Beastly Bones

by William Ritter

  I suppressed a giggle. Jackaby’s cap looked a bit like a child’s wobbly sketch of a hat—the sort of sketch you might accidentally mistake for a lumpy elephant or perhaps a floret of broccoli, if you weren’t holding it the right way up. At best, it was yarn trying very hard to be a hat.

  “What?” Jackaby scowled. “Honestly, woman, this hat is a priceless rarity! It was knit from—”

  “Not really the time for that, sir,” I said. “Please, ma’am, we’re in the middle of an investigation. I’m afraid that’s why my employer—erm—inadvertently crossed your property line. He’s looking for something unusual.”

  Mrs. Pendleton leaned toward me. “Has your employer looked in a mirror?” she said.

  “There has been some criminal activity in the area,” Charlie said, cutting in before Jackaby could object. “Thefts of valuable property and some suspicious persons lurking about. We are only trying to protect the valley, Mrs. Pendleton—including you and your husband.”

  “I look out for Abe, and Abe looks out for me.” Mrs. Pendleton patted the butt of her rifle. “And we look out for our own. I appreciate your concern, but I think we’ll be all right. You can have a peek out back if it makes you happy. Just don’t touch anything.”

  Jackaby nodded eagerly. “Won’t be a moment, madam. Just looking for residual traces of paranormal malignance, something indicative of heinous moral grotesquery.”

  “You’re weird. Watch out for duck poop.”

  “I always do!”

  Mrs. Pendleton turned her attention to me as Jackaby hurried around the corner, Toby bounding after him. “So, what’d they take?”

  “A bone,” I said. “A very old bone.”

  “What on earth would anyone want a bone for?” she asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “Maybe better, in fact. Is there anything people do with bones out here in the valley? Some local custom or something?”

  “Nope,” she said with a shrug. “If they’re big enough, we might toss them to the dogs to gnaw on, same as anyone. Keeps Toby out from underfoot for a while.”

  I nodded. “Thanks anyway.”

  Jackaby conducted his inspection quickly, looking unimpressed as he rejoined us. We thanked Mrs. Pendleton kindly and made our way back to the road.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “The farmstead was as disappointing as that woman’s taste in fashion. My hat was the most interesting thing in the place.”

  The next farm yielded nothing more of consequence, nor the next, nor the next after that. We covered seven farms and several miles of Gad’s Valley before we finally abandoned our efforts. The most interesting abnormalities we uncovered were a chicken that had flown the coop and a cow that had eaten a neighbor’s flower garden.

  “This may be the most exceptionally unexceptional countryside in the history of countrysides,” Jackaby grumbled. “What about smells?”

  “Sir?” I asked.

  “Smells. Charlie’s as good a bloodhound as any police force could hope for. Have you picked up a scent?”

  Charlie looked at me and then back at Jackaby. “I’m afraid I can’t, not without . . . changing.”

  “Out of the question,” I said. “We’ll find our clues with good old-fashioned, normal detective work.”

  “Ugh.” Jackaby tossed back his head. “That sounds awful.”

  We plodded steadily back toward Brisbee’s. After a long morning of disappointments, I entertained the quiet fancy that Professor Lamb might have become amenable in our absence. It was almost within the realm of the imagination, if only level heads prevailed. “What do you suppose are the chances,” I mused aloud, “that tempers have died down and everyone’s gotten along since we’ve been gone?”

  Charlie shook his head bleakly as we came around the bend. From fifty yards away I could see Brisbee and Lamb having it out on the porch, Lamb’s hands gesturing angrily as he spoke and punctuating exclamations I could not quite discern. Lumbering toward them was a heavy figure who looked at first glance like an impossibly broad giant, and then at second glance like a man wearing a coat made out of smaller men. Finally I realized I was witnessing Hank Hudson loping across the farmstead with Lamb’s lackeys pulling him back, one on either arm. Their combined efforts appeared to have a minimal effect on the sturdy trapper.

