Dead Man's Bones Read online

  “Sounds fine. I need to check the kitchen and let Ruby know when I’ll be back.” I paused. “Did Sheila tell you?”

  “About Hank?” His blue eyes were serious, and I saw pain there. “Yes. Not good. I wouldn’t have thought he’d try a damn-fool stunt like that. What the hell was he thinking?” He put his hand on my arm. “You okay? Sheila said you were with her when she went to investigate.”

  I nodded. “Since we’re going out for lunch, I’d like to drive over to the hospital and leave some flowers for Florence. Maybe I’ll even get to see her for a minute or two—if you don’t mind, that is.”

  He swigged the last of his tea. “The truck is out front. You can tell me about the shooting as we drive.”

  There wasn’t much to tell, actually, since Sheila had given him the official story. I added the bit about Colin, since I doubted if Sheila had mentioned it, but since McQuaid hadn’t met him, it didn’t mean much to him. The name didn’t ring a bell, either.

  At the Adams County Hospital, the charge nurse—Helen Berger, a friend and fellow member of the Myra Merryweather Herb Guild—took the flowers and the card Ruby and I had signed, but told me that Miss Obermann wasn’t permitted to have visitors until the next day. So McQuaid and I drove back into town and parked in front of Krautzenheimer’s Restaurant, which is located on the square between the Sophie Briggs Historical Museum and the Ben Franklin Store. It’s a favorite lunchtime hangout for people who work nearby.

  “Ah,” McQuaid said with a gusty sigh, as we sat down in a high-backed wooden booth and opened our menus. “Real food for real men.”

  I pointed out that chicken crepes qualified as real food, but he said he didn’t think so. One of the Krautzenheimer granddaughters, costumed in a perky red skirt, suspenders, and embroidered Bavarian apron, danced over and took our orders: sauerbraten for McQuaid and a bowl of goulash for me, with spaetzle, tiny German dumplings that are put through a sieve into a pot of simmering stock. If you haven’t had Mrs. K’s spaetzle yet, you have to try it the next time you’re in Pecan Springs. You’ll also get a tasty earful of German polka music with your meal. While we were waiting for our food, the music system cleared its throat and Oma and the Oompahs began to play a bubbly rendition of the “Beer Barrel Polka.”

  The Oompahs are a popular polka band from New Braunfels, where they always entertain at Polka Fest. Their framed photos decorate the Krautzenheimer walls, along with dozens of photos of other local bands wearing German vests and walking shorts and red kneesocks and jaunty green felt hats, brandishing their accordions and clarinets and saxophones and big brass tubas. The Bohemian Dutchmen, the Jubilee Polka Band, the Happy Travelers, the Cloverleaf Orchestra. Eat your heart out, Lawrence Welk.

  McQuaid stirred his tea. “Sheila said they haven’t been able to locate Juan Gomez.”

  I thought of the window that had gone dark. “Maybe he’s away for the weekend. Or maybe he’s got a girlfriend, and he’s staying with her.”

  “Maybe,” McQuaid said. “He’s a good kid, with a lot of promise. I was sorry when he dropped out of school. Now that Hank’s out of the picture, maybe I can talk him into coming back.” He picked up his glass and looked at me over the rim. “Sheila said that the old lady used one of her father’s guns.”

  I nodded. “It’s too bad the cabinet wasn’t locked. It might have slowed her down, given her a minute to think about what she was doing. She knows Hank. She should have realized that he wasn’t a serious threat.” The minute I said that, though, I realized how silly it was. When a man armed with a butcher knife breaks into your house at eleven o’clock at night, you’re probably glad to have a gun handy.

  McQuaid was looking at me strangely. “But the cabinet was locked when I was there. I know, because I tried the door. I wanted to have a closer look at that Luger.”

  I didn’t have time to respond. A uniformed figure stopped beside our booth, and I looked up.

  “Hey, you guys,” Blackie said, and clapped a hand on McQuaid’s shoulder. “Is this a private conversation, or may I join you?”

  “We’re just talking about last night’s shooting,” McQuaid said. He got up and moved over to my side of the booth, giving Blackie a seat by himself. “Nothing private.”

