Murder Bone by Bone

by Lora Roberts

  “It’s coming from outside,” Melanie said. It was pretty loud. I ran to shut the doors into the kids’ rooms, to keep it from waking them. Claudia and Melanie went to look out the window in the front door, and I joined them there.

  “It’s the Public Works people,” Melanie said indignantly. “I’m going to complain about this. They can’t operate heavy machinery at this time of night. It’s against the noise ordinance.”

  She marched over to her purse, pulled out a cell phone and a little black calculator-sized object, a personal digital assistant, then perched on the couch to punch its keyboard. Claudia kept looking out the window, her brows drawn together in thought.

  “They do sometimes move the equipment around at night, to avoid heavy traffic,” she said. “but that’s not what this guy’s doing.”

  “What do you mean?” I craned to see better out of the front door window. The machine was one of the dinosaurlike backhoes, with a fanged head on a long neck which could be pointed down for chomping through asphalt. This particular backhoe carried its head high, nodding like an agreeable monster in time with its body’s clanking pace. Having brought it down the middle of the street, the driver was putting it through its paces right in front of Bridget’s house, backing and turning, beep-beep-beeping, until its head was aimed at the chain-link fence that surrounded the scene of the crime.

  “It looks like he’s going to drive that thing right through Drake’s chain-link fence,” Claudia said. “Public Works wouldn’t do that. Maybe this is someone stealing their equipment.”

  “For a prank, you mean?” I shielded my eyes with my hand to see better out of the window. The backhoe pivoted, backed, pivoted again. Its scrawny neck began to move, the toothy scoop wobbling. “Drake will be furious if that’s disturbed.”

  “Call him,” Claudia urged. “I’m going to see if I can stop this.”

  “Claudia—” She was out the door, stomping down the steps, at her most majestic.

  Melanie was still wrestling with her cell phone on the couch. I ran into the kitchen to dial Drake’s number. “Come right away. Bring Bruno, something weird is happening,” I gasped, then hung up and raced outside.

  Claudia had positioned herself in front of the chain-link fence. She had her mouth open, trying to yell up to the backhoe’s cab over the engine racket. I couldn’t hear her. The driver probably couldn’t, either.

  She was an idiot. A brave idiot, true. And I was a coward. I dithered on the porch, wondering whether to join her in front of the chain-link fence or wait around to pick up the pieces.

  The backhoe’s engine rumbled down to a low growl.

  “That’s better,” Claudia said graciously at the top of her lungs. “You know, the children are trying to sleep. Why don’t you come back tomorrow for your work?”

  I ran down the front steps, pausing on the walk. “Claudia, move. The police are coming.”

  “There’s no danger, Liz. It’s the Public Works—I can see the emblem on the man’s shirt.” Shielding her eyes with one hand, she peered into the gloom of the backhoe’s cab. “Can’t this work wait until tomorrow?”

  As if in answer, the engine revved, the scoop reared. In the backhoe’s weak headlights, Claudia’s face was white. She stood, frozen, against the metal links.

  From across the street, a man screamed, “No!” and ran forward. For a nanosecond, I thought it might be Drake. Shock held me powerless. Then he ran through the streetlight before swinging up into the backhoe’s cab. It was Stewart.

  I moved then. The scoop swung at the end of its long neck in choppy, erratic arcs. I ducked low to get to Claudia and grabbed her hand. “Come on. Get out of the way!”

  Someone else came around the chain-link fence from Claudia’s other side and gave her a push. I assumed it was Melanie, but when I looked over my shoulder, I saw Nelson’s round, blank face. He held Claudia’s other arm, but he was looking at that wildly swinging scoop. Claudia watched it, too, like one mesmerized.

  Between Nelson and me, we got her going, and then she made two great strides and gained the safety of Bridget’s front walk.

  “What the hell were you doing?” I shook her arm, then hugged her. “You could have been killed.”

  “It worked in Tiananmen Square,” Claudia muttered.

  “Man,” said Nelson, his thick lenses glittering in the streetlight. “She was nearly toast. Who’s driving that thing?”

