Skeleton's Key (Delta Crossroads Trilogy, Book 2) (2 page)

Above him, hovering and breathing through a stuffed nose, Harvey angled for a better look. “What’s it feel like?”

“Brittle.” Cracked along the top, a gaping hole in the back. Cage’s cop-trained brain immediately thought of murder, but he quickly dismissed it. Who knew how long the thing had been here?

He collected the flashlight, shining the beam around the perimeter of the skull. Something had been digging all right. Clumps of earth splattered the brick foundation, and smoother, gray objects peeked up from the earth.

“Shit.” Cage swore again.

“Knew’d it though, didn’t you?” Harvey inched closer.

“Knew what?”

“That the story was true. About old John James and what his crazy daughter did with his body. Daddy’s little girl lost her marbles when he died. Kept his body in this house.”

“He’s buried in the Roselea cemetery.”

“So she said.”

Cage didn’t have time to listen to crazy Ironwood legends. He cast the light over the skull again. “No idea what time period this skull is from, or if it’s even a white person. Could be a slave. Could be a Natchez Indian. Could be any damned body.”

He toed the loose earth around the skull. He didn’t see any more bone, but Cage had a feeling it was there. Skulls don’t just end up in the earth all by their lonesome. Irritated by the intrusive light, a fat black beetle scuttled across the top of the skull and disappeared into the earth.

Cage straightened, swiping another cobweb aside. He’d better call the sheriff. His boss would love this.

“You finished with the box?”

Harvey’s mouth hung open, eyes slightly glazed. “If that’s John James, then I wonder if the secret room really exists after all.”

The best of the Ironwood legends. If any secret room existed in the shabby mansion, Cage hadn’t seen any evidence of it. More stories from centuries-old gossip mongers. “Please finish up so we can get out of the dark, and I can call the sheriff.”

“Yeah, all right. But if I were you’d I’d start searching this old place. Tear it apart if need be.” Harvey reluctantly turned back to the fuse box but kept glancing over his shoulder as he worked, as though worried the skull might start crawling toward him.

Cage sighed with relief when he heard the window air conditioner crank up. He yanked the string hanging from the bulb. It flashed briefly, and then the bulb died.

“Fantastic. Come on upstairs. We’ll settle up so you can get back to your other jobs.”

Harvey didn’t look ready to leave, but Cage directed him back up the rickety steps, reaching again for the missing handrail. He needed to fix that ASAP. Cops and probably the county coroner would be slogging up and down the stairs. Last thing he needed was for someone to break a neck.

He glanced back in the direction of the skull lying invisible in the darkness. A cold tremor slid down his spine.

Who the hell
was
buried in the basement?

*     *     *

Cage’s boss, Sheriff
Jim Robards arrived with the county coroner in tow. Seeing the two men together always reminded Cage of the old comic,
Mutt and Jeff
. Robards was tall and mostly slim except for the generous padding around his middle. He regularly blamed his wife’s cooking for his going to seed, but the sheriff’s love of sweets didn’t help. In contrast, Jeb Riley was short, thin, and sporting a head of gray hair. Pushing seventy, Jeb had been the Adams County Coroner for more than twenty years, and his experience as a funeral home technician gave him more knowledge than many of the state’s elected coroners.

Cage shook hands with Jeb as Robards strolled through the foyer. The large, open space had once been a showpiece, but the marble floors were faded and cracked, as were the plaster walls. The church had refused to put any money into restoration, but they had allowed Cage to do minor repair work. Under his care, the big house had received a major clean up with the Adams County Historical Foundation footing the bill. Most of the original furnishings had either been sold during the plantation’s lean years or donated to the historical foundation, but many of Ironwood’s original features remained: built-in hutches, fireplace mantles, wooden doors, china handles, and windows. After getting rid of renters’ trash, Cage had cleaned every room until all resembled their original states, and he hoped to help in the restoration once the Yankee expert arrived.