  “I heard about that,” Blackie said, hanging his white Stetson on the hat rack at the outside corner of the booth. He sat down, his square bulk filling the space. “Bad news. I knew Hank Dixon—he did some work for the sheriff’s office when we were still at the old location.” The Adams County sheriff’s office has recently moved to a spiffy new building just outside of town. “Would’ve thought he was smarter than that.”

  “Folks do stupid things,” McQuaid said. “Maybe he was on drugs.” He gestured to the other Krautzenheimer granddaughter. The conversation stopped while Blackie, without bothering with the menu, ordered a plate of bratwurst with red cabbage and home fries. The “Beer Barrel Polka” ran out of oomph and a cheerful accordion took up “The Happy Wanderer.”

  “I just got Alana Montoya’s preliminary report,” he said, propping his elbows on the table. “On the bones in the cave,” he added, catching McQuaid’s querying look. “Looks like we’ve got a male, about six foot three or four inches tall, age around thirty, with one gold tooth, right front upper.”

  “Anything show up yet through missing persons?” McQuaid asked.

  “Nothing locally. Nothing statewide, either, at least nothing that matches the general time period, gender, size, et cetera. An Adams County girl disappeared in 1968, probably put flowers in her hair and headed for San Francisco. A Mexican national, a field worker, in 1971, five-foot-four. A couple of years later, another woman, in her sixties. None of these are possibles for our caveman.”

  “A transient,” McQuaid said, as a Krautzenheimer grandson appeared with a tray full of dishes and began parceling out the food.

  “Maybe. But somebody was hosting him, and that somebody had to have been a local.” His host and murderer. “Have you talked to the dentists in town? If he was from around here, somebody ought to remember installing a gold tooth in a mouth that belonged to a six-foot-four-inch man.”

  “That looks like our best lead,” Blackie agreed. “I was pleased at Montoya’s quick turnaround.” He grinned. “She’s a helluva lot easier to work with than either Bexar or Travis counties.”

  “Easier on the eyes, too,” I said lightly. I was only joking, but Blackie blushed and ducked his head.

  Uh-oh, I thought. I knew that look, and I knew Blackie, who may not say much but is transparent about certain things. The poor guy hadn’t even completely untangled himself from his relationship with Sheila, and he was already on the verge of romantic involvement with another woman. And a woman with serious psychological problems of her own, if Alana’s drinking was any indication. Blackie didn’t need this.

  McQuaid obviously agreed, because I could feel him stiffen. But guys rarely tell other guys that they should stay the hell away from a woman. He only said, “Montoya doesn’t have much of a lab. Her program hasn’t been funded yet.”

  “All the more reason to be pleased at the way she handled the analysis,” Blackie said, and began paying attention to his bratwurst and cabbage. It was obvious that he didn’t want to talk about it.

  It was Saturday, and Krautzenheimer’s attracts tourists who enjoy the German ambience of Pecan Springs, so the restaurant was busier than usual. We ate quickly, didn’t talk much, and adjourned to the street, to the tune of the “Pennsylvania Polka.” Blackie put on his Stetson, nodded courteously to me, and headed for the sheriff’s car parked next to the courthouse.

  “I hope he doesn’t get involved with Alana Montoya just now,” I said, watching him go.

  “Not ever,” McQuaid replied, with an odd emphasis. I turned, catching a hard look as it crossed his face.

  “Why?” I asked.

  McQuaid gave me his I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-this shrug. “I’m going home. When is Brian getting back from his camping trip?”


  “Not until Sunday night. I—”

  “Hang on,” McQuaid said, looking over my shoulder. “There’s Sheila. It’s probably not important, but I want to mention that business about the unlocked gun cabinet.”

  I turned. Sheila was disappearing through the door of Good Earth Goods, which was just down the street from the restaurant.

  “I’ll wait in the truck,” I said. I didn’t feel like confronting Sheila and Colin Fowler, after she had lied to me the night before. There was no doubt in my mind that she knew the man, and knew him with some intimacy.