  “That’s the question.” I would find out later why Nelson was there. Just then the major problem seemed to be the power struggle going on in the cab of the backhoe. The cab was unlit. We could see only movement, shadows. Suddenly the engine shut down. In the relative quiet, we heard an argument.

  “This isn’t the way.” Stewart’s voice, loud and urgent. The reply was inaudible.

  Bruno’s car squealed to a stop, just out of range of the backhoe. Headlights illuminated the scene. The car doors flew open. Keeping low, Drake bulleted out of the passenger seat. He must have seen us spectators, grouped on the lawn, gawking at the entertainment. But he kept his attention, and his gun, trained on the backhoe.

  “Don’t shoot,” Stewart called. “This is all a mistake.”

  Bruno activated a searchlight on his car, and the interior of the backhoe sprang into light: white shapes thickly edged with black shadows. The two men in the cab threw their hands up to protect their eyes against the blinding light. Then the bigger of the two switched on the engine again, and the backhoe began to move.

  “It’s Stewart,” I told Claudia. “The Public Works guy.” Then I recognized the other man. “And his friend, Doug.”

  Claudia had recovered from her funk. She was scanning the scene coolly. “He appears to have lost control of Doug.”

  Stewart pulled on Doug’s arm, trying to get to the controls. Doug’s eyes were screwed up against the light. He backed and turned the backhoe deliberately, until it faced Bruno’s car.

  And Paul Drake, standing in front of it. Just as Claudia had.

  Only Drake had a gun.

  Stewart lunged at Doug, pushing him out of the driver’s seat, and once more the backhoe clanked into quiet. In the silence, Barker’s frenzied yelping sounded clearly. I hoped Melanie was making sure the kids were safe. Like Claudia and Nelson, I was immobilized by the sheer drama of the encounter.

  Doug didn’t try to start the engine again. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his Public Works shirt and pulled out a gun of his own.

  He didn’t aim it at Drake. He pointed it at Stewart.

  I could hear Drake’s indrawn breath, see the way his face hardened. He sharpened his stance, looking for a clear shot at Doug. Drake might have to kill Doug to keep him from hurting Stewart. Drake, too, could be killed. Until that moment, I hadn’t actively processed those realities.

  Stewart was in front of Doug, preventing a clear shot. Drake circled around. He looked terribly exposed. Crouching behind the car door, Bruno also had a gun out, but his attention was split between the scene in front of him and the cell phone he spoke into in a low, urgent voice. It wasn’t clear that Drake could incapacitate Doug before Doug could shoot Stewart.

  I began to shake.

  Claudia put her arm around me. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured. Nelson, mouth open, watched as if it were a 3-D action movie on the big screen.

  Barker yelped again, and I spared some of my worry for the children. Melanie would keep them safe in my absence. And if I went into the house now, it might draw Doug’s attention to the vulnerability of its occupants. There was no way I could risk Bridget’s children becoming involved.

  Stewart’s face was white in the spotlight’s glare, but he seemed calm, talking to his friend, directing all his concentration at Doug.

  Drake moved a little farther over and found a clear shot. I wondered if he could just shoot the gun out of Doug’s hand, as they did in old Westerns. He waited.

  Stewart said something more—we couldn’t hear it. Doug wavered, lowering the gun, and Stewart r
eached toward it. Doug’s mouth twisted. The harsh light threw the indecision-sculpted planes of his face into sharp relief.

  Then Doug raised the gun again. Swiftly, without pause, he put the barrel against his own head and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 26

  It was over before we could take it in. One minute, Doug was spotlighted in the backhoe’s cab like an old-time vaudeville performer. The next moment, he’d slumped forward. Stewart sat beside him still, his face frozen in horror. The front of his shirt glistened where bits of Doug’s brain and blood had ended up.

  Drake holstered his gun, ran to the backhoe, followed by Bruno. Stewart leaned over the side of the cab. We could hear him retching.

  “My God,” Claudia breathed. “My God, my God.”

  I shut my eyes tight, just ten seconds too late. The picture on the insides of my eyelids wouldn’t go away.

  “Liz,” Claudia said sharply. “Help me with Nelson. He’s going to faint.”

