Bone Yard (Raine Stockton Dog Mystery) Read online

  Sonny looked at me in alarm. “I am not liking the sound of this.”

  “There is no serial killer,” I said firmly. I felt Cisco press his shoulder against my leg, and I reached down to stroke him reassuringly—for my reassurance, not his. “They’re just talking like policemen.”

  Buck pushed back his chair. “I think I’ll go back to the office and get on the computer.”

  For some reason I wanted to protest being left alone with a bunch of state troopers and an open grave in my back yard. It felt a little like dereliction of duty to me.

  Uncle Roe flipped the phone shut. “He’s going to call back.”

  There was a knock on the back door, and Cisco gave an obligatory bark of alertness, but settled down immediately when I laid calming hand atop his head. Most of his attention was on my half finished sandwich anyway. Buck, who was closest, opened the door. One of the state men stood there with something round and mud-stained between his gloved hands. “Thought you’d want to see this, Sheriff,” he said.

  Immediately Uncle Roe came forward.“Yeah, what’ve you got?”

  I saw the muscle in Buck’s jaw tighten, and he shot a sharp look at Uncle Roe.

  Wordlessly , the policeman held up the object for examination. I stood for a better look. It was a human skull, perfectly pierced with a hole in the center of the forehead.

  I heard a clattering sound behind me, and turned in time to see Cisco happily gobbling down the remainder of my sandwich from my plate.

  ________________

  FOUR

  It was almost four o’clock by the time the state people splashed their muddy cars down my rutted driveway for the highway, leaving only Buck and Uncle Roe behind. Sonny had stayed to watch in fascination while the bones were lined up on a tarp and carefully photographed, then sealed in a body bag and taken away, but she had left soon after the last police car drove away. Even I could tell there was not a complete skeleton there, but we all agreed—particularly the experts—that the length of the bones suggested a person close to six feet, probably a male. And although professionals don’t like to jump to conclusions, everyone also agreed the most likely cause of death was probably as a result of whatever had made the hole in his skull. Someone said it looked about the size of a forty-five caliber bullet, but it could have been a sharp instrument. No one suggested his death might have been accidental. We officially had a crime scene.

  The funeral home canopy had been arranged over the site to keep the workers dry, but by late afternoon it had started to rain so hard again that little rivulets of mud were pouring into the hole, filling it almost as fast as it could be excavated. Parts of the plastic bag were still under mud, along with much of its contents, and as the weather worsened the men decided they were not likely to make any more progress that day. They did the best they could to protect the hole with plywood and cinder blocks, wrapped the area in a couple of miles of police tape, and promised to be back at first light. I had no difficulty whatsoever restraining my enthusiasm.

  I was standing on the front porch, watching the taillights of the last state police car disappear around the curve of the drive, when Buck came up the side steps. His jacket was dark with rain and his hat was dripping; he looked cold and wet and miserable. He said, “I don’t guess I have to tell you to stay away from back there until you get the all-clear. And keep the dogs in.”

  I gave him a dry look. “No. You don’t have to tell me.” As though I would let my dogs anywhere near that mud-pit again, with or without the bones buried there.

  And then I added, my forehead furrowing with concern, “Any luck on trying to figure out who it could be?”

  He shook his head, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. “A few unsolved missing persons reports have turned up—campers, tourists, and the like. But no way to narrow it down until we start getting some reports back from the lab.” He lifted his shoulders, stretching some of the tension out of them, and dropped them again. “One thing. The body was wrapped in something, a blanket, maybe, before it was put in the bag. Whatever it was, it was mostly rotten, but they took a sample to the lab. Maybe that will tell something.”

  “But he was definitely murdered.”

  “Looks that way to me.”

  The front door opened and Uncle Roe came out, accompanied in almost perfect heel position by Majesty. I was going to reprimand her for sneaking out the door without permission, but she sat so prettily that I decided to let it pass. Inside, Cisco barked indignantly.