  McQuaid was out again in a couple of minutes. He was frowning.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, as he yanked opened the door and climbed in, shutting it with a hard bang. McQuaid’s blue truck is about twenty years old. The driver’s side door doesn’t always want to open, and when it’s open it likes to stay that way. You have to use brute force.

  “That guy in the shop,” McQuaid said, putting the key into the ignition. “I know him.”

  I remembered my speculation that Colin was a cop. “Colin Fowler, you mean?”

  “Yeah. That’s the name Sheila gave when she introduced us, anyway.” The engine turned over, then quit. McQuaid pumped the gas and tried again. This time it caught. “But it’s not his real name.”

  I turned to face him. “It’s not?” Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.

  “Nope. Trouble is, I can’t remember it, or where I met him.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll think of it, though. He had something to do with a case I was on once. I just have to remember which one.” He put the truck into reverse and backed out onto the street.

  I settled back uneasily for the short drive to the shop. This definitely did not bode well for Ruby.

  Chapter Twelve

  Another herb that is often recommended for the prevention of osteoporosis is red clover (Trifolium pratense). In a recent study published in the journal Menopause, it was reported that isoflavone extracts of this phytoestrogenic herb significantly increased bone mineral density, as well as raising the HDL cholesterol level (“good” cholesterol).

  Herbalgram

  Number 56, Fall, 2002

  In the north of England, leaves of red clover were also employed as a charm against witches and evil.

  Geoffrey Grigson

  The Englishman’s Flora

  Sunday morning dawned bright and shiny, the cedar elms glowing gold against a cornflower-blue sky, the clean, crisp scent of cedar in the air: the sort of day that is Texas at its best. McQuaid and I were lazy and slept late on Sunday morning, then had a leisurely breakfast of bacon, eggs, and pancakes, which I make with a tablespoon of chopped chives stirred into the batter. The meal was only slightly marred by McQuaid’s discovery, when he opened the refrigerator freezer, of the frozen lizard corpse.

  “What the devil—” he yelped, jumping back.

  I grinned. “How cool is that?” I asked, borrowing one of Brian’s phrases, and adding, guiltily, “Sorry. I should have warned you.”

  He picked up the frozen beast by the tail. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. Brian has to keep his animals in his room. How in hell did this lizard get into the freezer?”

  “I put it there,” I said, and related the story of finding the creature, dead on the bar of soap in the bathroom.

  “Doesn’t change anything,” he muttered, putting the glaciated lizard back in the freezer and taking out the ice cube tray. “That boy’s got to remember to keep track of his animals.”

  “Speaking of remembering,” I said tactfully, “have you come up with any more thoughts about Colin Fowler—or whatever his real name is?”

  “Nope.” He dropped a couple of ice cubes into our orange juice glasses, shaking his head. “But I’m working on it. It’ll come to me when I’m doing something else. Eating breakfast, yelling at Brian.” He bent over and dropped a kiss on my head. “Making love to my wife.” He put my glass in front of me and sat down. Howard Cosell licked his bare foot, and he reached down. “Petting my dog.”

  “Well, I hope it comes to you soon,” I said. I told him that Ruby thought she was in love with Colin, and that I suspected that Sheila and Colin had shared some sort of personal history. I wasn’t specific.

  “Oh, yeah?” McQuaid asked, interested. “I guess I did have the feeling that I was walking in on something yesterday, when I went into that shop of his.”

  I looked up sharply. “They weren’t—”

  “No, they weren’t, but it looked like they might have been.” He shook his head, frowning. “I keep thinking he was involved with a case. Drugs, maybe. But damned if I can remember what it was. Trouble is, he’s got such an ordinary face. You sort of remember it, but nothing stands out enough to give you a good fix.”

  I reached for the blueberry syrup. “I didn’t ask how your New Orleans investigation turned out,” I said, pouring it over my pancake. “Seems kind of strange that somebody would send you all the way there just to check up on a résumé.”

  McQuaid growled something I couldn’t catch.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, looking up. “What was that?”

  His eyes were chilly. “Don’t ask,” he said distinctly.

  “Well, okay,” I said, “if you feel that way about it. Have some more bacon.”

