The Bone Man

by Vicki Stiefel

  He crossed his arms, crinkling his starched lab coat. “I never barge where I don’t belong.”

  I winked. “Of course not . . . unless publicity is a factor.”

  He puffed up. “Why you—”

  My attention was distracted by a shadow that blurred the doorway. I looked closer, yet for some reason, it was difficult to see. Lousy lighting at OCME.

  The shadow said, “Hello,” and coalesced. How had he done that? He’d been watching us, I was sure. His sun-browned face wore a quizzical smile. He was short and heavy set, with a barrel chest and large bones and a bladed nose that implied authority. His vibes were curious—jolly yet powerful. His chocolate eyes were laughing, apparently at us. Yet I was sure there was more to it than that. He’d heard everything we’d said and found it amusing. He’d tied a bolo around the neck of his turquoise snap shirt, and his black jeans were pressed to a knife edge. His cowboy boots were well used yet gleamed with polish. He carried a small rawhide bag that I guessed he would use for the ceremony.

  I was staring, and though I knew it was rude, I couldn’t seem to help myself. His presence was compelling. Then again, I never trusted that first, charismatic reaction. Charisma often had a short shelf life.

  Didi thrust the black wig back into my hands, walked over, and embraced the man I assumed was the Zuni governor.

  “Let me introduce you,” she said. “This is Governor Ben Bowannie.”

  I nodded, smiled. “Hello, Governor Bowannie. I’m so pleased to meet you. You live in a place of beauty.”

  “Suck up,” Fogarty hissed. “Governor!” He shook hands with the governor, who was obviously uncomfortable with Fogarty’s faux friendliness.

  “Come, Governor,” Didi said. She turned to Fogarty and me. “If you would excuse us, this is a private ceremony.”

  “I insist on staying!” Fogarty said.

  Didi waved a hand. “Go, Tom. Shoo, shoo. This is private. Come back later.”

  “I refuse—”

  “Shall I call Dr. Morgridge?” she said. Her exasperation was palpable. “She assured me the governor and I would have privacy.”

  Fogarty flushed. He pushed the bridge of his glasses higher onto his nose. “As you wish.” He stalked out, lab coat flying behind him.

  The governor bent down to pet Penny, who accepted his affection as a queen would a courtier. He’d certainly passed that test.

  “Fogarty is such a drama queen,” Didi muttered.

  “I know.” I hadn’t missed him one bit. I turned to the governor, who had begun unloading his bag onto Didi’s desk. I spotted a sage stick, but the other items I didn’t recognize.

  His smile was gentle, his eyes suddenly sad. “We’ll talk later.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “I . . .”

  The governor turned toward the clay head. Didi began to close the door.

  “Didi, can’t we just tell the governor that—”

  She shook her head. “Please, later.” She closed the door, and I heard the snick of the lock.

  I hesitated, then walked to my former office, the one Gert had proudly decorated in pink and green and yellow—the colors of spring, as if that could banish Massachusetts’s dour winters.

  She answered my knock with, “Come in.” I found her awash in a sea of paperwork.

  “Horrible, isn’t it?” I followed Penny to the sofa. “All that paperwork.”

  She blew a pink Bazooka bubble. “I kinda like it.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. It’s contained, y’know. Ya finish a stack and you feel you’ve done something. Ya can see it.”

  I got it, but . . . “You’re such a people person, Gert.”

  She nodded. “Don’t tell, but I get sad.”

  I knew just what she meant. “Mind if I make a call?”

  She pointed to the phone. “You know the routine.”

  I did, and soon I had an outside line. I dialed Delphine’s gallery on the Vineyard. No one picked up, not even the machine. Disturbing. The woman was a sharp businessperson. Someone always answered her phone during business hours.

  “Back in a sec.” I crossed the hall to MGAP’s central office, waved at Donna, a longtime employee, and sat behind one of the workstations. As soon as I logged on, I found Delphine’s Vineyard gallery and the hours it was open.

  The elegant Web site told me I could call now and get knowledgeable help. Well, dammit, where was that help? Where was Zoe? The phone rang and rang and rang.