  “I just got off the phone with Sheriff Slater,” he said. “Seems that the reason that mass grave case fell off the radar is because none of the victims were ever identified—and none of them appeared to have been victims of violence. They were all down to bone, or just about, and some of the bags had more than one – or parts of more than one—body in it. Oh, and there were traces of lime on the remains.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Lime as in--?”

  “Fertilizer,” Uncle Roe said.

  “Also used to neutralize odor,” Buck added.

  Uncle Roe nodded. “The best theory was that they were moved from some other mass grave somewhere and re-buried, anybody’s guess why.”

  “How many were there?” I asked.

  “Fifteen, as near as they’ve been able to tell.”

  “Ten years and none of them have been linked to a missing person?”

  Buck said, “It’s not as impossible as all that. Those bodies could have come from anywhere in the country, or a lot of different places. You’d have to be mighty lucky to put together a puzzle like that.”

  “Anyway,” Uncle Roe said, “it doesn’t look like there’s any connection between that and our guy.”

  “I don’t see why you say that,” Buck said. “Seems to me it’s worth pursuing.”

  “Well, first of all,” Uncle Roe pointed out, “that was eighty miles away. Secondly, this fellow was murdered”---

  “Thirdly,” Buck interrupted shortly, “I’m running this investigation and I say we’re pursuing every angle. Why don’t you just go on home, Roe? You’re not getting paid for this anymore, you know.”

  He scowled as his phone rang, and he snatched it from his pocket. I could tell by the way his face changed that his new girlfriend, Wyn, was on the other end. “I’ve got to get back to the office,” he muttered, and without another word to either of us he started down the steps. By the time he reached the bottom the phone was at his ear and he was speaking into it, but too softly for the words to reach us.

  Uncle Roe tried to shrug off Buck’s harsh words, but I could tell he was a little taken aback. “He’s right,” he said, “it’s been a long day and I’ve got a chicken dinner waiting. You keep the dogs in tonight, Rainbow, and lock your doors, okay?”

  I assured him that I would, on both counts. For once I didn’t think he was being over protective.I tried to make him take one of the umbrellas that was in the stand on the porch, but he waved it off and hurried down the steps. By then Buck’s car was already crunching down the gravel drive ahead of him.

  “Give Aunt Mart my love,” I call to Uncle Roe. “And thank her again for the roast beef.”

  Uncle Roe opened the car door, paused briefly to wave at me, and like a shot, Majesty was off the porch, down the steps, and scrambling into the car.

  “Majesty!”

  I dashed into the rain after her, and by the time I reached her she was sitting proudly in the passenger seat, panting happily.

  “Well, now, pretty girl, you want to come home with me?” Uncle Roe said, reaching into the car after her. “Wouldn’t my Martie like that?”

  “I’m sorry!” I raced around to the passenger door, cold rain pelting my head. “Get in the car, I’ve got her.” I opened the door and took Majesty’s collar, tugging her out. She was not all that anxious to go. “Sorry!” I called again to my uncle.“Bye!”

  He waved to me as I slammed the car door, but I didn’t linger. Holding on tightly to Majesty’s collar, I hurried aroun
d the back of the car and back to the house. Majesty waited until we were inside to bark sharply at me, and then shook the rain from her coat all over my wood floors and the last dry patches of my jeans.

  *************

  To say I was exhausted after the day I’d had would be an understatement. I was also cold and wet and not at all looking forward to going back out in the weather again. But in small communities, gestures matter, and my mother had spent too much time trying to teach me the basics of good manners to ignore them all now. So I fed the dogs, took them all out to the exercise yard one more time—and stood in the rain with an umbrella, watching them every minute--- got them dried off and settled in their crates, then showered, changed into a nice wool skirt and sweater, blow dried my hair, put on make- up, and was on my way to the funeral home by six forty-five for the seven o’clock visitation. I figured fifteen minutes tops would be enough of a gesture: sign the guest book, say a few words, greet the people I knew, and then home and in bed by eight.

