The Bones Will Speak

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  I sank to a chair. “What’s all that going to cost?”

  He pulled a piece of cream linen paper from a drawer and scrawled on it with a Montblanc pen. Holding it out, he said, “This is just a rough estimate.”

  I stared at the total.

  Air escaped my lungs as if punched. So much! I took a deep breath and let it out. “You mentioned you liked watercolors.”

  “I do.”

  “Would you . . . would you consider bartering Winston’s treatment for a painting? I could do another Last Best Place.”

  Dr. Hawkins frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t own this practice, so I’d have to run it by the partners. They’re . . . pretty tight.”

  A hot flash bathed my face, and I looked down so Dr. Hawkins wouldn’t see my flushed cheeks. When the heat subsided, I looked at him. “What . . . what would happen if I . . . didn’t treat him?”

  “Mom!” Aynslee’s eyes were open in shock.

  “Well.” Dr. Hawkins stared first at my daughter, then me. “This is awkward. Without treatment, your dog will be crippled. You’ll at least need to pay for the treatment so far. We do accept credit cards.”

  “I . . . I don’t have a credit card.” Taking a deep breath, I picked up my tattered purse. “Go ahead and take care of him. I’ll find the money somehow. Call me when we can pick him up.”

  Pouring rain greeted us as we left the vet hospital, fat drops sliding down our backs. I swiftly removed the cat and left it by the side door. Once in the car, I stared out the window as the rain drummed on the roof, increasing to car-wash intensity.

  “Mom, do you think I could get a weekend job? Like at a vet hospital? All my classmates have jobs like that. And we need the money.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Now all I had to do was keep my daughter safe from a serial killer, find a remote house or barn to paint, sell the art to get enough money to pay the vet bill, and avoid marauding wolves.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DAVE SLUMPED IN HIS OFFICE CHAIR AND pinched between his eyes to ward off the headache he felt coming on. A stack of papers sat in front of him. Statements from all his officers. Gwen would go over their words to check for anyone lying about his cell phone. She’d look for unnecessary words, their choice of pronouns, changes in nouns, and incorrect verbs. She was spot-on in ferreting out the liars.

  Not that he expected any deception from his own officers. He still needed to hear from Jeannie, Wes, and a few of the Missoula officers.

  He glanced up as Ron entered.

  “Did you get the last of the statements?”

  “That female detective just looked at me. Here’s two more from the Missoula police. The artist guy—”

  “Wes.”

  “Yeah. He said he’d get to it when he had time.”

  “Keep after him. Who’s over at the hospital watching the girl?”

  “Missoula took over.”

  “Did you hear if Mattie was talking yet?”

  “No.” Ron strolled from the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Dave looked at the stack of papers again and clenched his teeth. He’d bet it was someone from Missoula. At least there would be a bright side. The bulk of the cost of the investigation would come from their budget, not his.

  Dave strolled to the bookshelves and pulled out a textbook on crime-scene techniques. The book his dad had written. Big Ned Moore, his hero and Gwen’s savior. At times like this, he missed talking to him.

  The book fell open to a highlighted passage:

  Evidence found at the scene is a building block to a case, but forms only one part of the investigation. The investigative process itself is ancient, found in the Bible, the book of Deuteronomy, in chapter 13:

  “Then shalt thou enquire, and make search, and ask diligently; and, behold, if it be truth, and the thing certain . . .”

  This is a process for investigating that trained detectives follow today.

  Ned used the Bible for everything, even crime scenes. I wish he’d marked a passage on how to stretch a law enforcement budget.

  Someone behind him softly cleared her throat.

  “Yes, Louise?” he asked without turning.

  His matronly secretary, Louise, waved a handful of papers. “More problems. Another dog’s dead, torn up by the wolves, along with a llama. The Stansbury brothers set out some wolf traps and caught a prize bluetick coonhound. Someone spray-painted wolves: shoot, shovel, and shut up on the side of the Fish, Wildlife, and Parks headquarters, and they’ve called three times about it.” She sniffed. “I think that particular agency needs to do a little target practice themselves on those wolves. They started this whole mess—”

  “What else do you have?”

