Game of Bones Page 2

  “Lozen died of tuberculosis in an Alabama prison camp. Now that’s what I would call unpleasant.”

  She had a point, but I was still glad to see her. “I have to hustle out of here, Tinkie is waiting. If there’s a message from Lozen or the Great Beyond, give it to me quick.” The whole time I was talking I was walking upstairs to the bathroom to put on some foundation. Jitty followed, still in her Indian garb. “Spit it out, Jitty. Time’s a wastin’.”

  “You want to talk about time wastin’, do you? Put a hand on your gut and feel the slow death of those eggs. You want a message from me, get pregnant. You got a good, virile man at last. He knows his business when he wants to bump uglies. Now get out of your own way and let nature take its course.”

  More than anything Jitty wanted an heir to haunt. I was the last Delaney so it was up to me to provide for her future—or so she thought. I’d fought too hard for the right to be just me to be considered an incubator by society or Jitty. “I don’t have time to reproduce.” It was a statement of fact.

  “Lozan delivered a baby in the middle of a battlefield while she and her people were retreating.”

  I wanted to know more about this woman, but not now. Tinkie was waiting, as was Coleman and a dead body. I grabbed a cold biscuit from the bread box and some hot coffee in a thermos. I had to get to the site.

  “Be safe,” Jitty said. She’d returned to the stoic warrior goddess of the Apache tribe. A wind rippled through the kitchen and the rattle shook. Then Jitty/Lozen was gone.

  2

  Pluto was on the front porch waiting for me when I stepped outside, and I knew there was no hope of leaving him behind. Sweetie Pie magically appeared at the car. I opened the car door for the critters and we were off. I suspected Dr. Hafner would not be happy to see a cat and a dog, but when he paid for Delaney Detective Agency, he got all of our resources.

  The dig site was a good forty minutes from Dahlia House down a little-used dirt road that led to the abandoned estate that had once belonged to the Bailey family. They’d fallen on hard times, sold the land to an agribusiness, and shortly after that, the family had left the area. The house had been abandoned for years and had stood sentinel on the high mound until it had mysteriously burned down. No one had lived there, and there were no insurance claims. Rumor was that some kids had accidentally set the fire, but lightning was ruled the official cause.

  The blackened timbers of the house had been reclaimed by the woods and volunteer trees had sprouted all over the top of the mound, until the archeological crews showed up. When they’d begun excavating, they’d taken out the trees and plants in their way. Now, after a few rains, parking was a mess at the base of Mound Salla, and the steep sides of the mound, fitted with large timbers to use as steps, showed recent wear. The site had become a big news item, and along with the officials who had a reason to be there, about four dozen gawkers had arrived. I called them the Tragedy Vultures. Whenever disaster struck, the same people came to see the latest accident or drama. Several locals were filming on cell phones. Budgie Burton, one of Coleman’s deputies, had them so far back their little phone cameras would be useless.

  Tinkie and her dust mop, Chablis, were waiting for me, and Budgie waved us through. He knew we were on official business. I hadn’t been to the mound up close and I was awestruck by the fact that something built hundreds of years before had not eroded. It was a steep incline, and the massive cypress timbers used to make steps had weathered the decades and decay. The mound builders had been masters of situating and packing various types of dirt to provide permanence.

  It was a vigorous climb up the side of the mound, but Tinkie and I put our glutes into it and made the top where Coleman and Doc Sawyer, the local emergency-room attending and county coroner, knelt beside a sheet-covered body. Before going any closer, I assessed the site. A large area in front of me had been cleared of vegetation, and this was the primary excavation and where the body was located. Some fifty yards to the east were a number of tents. Several dozen young people huddled around campfires, using the tents as windbreaks. They slowly began meandering down the steep slope. The day was sunny but the wind was bitter. Little was visible of the old Bailey house, and the area where it had once stood was overgrown in vegetation and young trees.

  “Sarah Booth, Tinkie,” Doc called out, nodding a greeting. “Are you tourists or working?”

  “Dr. Hafner hired us,” Tinkie said.

