“Have you examined your hand bones?”
“I have. They told me very little.”
Mama waited a theatrical beat. Then, “There’s more.”
Hearing the familiar breathless note, I scanned the desktop for something to skim. “More?”
“I found another.”
“Another what?”
“Lookout. For Brown Mountain.”
“I would guess there are many.”
“Well, you would be mistaken. No matter how deeply I dug, the same three came up again and again. And only those three.”
“Really?”
“It’s called Wiseman’s View.”
“Where is it?” Absently.
“Just south of Linville. In Avery County.”
“Mm.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“I am.” I wasn’t. I was perusing the table of contents in the latest Journal of Forensic Sciences.
Mama stopped talking. A test. The dead air grabbed my attention.
“What are you suggesting?”
“You must search.”
“At Wiseman’s View.”
“Of course at Wiseman’s View.”
“For more bones.”
“Really, Tempe. You’re reputed to be excellent in your field. Must I spell everything out?”
“You’re suggesting body parts might have been thrown from all three Brown Mountain overlooks.”
“Hallelujah, let the light shine!”
“Mama, I—”
“What have you retrieved so far? Parts of a hand and parts of a torso?”
“Yes.” I hadn’t told her about the fingertips. Not sure why.
“Do they go together?”
“They could.”
“But so far you have no limbs and no head.”
“No.” The tiny flicker was growing warmer and starting to spread.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but a head might perhaps, just perhaps, prove useful in determining whose body parts are turning up?”
“Yes.”
A sliver of a pause, then, “Will you at least discuss my theory with your deputy?”
The eagerness in her voice tore a hole in my heart. Mama had shown so little engagement lately. Her only joy seemed to come through vicarious involvement in my work. Through secondhand thrills.
Like Hazel Strike and her websleuthing pals?
“Sure, Mama,” I said. “Good job.”
“You’ll keep me fully informed?”
“I will.”
“Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
I blew out a breath. Debated. Was my mother’s idea a harebrained notion? Or a solid investigative strategy? Run it past Larabee? Ramsey? Would either agree to another romp in the woods?
It was like Groundhog Day. Same reach to dial the landline. Same pause as my mobile rang. Sang. I’d yet to change the ringtone. Same quick check of caller ID.
Allan Fink.
Crap.
This time I didn’t pick up. Or listen to the message. I knew what Allan wanted. Couldn’t endure another lecture on fiscal responsibility at that moment.
My eyes dropped to the calendar blotter on the desktop. Thursday, the second of April. No sweat. Tomorrow I’d find everything Allan needed for the IRS.
The flicker was now a bonfire in my chest.
I pulled my purse from the drawer and dug out two Tums. Slapped them from my palm to my mouth. Chewed and swallowed.
Then Ramsey phoned.
“I tracked down the story,” he said, no greeting. “But not the journalist. He’s long gone. You were right. A group of kids from WCU stumbled across bones and called the department.” He used the acronym for Western Carolina University. “Dozens of hiking trails crisscross the Lost Cove Cliffs area. Anyway, a deputy went out to collect what they had.”
“What made the kids think the bones were human?”
“That was my question. You’ll love this. They were anthro majors.”
“What happened to the stuff?” Sorry, Mama.
“The coroner was on holiday. The sheriff back then hadn’t a clue what to do with ‘old bones,’ as he viewed them; wasn’t all that interested. The kids suggested sending them to their professor, who, it turned out, was a forensic anthropologist.”
“Marlene Penny.” I knew her through AAFS. Though far from brilliant, and well past seventy, she was ABFA board certified and reasonably competent.
I heard paper rustle. “Yeah, that’s the one. I’ve got a copy of her report. Want me to read it?”
“Just the basics.”
“She didn’t exactly knock herself out. One page. A skeletal inventory lists a partial tibia, fibula, calcaneus, and talus.” There was a beat as he dug for relevant facts. “The two tarsals were connected by dried-out tissue. The leg bones were separate.”
“Any estimates as to age, sex, that sort of thing?”
“The bones were too fragmentary.” Pause. “Most of each had been carried off by animals. But she thought everything came from one individual.”
“And that individual was human?”
“She’s definite on that.”
“Where are the remains now?”
“Doesn’t say.”
I inhaled deeply. Exhaled. Then, “Got a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
I told Ramsey about the audio recording. About websleuthing. About Hazel Strike’s strange hostility toward him. Throughout, I could hear the rhythm of his breath hitting the receiver. Knew he was listening carefully.
When I’d finished, he asked, “Gunner’s hand bones tell you anything?”
“They’re consistent with the torso bones from Burke County.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And the fingertips?”
I told him about the missing prints. About chemotherapy-induced acral erythema. About the possibility that the victim had been a cancer patient undergoing treatment at a local hospital. About Cora Teague having left her nanny job, reportedly for health reasons.
Then I told him about Wiseman’s View.
The line was quiet for so long I thought he’d hung up. I was about to speak when Ramsey made a suggestion. I agreed to his plan and we disconnected.
Using one hand to cradle my head, I placed the other on my fiery chest.
I managed to get out without a summons to Larabee’s carpet. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Our offices have tile floors.
He phoned at four while I was shopping for groceries. A task I avoid until my pantry resembles a bunker in postwar Iraq. Or I’m out of cat food.
I considered ignoring his call. Decided I might as well face the inevitable.
“Where are you?” Larabee’s tone was razor sharp.
“Sorry I missed you today.” Cheery as Snap, Crackle, and Pop smiling up from my cart.
“Are you at the office?”
“The Harris Teeter on Providence Road. Need anything?”
Larabee ignored my offer. I could hear a lot of noise in the background. A thick hollowness suggested he was outside. “I’ve been at the airport all day and don’t see myself breaking free anytime soon.”
I froze, a can of peas halfway off the shelf. “What’s up?”
“Some ass-bucket movie director backed into the tail rotor of a chopper while shooting a film.”
“Decapitated?”
“That’s being kind.”
“He had permission to work on an active helo pad?”
“At Wilson Air Center, the part for the hoity-toity.”
I’d been to Wilson, a facility for private and corporate flights. Sadly, not often enough. “Do you want me on scene?” Please say no.
“No. But I may need you tomorrow. The damage is extensive.”
“I’m free all day.”
“I’ll do the autopsy first thing in the morning. Assuming we’ve finished tweezing the tarmac.”
That didn’t sound good. “Keep your chin up,” I said.
“Down,” he corrected. And was gone.
As I threw random items into my cart, the conversation replayed in my head. The upside: My trip to Burke County wasn’t mentioned. The downside: Allan and the IRS were once again bumped.
—
Dinner that night was green chicken chili. Risky, given the state of my innards. But the recipe calls for five ingredients. My kind of cooking. Plus, I freeze the leftovers for future meals.