  “Slim,” said Jackaby. “I would suppose the chances are slim.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charlie rushed up the road ahead of us to break up the scuffle, and Lamb’s employees dropped away as he approached. Lamb was growling about boundaries and preservation, adding several foul phrases in conjunction with the name Owen Horner. Brisbee leaned against the railing, looking unimpressed as Lamb rattled on. Hudson’s cart had been parked beside the hitching post, and tethered side by side, the trapper’s brawny steeds made Charlie’s Maryanne look tiny.

  “Will somebody please tell me what’s going on here?” Charlie demanded. Five voices immediately erupted into fervent explanations, and Charlie had to wave them silent. “One at a time! One at a time. Mr. Hudson, if you please?”

  “Well, let’s see. These two clowns are angry ’cause I tried to take a look at them big bones up on the hill without asking their permission. Didn’t know I needed to buy a dang ticket. I guess I missed my chance for the free show yesterday. That Lamb fella’s mad ’cause apparently he fuddled the wording on some contract of his, and Brisbee found a loophole. Didn’t catch all the details, but from what I gather, Lamb’s got rights ta keep the bones hidden away, but he still needs Brisbee’s permission if he wants ta pack ’em up and ship ’em off to his fancy university. Brisbee’s makin’ him keep ’em here, instead. Lamb ain’t thrilled, but he can’t do much about it without breaking his end of the deal and losing his rights to the dig. That’s about the long and short of it. Oh—I get the feeling there’s something else Brisbee’s happy about, too. He said he was planning on showin’ that gal from the Chronicle something—but he wouldn’t say what. Didn’t get much time ta ask before Chuckles here came down to start yelling at him.”

  “Aside from the editorializing, would you say that’s accurate?” Charlie turned to Professor Lamb.

  “It’s not the half of it,” Lamb spat.

  Charlie sighed. “Please, Professor—tell me what you are upset about.”

  “Horner! Horner is obviously up to something! And Mr. Brisbee has been allowing, if not abetting, his mischief! This sudden decision to argue semantics over our contract, which is needlessly delaying my research, is clearly a ploy manufactured by Horner to distract me! Brisbee knows as well as I do that Horner is up to no good, and I do not appreciate his cavalier attitude about it!”

  Brisbee tossed up his hands. “You don’t like it when he’s here; you don’t like it when he’s gone. I’m not worried about Horner, and to be honest, I’m not worried about the bones you say he stole. I’m sure they’ll turn up.” He brushed Lamb aside and stepped off the porch. “This whole thing’s just a big tantrum, Officer. Professor Lamb wants to take his toys and go home, and he’s just mad that he can’t. He’ll get over it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. All the same, where is Mr. Horner?”

  “He should be back any minute now. That reporter sent a telegram that she’d be in Gadston on the three o’clock, and Mr. Horner volunteered to pick her up. He said he had some things to do in town, anyway.”

  “And you didn’t find that the least bit suspicious?” mumbled Lamb moodily from behind him.

  Brisbee ignored him and continued. “She won’t be disappointed, either. I found something that’s sure to make for a good story for the Chronicle, whether or not this curmudgeon opens up the dig site.”

  Jackaby raised his eyebrows. “Hudson mentioned something about that. I don’t suppose you care to elucidate?”

  “Well . . . I was going to hold off until they got back—but one of the kids has gone missing.”

  “A child has gone missing?” Jackaby said. “When?”
/>
  “No, no—a kid,” said Brisbee. “One of my baby goats.”

  Jackaby had already turned to walk away, mumbling. “This valley and its infernally insignificant . . .”

  “That isn’t the good part,” Brisbee continued. “I just hope Miss Fuller brings her camera this time, because the tracks around the goat pen are something to see. We were just talking about how maybe some scary creature was involved, and there they are.”

  Jackaby turned back. All eyes were on Brisbee. Hudson broke the silence. “Tracks?”

  “That’s right.” The farmer rocked back and forth on his heels. “Footprints. Not from my livestock or from some old boot, either—they’re huge with sharp claws.”

  Not one of us was braced for the farmer’s announcement. I might have suspected Charlie of breaking his promise, but he looked as stunned as the rest of us.

