“Bear, eh?” Gavin McLean asked of The Bones. The two men had been colleagues for years. As they often joked in private, The Bones killed ‘em and Gavin buried the mistakes.
“My best guess.”
“Lemme look in here a bit,” the undertaker said, reaching for a set of hemostats. “Ayup. Looks like we still got some claw in here. Only….” His voice trailed off as he held the extracted tissue up to the light.
The claw looked rather like fingernail. Thick, diseased fingernail.
“Tell you what,” The Bones said, “let’s have another look for more bits and pieces in there, then we’ll bag ‘em up and I’ll take them back to The Mountie. He’s in The Gulch just now. In fact, he’s the one who found this guy.”
“That might be best,” Gavin agreed after a moment. “Let The Mountie have ‘em. It’s his case, eh? No need for us to be involved. It just means more paperwork for the lab.”
“That’s right. He’ll know best what to do.”
“Agreed, agreed. But first, I think I need a little something to oil my joints. The arthritis is getting bad. You want a snort?” Gavin asked, pulling open the middle drawer of his file cabinet.
“Hell yes,” said The Bones who was shaken by his friend’s discovery. “And make it a big one.”
The friends didn’t say much as they swallowed their lubricant, but after The Bones had finished his second glass he asked if he could use the phone.
“Sure, but you think the phone in the pub is working in this rain?” Gavin asked doubtfully.
“Hope so. I’m thinking that The Mountie might like to know about this claw thing before the new guy flies in.”
“Another Mountie is coming?”
“Not a Mountie. Someone looking for that damned plane. Another government bureaucrat that doesn’t know when to mind his own business.”
“But The Mountie is okay to work with?”
“Seems to be. Likes Butterscotch well enough. Knows when to keep his mouth shut.”
“Hm. That’s one for the books.”
“I know. Don’t see how it can end well, but strange things happen in the Gulch.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Gavin said, and did.
* * *
I stared blearily at Wendell, trying to force my brain to think or to at least engage the speech centers.
“So Wings put down in Little Fork because of the storm? And he’ll bring the latest Smith clone up tomorrow?”
“Yes.” Wendell hesitated. “He says this one is scarier than the last.”
Great.
“And the undertaker found some unusual ‘claws’ inside Smith One, and The Bones collected the evidence and will also be bringing that to Chuck tomorrow.
“If the roads are passable. He thought it best to turn them over to The Mountie instead of sending them on to Winnipeg.”
“I need coffee,” I said only to find that Chuck was already making it. “Okay, let me ring Big John and see about having another meeting. We have to decide what to do.”
“It’s in an hour,” Wendell said. “Just us. If Wings says this new guy is scary, then something must be done before he gets here. We may not get a chance to move after that.”
He wanted to say more but couldn’t with Chuck there.
“I agree. Easier to ask for forgiveness than seek permission anyway.”
“That is the mayor’s feeling also.”
“Chuck,” I said, looking up at him as he placed a mug in front of me. “You can come with us if you want, but we are going to be talking about some stuff you probably don’t want to know about.”
“And I’d prefer to keep it that way. I may be given a lie-detector test at some point and I’d like to be able to pass it.”
“I love that about you,” I said with a wry smile. “Let me finish my coffee and then I’ll get dressed. Damn, I’m running out of clean clothes. I hope no one else goes missing. I’ll have to hunt naked.”
“I think I have run out,” Chuck said. “Except for some sweats.” His brow was furrowed and I gathered that sweats were fine for the gym but not for daily wear.
“You’ll be happier wearing them than anything of mine,” I pointed out.
“Only barely.”
“You can do laundry while I’m gone.” He looked surprised so I pointed to a washtub with an old fashioned wringer mounted on the side.
Chuck whistled appreciatively.
“That’s really low low-tech.”
* * *
We sat in Big John’s office, Wendell and I on one side of the desk and The Flowers, Sasha and Big John on the other. In between us was the black box that was causing so much trouble.
“It wouldn’t be that hard to force open,” Big John said.
“There could be booby-trap, a bomb,” Sasha said.
“But why? Who would do that?”
“Grigori might. Or someone who didn’t like Grigori— and that was everyone.”
We sighed.
“I want to dump the damn thing in the lake and let the divers find it.” I was adamant.
“But it could be valuable and—”
“Let’s vote,” Wendell said. “Who wants to open the damned box?”
It took less than a second to count hands.
“Okay then,” I said. “Let’s get on with it. The storm is already waning.”