  After breakfast, McQuaid put on his cowboy hat and went out to drive the riding mower around the back lawn, work he seems to enjoy. I did some serious housecleaning: vacuuming and dusting and picking things up, while I kept a wary eye out for Brian’s roving reptilia. I don’t know why, but—now that I’m living in a place I like, with people I care about—chores don’t feel like chores. I’m not wild about housework, but it doesn’t bother me the way it used to. And I had plenty of stuff to process while I was working.

  Hank and the Obermann sisters. What had he been after? What was he trying to prove? And why was Florence Obermann afraid of her sister? Of course, I could have been wrong, but that’s how it had seemed to me when I saw that look on her face.

  And there was Ruby and Colin to think about, and Sheila and Colin. Not a pretty triangle, or one that promised good things for the future.

  And Alana Montoya, too, and Blackie. Was he seriously interested in her, or was it just a rebound relationship, the sort of thing you fall into when you’re feeling vulnerable? And what did McQuaid have against her? An illogical dislike, it seemed to me. And her department—why were they so slow in getting her program set up? Was she running into some sort of ethnic discrimation?

  No answers, of course, just questions, the kind of questions that loop endlessly through your mind as you push the vacuum cleaner around the house. I finished, put my cleaning equipment away, and was heading out to the garden when the phone rang. It was Blackie.

  “Hi,” I said. “If you’re looking for McQuaid, you’ll have to hang on while I fetch him. He’s mowing the grass.”

  “Don’t,” Blackie said. “I need to talk to you, China.”

  The urgency in his voice stopped me, and I immediately thought of Brian, on his Scout camping trip. “Is everything okay?” I asked, as my stomach muscles contracted.

  “It’s Alana. Alana Montoya. She’s . . . in the hospital.”

  “Oh, gosh,” I said, feeling relieved that Brian was safe, and then feeling guilty for my relief. “That’s too bad. What happened? An auto accident?”

  “No.” He was gruff and harsh. “They pumped her stomach. Alcohol and antidepressants, they said. Could have been an accident. Could have been . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but I understood. It could have been a suicide attempt. Had he been the one to discover her and get her to the hospital?

  I felt a sudden sympathy for him. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked, meaning: Is there anything I can do for you? There was nothing I could do for Alana.

  “She was asking for you,” Blackie said. “She’s sleeping it off just now, but I thought, well, maybe in a couple of hours, you could come over
and see her. They’re just keeping her overnight, I think. She’ll be going home in the morning.”

  “She was asking for me?” I said warily. “But I barely know her.”

  I wasn’t being honest. I remembered Alana’s visit to the shop the previous week, remembered it more clearly than I wanted to admit. She had wanted to talk to me—about her drinking, I had suspected. And I had put her off. I’d been too busy with my own stuff to pay attention to her. The guilt wrapped itself around me like a gray blanket. But I had offered Alana an alternative, a chance to sit down together and talk over lunch. That was enough, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

  Blackie cleared his throat. “I know you don’t want to get involved, China,” he said heavily. “But I’m asking you to do this as a personal favor—to me. Something’s bothering Alana, and I can’t help her. She seems to think you can.”

  “I . . . guess so,” I said, thinking once again that I was reluctant to get involved with an alcoholic. The only thing I could tell her was that she needed to get help—and I wasn’t the person to get it from. I’d been there and done that, with my mother, and I wasn’t eager to go there and do that again.

  On the other hand, I had to admit to some curiosity. People attempt suicide for all sorts of reasons, some deeply profound, others as superficial as a bid for attention. What was Alana’s reason? Was it somehow connected to McQuaid’s dislike of her? And what made her think that I could help?

  I heard myself say, with evident reluctance, “I was planning to go to the hospital today, anyway, to see Florence Obermann.” This was something of a surprise, since I hadn’t consciously made this plan. But it sounded like a good idea, and having said the words, I couldn’t very well take them back.

  “I’m glad,” Blackie said, and I could hear the relief in his voice. “About five or six? I’ll be here when you come, and then I’ll leave the two of you alone. But I’ll stick around. Maybe, after you’ve seen Alana, we can talk.”