Lovely In Her Bones

business. He wished Duncan Johnson were back, because he hated to get the coroner out at night on little more than a rumor. He would, though; better safe than sorry.

During the several phone calls that Pilot Barnes made before going out to investigate, he decided to assume an official reticence rather than to admit how little he knew. “Trouble out your way,” he told Bevel Harkness. “We’re not sure just where. Expect you to find it and report back.” He called the chief of the volunteer fire department to borrow the portable generator, in case there was a death scene requiring night lights.

It was more difficult to be evasive with Dr. Putnam, a tiny septuagenarian. “What do you mean, ‘trouble in Sarvice Valley,’ Pilot Barnes? If you want to get me away from my television, you’ll have to do a lot better than that.”

“I got a note here that there has been a homicide in Sarvice Valley, and I’d like you to come with me and check it out.”

“Can’t it wait till morning?” Dr. Putnam insisted. “Some liquored-up Cullowhee probably shot his cousin, and he’ll be weeping and wailing over the body by the time you get there. Just bring the body back to town, and I’ll do the autopsy first thing in the morning.”

“It doesn’t sound like that kind of a case,” the deputy told him. “My information is that a man was killed with a tomahawk.”

“What’s that? Did you say tomahawk?”

“According to the information I have,” said Pilot Barnes carefully.

“Well, pick me up, boy! I’ll even pass up my Star Trek rerun for this!”

Half an hour later, one of the volunteer firemen had come in to man the office, and Pilot Barnes was driving out to Sarvice Valley with Deputy Hamp McKenna and Dr. Putnam.

“Wait till Duncan Johnson hears about this!” the old man chuckled. “As soon as he leaves the county, there’s an Indian uprising.”

“Reckon we ought to notify anybody?” asked Hamp McKenna.

“How about General Custer?” asked Dr. Putnam.

Pilot Barnes, keeping his eyes on the narrow road, was not amused.

On the dark path to the excavation site, Deputy Coltsfoot was feeling considerably less like Gary Cooper in High Noon. It had just occurred to him that there was still a murderer at large in the area, and he had not thought to bring a gun with him. He wasn’t even sure that he could have found the key to the gun case.

“You don’t know who did it, do you?” he asked Milo nervously.

“No. He was dead when I found him. Do you want to take a statement now?”

It was so dark on the path that Coltsfoot couldn’t see his own feet, and in any case, he had forgotten to bring a notepad. “I think that can wait awhile,” he replied. “You didn’t see anybody around, did you?”

“No. Is this your first murder investigation?”

“I guess you could say that,” admitted Coltsfoot, neglecting to mention that it was also his first investigation of any kind.

“Well, Dr. Lerche and I work with the coroner’s office sometimes back at the university, so I can give you a few pointers if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Well, I think you ought to just stand guard until somebody else gets here,” Milo told him. “Don’t go looking for footprints, and don’t touch anything. The people with the crime kits will want the scene as undisturbed as possible. Your best bet is to secure the area until they get here.”

“Secure the area,” repeated Coltsfoot, liking the sound of it. “Right.” Another thought struck him. “You mean, by myself?”

“What kind of an idiot would forget to tell you where the death scene was?” mused Hamp McKenna.

“Dummyweed,” grunted Pilot Barnes. “And I was the idiot that left him in charge.”

“Drive up to the church,” said Dr. Putnam from the back seat. “It’s nearly midnight and the lights are on.”

When they saw Bevel Harkness’ patrol car in the dirt parking lot, they knew they had come to the right place. “Get the camera and the crime kit, Hamp,” Pilot ordered, “and follow us up to the church. Those people can tell us where Harkness is.”

Dr. Putnam chuckled. “Hope he hasn’t gone to join the sheriff’s nephew.” He meant the one who had disappeared on patrol duty in 1972. “You know, if the Cullowhees have killed an outsider, the wonder of it is that there’s a body around to be discovered.”

Pilot Barnes sighed. “Bring the rifle too, Hamp.”

Inside the church, all was quiet. Victor, whose asthma medicine had finally taken effect, was snoring peacefully in a corner, while the others sipped coffee and talked quietly. To Jake’s profound relief, the shock of Lerche’s death had stunned Tessa and Mary Clare into numb civility. They sat quietly, speaking in monosyllables, and sipped their coffee as if it were medicine.

Elizabeth was too confused over Dr. Lerche’s personal life to feel sympathy for anyone except Milo. Her private opinion of the change in Tessa and Mary Clare was that they both realized the futility of fighting over a dead man. She knew that one of them was going to lose him anyway, and she wondered if that one was secretly pleased that her rival had lost him too. Elizabeth kept these thoughts to herself, dispensing coffee and sympathy as unobtrusively as possible. She wondered when Milo was coming back.

Jake had returned around eleven-thirty, when Milo came back with the deputy. Milo told him to wait at the church for the other officers, while the two of them guarded the site. Jake balanced his coffee mug on his palm and tried to think of something neutral to talk about. He knew Elizabeth wanted to know what was going on up there, but the presence of two mourners prevented them from discussing it.

“He never got to finish his project,” Tessa murmured.

“The discriminate function chart?” asked Elizabeth.

“Yes. It was nearly ready, and he was so excited about it. It would have been such a contribution to the field.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “And he never got to use the riding lawn mower, either!”

“What’s going to become of the project?” asked Elizabeth.

“I think we ought to finish it,” said Mary Clare.

“Yeah, me too,” mumbled Jake. “Sort of a memorial.”

“But, how can we? I mean, do we have the expertise?” Elizabeth protested.

Jake shrugged. “Let’s talk it over with Milo. He may have some ideas on that.” He sat up. “Was that headlights in the parking lot? I think the sheriff has arrived.”

Pilot Barnes peered past Jake into the common room. “Is this where the homicide is?” he demanded.

“Yes. I mean-no. The body is up at the dig site. Your deputies are up there with one of our people, and they told me to show you the way.”

Dr. Putnam cocked his head and looked appraisingly at Jake. “You’re not a Cullowhee, are you, boy?”

Jake blinked. “No, sir.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Adair.”

The doctor nodded, satisfied. “Ah! So that’s it!” He turned and followed the procession up the trail to the cemetery.

Pilot Barnes spent most of the walk barking questions at Jake, beginning with: “Ain’t you the people whose computer got smashed?”

Jake said that they were, and Pilot digested this information for several minutes, trying to connect it with the homicide. “But you didn’t have a computer up there at the cemetery, did you?”

“No.”

“Did you have any trouble with the Cullowhees? That’s their kin you’re digging up, you know.”

“They asked us to come,” said Jake. He explained the purpose of the dig.

Pilot Barnes frowned. This wasn’t going to be like their usual brand of homicide, which took all of about twenty minutes to solve. This one felt like a needle in a tub of molasses. He wondered how Duncan Johnson managed to be away when it happened: second sight or undeserved good luck? Pilot decided that he would do the essential site investigation tonight-he could hardly do otherwise-but that to continue the case without notifying his superior would be overstepping his authority. Beach or no beach, Duncan Johnson was getting a phone call in the morning.