The Bones Will Speak (11 page)

“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 bills, 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.”

Beth waited until Aynslee was out of earshot. “Um, dead cat? A Winston find?”

“Maybe. There was a piece of paper under it. I forgot about it until just now. Let me get it from the trunk of my car.”

“I hate to ask, but why is it in your trunk?”

“I didn't want it stinking up the house, and leaving it outside would attract critters. My trunk is a fast way to dry it out.”

I trotted outside to my car, retrieved the sack with the piece of paper, and returned to the house. Beth followed me to my studio. After slipping on some rubber gloves, I pulled out the paper
and quickly transported it to a clear ziplock bag, then placed it on the deep window ledge. Even though I worked rapidly, the smell of dead cat enveloped the room and I opened the window.

“Phew,” Beth said. “Why didn't you put it in a clear plastic bag in the first place, like they do on television?”

“The plastic won't let the paper dry out and affects the evidence.” I set the pamphlet on the ledge next to the paper.

“What are you doing?”

“I don't know, maybe a wild hunch. See the church's logo? A cross with a
Z
through it, a bit like a swastika?”

“Yes.”

“I was trying to see if the paper under the dead cat had the same logo.” I pointed. “There is part of a line like a cross, but the smeared part seems more rounded. Like the letter
P
maybe.”

“What would it mean if it
was
the same?”

“Someone in this church is warning me.”

“I don't get it. I thought folks like this didn't like Jews. You're not Jewish.”

I handed her the pamphlet, then strolled to the kitchen. Beth followed. “They don't like people of color, Jews, mixed marriages, or homosexuals. Since I'm none of those things, and the logo doesn't match, I'm just letting my imagination run wild. Dead cats tend to do that to me.” A prickly feeling of unease still tapped the back of my neck.

Beth nodded at the subpoena on the fridge as she placed lunch on the table. “Well, even though you don't get to work on the body farm, you
do
have a case.”

“Ancient history. I assume it's for the priest case they called about.”

“What do you mean?”

I tapped the paper. “Read what it says?
The State of Washington v. . . .
ah . . .
Jerome William Daly
. I have no idea who Jerome Daly is or what he did. The subpoena is probably for a composite I did several years ago. I don't really remember doing a priest case.”

“But you should remember.”

“I'll recall details about the case once I get more information. A composite sketch doesn't come with a name; it's a tool to help identify someone. I'll have to call the prosecuting attorney's office and find out which case is going to court, then look it up in my files. I may have to give a deposition as well. Fortunately they'll pay me as an expert witness.” I pulled up a chair and Aynslee joined us.

“You live in a strange world.”

“Ha. You're the one interested in weird declarations of war by some . . . church-going German group.”

Beth bowed her head in prayer, and we followed suit. “Lord, thank You for this meal and bless our time together. Amen.”

“Amen,” Aynslee and I repeated.

“Mom”—Aynslee spoke around a mouthful of salad—“I'll keep trying to get ahold of Dad, but if I can't, could I go to the movies with Megan?”

I frowned at her table manners. “Chew your food first. Are you talking about the girl from the vet hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“Are her parents going?”

“No. Danny's driving.”

“Danny. The young technician?”

Aynslee frowned. “He's not so young. He's eighteen!”

“No—”

Aynslee threw down her napkin, shoved back from the table, and rocketed from the room. The slam of her bedroom door followed.