  “And he’s going to need you,” Coleman said matter-of-factly. “He’s my number-one suspect.”

  “You know that already?” Tinkie asked.

  “I do. When I’m done here I’ll tell you why.”

  Coleman wasn’t a man who rushed to judgment. The evidence against Hafner had to be pretty convincing. But it was Tinkie’s and my job to look around and find details that would lend themselves to Hafner’s innocence, if he was innocent, and that remained to be seen.

  About twenty yards from the sheet-draped body was a tripod of poles that had been lashed together with stout ropes, which also held a massive hook. I was reminded of the hooks in slaughterhouses, a thought that made me queasy. I stepped over and photographed the rope and knots. It was a primitive hoist, and I knew instantly that Dr. Sandra Wells had been hung from the hook in the center. She’d died on that spot, or if she hadn’t died there, this was where she’d been bled.

  The earthen bowl that contained her blood remained on scene. I glanced at the symbols drawn into the clay bowl, ignoring the pool of gore inside. The bowl was huge—and I was amazed that it had survived hundreds of years buried in the ground without a crack or chip.

  Tinkie seemed to be experiencing the same dismay I felt. “Good lord, Sarah Booth, she was hung up like a cow or pig, her throat was cut, and she just … they say exsanguination is painful.”

  Death was always shocking, but even more so when it was such a brutal murder. I stepped back and looked out over the vista. The flat fields below us, newly planted, stretched for miles to the east, and the dense foliage of a swampy brake extended west. The plantation house had burned, but in the thicket of trees I saw old bricks, rubble, and what had to be a fort made by children. I’d done much the same on the grounds of Dahlia House, taking old boards and scraps of wood, wire, and tin to construct my own secret hideaway. The Bailey family included several children—this had to be their work. For a rural child, a fort was a perfect hideaway.

  My father had offered to build a fort for me, but I’d refused. Then it wouldn’t be my secret place. I’d created a hut out of old fencing, boards, weeds, and straw. Those had been good times. I turned away from the past and faced my partner, who was poking at a dead fire some of the dig crew had left behind. At the base of the mound, the student workers were being herded into a group. They milled around like cattle, looking up at the top of the mound with varying degrees of curiosity, horror, annoyance, or sorrow. Sorrow was definitely in the minority.

  Dr. Frank Hafner stood with them, consoling some and giving a pep talk to others. He was a very handsome man. Chiseled jaw, dimple in his chin, blue eyes the color of the March sky, light brown hair that ruffled in the breeze. He wore an expensive jacket that fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist to a T. He didn’t have the air of any academic I’d ever hung out with. He was more … superhero. Any minute he might jump in the air and fly off. He’d leave behind a bunch of broken hearts. Almost all the young women working the dig looked up at him like he was Adonis.

  “He’s a looker,” Tinkie said.

  “And he knows it,” I added.

  “Confidence is very sexy. And so is power. At this dig Frank Hafner has both.”

  “I wonder if he was willing to kill to retain those things.”

  “He told me he was innocent.” Tinkie kept all inflection from her voice.

  I faced my partner. “Then I assume he has an alibi?” Tinkie had spoken with him, but I had not.

  “He said he was alone but I think he was with someone.”

  Oh, I coul
d see this coming a mile down the road. “But he won’t say who because it’s a student and he doesn’t want to be fired or destroy the young woman’s reputation.”

  Tinkie only grinned. “Bwana pretty smart for a country girl.”

  I only rolled my eyes. Tinkie had developed a fetish for Alexander Skarsgård as Tarzan. She’d watched the movie at least a dozen times and sometimes when we were riding along a country road, she’d burst out in a Tarzan yell that would almost make me wreck. It was a phase she was going through and it would pass, but not quickly enough for my taste. “Stop calling me bwana.”

  “Yes, bwana.” She grinned and stepped out of my reach. “Frank Hafner kind of reminds me of Alexander, don’t you think? Tall, sexy. I wonder what he’d look like in a loincloth. I’ll bet he works out regularly. I can almost see his six-pack beneath that cotton pullover.”