“It’s clean at least,” Cage said. “No more mountains of dust, and you can see the crown molding. It’s not in too bad of shape. Most of the hardwood floors are decent, too.”

Jeb eyed the double staircase, Ironwood’s most elaborate feature. Made of rich mahogany and standing more than thirty feet high, the dual staircase curved gracefully up to a balcony overlooking the grand ballroom. “What kind of shape is the stairwell in?”

“Hard to tell,” Cage said. “Some of the stairs are rotting, and I haven’t gone up there. Who knows what the Yankee expert will say.”

Robards snorted. “Damned rich Yankees, coming down here to buy up stuff cheap. Suppose he’ll be educating us illiterate Rednecks, too.”

Cage had tried to keep an open mind about his new employer, but the idea of a Northerner being in charge of Ironwood’s restoration tied him up in knots. Restoration expert or not, what did Danny Evans know about Southern history and tradition? Nothing more than what he’d read in history books, and that didn’t do Mississippi any justice. People didn’t know what life was like down here until they experienced it for themselves. So how could Evans fully care for Ironwood without a true understanding of what the place meant to Roselea?

“You ought to at least give the Yankee a chance,” Jeb said. “Don’t be judging someone before you even met them. Maybe this Evans will do Ironwood justice.”

“We’ll see.” Cage shrugged. “Can’t imagine he’ll be thrilled about the new development. Ready to see what I’ve found?”

Sheriff Robards descended behind Cage, with Jeb bringing up the rear. “You tell Harvey Lett to keep quiet about this?”

“Yeah.”

“Means it’ll be all over town by tonight,” Jeb said.

“I hate these old basements.” Sheriff Robards grumbled as the men gathered in the dank cellar. “All of them smell like centuries of piss and mold.”

“Careful on these steps,” Cage warned.

He’d replaced the light bulb and set up a camping light on the rotting shelves. The additional light made navigating slightly easier, but it also made the heavy cobwebs shine like silver mist. He raked his hands through his hair and across his shoulders and then scratched the back of his neck. He hoped to God there weren’t any black widows down here.

“Skull’s over there.” Cage pointed to the back corner. It sat exactly as Cage had left it, partially hidden in the dirt. The additional light made the bone even creepier.

“You look for any more of the skeleton?” Robards asked.

“No,” Cage answered. “Figured I’d let Jeb do that. You know, protocol and all.”

Jeb knelt down to inspect the area. He breathed deeply and then coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. “Too bad CaryAnne never managed to put a concrete floor in. She was John James’s daughter and the last of the original family.” Jeb ran his gloved fingers carefully over the skull. “She probably ran out of money.”

“What makes you say that?” Cage asked.

Jeb shrugged. “My grandmother knew CaryAnne. Used to have tea with her in the evenings before CaryAnne’s health took a bad turn. That was in the late forties, after World War II and during the industrial boom. This place was never one of the giant cotton producers, but the family kept things going pretty well until the Great Depression. You know they come from the Evaline Laurents?”

Cage knew the story. Built by one of Roselea’s founding fathers, Evaline claimed the title of oldest antebellum in Adams County. “Henrî Laurent disowned his son for marrying a descendant of the Natchez Indians. The son built Ironwood, and the two families never reconciled. CaryAnne supposedly never set foot in Evaline, even though the feud was two generations behind her.”

Jeb continued to examine the earth. “CaryAnne never married. She kept this place up for a long time after her daddy died, but by the end, it wasn’t doing too well. Guess that’s why it never got treated like the big house.”

“You think the skull could be Native American?” Robards asked.

Jeb continued to examine the remains. “Hard to say, and I’m certainly no expert. Skull is clean–no sign of any tissue left. My best guess is that it’s a few decades old, but I’m just a county coroner. A medical examiner needs to make that call.”

Robards shifted his weight, hiking up his belt. “We need to start digging, find out if there’s more skeletal remains or just a dumped skull. Then we ship everything to the state medical examiner’s office in Jackson. They’ll have to go through any remains, but unless they can get a DNA match, we may never find out who this is.”