  Nelson swayed, his eyes rolling back in his head. We managed to break his fall, anyway. Between us we dragged him over to the front steps of the house. Claudia yanked him into a sitting position, propped up his knees, and shoved his head between them, as if he were a recalcitrant Raggedy Andy.

  “I’m going to make sure the kids are all right.” I took one last look at the backhoe. Drake had climbed on the big tires to reach into the cab. Stewart’s heaving sounded clearly through the night.

  When I opened the front door, Melanie stood just inside, her sickened gaze fixed on the backhoe. She was swallowing rapidly. “What—did he—really—?”

  “Yes, he really did.” I brushed past her and was almost knocked down by Barker, who whined and wagged so hard there seemed to be two of him. “Are the kids okay?”

  “Moira and Mick never woke up. Corky did, but I told him it was some roadwork. Then I heard the shot and came out here—”

  “Thanks, Melanie. Thanks for keeping them inside.” I stood in the doorway of the boys’ bedroom. Corky said something in a sleepy voice, so I pulled the covers up around his shoulders, and he sighed and went back to sleep. Sam in the bottom bunk and Mick in the trundle bed both slept on, undisturbed. From Moira’s room came the light whisper of her even breathing.

  I dropped into a chair in the living room, knowing I should go back outside to try and help, but not able to marshal my quivering knees to the task.

  “What happened?” Melanie came to sit across from me. “I called the twenty-four hour Public Works line, and when I said where the disturbance was, the man actually hung up on me!”

  “They might have heard the nine one one calls come in.” I gave her a brief sketch of the action, finishing with Doug’s blowing out his brains.

  She chewed her lip. “So he’s the one who did it? Put that body under the sidewalk and hit Richard?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “But why?”

  “Who knows?” I leaned my head back in the chair, and felt that I never wanted to get up. “Guess I should make some coffee or something. They might need a place to put things together.”

  “Right.” Melanie brightened. “I’ll make the coffee. You tell Drake that the kitchen’s at his disposal. After all, if all that other racket couldn’t wake the kids, nothing could.”

  It was tough to make myself go back out there. The street was alive with flashing lights and vehicles. Inching past Claudia and Nelson, who sat on the front steps like spectators at a sports event, I averted my eyes from the swarm of activity around the backhoe.

  “Are the children okay? Did they wake up?” Claudia pulled on my T-shirt.

  “No, they’re fine. What’s been happening here?”

  Claudia nodded toward the street. “They’re putting the body in the ambulance.” We watched silently while the shrouded stretcher slid through the opened doors.

  Nelson didn’t look good, especially in the flashing lights, which washed his pale face with pulsing reds and blues. “I never saw anyone die before.” His voice cracked.

  “What were you doing here, anyway?” Despite my impatience to find Drake, to stand by him and know that he was alive, his usual grumpy self, I was consumed with curiosity over Nelson’s role.

  “I wasn’t doing anything.” Nelson shrank away a little. “Just—watching.”

  “Nelson thought something fishy was going on with Dr. Blakely,” Claudia explained. She has a soft spot for young academics, even unprepossessing ones. “He heard what Richard said to Melanie—and I must say,” she interrupted herself in a voice thick with grievance— ”that it was very small of you not to tell me about that, Liz.”

  Nelson rushed into speech, saving me from having to answer. “I thought Dr. Blakely might have done it—might have hit Dr. Grolen. Because everyone knows she’s climbing the ladder. She’s grubbing for tenure already, and I heard a couple of the faculty complain that she was barging in on committees, trying to get a power base.”

  It didn’t sound like that cute young thing I’d seen, but I recalled how she’d played up to Richard, just as she’d flirted with Drake. Nelson, at least, seemed immune to her charms; of course, she never used them on him.

  “Anyway, Nelson thought she might be after Old Mackie, and he tracked him down to warn him and see if he could find out what the old man saw.” Claudia wrested the narrative away from Nelson with an ease born of much practice. “He’s been hanging around here, hoping to see her incriminate herself in some way.”

  “It’s not that I hate her or anything,” Nelson assured me earnestly. “I just thought it would be cool to find out whatever she was up to and expose her. That’s all.”

