Dead Man's Bones (5 page)

“That’s what I was thinking,” Blackie said. “And that cave is way back, just off the ridge, on what used to be the old Swenson Ranch. A caver would have to drive ten miles across the ranch—which raises a question about his vehicle. He’d have to have left it, but how come nobody’s spotted it, during all these years?”

“Maybe he came in at the Flower Farm and hiked up the road along the creek,” Brian suggested. “That would be a lot shorter.”

Blackie shook his head. “The road that’s there now wasn’t built until the early eighties. Which means that this person had to hike up the creek bed and climb the bluff in sandals. That’d be some rugged hike.” He frowned. “And either way, there’s still the question about the vehicle.”

“Well, then,” Brian said, “maybe he rode a horse across the ranch.”

“In sandals?” I asked. Even in boots and chaps, riding across that ranch wouldn’t be any picnic. I’ve been there, and it’s nothing but miles and miles of prickly pear, mesquite thickets, and scrub cedar.

“There’s the missing wallet, too,” McQuaid said thoughtfully. “No matter how he got there, a caver wouldn’t have any reason to leave his ID at home.”

“You didn’t mention finding a flashlight,” I said.

“That’s because there wasn’t one,” Blackie replied.

I took an involuntary breath. No light? I visited Mammoth Cave once, and the guide—with appropriate warning—turned off the lights. The darkness that abruptly engulfed me was not just the absence of light; it had weight and texture and movement and intention, and I suddenly knew why, in every culture, darkness is a symbol for consummate evil. I’m not especially claustrophobic, but I was glad, very glad, when the guide turned the lights back on.

I let out my breath. “You know what this means,” I said quietly. “Somebody else was on the scene. Somebody who brought the person there in a vehicle, then left with the light.”

“And that rock,” McQuaid said. He turned to Brian. “Isn’t it a little unusual to find a large rock lying loose in the interior of one of the limestone caves around here?”

Brian stared at his father. “Yeah, I guess it is, Dad. I’d have to go back and look, but it may have been the only loose rock in that corridor. And the ceiling was rounded from water action. Now that I think about it, I don’t see how that rock could have fallen from that ceiling.”

“So somebody carried the rock in from outside,” I hazarded. The same somebody who had driven the vehicle and carried the light.

Blackie nodded. “It’s a fossiliferous limestone. There are similar chunks lying just outside the cave. In other words, we’re not dealing with a natural rockfall.”

“Why didn’t I spot that?” Brian muttered, chagrined.

McQuaid grinned. “Devil’s in the details, kid.”

“Well,” Blackie said, “given all these questions, you can see why I’m not ready to file this case under ‘Accidental death.’ I want a forensics expert to take a look at those bones and give us an opinion on the cause of death.”

“A forensics expert,” Brian said in an awed tone. “You mean, I discovered a crime scene? Wait’ll Jake hears about this!” Jake is Brian’s current girlfriend. Her full name is Jacqueline Keene. She’s a cheerful, athletic girl, high-point scorer on the girls basketball team and a champion soccer player. Somehow, “Jake” seems to fit.

“Brian,” McQuaid said darkly, “this is not a video game.”

“That’s exactly the point, Dad.” Brian looked gleeful. “This is for real. We’re talking murder here. Which makes it a lot better than a video game. Or a movie, even.”

I thought of the solitary bones in the cave, and the human body—energetic, adventuresome, full of dreams and longings—that had once encased them, and bit back my reprimand. In a few years, Brian would be mature enough to hear the insensitivity in his response. Until then, admonitions from me would probably have the opposite effect.

McQuaid must have come to the same conclusion, for he only shook his head. “Who’s doing the forensic work on this one?” he asked, turning back to Blackie. “The Bexar M.E.’s office? Or Travis?” Adams County is a small county, and can’t afford its own medical examiner’s office. Blackie sends his work to either Bexar or Travis County, whichever has the shortest waiting list.

“Neither,” Blackie replied. “Both are stacked up from here to Christmas, and since this is obviously a cold case, it’ll go to the bottom of the list.” He reached for the curry dish and took a second helping. “On this one, I’m getting some help from CTSU.”

“Oh, yeah?” McQuaid said, with interest. “Who?”

“Alana Montoya,” Blackie said.

“Oh, sure,” Brian said eagerly. “You know, Dad. Alana. The woman who’s working at the cave dig. She’s good.” He grinned. “She’s got a Ph.D. in bones. People call her the bone doc.”

Blackie nodded. “She’s agreed to do a forensic analysis of the skeleton.” He looked quizzically at McQuaid. “You probably know her, McQuaid. The Anthropology department hired her last year to set up the new forensic anthropology program. Some of the courses must be cross-listed with Criminal Justice.”

“I’ve met her,” McQuaid said, in a curiously guarded tone. He added, slowly, “In fact, I was on the search committee that hired her.”

“Then you know that she’s got first-rate credentials.” To me, Blackie said, “Edited a big textbook or something like that. She was on the research staff at Louisiana State University before she came here, in the FACES laboratory—that’s Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhancement Services,” he added, for Brian’s benefit. “One of the top forensic labs in the country. I figure Alana will get the work done a lot faster than the folks at Bexar or Travis, and cheaper, too.” He grinned. “She’s one smart gal, if you ask me.”

“Oh, she’s smart enough,” McQuaid said, and pushed his plate away. “And experienced.”

I looked at McQuaid, hearing something caustic in his tone. Blackie’s head came up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Nothing,” McQuaid said, with a quick shrug. “Nothing at all.” He looked at his watch and got up. “Sorry guys, but I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late to class.”

“There’s dessert,” I said.

McQuaid dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “Save it for me, babe,” he said. “See you later, Blackie. Brian, don’t forget your homework.” More Dad-speak.