  He did look good. “Call him bwana. He’ll love it.”

  “I suspect you’re right.” She held out a little finger with a crook in it. “Truce?”

  “Sure.” I hooked her finger with mine and pulled. It was second-grade-secret-pact stuff, but so much a part of our history. “I’m going to see if Doc will give me a view of the body before they move it.”

  “Someone used an auger to drill deep into the mound. There are some things down in the hole, but Hafner has ordered everyone to stay clear. Coleman believes they were going to put Dr. Wells in the hole. An intrusion burial. Hafner is pissed about the destruction of the mound, though. Digging deep holes with an auger is not how an archeological dig is done.”

  “Great. Talk to Hafner about who knew how to run an auger. That would take some kind of expertise, I would think.”

  “Done deal. Hafner can work the auger. A kid named Cooley Marsh and a few locals stopped by to gawk.” Tinkie nodded toward the students. “Hey, Hafner is eyeballing you pretty hard. I think he may have the hots for you.”

  I could feel his gaze drilling into my back. “Poke him in the eyes, then.” I wasn’t in the mood. “I’ll join you when I finish.”

  “Take photos. I don’t want to look at the body, but we might need the photos.”

  “Sure thing.” She was right about that.

  Sweetie Pie and Chablis had taken a watchful stance not far from Dr. Wells’ remains, but Pluto was nowhere in sight. If he didn’t show up in a few moments, I’d begin a search. He was an elusive cat with a nose for trouble—causing it and finding it.

  I walked up behind Coleman so that my shadow fell across him as he knelt beside the corpse.

  “Death by exsanguination,” Doc Sawyer, who was on the other side of the body, said. “Not the method of death I’d pick. The cut was jagged and irregular, like the blade was rough. Maybe even stone.”

  “Like a caveman’s tool?” Coleman asked.

  Doc looked at Coleman and his gaze traveled up to connect with mine. “Yes. Like that. I’m tempted to guess that Dr. Wells was killed with a knife found here at the archeological site.”

  That put a new spin on the death. And it added to the ritualistic element of the murder. “Are you saying Dr. Wells was … sacrificed?”

  “I’m saying no such thing.” Doc was more tired than annoyed. “The use of an artifact as a murder weapon indicates this was a spur-of-the-moment murder. Or it could be the complete opposite—that the killer brought such a tool with him because this method of murder, this particular victim, this location means something to him.”

  “You’re sure it’s a him?” Coleman asked.

  “Yes. Dr. Wells weighs about a hundred and forty pounds. She was alive when she was hoisted up on the hook, and she was likely fighting for her life. I don’t believe a female, unless she was exceptionally tall and strong, could have done that.”

  “Two females?” I asked.

  “It’s possible, but not likely.” Doc waited for Coleman’s response.

  “I found footprints by the hoist,” Coleman said. “Male, probably size twelve. I’m certain our killer is a male. Dr. Hafner wears a size twelve and the patterns on the soles of his boots match the prints left in the dirt here. The circumstantial evidence is pretty damning.”

  A few strands of Sandra’s hair had escaped the sheet and I could see that they were clotted with blood. I didn’t really want to look beneath the sheet, but I asked if I could. Doc held the sheet back and I snapped a few photos to study later. The wound was indeed gruesome. It had not been an easy death for Sandra Wells. She’d once been a beautiful woman. I’d seen her around town with some of the students. She seemed to be held in respect by the young people. Now all of that was moot. Death had left her pale, with an anguished expression on her face.

  “Any idea about motive?” I asked.

  “That’s why Hafner is my number-one suspect,” Coleman said as he rose to stand. He was a tall timber, solid and in his prime. He was a magnet for my affections, though I had more class than to put on a public display.

  “I heard rumors around town that they were romantically involved,” I said.

  “I’ve heard the same,” Coleman said. “And they were great competitors. Dr. Wells brought her own funding to this dig. She intended to amplify her standing as an archeologist. Dr. Hafner had separate funding and sought to control the method of excavation. It was a war from the get-go that included yelling matches and threats.”