  “Well.” She pulled out a stapled set of papers. “The Citizens for Nature—that’s what they call themselves, a bunch of tree-hugging, leftover hippies, if you ask me—signed a petition to prevent wolf hunting.”

  “Of course.”

  She held up another sheet of paper. “But here’s the piece of resistance.”

  “Don’t you mean pièce de résistance?”

  “That’s what I said. The city council approved this permission for a torchlight parade.”

  “Who’s sponsoring it?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “The American Christian Covenant Church.”

  Dave chewed his lip for a moment. “Is there some Christian holiday I’m missing?”

  “Not exactly. They want to have the parade on the nineteenth of this month.”

  “And what’s so special about the nineteenth?”

  “It’s the day before the twentieth.” She gave him a smug look.

  Getting information out of Louise was like catching a fish with a closed safety pin. “Louise—”

  “Okay, Mr. Grumpy Pants. April 20 was Hitler’s birthday. This parade is in memory of the torchlight parade Hitler had for himself in 1939. He made his birthday a national holiday.”

  “So this American Covenant—”

  “American Christian Covenant. Yep, one of those neo-Nazi-type churches. New group. Still advocating making the northwest into a white homeland. Reminds me of the troubles we had here when your dad was sheriff, with the Militia of Montana and the Freemen of Montana. Anyway, they stuck a bunch of fliers under car windows at the Safeway. I put a copy in your in-box.”

  Dave rubbed his eyes. Where was he supposed to come up with enough officers to cover an event like that? And the money to pay them?

  “Spokane PD returned your call on that serial killer,” Louise continued. “They said they haven’t caught him and if you have something for them, they’re interested. They faxed some case information over, and I’ve put it in your in-box as well. Oh, and speaking of Spokane—or at least Washington—they sent over a subpoena for you to serve on Gwen Marcey. Said they already told her it was coming.”

  “It must be for an old case.”

  “I looked it up. It was some composite drawings she did on a domestic terrorists bombing a few years ago.”

  “Give it to—”

  “I already did. Craig Harnisch called in sick.” She placed the papers on his desk. “Everyone’s got the flu. My daughter—”

  “Thank you, Louise.”

  “I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.” She turned to leave. “You’re probably bound up. Makes people grumpy.”

  “I’m not—”

  She shut the door.

  “—bound up.” He rubbed his chin. “And I hate tea.”

  The phone rang, and he grabbed the receiver. “Ravalli County Sheriff’s Department, Sheriff Dave Moore.”

  “Dave, it’s Jeannie.”

  He leaned back. “Yeah. How can I help you?”

  “It’s a zoo out here. Hey!” Her shout blasted his ear. “Get those people out of there!”

  He winced and yanked the phone away, then cautiously put it closer.

  “Half your town’s parked outside the entrance to the farm.” Her voice returned to a normal volume.
“The state crime lab people are having trouble getting through. I need you to send over some deputies to clear the road.”

  “Traffic control?”

  “Thanks. Hey, you there, get—”

  Silence, then the dial tone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE RAIN LET UP AS WE PULLED NEXT TO THE house.

  “That’s twice,” Aynslee said. “Twice in one day you said you’d think about something. That’s just another way of saying no, isn’t it? I never get to do anything anymore.” She barely waited for me to put the car in park before bolting to the kitchen door. It was locked, so she crossed her arms and glared at me until I could unlock it.

  Once inside, I started a pot of coffee to warm up.

  Loud music blared from Aynslee’s room.

  The rain tapered off to a fine mist. Taking my cup with me, I strolled to the studio and booted up my computer. The crunch of gravel in the driveway drew me to the window. My best friend, Beth, parked, slipped from her silver SUV, tugged two recyclable grocery bags and a lavender case from the backseat, then strolled to the door. I flung it open and gave her a quick hug. “Hey there, girl.”

