refrigerator freezer.”

  “Ah, yes,” Sheila said, with satisfaction. “Muffins.” She scrawled her initials on the paper and handed it and the bag back to the officer. She stood. “Thank you for your time, Miss Obermann. It’s entirely likely that I will have additional questions for you when the results of various analyses are in. It would be helpful if you did not leave town without letting me know your plans.” She paused. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  “Of . . . course not,” Jane managed.

  Ruby and I didn’t say a word until we got into Big Mama and closed the doors.

  “But why didn’t Sheila arrest her?” Ruby burst out. “I mean, it’s as plain as the nose on your face, China! That woman is a killer!”

  “Because Howie is probably insisting on taking the ballistics and fingerprint evidence to the grand jury before he goes for an arrest warrant. And of course, now that they have those muffins, they’ll want to test them, too. Jane doesn’t drive, so she’s probably not a flight risk.” I grinned bleakly. “And there’s no one left for her to kill.”

  I was wrong about that.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Ezekial connected dem dry bones

  I hear de word o’ de Lord

  Disconnect dem bones, dem dry bones

  I hear de word o’ de Lord.

  Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk around

  Dem bones, dem bones gonna rise again

  Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones

  Now hear de word o’ de Lord.

  Thursday was another busy day, and by the time I got home that evening, bone-tired, I was glad to discover a note saying that McQuaid and Brian had gone to help with the school science fair. Howard Cosell, however, was there and covered with mud, from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail.

  “Howard!” I exclaimed, irritated. “You dirty dog! Have you been digging up rabbits again?”

  Howard regarded me with an guileless grin and a cheerful wag of his muddy tail.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter where you’ve been,” I said firmly. “It’s where you’re going that counts. Come on. You have to have a bath—and before supper, too. You can’t go in the house looking like that.”

  A bath! Howard yelped in alarm. Oh, bummer! He ran in the direction of his hideout under the porch, as fast as his short legs could carry him. But I’m faster, and I was determined. Bummer or not, Howard was in for it.

  Unless it’s cold, Howard has his baths outdoors, with the hose. I fetched his herbal doggie shampoo and a couple of towels. Howard is not naturally fond of bathing, but when he was confronted with the fact that he had no other choice, he reluctantly joined me, and we had our bath. Yes, both of us. It’s impossible to bathe a bassett without getting thoroughly wet yourself.

  “There now, don’t you smell good?” I asked cheerily, when I had finished toweling him off. Howard gave himself a mighty shake and ran to roll in the grass.

  I was moving the towels from t
he washing machine into the dryer when the phone rang. It was Sheila, calling on her cell phone from her car. She was on her way over.

  “Just for a few minutes,” she said. “I won’t stay.”

  “Yes, you will,” I replied firmly. “McQuaid and Brian have gone out, and I haven’t had supper yet. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten, either. This is an offer you can’t refuse.”

  By the time Sheila arrived, I’d thawed Ruby’s Better Bones Soup in the microwave, made a couple of sandwiches with leftover chicken, set out a bowl of chips, and poured iced tea. Everything was on the table when she knocked at the door.

  “You look tired,” I said, as she came in, wearing her uniform.

  “You look damp,” she retorted, taking off her cap.

  “Yeah.” I grinned. “Howard and I just had a bath. What’s your excuse?”

  She sat down abruptly. “Jane Obermann shot herself. Her housekeeper found her this afternoon.”

  “Oh, lord.” I sat down across from her. I started to say, “I’m sorry,” but didn’t quite get the words out.

  Was I really sorry? Jane was a malicious, manipulative woman who had earned the right to be called “evil.” I am not a death-penalty advocate, but she’d been a candidate for Huntsville’s Death Row, if I’d ever met one—although, given her age, a jury would have been more likely to lock her up for the rest of her life, rather than execute her. Facing a publically humiliating trial, the permanent loss of her way of life, and the bleak prospect of ending her days in prison, she had chosen a different route. Her choice. And maybe it was better this way, for her and for everybody else.

  “She used the Luger this time,” Sheila was saying, in a flat, hard voice. “In her bedroom. One shot, and it was over.”

  “Did she leave a confession?” I didn’t think it was likely. Jane was not the kind of woman who would find comfort in spilling facts and feelings onto paper. She would leave us guessing at the things we didn’t know such as whether she had actually pushed her mother off the roof, all those years ago.

  “No such luck,” Sheila said. “But we’d already assembled most of the evidence against her, and Howie was primed to take it to the grand jury early next week. The ballistics test we ran on the Colt is back. The three shots—the one that killed Andy and the two she pumped into Hank—were fired from the same gun.”

  “How about the autopsy report on Florence?”

  “She ingested oleander—the autopsy turned up traces of the cardiac glycoside oleandrin. And the muffins were full of bits of green oleander leaf. I guess Jane was saving them in case the first one or two didn’t do the job.” She paused. “If it hadn’t been for you, China, the poisoning would have gone undetected.”

  I got up and went to the stove. “Not me. It was Helen Berger who noticed the symptoms.” I ladled soup into two bowls and carried them to the table.

  “I’ve interviewed Helen.” Sheila picked up her spoon. “She said she probably wouldn’t have pursued the matter if you hadn’t insisted.” She tasted the soup. “Mmm, good, China. Did you make this just for me?”

  “I thawed it out just for you,” I said with a grin. “Ruby invented it for her mother, who’s been diagnosed with osteoporosis. It’s called Better Bones Soup. It’s got bok choy and kale and tofu—stuff to make your bones tougher.”