  I rubbed the pendant I’d purchased from Delphine the last time I’d visited her shop. The carved frog was set in silver on a long silver chain. The frog was nutria jasper with azurite by a Zuni master carver named Ricky Laahty. He’d mined the stone himself. It was smooth and warm beneath my fingers as I rubbed and rubbed.

  I didn’t care if it sounded crazy or made no sense, Delphine was dead. Her skull, here. I felt it in my bones.

  I felt compelled to wait until the cleansing ceremony was complete, so I called up to Addy to see if she was free for lunch. She wasn’t, and so I wandered down the hall and across the lobby to CSS to find Kranak. He’d been his usual ballsy self with the Geographic guys. Made me chuckle.

  I peeked around the corner. “Rob?”

  He hadn’t heard me because he and that new lab tech—what was her name?—were eating subs. Looked like the subs were from my favorite place in the North End. Bite for bite, the tech matched Kranak’s gusto. They were laughing at something. I wondered what.

  I backed away, right into the officer on duty at the desk.

  “Ma’am?” he said.

  I smiled, but felt a wistful sadness creep up from my belly. The officer didn’t know me, nor I him.

  There was a time when I had known everyone at The Grief Shop.

  “Ma’am?” he repeated.

  “Sorry,” I said. “The fellow I was looking for isn’t here.”

  I guessed I wouldn’t wait after all.

  That night I ate with my old pal Shaye at Antico Forno on Salem Street in the North End. It was far away from touristy Hanover Street on a narrow street reminiscent of Europe, which is why I liked the setting so much. The food was pretty fabulous, too.

  Shaye was a shepherd to homeless women, and I respected her greatly. But we argued, as usual.

  “The tribe should get their skull back,” she said.

  I zipped my trap as the waiter delivered my steaming plate of frutti di mare, then I stabbed a piece of calamari onto my fork. “You can’t say that.”

  “Sure I can.” She swished her bread around the herbed oil and chomped down. “It’s easy.”

  “We don’t even know if the skull is an American Indian ancestor.”

  Shaye smirked. “Right. It’s a fucking white guy from Spain or something.”

  “Cripes, Shaye, quiet. This is a family place.”

  She scooped a hunk of vegetarian lasagna into her mouth, dabbed her lips, and hissed, “Pussy.”

  “Geesh, you’re foul.”

  A beatific smile crossed her face. “I know. It’s one of my many charms.”

  “Seriously, Shaye, it’s a matter of knowing the skull’s history. I can see why the Smithsonian would want to study it.”

  “Shit.”

  “C’mon, Shaye, look—”

  She shook her head. “Not that. The door. Don’t turn your head.”

  The inevitable furred my spine with chills. I glanced sideways and there, walking into the restaurant, was Harry Pisarro himself.

  “Does that creep follow you everywhere, or what?” she said.

  My back was to the door. I kept it that way. I lifted forkfuls of lobster and mussels to my mouth, sipped a delicious cabernet and poked at my spring greens salad. I tasted nothing but ash.

  Pisarro and his two goons were here because of me. I knew it, and I hated it. Somehow I was unable to completely extract the leech of a mobster from my life.

  I laid some bills on the table, tossed my napkin down, and left the restaurant.

/>   “Why, my dear Tally . . .” Pisarro began.

  I brushed past him without a look, and the sound of his familiar baritone laughter followed me down the street.

  When I arrived home, I showered, something I always did after an encounter with sleazeball mobster Pisarro. Having counseled him after his daughter’s homicide and dealt with him on several other cases, some of which he caused, he now felt I was his personal property, a view I sure didn’t share. One thing good about leaving MGAP was I didn’t see Pisarro so often. A real blessing.

  Hank would be here in another day. I couldn’t wait. I turbaned my hair, let Penny in, and responded to the blinking light on my phone.

  I scoonched on the couch and pulled the afghan across my legs. I flipped channels on the muted TV while I listened to my voicemail—my broker’s suggestions, all of which sounded silly; a request to donate money to my alma mater, Cornell; and Gert’s invite to Hank and me for dinner on the weekend to meet her newest flame, a guy named Incredulous, or Cred for short. A rapper. With dreds. Gert loved dreds.