“I’ve got an intern who’s had some experience with archeological digs,” Jeb said. “He’s helping us out during summer vacation. He and I can start working on this today, but it might take a few days to make sure we find every bone. If there are any more.”

They stood over the remains, the yawning eye socket offering nothing more than a blank stare and more questions.

“You’ll have to call the Yankee,” Robards said.

Cage’s chills morphed into prickly irritation. Something terrible
was
about to happen.

“You’re the sheriff,” Cage tried. “Something like this would probably be better coming from you.”

“Nice try. You’re the caretaker, and you found the thing.” Robard’s dimples shone through his chubby face. “Let us know how he takes it.”

Jeb stood, wincing as his knees cracked. “No cell reception down here. I’ll go upstairs and call Billy. Get him over here and working.”

Upstairs, Jeb went into Ironwood’s expansive and once grand ballroom to make his call. Robards sat down at the small kitchen table, folded his arms across the formica, and smirked. “Best get it over with.”

Cage had been dreading talking to Evans for weeks. So far, the real estate agent had the pleasure of dealing with Evans and passing on the orders to Cage. Somehow, he couldn’t see the agent handling news of the skull very well. Easier for Cage to tell Danny Evans himself.

Turning his back on his grinning boss, Cage dug out his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts until he came across the number he’d been given for Danny Evans. With any luck, Evans wouldn’t answer, and Cage could just leave a message.

No such luck. Halfway through the second ring, the call connected.

“Hello?” The response was so quick it took Cage a few seconds to process the response.

“Hello? Who is this?” A woman’s voice rattled through the receiver. Like every Northerner Cage had ever encountered, she spoke too quickly, and he had to listen hard to understand her.

“This is Cage Foster, caretaker of Ironwood.”

“Who?”

“Cage. I’m the caretaker of Ironwood.”

“What about Ironwood?” The woman’s voice–Cage assumed she was Evan’s secretary–came out even more staccato.

She couldn’t understand him, Cage realized. Heat spread across his cheeks. Caretaker probably sounded like “currtaker,” and he probably sounded like a dumb hick to her.

“I’m the
care
taker.”

“Oh!” She laughed, and even though it sounded like a song on fast forward to Cage, her laugh wasn’t unpleasant. “Cage. I love that name, by the way. Very Southern.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“And so polite. Everyone I’ve spoken to has been the same. Must be the country upbringing.”

He dragged his teeth across his bottom lip. Country upbringing. She no doubt pictured him in tattered overalls with a piece of straw sticking out of his mouth and a greasy trucker’s hat on his head.

“Maybe. Listen, we’ve got a development here at the plantation, and I’ll be needing to speak to Mr. Evans right away.”

A beat of silence and then more laughter. “Oh goodness, Cage. We’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“Ma’am?” The question came without thought, and he rolled his eyes. He’d definitely proven himself a country bumpkin.

“Yes. There’s no Mr. Evans. At least not around here. We Northern women are independent, you know.” She might have been smiling, but all Cage could hear was the condescension in her voice.

Embarrassment swept over his already flushing skin and rendered him silent.

“I’m Dannette Evans, but I can’t stand my first name. Call me Dani, please.”

H
eat rushed her
in a single, eye-watering wave. Her breath, hot as fire, stunted in her lungs and evaporated. Shimmering waves of color, dulled by her sunglasses, danced across her field of vision. Her skin boiled and then erupted in sweat. Dani gasped at her first encounter with Mississippi.

“Holy God.”

She squinted at the ticket for the rental car she’d ordered and then looked at the map of the enormous lot at the Jackson airport. “This is going to be fun.”

By the time she found the blue Ford Focus, Dani’s fine, strawberry-blond hair was plastered to the back of her neck. Her thin cotton t-shirt clung as heavy as wool to her flaming skin. The heat was so oppressive dizziness swept over her. She jammed the key in the lock and leaned against the little car only to jump back in agony.