  “Why didn’t Hafner just kick her out of the dig?” He’d been on the scene first. He was already established here when Wells showed up with fancy equipment and her students and team. The story had flown all over Zinnia—and several magazines and television channels dedicated to history had made the competition into something of a reality TV show. I’d watched a few of the specials—because it involved my hometown area—and thought that both professors had engaged in the lively match to build ratings and gather more donors. Typical reality-show formula and nothing like controversy to bring in the money.

  “Frank Hafner’s grant only covered some of the cost. Dr. Wells had the equipment grant, the high tech that Hafner needed to complete the dig without destroying critical aspects of the site.” Coleman pointed to the hoist. “That hole is twenty or so feet deep into the mound. Yet no graves appear to be disturbed. Someone knew exactly where to dig. Were they looking for something or looking to bury something?” He led me over to the bowl filled with Dr. Wells’ blood.

  I snapped a few photos and bent closer to examine the markings on the bowl. They were strange hieroglyphics of a sort, the same thing one might find in a pyramid. Or on the painted chest or face of a warrior. I remembered the slashes and symbols from the dream that had so disturbed me. “Is this from the dig here?”

  “I don’t know,” Coleman said. “Hafner isn’t talking. But he will.”

  We both glanced down to the bottom of the mound where Hafner still corralled all the student workers. One was missing, though. The attractive brunette I’d seen earlier wearing overalls with a bright red kerchief tying back her hair was missing. And I could clearly see two distinct groups of students. They were all from a Michigan university. Some were Hafner’s and some Wells’ students. A handful of them, Wells’ students I presumed, looked confused and mournful. Two were crying.

  Coming toward the mound was a very official-looking group of men in suits and women in office attire. “Who is that?” I asked Coleman.

  “Those are sponsors of the dig. I don’t know which ones, but this dig had some serious backing. The National Science Foundation, the Archaeological Institute of America, and one very big private grant from the Americus Cleverdon Foundation run by Elton Cade. That guy with the striped tie is Cade. He’s a big philanthropist and scientist.”

  I knew Elton Cade, but I hadn’t recognized him in his business attire. “Why do people invest big money in these digs?” If artifacts were found, they most often went to a museum or public collection. In the narrow, narrow world of archeology there was some smattering of acclaim, but nothing that would bring in the bucks. “I get unraveling the mystery of the p
ast. It’s an exciting bit of detective work. But who has half a million to put toward something like this?”

  “Rich people.” Coleman helped Doc to his feet and signaled the EMTs to come and remove the body. They would take it to the local hospital so Doc could perform the autopsy. “If I had a lot of money, I’d fund cancer research. That’s a mystery, too.”

  “I’d fund vaccinations for children all over the world.” It was good to know that we both had a philanthropic bone, though it wasn’t likely to get much exercise based on our current earning power.

  “History is important, too. If we understand our past, we can better chart our future.” Coleman wiped his forehead and gave me a wink. “We can more easily figure out what motivates a person. In crime solving, motivation is ninety percent of the game.”

  “Well aren’t you the philosophic brain today?” I couldn’t resist putting my arm around him, just for a moment.

  “How about a date tonight? I have body parts that aren’t interested in philosophy. I’d like to show them to you.”

  I laughed, drawing more attention than I wanted. “Perfect. We’ll talk later. Those suits are coming up the mound and I need to intercept them and get some answers. If I turn up anything interesting, I’ll let you know. As long as it proves my client innocent.”

  “You do that,” Coleman said.

  Tinkie approached Elton Cade and as I joined them, I searched through my memory for the tidbits I knew about him. He was an inventor from the disappearing town of Hilo, Mississippi, who’d created a popular action game for children. Instead of selling the toy to a major company, he manufactured and sold it himself. It was the beginning of an empire of toys that included stores all across the nation. His products were safe and healthy and were touted by moms and environmental groups. He had the bucks to invest in digging up bones or buying islands or anything else he wanted. He’d married a local girl, had a kid, and lived a quiet life in a house not ten minutes from the clapboard home he’d grown up in.