  “Good heavens, Gertie,” I muttered.

  Penny’s ears pricked.

  I didn’t recognize the final voice. “Zoe here,” she said, “at Delphine’s. I wanted to call you, Ms. Whyte. I spoke with Delphine. She’s good. She’s pretty intense about her buying trip, and so she’s not being really good about answering her phone. She’s staying with friends, but she asked me to give you her cell number. I hope that’s okay.”

  Relief flowed to my fingertips as I jotted the number on a Post-it.

  “If you have any questions,” Zoe added, “just give me a shout. Bye.”

  I took a breath. Progress. But I wouldn’t feel truly great until I spoke with Delphine. I dialed her cell, got her voicemail, and left a message.

  I unmuted the volume so I could watch a repeat of Life on Mars, one of my favorite Brit mysteries. I pulled out a scarf I was knitting, and off I went. As the gorgeous alpaca silk flowed through my hands and onto my needles, I relaxed.

  Addy sure made a compelling case for my return to MGAP. So did Gert. I missed her. Missed the gang. Missed the belonging.

  I dozed, and dreamed of Indians and skulls and . . .

  A sound on the TV jerked me awake. It was late. Time for bed, the real one. Delphine still troubled me. The reconstructed skull had looked so like her, right down to her Romanesque nose. At least, I thought the reconstruction’s nose matched Delphine’s.

  Damn. I’d go back, talk to Didi again, and photograph the reconstruction. I didn’t care how much Didi objected. I simply couldn’t believe the resemblance to Delphine was a coincidence. Not for one minute.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I awakened later than planned. I called, checked Didi’s schedule. She’d be at The Grief Shop all day, and so I felt comfortable taking a run with Penny down Appleton to Peters Park, our favorite dog park, before I went to see her. I checked my watch. I had to make sure Addy didn’t spot me, or I’d be grilled again about returning to MGAP. I wasn’t really ready to think about that. Choices and more choices.

  Now that she and the governor had that cleansing ceremony, maybe I could talk Didi into carbon dating the skull.

  Penny and I got a good workout at the park, where we met some friends—canine and human—chased balls and Frisbees, and generally had a swell time. So I didn’t much mind leaving Penny home when I went to The Grief Shop, since I planned to scoot in and out.

  Lucky me, I didn’t meet much traffic on the way over, and as I pulled open the side door to OCME, I swore the thing got heavier each year. The lobby was empty. Sarge was probably on one of his frequent breaks. But I found it odd that one of the CSS crew wasn’t standing in for him.

  As I crossed the hall, I saw that CSS was curtained. A meeting or they were performing some of their forensic mumbo jumbo they made look so easy, but was actually intensely complex. I’d hoped for a glimpse of Kranak.

  I punched the keypad, hoping they hadn’t changed the combination from the previous day. The buzzer sounded louder than ever.

  “Damn.”

  I glanced around. Still no one. I let out a small sigh. I eased the door shut and headed down the hall, then to the left. I waved at a tech I recognized who was trotting toward the large autopsy suite. That’s where everyone was, of course, busily carving and sawing away in search of the truth.

  I rounded the corner. A red ballcap lay on the bench. Someone must be in with Didi. I slid it over and sat. I unhitched my purse, weighted down with my digital SLR camera. My shoulder ached, and I rotated it a couple of times.

  I opened the book I’d bought on the Old Ones and read. Interesting stuff, particularly their rock art, which was gorgeous.

  Several chapters later, I checked my watch. I’d been sitting there for twenty minutes. Enough was enough. Whoever was in with Didi was taking forever.

  I knocked, breezed on in, and screamed!

  My voice ricocheted around Didi’s small lab, then quieted. Blood pooled around Didi’s sprawled form. She looked like a red snow angel. Blood had sprayed her face, dripped down to her ears and stained her pewter gray hair.

  He’d slit her throat. And stabbed her.

  I pressed my back against the door. “Didi!” I shouted. “Didi!”

  I blinked faster and faster as I gasped breaths. I desperately tried to hold back the bile surging from my belly.

  Her eyes were open, staring blankly into nowhere. Her head lay at an awkward angle, almost detached from her neck, which . . .