  Sutter Funeral Home was a big, antebellum style mansion at the corner of Broad and Forsythe Streets, centrally located between the three major churches and the cemetery six miles outside of town. Tonight the small parking lot was full and so was most of the on-street parking. I found a spot a block away and was glad I had worn my stylish leather boots—with thick wool socks underneath—as I splashed through the puddles toward the warmly lit building.

  As cold as it was, there were a few men gathered on the porch, smoking, and I greeted them with the briefest of smiles as I hurried inside, leaving my umbrella on the porch. The interior was warm and subtly lit, with a thick floral carpet and velvet furniture. Soft organ music was piped through the over head speakers, and Lee Sutter, immaculately dressed in a dark suit and crisp, French-cuffed shirt, came down the hall to greet me.

  “Good evening, Miss Raine,” he said with a properly subdued smile. “We’re in parlor two tonight. A terrible thing about Mrs. Potts. She was such a good woman. But she’s at peace now.”

  I slipped off my coat and left it dripping on the hall tree, and we talked about what a good woman Mrs. Potts had been as he walked me to the parlor. He didn’t say a word about our previous business together today, and neither did I. The man was doing his job.

  The parlor was already filled to capacity, with several groups straggling out into the hall. I edged my way inside, greeting those I knew, and signed the book by the door. The flower- lined casket was flanked on either side by a row of chairs reserved for the family. Pepper’s red Dr. Pepper hat hung over the rung of one of them, and I could imagine him forgetting he even had it on until he got to the funeral home, and someone pointed it out.

  An elderly woman in a dark print dress stood over the coffin, dabbing at the tears that ran down her wrinkled cheeks with a tissue that was crumpled and frayed. Pepper was beside her, patting the hand that gripped the edge of the casket. I hung back, reluctant to intrude on the family grief.

  As is customary when a large group gathers in a small space, there was a lot of babble. People get together at funerals as much to catch up with each other as to acknowledge the life of the one who has passed. I caught a fragment of a conversation behind me. “Roland said he was going to be cremated, funerals have got so expensive, but I told him not me, no sir, not for one minute, not after what happened to all those poor souls over in South Carolina… why, Raine Stockton, how are you honey?”

  I turned into the buxom embrace of LeBelle Mannard, who had done my hair, my aunt’s hair, my mother’s hair and just about everyone else’s hair in the county for as long as I could remember. “How’s your aunt? And your poor uncle, how’s he doing after that heart attack? We sure do miss him around town, we surely do. You get into the shop some time next week and I’ll give you a trim,” she added with a critical look at my hair. She took a wayward curl between her thumb and forefinger, examined it with squinted eyes, and added, “You could use some color, too. You’re not twenty years old anymore, Raine Stockton, and a girl’s got to think about the way she looks. You give me a call, and we’ll set up an afternoon.”

  Great. Now I needed a whole afternoon.

  I assured LeBelle that my aunt and uncle were in excellent health and agreed it was a tragedy to lose such a sweet woman as Annie Mae Potts.“I did her hair, you know,” LeBelle confided with a proud nod toward the casket. “I think she looks real natural.”

  I’ve never known the right thing to say to that.

  I excused myself and, pausing a few times to say hello to people I knew, I went over to pay my respects.

  The elderly woman was turning away from the casket as I approached, and Pepper patted her shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort as she wept.She was at least fifty pounds heavier than Annie Mae had been toward the end of her life, but otherwise the resemblance was remarkable. I knew she had to be the sister. “I should have come down to see her more often,” she said. “ Especially after she went into the home…”

  “Now, Aunt Ella, she knew you did your best.”

  She pressed the tissue hard against her red wet eyes and turned her face to Pepper’s shoulder. “Well,” she said in a small quavery voice. “I kept our secret. All these years, I kept it, and I guess it don’t matter anymore now, does it? But she had to know I loved her.”

  “Yes ma’am, she did, I know she did.” Pepper looked distraught as he tried to steer his aunt away from the casket. “You just hush now.”