  “You’ll probably need to make a statement.” I moved away. I’d spotted Drake and Bruno, squatting at the edge of the street, talking to someone who sat on the curb facing them.

  “I’ll make a statement, too,” Claudia called after me.

  She’d recovered quickly from the carnage. I didn’t feel so bouncy. I could still see that picture on the inside of my eyelids, the one with all the red in it.

  Drake and Bruno were talking to Stewart, but Drake came over when he saw me hovering at the sidewalk. He held out his arms, and I walked into them.

  “You shouldn’t have been out here,” he scolded, hugging me warmly. “Did you see—”

  “Yes.” I felt his chest beneath my cheek, the strength of his stocky body within the circle of my arms. “You were taking far too many risks, Drake.”

  “Wait a minute. That’s my line.” His arms tightened around me. “It’s my job, Liz. Not yours.”

  “I know.” I gave him one last squeeze for comfort’s sake, and stepped away. “Melanie’s making coffee inside.”

  He looked undecided. “The kids are sleeping?”

  “Like logs.”

  Bruno came up. “Should we take him downtown, Paolo?” He jerked his head back at Stewart.

  “What about the other witnesses?” Drake turned to me. “Who all’s here, anyway? Looked like a damned convention on the lawn when we pulled up.”

  “Claudia and Nelson were out here with me. Melanie’s inside—she didn’t see much.”

  “All the same,” Drake grumbled, “we’ve got a passel of witnesses. Maybe we should take some statements inside and let people go, not haul this many people down to the office.”

  “Fine.” Bruno glanced over his shoulder at the huddled form of Stewart, sitting on the curb. “He is in shock, I think. Perhaps the EMTs—”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Drake strode off toward the ambulance. Stewart rose slowly to his feet. I found the policewoman, Rhea, at my side.

  “Detective Drake says you can show me a room we can use to take statements,” she said with a friendly smile.

  I led the way inside, closely followed by Claudia, who didn’t want to miss a single minute of the proceedings. She dragged Nelson along—he would have been glad to melt out of the picture at that point, I surmised. Officer Rhea was satisfied with Emery’s study and starte
d right in with Claudia. I went to tell Melanie that we’d have customers for the coffee after all.

  Chapter 27

  Drake and Bruno both accompanied Stewart into the kitchen. He sat at the table, cradling a cup between his hands, looking down at the steaming coffee, as if it held the answers to his questions. Without his hard hat, his bent head looked vulnerable, the short graying curls tight around his receding hairline.

  Nelson, seated across the table, stared in fascination at the stains on Stewart’s shirt. The worst of it had been brushed off, but the dried rust-colored smears were livid reminders of the night’s events.

  Melanie looked at them, too, but then she watched Stewart with growing puzzlement. Finally she burst out, “Aren’t you Fritzy?”

  Stewart whipped his head around, staring. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Melanie. Melanie Fulton. You are Fritzy!” Melanie sat down next to him. “Remember? I used to live in this house, and so did one of your friends, for a while. You came by all the time to hang out with him. Skipper, right?”

  Stewart buried his face in his hands and groaned.

  Drake exchanged glances with Bruno. “What basis do you have for this, Mrs. Dixon?”

  The leather-bound album was still on the kitchen table. Melanie pulled it forward. “I’ve been refreshing my memory of that time,” she said, with a sidewise glance at me. “And we were just looking at these earlier, that’s how I recognized him.” She flipped through the pages until she found the picture from the Baylands. The lanky, long-chinned man with the lazy smile and the primitive sailboard. The man with curly dark hair nearby. Both of them not far from Nado, whose bones being found beneath the sidewalk had started this chain of events. Except that it had really started fifteen years ago.

  Melanie pointed at the man with curly dark hair. “You’re going gray, Fritzy. And you don’t have sideburns anymore.”

  Stewart looked at the picture. But he wasn’t looking at himself. Tears came to his eyes.

  “That is your friend, is it not?” Bruno looked over Stewart’s shoulder. “The one with the sailboard. That is Doug, isn’t it?”