  Sheila gave a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, well, along with a thicker skin, I could use tougher bones. I have to stand up to the city council again later this week.” For the next couple of minutes, all you could hear was the clinking of spoons against soup bowls. Then Sheila added, “I haven’t forgotten that you were the one who dug up the clues to Andrew Obermann’s identity, China—and tied that killing to Gabe Dixon. If we’d had to go to trial, that photo you found would have been convincing evidence.”

  “But not conclusive.” I pushed my soup bowl away and began on my sandwich. “A good defense attorney would attack the connection to Gabe, and—”

  “The photograph had Gabe Dixon’s fingerprints on it. We matched the prints against his military record. He was a Korean vet.”

  “Okay. But the prosecution would still have to connect the sisters to their nephew’s murder. There’s no proof that they actually paid Gabe for killing Andy. They—”

  “Yes, there is.” Sheila finished her soup and picked up her chicken sandwich. “You won’t believe this, but they paid him by check.”

  I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Ten thousand dollars. Dated October 23, 1976, payable to Gabriel Dixon, signed by Jane Obermann and countersigned by Florence Obermann. The bank still has a record of the check. Apparently, the signatures of both sisters were required because the check was so large.” Her grin was mirthless. “What’s more, he used the check to open a savings account. I guess he was figuring to hang on to his ill-gotten gains against a rainy day.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of all the careless—” I stopped. Paying a hit man wasn’t something the sisters did every day, and accepting blood money was probably new to Gabe, too. None of them were thinking about the possibility that the money could be traced. And it wasn’t, either—for over a quarter of a century.

  “It turns out that Gabe grew up on the Swenson Ranch, where his father worked,” Sheila added. “He probably played in that cave when he was a boy.” She finished her sandwich and licked her fingers. “And speaking of carelessness, the utensils we took from the Obermann kitchen—they matched the knife that Hank is supposed to have carried into the house. You were right. It was a throwdown.”

  “Figures,” I said. “It probably didn’t occur to Jane that her story would be questioned.” I paused. “Fingerprints?”

  “Jane’s left thumb and forefinger, on the knife blade.” Sheila drained her iced tea. “Which, together with the unlocked gun cabinet and Juan Gomez’s testimony, pretty much cinches the matter. Howie said he’d go for premeditation.” She chuckled. “He would have hated it, though. Pillar of the community, contributor to his political campaign. Oh, how he would have hated it.”

  I eyed her. “You’ve talked to Juan?”

  “Justine Wyzinski brought him in this morning, and he gave us a statement. I didn’t inquire into the details, but I gather that Justine thinks she can help him get out from under his immigration problem. He’ll have to go back to Mexico for a while, but Justine says she thinks he can reap-ply for a student visa.”

  There was a long pause. Sheila leaned forward, and her mouth tightened. “I need to ask you something, China. It’s about Blackie and Alana Montoya, the forensic anthropologist at CTSU. Do you know her?”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously.

  “Are they . . . are they involved?”

  “Do you care?” I countered.

  She sighed. “I’ve been hearing things about her. That she drinks, for one thing. That she’s in some sort of trouble at the university, for another. And I even heard a rumor that she tried to kill herself.” Her expression was rueful. “I guess I’m feeling . . . well, protective. I don’t want Blackie to get hurt again, that’s all.”

  “If it’ll make you feel better, I understand that they aren’t involved.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Sheila said, sounding relieved.

  “And that she’s returning to Mexico.”

  “Returning—” Sheila stared at me. “You mean, she’s taking a leave from the university?”

  “I think she’s resigned.”

  Sheila was puzzled. “Resigned? But why? What’s going to happen to the new program?”

  I shrugged. “You’ll have to ask McQuaid about that. Maybe they’ll look for somebody to replace her. The program is a good idea. It would be a shame to let it die.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Well, I’m sorry she’s leaving, but I’m glad that Blackie isn’t . . . well, involved with her. He’s pretty raw right now.” She put out her hand and touched mine. “And thanks for the information.”

  “Maybe you can return the favor.” I regarded her seriously. “Tell me
about you and Colin Fowler—at least, that’s the name he’s using right now.”

  Sheila put both hands flat on the table and tensed her muscles, as if to rise. Her mouth was hard, her eyes remote. Her cop face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, China.”

  “Sure you do, Smart Cookie. I have no way of knowing what this is about, but I do know that there’s something between you and Colin. If it’s over and done with, that’s one thing. If it’s current, that’s another. Ruby is crazy about him.”

  “If I tell you it’s over and done with, will you believe me?”

  “Is it?”

  The silence stretched tight as a soundless guitar string. “Yes.”

  Her “yes” was unqualified, but the silence had been telling. “Then why all the secrecy?” I asked testily. “Why not just come right out and—”

  She stood up. “I’m sorry, China. I can tell you that any relationship I might have had with Colin Fowler is concluded. However, I’m not at liberty to tell you anything else.” Her voice was flat and hard. Her cop voice.

  “But what—”

  “I’m sorry, China. Lay off with the questions.” Her mouth softened. “You’re making me feel terrible.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, unsatisfied, troubled. There were too many unanswered questions here, too many hidden things, too many secrets. It sounded to me as if Ruby was headed for trouble, and there was nothing I could do to head it off.

  Sheila looked at her watch. “Now I really have to go. Thanks for the supper. Tell Ruby that my bones feel better already.” Her mouth fitted itself into a smile. “And thanks for connecting the dots on the Obermann case.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said glumly. “Anytime.”

  She went to the door, put on her cap, and gave me a flinty-eyed glance. In her uniform, she looked a whole lot tougher than Howie Dingbat Masterson—real Texas Tough. “Okay, China. Here’s the deal. I promise not to get between Colin and Ruby, if you promise to keep an eye on Blackie for me.”