  What was that on the floor? I looked around, saw no one. He couldn’t still be there, could he?

  I inched to the left. Didi’s right arm was slung over her body, her bony index finger, its tip reddish brown, pointing the way, like in some ’30s horror movie. Writing on the linoleum floor. Bloodfet

  I turned my head and vomited. When I was empty, I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my jacket.

  Why had I reacted so powerfully to the words she’d written in blood? I didn’t know. Didn’t really even know what they meant. Bloodfet? Oh, Didi, I don’t get it.

  Where the hell was everyone?

  Somehow, I couldn’t move, except to push my back harder against the door. With one hand, I rooted around in my purse and dragged out my phone. I flipped the phone open, hit a button and mumbled “Gert.”

  Nothing happened.

  I closed my eyes, yet as soon as I reopened them, they fastened on the wreck of Didi. My eyes burned with unshed tears. Didi didn’t deserve this. She didn’t.

  I wanted to kneel in front of her, hold her, stroke her face. I didn’t dare. That would damage the scene. “Oh, Didi, I’m so sorry.” I raised the phone again to my lips. “Gert!”

  The phone dialed itself, beeping as it did so. I couldn’t stop shaking. I was crying now, and my tears fell to the floor where her blood was congealing.

  What if Didi’s killer hid behind her desk when I’d entered the room?

  “MGAP,” said the voice. “How can I help you?”

  “Gert,” was all I could say.

  “She’s not here,” the voice said. “Can I help you?”

  I panted, two, three times.

  “Hello?” the voice said again.

  “This is Tally Whyte. Go to the CSS offices. Get some officers over to Dr. Didi’s office.”

  “Tal, this is Donna. We’ve got a bunch of—”

  “Go. Now. Do it.”

  I flipped the phone closed and slid down the door to the floor. A finger of Didi’s blood pooled around my foot, and I wept harder.

  “Tal?” Kranak said.

  I blinked a couple times. The hall was abuzz with forensics, an ME I didn’t recognize, and someone sobbing. I couldn’t see who. Someone, probably Kranak, had plastered crime scene tape across the door to Didi’s office. I looked away and into Kranak’s soft bloodshot eyes the color of charcoal.

  Funny. I felt a burst of happiness at seeing him.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes. I’m okay. I’ve see
n worse. But this is . . . Geesh, poor Didi. Damn!”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I gotta go back in. Gertie’s on her way.”

  I grabbed his sleeve. “Wait. The skull, the reconstruction. Where is it?”

  Even before he shook his head, I knew. I sighed, leaned back against the cinderblock wall, and sucked on the piece of ice Kranak had given me.

  Of course whoever done this had stolen the skull, the potsherds, and Didi’s reconstruction.

  I paced Kranak’s small cubicle, which wasn’t an easy thing to do. I waited and waited, and finally he lumbered in. He slipped off his wrinkled suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Better,” he said. He sat on the leather-padded bench that rested against the cubicle wall. He shifted his bulk so the cubicle’s corner embraced him.

  I poured him a cup of tea from his stash and popped my Diet Coke.

  “Anything?” I asked as I handed him the steaming porcelain cup.

  He sipped, nodded, then scraped a hand through his bristly crew cut. “Little. Some trace. Shit. She was a friend.”

  I sat beside him and leaned against his shoulder. “I know.” Her bloody image flashed before my eyes. How long would it take to get rid of that damn picture?

  “Anything at all on the skull? The restoration?”

  His lips thinned. “We think that’s why . . .”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Even so, there was a huge amount of anger in her killing. A lot of passion.”

  He snorted. “Knew you’d say that.”

  “Well, sure. Obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Yeah. I guess. Or the killer’s trying to make us think that. For all the hell we know, the guy was out for bucks. Big market in those things, ya know.”

  “Reconstructions? No way that . . .”

  “The old skull, Tal.”

  “I can’t believe that. But I guess . . . well, I’d believe anything right about now.” I scraped my fingers through my hair. “So, what do you think ‘bloodfet’ means?”

  He took a sip of tea. “Huh?”

  “What do you mean, ‘huh’? The words Didi scrawled in her own blood.”