  Neither one of them had noticed me, standing slightly behind them, and when I touched Pepper’s arm he started. “Miss Stockton,” he said, surprised.

  He looked tense and exhausted, vastly different from the big, good-natured man I’d last seen in the cab of a bulldozer, shouting orders to his crew. His shoulders were stooped and his color was sallow. He quickly seated his aunt in one of the folding chairs beside the coffin, and turned back to me.

  “I’m so sorry about your mother,” I said, extending my hand. “She was such a sweet woman.”

  “Why, Miss Stockton, that’s real nice of you to say so.” He shook my hand. “And good of you to come.”

  I explained how I knew her from my nursing home visits with Cisco, and he told me how much she had enjoyed them. After that the conversation faltered, and I turned to pay my final respects to the dear little old white-haired woman in the pink satin lined coffin. Despite my mother’s best efforts, I really am not very good at this sort of thing. In fact, I’m generally not entirely comfortable in any social situation that doesn’t include a dog by my side.

  When I turned away, Pepper was already engaged in conversation with someone else, so I went down the line of family members who were sitting on either side of the coffin, introducing myself to those I didn’t know and murmuring the same few awkward words—“So sorry.” “She will be missed.” “A lovely woman.” Most of the family members were fairly sanguine about it all and responded with “She had a good life” and “ She’d been sick so long.”--which is what you’d expect from relatives of an eighty-two year old woman who had had three strokes and had been in a nursing home for the past two years. But the aunt was inconsolable. She took my hand in a fevered, claw-like grip and looked up at me with swimming blue eyes that were eerily reminiscent of her sister’s.

  “We had to do it,” she said. Her hand tightened on mine and there was a note of desperation in her voice, “You understand that, don’t you?”

  Because I didn’t know what else to say, I replied soothingly, “Of course I do.”

  I glanced at the young man sitting next to her, who was texting on his cell phone, and he rolled his eyes in a meaningful fashion. “Grandma,” he said patiently, “I don’t think this lady knows what you’re talking about.” And under his breath, “I don’t think anybody knows what you’re talking about.”

  With a sudden sharp look at him, the woman snapped, “Of course she does. And you mind your manners!”

  I managed to extricate my hand and I said gently, “I know it’s hard, but this pai
n will pass. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  They teach you how to deal with the elderly and the infirm in Therapy Dog training. I couldn’t help thinking that the grandson, who was already working his thumbs on the cell phone again, could have benefited from a class or two.

  I said, “I used to bring my Golden Retriever to visit Annie Mae every Thursday afternoon. They had the best time together. She would save her cookies from lunch for him.”

  Of course it was against the rules to allow the therapy dogs to eat food from the patients, for a variety of excellent reasons, but I always promised I would save the cookies for Cisco’s dessert after supper. I would then let her treat him with dog biscuits from my pocket while he did tricks for her.

  “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed softly, and some of the raw grief in her eyes was replaced by cautious gratitude. “You’re the girl with the dog? She wrote me about you. She even sent me a picture that you took of her with him. She was so proud that you came every week.”

  Unexpectedly, I felt tears prick my eyes. You never know how much some simple thing you do can mean to someone else.“We enjoyed visiting with her. Cisco loved her, and she always had such interesting stories about the old days.”

  A shadow filled her eyes, and her smile trembled. “The old days weren’t always that good,” she said, “but we did have some memories. We’re twins, don’t you know. As close as two sisters have ever been. I lived right there on the mountain in that little house on the pond next to hers until I married. Of course, that was after Henry…” Her voice caught and she pressed the tissue against her eyes again. I patted her knee a little awkwardly.

  She went on, “I didn’t want to leave her then but my husband got a job in Wheeling, and us with a little one on the way… but I should have visited more often. I should have come back to stay with her after my Jimmy died, I thought about it, but it was so far away from my children…” She caught herself, and smiled wearily. “Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing, listening to me rambling on. No wonder Annie Mae liked you so much. I wish I could meet that dog of yours. She said it did tricks.”