Blackie insisted on helping Brian with the kitchen chores—the rule at our house is that anybody who doesn’t cook is obliged to wash the dishes. I left the two of them to their work and went out to the herb garden behind the house to cut some lavender.

When we moved here three or so years ago, I didn’t plan to have a large garden. But the herb gardens around the shop are more for display than actual production, and every year, I seem to want more of something—more lavender, more sage, more parsley, more thyme. So the backyard garden has become the place where I grow the herbs I dry to sell in the shop, or package fresh and sell in the produce section at Cavette’s Grocery, the old-fashioned market at the corner of Guadalupe and Green, just a few blocks from the shop. I always smile when I see those neat little raffia-tied cellophane packages of Thyme and Seasons basil and rosemary and marjoram, and think of somebody cooking with them, making soup, maybe, or a salad, or a main dish. Somehow, it’s like spreading the wealth. I’ll never get rich, but I’m doing good work.

As the evening deepened into dusk and the nighthawks began to dart through the sky, I spent a pleasant half hour gathering lavender, which I would dry for use in potpourri and sachets. The evening was warm, the soft hum of satisfied honeybees vibrated in the air, and the lavender fragrance wrapped itself around me like a perfumed shawl. The scent of lavender is known to relieve stress, calm anxieties, and promote sleep, and in the evenings, when I’m working among the lavenders, I always feel languid and lazy and loose, as if the sweetened air has softened my bones. Tonight, I moved through the garden slowly, forgetting my worries about the business, about McQuaid’s new enterprise and Brian’s caveman, just breathing in the therapeutic scent of lavender.

I had finished filling my basket and was on my way back to the house, still feeling mellow and calm, when Blackie came down the path toward me.

“I’m heading home,” he said. “Thanks for the dinner, China.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” I replied. He fell into step with me and we went up the path together. “Thanks for giving Brian a hand with the dishes.”

“He’s a super kid,” Blackie said. “Got a good head on his shoulders.”

I agreed, and added, “We don’t see enough of you these days, Blackie. Why don’t you and Sheila go out to dinner with us next weekend?” I grinned. “We could do some country dancing. McQuaid and I haven’t been to Pistol Pete’s yet.” Pistol Pete’s is a new dance hall north of town, on the Old San Marcos Road.

Blackie slowed, stopped, his hands in his pockets. His face was serious and his gray eyes were steady, sober. “You haven’t talked to Sheila in the last couple of weeks?”

I shook my head. “Nope.” I’d phoned her office to see if she’d be available for lunch, but she’d said she was busy. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, you might say so,” Blackie replied. His voice grew taut and bitter. “We’ve called it off. The engagement, I mean.”

“Again?” I chuckled. “Is this the third time, or the fourth?” I stopped laughing when I saw the way his mouth had tightened at the corners, and my mellow, lavender-flavored mood began to evaporate. “Serious, huh?”

“Yeah, serious. It’s just not going to happen, China. And the problem isn’t our jobs, either. That’s just an excuse that Sheila finds convenient.”

Sheila Dawson, Blackie’s fiancée—Smart Cookie, to her friends—has served for the past two years as Pecan Springs’s chief of police, and a darn good one, too, although she has her share of enemies. Their law enforcement work gives Blackie and Sheila a great deal in common, but it’s also been a continual source of friction. For one thing, the sheriff is elected, and Sheila has been concerned that some of her unpopular moves—such as insisting on early retirement for certain older officers who had gotten lazy and complacent—might cause him to lose votes. For another, Blackie worries about Sheila’s safety and is apt to go out looking for her if she doesn’t show up when she’s expected. And both have a tendency to poke their noses into the other’s cases, giving advice where it isn’t necessarily welcome. Altogether, a difficult set of issues to handle.

But Blackie had said that work wasn’t the problem. “If it isn’t your jobs, what is it?” I stopped. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”

Blackie turned, looking out over the garden, so I couldn’t see his face. His shoulders were slumped. “I’m just tired of her shilly-shallying, that’s all.” He sighed heavily. “We’ve been engaged—if that’s what you want to call it—for nearly two years. Two years of nothing but on-again, off-again, will-she, won’t-she.” His voice became rough. “Damn it, if she hasn’t made up her mind by now, she’s not going to. I’m the marrying kind. I’m tired of hanging around, waiting.”

For Blackie, this was an unusually long speech. The sheriff is not a talkative man, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, and he had taken me by surprise. I said the only thing I could think of.

“I’m sorry.” It didn’t sound good enough. “I’m
really
sorry, Blackie,” I amended. “It must hurt like hell.”

“It does. Sheila’s a great gal. Whoever gets her will be a damn lucky man.” Blackie’s mouth went crooked. “I’ve just got to face up to the fact that it ain’t gonna be me, that’s all.”

I put my hand on his sleeve, feeling the muscular strength through the sleeve of his shirt. “You okay?”

He turned. His gray eyes met mine, and I could see the hurt and anger shadowing his glance. “Not yet,” he said, his voice husky. “But I will be. Thanks for asking.” Unexpectedly, he put his arms around me and gave me a quick hug. “It’s nice to see McQuaid so happy, China. You’re good for him. I guess I’ve been hoping that Sheila and I would have something like what you guys have. But it’s over now, and I’ve got to get on with my life.”

He held me for a moment longer, not speaking, as if he had run out of words, or the words still left in him were too painful to speak.

Then he dropped his arms, stepped back, and was gone.

 
“WELL, it’s a damn shame, if you ask me,” McQuaid said, tossing his shorts into the laundry hamper. It took nearly two years for him to learn that little trick, and I see it as a sign that we’re getting used to living together. He’d probably say the same thing about my remembering to check Big Red Mama’s tire pressure when I fill her up at the gas pump. I’m learning that if you give a little, you get a little.