  “Greetings.” Beth placed the bags on the counter, then draped her coat over a chair. She gathered her damp hair into a neat bun and anchored it with a clip. She looked like a young Katharine Hepburn in The African Queen, with her black turtleneck, tweed skirt, and brown leather boots. Her porcelain complexion bore only a hint of makeup.

  I self-consciously gave my short bangs a tug. “You look nice today.”

  “Thanks. You look . . . Uh, do you have any coffee?”

  I poured her a cup. The rich aroma of freshly brewed beans filled the room. I nodded toward the bags. “Isn’t today your plant day, or ladies group, or book club, or something? It looks like you’re planning on moving in.”

  “It’s not plant day; it’s Garden Club. Not ladies’ group, Big Sisters, and I’m not in a book club. You have an emergency. We have work to do. And I brought sustenance for a proper repast.”

  I should keep a dictionary handy when Beth comes around. “I can fix us lunch, if that’s what you mean.”

  Beth started unpacking the bags. “Pizza is not acceptable.”

  I opened my mouth to comment, but she held up an index finger. “Nor is that inedible concoction—”

  “Tuna noodle casserole?”

  She shuddered. “I brought spinach salad with chèvre and roasted shallots, chicken bisque soup, and a fresh baguette.”

  Aynslee entered. “Oh boy! Real food.” She snatched the bread, tore off a hunk, and stuffed it in her mouth. “Hi, Beth,” she mumbled around the food.

  Beth pushed her away. “Off with you, child.”

  Aynslee grinned and skipped from the room, humming.

  I glared at her back. Traitor.

  Reaching into her purse, Beth pulled out a laminated card with only a chapter name and verse printed on it. She presented it to me. “I spotted this at the Christian bookstore and thought of you. It has a magnet on the back.”

  “Thanks.” I attached the card to the refrigerator. Colossians 3:13. “What does the verse say?”

  Beth paused from rummaging in my cupboards. “Ah, you’re going to have to look it up. And you’d better do it soon. You’re teaching the women’s Bible study next week.”

  “Do you think I’m ready?”

  “Oh yeah. More than ready.”

  “So the topic and verse must be about everything happening for a reason—”

  “No. But the subject should motivate you.” She wagged a finger at me. “But speaking of motives—”

  “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to bring up the murders.”

  “It’s all over the news, and that’s why I’m here. Together we’ll solve the crime. So tell me, what’s the modus operandi of the killer?”

  Aynslee entered the kitchen again. “Movie oper—?”

  “You have movies on the brain,” I said. “Beth was asking about modus operandi. Method of operation. Discovering clues that can lead to the thinking of the killer.”

  “Oh.” Aynslee snuck another piece of bread. “So when’s lunch?”

  “Soon,” Beth said. “You’ll ruin your appetite.”

  “Nope. I’m always hungry.” Aynslee made a show of placing the loaf in a wicker basket before grabbing another slice and racing from the room.

  “Maybe you need another hobby besides me,” I said.

  Beth paused in her food preparation. “You’re not my hobby. Your work makes a real difference.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, well.”

  Beth pointed a pepper mill at me. “I sell geraniums to raise money for young women to go to college. I raise dahlias to bring some beauty into the world. Nothing I do challenges my mind, or is as . . . important as helping you. And I do help you, don’t I?”

  “Yes, your research is stellar. But what about your former job? Don’t they ever call you?”

  “Yes, but I left Microsoft with plenty of their stock options that I can use to indulge in my passions. I only do research for you now. And you’re changing the subject. We were talking about the killer’s mind.”

  “He’s a sociopath.”

  “What’s that?” Aynslee asked as she reentered the room.

  “I don’t know a formal definition off the top of my head. Someone who knows he’s doing wrong, but doesn’t care. No conscience.”

  Beth blinked at me, then opened the cupboard. A set of brightly colored, plastic bowls crashed to the floor. “Well. I found them.” Picking up the set, she retrieved the largest and returned the rest to the shelf. “By the way, don’t plan on going anywhere quickly. Traffic was horrible in front of the body farm.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “Horrible?”