  “This is ludicrous,” said Lamb. “Although—if there is a wild animal on the loose, then that is all the more reason to relocate to my secure facility at Glanville University.”

  “Show me,” said Hudson.

  Jackaby did not wait to be escorted, stepping between Lamb and Brisbee and hurrying around the house toward the barn. Hudson was on his heels, and Brisbee kept up. I began to follow but paused as I noticed that Lamb was not moving. His eyes were on the road. I turned and spied a cart bumping toward us in a little cloud of dust. Horner was returning with Brisbee’s reporter.

  “Mr. Jackaby,” I called, but he had already trotted out of sight around the building, Hudson and Brisbee close behind. I caught Charlie’s arm before he could dash away after them. “I don’t think Professor Lamb should be the only one here to welcome Mr. Horner back, do you?” I said. Charlie shook his head, watching the approaching carriage.

  Lewis Lamb took a few steps toward the foothills and bellowed, “August! August Murphy. Get down here! Now!” A mop of red hair poked out of the canvas enclosure. Murphy hurried down the rolling hills and was out of breath and panting when he reached his employer. “Well,” Lamb told him, “you know what to do.”

  The carriage, a weathered two-seater pulled by one of Brisbee’s workhorses, ambled up to the farm. Horner was at the reins with a woman in a stylish striped coat beside him. Before the wheels stopped rolling, Murphy leapt up onto the side of the car and began to grapple with Horner. Horner let out a startled yelp, apparently as surprised to find himself in the scuffle as we were to witness it.

  Charlie ran forward to break up the commotion, but Murphy had already leapt back to the ground. He brandished a slip of paper over his head, marching proudly back toward Lamb. Horner swung himself out of the cart and stalked after him, his usual confident swagger reduced to weary frustration.

  “Here it is, Mr. Lamb!” Murphy called. “It was in his waistcoat, right where you said it would be!”

  Horner snatched the paper back out of his hands from behind, and the man spun around, trying to grab it back. “Enough!” Charlie barked, pulling the men apart. “Let’s have it, Mr. Horner,” he said with a sigh.

  Horner passed the slip to Charlie reluctantly.

  “Would either of you care to explain?” the policeman asked.

  “It’s a receipt from the post office,” the redheaded man declared triumphantly. He looked smug and out of breath.

  “I can see that.” Charlie looked at the paper, turning it over.

  “Does Lamb own the postal service now, too?” Horner glared at Murphy, who retreated a little nervously. “I can’t even send a letter without your permission?”

  “But you didn’t send a letter, did you?” said Lamb coldly from behind Charlie. “You sent a package, and you sent it to yourself. Am I wrong, Inspector?”

  Charlie looked up. “The receipt confirms it.”

  “Well of course it does!” Horner exclaimed. “I’m not here on holiday. I’ve been doing legitimate, hard work. Not that it is any of Lamb’s business, but I was shipping off my collected notes and rubbings before his thugs could steal those away from me, too. That crook has some nerve accusing me of being a thief!”

  “No one is calling you a thief, Mr. Horner,” said Charlie.

  “I most certainly am!” Lamb declared. “Even if all you sent were rubbings and notes—which I doubt—that would be confession enough! The discoveries at that site, both physical and intellectual, are my property, and not to be disseminated. My contract with Mr. Brisbee is very clear on that point.”

  “This is what I’ve been telling you about,” Horner said to the reporter, who was watching the dispute with the detached interest one might reserve for an unexceptional tennis match.

  “Officer, arrest that reprobate!” Lamb roared. Charlie took a deep breath.

  “You crazy old man,” Horner countered. “I had the whole dinosaur to myself before you plowed in here! Why would I have taken a single tooth?”

  “We both know that this is about more than a tooth! I want those fossils you pilfered today, before you conveniently ran off to Gadston, and I want you locked up in a cell where you belong!”

  “He’s stolen something new from the dig site?” Charlie asked.

  Horner threw up his arms in exasperation. “I haven’t stolen anything!”

  I turned to Lamb. “If you would just allow us to visit the dig site . . .”

  “Young woman,” he said, cutting me off, “I don’t care who your father is. You’re not welcome on that dig site, and neither are any of your friends—so you really have no reason to keep hanging around.”