Chapter 10
Almost dawn and Brian O’Shay still couldn’t sleep. The waiting had become too much. Though it meant destroying a fortune and a valuable bargaining chip, he simply couldn’t live with the uncertainty anymore. His greatest asset had become a liability. His keepers— all of them— were getting impatient and beginning to express doubts about his ignorance of the box’s location. It had to be found, even if it meant its destruction.
Pulling out his cell phone, he called up the failsafe app and began punching in numbers. The sequence was long, but that was to make sure that there was no mistake.
* * *
The next morning we were out at the lake, arguing with the divers about where they should dive and if they should dive. We were for it and they were against it since there was still the occasion flash of lightning.
While we discussed the matter of currents and local fishing grounds with helpful smiles and disguised urgency, The Wings circled overhead and then sat down in town.
“Smith two,” I muttered. “Time’s up.”
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than a small geyser erupted from the part of the lake furthest from the diver’s camp.
“What the hell was that?” I asked Chuck.
“Was bomb,” Sasha whispered in my ear.
Whatever it was, it succeeded where our arguments had failed. The divers were hurrying for the shore, scrambling into their suits as quickly as they could.
“We’ll never know what was in the box,” Big John mourned softly.
“Neither will Smith Two,” Chuck said with satisfaction.
“And none of us are dead, which we could have been if the bomb had gone off in the pub,” I reminded Big John.
“You’re right,” Big John said, trying to be reconciled, but only half succeeding.
“And maybe Smith two will go home without asking questions.”
“I’ll have to go as well,” Chuck said and I leaned my head on his shoulder.
“But not until The Bones brings you those claws,” I reminded him.
Chuck shook his head.
“Lose them. If they are anything except bear claws they will only cause trouble.”
Then Chuck turned away from me and began walking up the trail to greet the new man in dark glasses.
Squirrel Grillades with Grits Recipe
This recipe comes from my Cousin Richard's great-grandfather Columbus Walton Simmons' sister, Mary Elizabeth Simmons Leggett, who was born in 1832.
Ingredients:
2 lbs. (2 large or 3 medium squirrels) cleaned squirrel cut into roughly 6 to 8 pieces each
2 tsp salt
1 tsp fresh
ground black pepper
1/8 tsp cayenne pepper
1 tsp finely minced garlic
2 Tbs unbleached flour
1 1/2 Tbs lard or cooking oil (not olive oil)
1 C chopped onion
1 large ripe tomato peeled and coarsely chopped
1 C chicken or beef stock or water
Directions:
Mix salt both peppers and flour; rub into all the squirrel pieces. Brown all over in oil in hot skillet. Add garlic and onion; sweat in oil squirrel mixture until translucent. Add tomato, mix with other ingredients. Cover and cook a few minutes until tomato begins to break down, add stock or water. Cover, reduce to medium low heat and cook for 30 minutes stirring every 10 minutes. Gravy may be too thick; adjust with more liquid.
Cook grits according to package while squirrel cooks. Spoon chunks of squirrel with gravy over grits. Serves 2 to 4 adults depending on appetite.
Don’t Eat Possum In The Fall
Most of you probably don’t live in the country. Certainly you don’t live in Manitoba, so I think I may need to explain a couple things which will horrify most of you. They sure stunned me when I arrived and started learning about what my new life would mean.
People in The Gulch hunt. They hunt for food mainly, but there are people who hunt bear and wolves and other creatures for trophies. Big John isn’t one of them, but he has an appreciation for the sport and isn’t one to shy away from realities (like how a bearskin can bring in some decent money).
Me? I was raised a city girl. I cried when Bambi’s mother died. I didn’t even kill spiders unless they gave me no choice and refused to get in the cup so I could take them outside. Now, I still don’t hunt. But I do kill spiders when their numbers get overwhelming. And I carry a gun and know how to use it, because while I would never bait and hunt bear or wolves, I sure don’t plan on ending up as some bear’s or wolf’s breakfast either.
I arrived in the Gulch in the late spring and spent a lot of the summer getting my head screwed on while fixing up the old cabin I inherited. Or squatted in, depends how you look at it. No one wanted it. The owner was dead, so at the mayor’s encouragement, I took it.
Big John, seeing a lost girl of seventeen and having a daughter of his own, decided that I needed to be taken in hand and taught the basics of survival in the North. After a few days of target practice, where I learned to shoot cans without flinching and shutting my eyes, Big John decided it was time to take me on my maiden hunt.