  “No. Body farm.”

  “That’s the name given by the press to the McCandless property,” Beth said. “This morning on television I saw two deputies transferring Winston from an old building to a patrol car. I tried calling, but you didn’t answer. Was he injured?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Dislocated hip, but he’ll be fine.”

  “The media anointed your dog a hero, said he saved a girl’s life. They mentioned your name as well, so ergo, here I am.”

  “Huh?”

  Beth’s face flushed with excitement. “Not just to bring you food and inspiration. I’m your confederate, collaborator, aide. Watson to your Sherlock, Koko and Yum Yum to your Qwilleran—”

  “Those are cats.”

  “How about Robin to your Batman?”

  “You’re not thinking of wearing spandex.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

  “No. Together we can decipher the clues—”

  “Ah, I get it. Just one problem. Missoula police is running the case.”

  “Then you’ll just have to work for them. Bigger city—”

  “And they have their own forensic artist. Wes Bailor.”

  “The abecedarian.” She opened a series of matching Rubbermaid food storage containers and emptied the contents into the bowl. “Good. I’ve wanted to use that word for a week.”

  “Uh, I thought you already had a word for the week.”

  “It’s a carryover. Waaait a minute.” She paused, then waved a red plastic lid. “Isn’t he the artist that painted six fingers on a portrait?”

  My giggle came out a snort. “It wasn’t six fingers. It was a phthalo-blue nose. Maybe he was making an artistic statement.”

  “Ha. If he was such an illustrious artist, what’s he doing in Copper Creek, Montana?”

  Stealing my job? “That’s a really good question. I heard he was an established artist in Seattle or San Francisco or someplace like that.” I frowned at her. “Anyway, what it comes down to is I don’t need a sidekick if I don’t have anything to do.”

  Beth’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

  I cleaned off the kitchen table, shuffling quickly through the mail that Aynslee had stacked earlier. Three b
ills, a supermarket flier, and a pamphlet, The Brüder Schweigen Declaration of War. I reached over to toss it into the garbage, but Beth stopped me. “Someone put one of these under my windshield wiper at the store.”

  Before I could move, someone knocked at the front door. Beth strolled across the kitchen and peeked out the window. “It’s a police car. Maybe they’ve changed their minds about you working on the case.” She raced down the hall to the living room and opened the door.

  “Oh, sorry, wrong house.” Dre, the tattooed deputy, turned to leave, then spotted me. “Oh, good. Dave sent me over with—” His eyes widened at something. I turned. Aynslee was standing behind me.

  “With?” I prompted.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’d better come in. We’re letting in all the mosquitoes.” I opened the door farther. The man entered, gaze still riveted on Aynslee.

  I glanced back and forth between the man and Aynslee. My stomach tightened. “Dre, this is my daughter, Aynslee, and my friend, Beth Noble.”

  “Ma’am.” Dre stared at Aynslee. “Wow. She looks plumb close to the girl you found.” He finally looked at me. “Here are the statements so far. And you got a subpoena.”

  I reached for them. “Thanks.”

  “So, you got one of those too.” He nodded at the pamphlet in my other hand.

  “Someone put it under my windshield wiper at the grocery store,” Beth said.

  “They’re all over town. Lots of complaints. And they’re planning a torchlight parade.”

  “Parade?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Look on the back of the pamphlet. It’s a church . . . well, they call themselves a church. Neo-Nazi kind of stuff. The parade is the night before Hitler’s birthday.”

  “Just what Copper Creek needs. We can become the capitol of the Fourth Reich,” Beth said.

  He stared at Aynslee one last time. “Amazing.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, by the way, I smell something dead out here.”

  “A dead cat. I found it this morning.”

  He shook his head and left.

  I handed the papers to Aynslee. “Tape the subpoena to the fridge, then take the statements and put them on my desk in the studio.”