  The woman in the striped coat stepped out of the carriage at last. “It’s Lewis Lamb, isn’t it?” she asked, not waiting for a reply. “Nellie Fuller with the Chronicle. Enchanté. May I be the first to say that fetching dust-gray suit really brings out the color of your personality. Now then, I’m a bit of a detail girl, so please humor me. What specifically are you accusing Mr. Horner of stealing?”

  Lamb scowled. “I don’t need to explain myself to you. If Horner wants to use paleontology to impress yet another vapid female in a pretty dress, then he can take you and your come-hither ringlets and go find his own dig site. He knows what he stole from mine.”

  “Why, Mr. Lamb, how kind of you to notice.” Miss Fuller put a hand to the jet-black curls peeking out beneath her hat. “I was hoping for a come-hither look this morning. Of course, if my hair is preventing you from carrying out your work, I would be happy to stuff it up under my hat. Then again, if your opinions on women prevent me from carrying out my work, then I would be more than happy to suggest a place for you to stuff them.” She gave the professor a saccharine smile and a polite nod.

  Owen Horner looked at Nellie Fuller as if he might be in love. Lewis Lamb glowered. “How dare you!” he sputtered. “I am an institution in the scientific community . . .” His dark eyes bounced from person to person until they settled on Charlie. “Well? I have important work to do on that site. Are you going to do your job, or just let this criminal wander about freely while his associates harass me?”

  “I would love to help you, Professor,” Charlie said, “but if you want to formally accuse Mr. Horner, then you must accept that the site of the excavation is also a crime scene.”

  “Well of course it’s a crime scene!”

  Charlie continued evenly. “Which would mean that it is within the jurisdiction of the local police and our consulting detectives to investigate.” I perked up.

  The professor breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck angrily. “Fine.”

  I could feel the smile spreading across my face. It had been a long day of false starts, but the evening was suddenly jumping forward. The unusual dinosaur, the stolen fossils, the unsolved murders, even the ominous pale man—they were all tied to those rocky foothills like frayed threads from the same cord. There were secrets buried behind that canvas wall, and I was resolved to unearth them.

  Chapter Twenty

  Look but do not touch,” Lamb repeated for a third time as Charlie and I followed him
to the entrance in the canvas. “And let me remind you that everything you observe is completely and utterly confidential.”

  “Your secrets are safe with us, Professor,” Charlie assured him.

  Lamb’s eye narrowed, but he pulled back the canvas flap and we stepped inside. The enclosure was not a tent, but more of a wide privacy fence. Each wall angled inward toward the top, which provided a bit more shade, but left the top wide-open for sunlight. The tools had been laid out neatly, and here and there smaller drop cloths and tarpaulins had been draped over sections of the skeleton. The widest of these covered a broad stretch of earth toward the creature’s back. Whether these were in place to protect the fossils from the elements or because of Lamb’s paranoia about privacy, I could only guess. Lamb and his crew had made considerable progress. The contours of the head were fully visible now, and although the midsection had been partially shrouded under the tarpaulin, it was clear that Lamb’s team had uncovered the full curve of the gigantic beast’s spine.

  Mr. Bradley, the slender dark-skinned man, was working his way down the creature’s neck with a brush and fine chisel. He smiled at our approach until he caught Lamb’s glare, and then hastily returned to his work.

  “You say you’re Daniel Rook’s daughter?” Lamb asked as he walked us down the length of the creature.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Well, let’s see if you actually picked up anything useful from your father’s not entirely negligible career. To what bones do the tibia and fibula attach?”

  If he had asked me to thread a needle or play the harpsichord, I might have balked, but I had assembled model skeletons as a child the way most little girls assembled jigsaw puzzles. “To the femur at one end—that’s the knee joint—and to the tarsals on the other—the ankle.”

  Mr. Bradley kept his head down while Lamb was looking, but he snuck me a supportive nod as we passed. I wondered how someone so pleasant had come to work for a walking scowl like Lewis Lamb. “And what is after the ankle?” my inquisitor continued drily.