The first rule he taught me was that if you shoot it, you eat it, which was the wrong thing to tell me since I was happy living on macaroni and cheese in a box. I didn’t want to eat caribou or moose or any of the wonderful creatures I had before only seen in books or zoos. But Big John had been good to me, so to please him, I put on a borrowed camouflage jacket, called my dog who was still an adolescent and followed our mayor into the forest.
Autumn is a pretty time. There are meadows of sedge. There are wild berries and tall brown grass that has grown lush before it dies, and a few deciduous trees mixed in with the stunted conifers to give some vivid color. While this is very pretty, it can also make things challenging because it is often hard to see just what is lurking in the dense bushes.
Big John was busy shooting at deer and every now and again I would pretend to see something and shoot at it too. I had to endure a lot of teasing about being a bad shot but that was okay. I was having fun. My dad had never done anything with me and I was enjoying the quasi-father-daughter experience even though it involved guns.
But then I somehow managed to actually shoot something that fell into the bushes and laid there unmoving. Max rushed in at once, crashing through the dead sticks with the verve of a puppy. Me? I had leaden feet and was praying I hadn’t shot a deer.
I hurried up my pace when I heard Max retching. Seconds later I smelled it. I had killed a possum and it stank like nothing else on earth.
Now, experts will tell you that the only possum in Canada is the Virginia Opossum and it is only in southern Ontario. I guess these experts forgot to tell the opossums about this though, because we have them in The Gulch during the summer. This guy had left things a bit late though and now he was dead— dead and already smelling like carrion.
Horrified, I called Max away and we went to tell Big John what had happened. He wasn’t far off and came at once, but it took me a while to find our place and when we returned the possum was gone. The possum had been, er, playing possum.
Big John began to laugh and told me I was lucky. Possum can be good eating but not in the fall. Their favorite food in late summer is some kind of stink beetle and their flesh begins to taste like the bugs they’ve been eating.
I was relieved beyond measure that I hadn’t actually killed the awful-smelling critter. Think about it. It stank so badly that it made my dog vomit. I couldn’t eat that. I could barely eat a venison burger.
The rest of the day I resisted Big John’s urging to try shooting again. There hadn’t been much to shoot at anyway since we were making a ridiculous amount of noise but I wasn’t going to risk it. But just before sundown, there was a rustling in the sedge. In a flash, Big John had his gun up and let fly.
Silence.
We moved in slowly. Max had learned caution after his last encounter and I sort of knew what we would find when he began to whimper. Yes, it was the possum. This time really and truly dead.
Had Big John been alone, I think he would have left the smelly thing, but since he was trying to teach me to do things right, he cleaned his kill and removed its glands. It didn’t help much. The thing still stank and the process was revolting. No way was I going to murder and also dismember some innocent animal. Hunting was out.
We had to walk all the way home with it too. John invited me to dinner but I said an emphatic no thanks. I don’t know if he actually ate the thing or took it out and buried it in the garden.
Anyhow, that was the last time we went hunting. I learned my lessons too well. One, if you kill it, you eat it— so no hunting for me. And two, even if a neighbor offers me a share, I don’t eat possum in the fall.
About the Author
Melanie Jackson is the author of over 60 novels. If you enjoyed this story, please visit Melanie’s author web site at www.melaniejackson.com.
eBooks by Melanie Jackson:
The Chloe Boston Mystery Series:
Moving Violation
The Pumpkin Thief
Death in a Turkey Town
Murder on Parade
Cupid’s Revenge
Viva Lost Vegas
Death of a Dumb Bunny
Red, White and a Dog Named Blue
Haunted
The Great Pumpkin Caper
Beast of a Feast
Snow Angel
Lucky Thirteen
The Sham
Murder by the Book
The Butterscotch Jones Mystery Series
Due North
Big Bones
Gone South
Home Fires
Points West
The Wedding
Wild East
The Wendover House Mystery Series
The Secret Staircase
Twelfth Night
On Deadly Tides
Miss Henry Mystery Series
Portrait of a Gossip
Landscape in Scarlet (Coming soon)
Requiem at Christmas (Coming soon)
Wildside Series
Outsiders
Courier
Still Life
The Book of Dreams Series:
The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis
The Second Book of Dreams: Meridian
The Third Book of Dreams: Destiny
Medicine Trilogy
Bad Medicine
Medicine Man
Knave of Hearts
Club Valhalla
Devil of Bodmin Moor
Devil of the Highlands
Devil in a Red Coat
Halloween
> The Curiosity Shoppe (Sequel to A Curious Affair)
Timeless (Sequel to Club Valhalla)
Nevermore: The Last Divine Book
Big Bones (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 2) Page 7