Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

"You have her photograph?"

"No, of course not."

"R-E-N-H-"

Evelyn pulled out a picture postcard of a Coventry street in a different season. "I got this off the rack in the hotel lobby." She pointed to a figure in a hooded yellow raincoat. "This slicker looks exactly like the one that woman was wearing." There were other specimens of the same garb in the background.

"Well, everybody in town had one of those," said Hannah. "I remember when they went on sale at the dry-goods store." And the price had been ridiculously low. Back at the house, Josh and Oren's slickers still hung on hooks by the kitchen door.

"E-L-P-M-"

"I think the stranger must've bought hers in town that morning," said Evelyn. "She probably couldn't resist a big sale like that one."

"No woman could," said Hannah, in full agreement.

"There's no other reason she'd have that slicker tucked in her knapsack. That was a freak rainstorm-nothing about it in the weather forecast. Surprised the hell out of me, a downpour like that one. I remember that morning began with a clear blue sky. So everybody in town might've owned a slicker just like hers-but how many people would've been carting one around that day?"

"Only a woman with an eye for good sale prices."

"E-O-R-E-N-"

"You think this might help the sheriff find Josh's killer?"

"I doubt it," said Hannah. "It's not like you can tell him anything useful. Maybe that other set of bones in Josh's grave belonged to your visitor-maybe not. I don't see that it matters. I wouldn't be surprised if the sheriff already knew her name and address by now." Hannah rose from the chair. "Oh, and we never had this little conversation. Understood?"

Evelyn nodded, mildly distracted by the voices overhead. "How do you suppose those people knew about the woman's bones?"

"Same way you did. One of them probably bought a drink for Dave Hardy today."

Upstairs, the witchboard people had ceased to spell out letters. They stamped their feet and chanted, "Oren, help me, Oren, help me, Oren-"

The county sheriff's workday had just begun when Special Agent Polk walked into his office unannounced.

The man leaned back in his chair. He was trying not to smile and failing badly. "I guess you heard the news."

"You mean this?" She slapped a copy of a recent e-mail on his desk. It bore the letterhead of a high-ranking politician, who instructed her to step away from the double homicide. She damned the luck that made this an election year for the office of State Attorney General. The top dog of the Justice Department had based his campaign on strong local authority.

Power to the people, my ass.

"I won't ask how you pulled that off," she said. "I don't think you did. Now who's behind it?"

"Your own outfit, the California Bureau of Investigation. They made the final call on jurisdiction."

"The grave is on state land."

"Not anymore. Evelyn Straub just granted a petition of relief on that hundred-year lease. I guess she felt bad about ripping off the taxpayers. Those mineral rights weren't worth a nickel when she sold them to the state.

"No," said Sally "I don't think that's quite it. Years would go by before that petition worked its way through ten layers of bureaucrats. So I'm guessing Mrs. Straub just filed an intention to quit the lease. Good try, though."

She dragged a chair to the other side of the desk and sat down next to Cable Babitt. "Well, now," she said in the friendly tone of sharing gossip over a wash line, "I heard you made some headway on identifying that dead tourist, the woman who died with the Hobbs boy. That's the rumor at the CBI down in Sacramento. Is that what you told them? And some solid citizen gave the Justice Department the funny idea that I might be hampering the investigation. Oh, you know-covering the same ground twice, getting in the way and such."

"Nothing personal, Sally, but there might be some truth to that. If you like, I'll get back to you when we have a name for that poor lady tourist."

"I already identified her."

Well, that wiped the smile off his face. The man shook his head in disbelief.

"It's true," she said, as if he had been unable to find the words to accuse her of lying. "I got the woman's name and address from a missing-person report on file with the SFPD. Took me an hour."

"No, I ran all of those reports," said the sheriff. "I checked them myself."

"I'm sure you did." She knew he was lying, but tact forbade laughing out loud. It was certain that this man had never bothered with anything beyond a cursory search. "I guess that poor woman didn't have any friends. It took a long time for someone to notice that she was missing."

Sally pulled the missing-person report from her purse and laid it on the desk in front of him. "It's dated three and a half months after Josh Hobbs disappeared." She gave the incompetent bastard her warmest smile. "Our lady tourist didn't have a day job. New in town, they tell me. And she'd never spoken to the neighbors. They say she only talked to the plants on her balcony. She liked plants a lot. People-not so much. So it took the landlord a few overdue rent checks before he reported her missing. And he only did that so he could legally sell her stuff to cover what she owed him. I backtracked the rental application to her last address and found her dentist. His X rays matched up with our victim."

"My victim," said Cable Babitt. "But thanks for all your help, Sally."

"Oh, I'm not done." Her neighborly grin spread wide. "I plan to go on helping you."

"This is my case." He used a tone more properly reserved for a child's sandbox brawl. "The State Attorney General said so." And this was a variation of I'm telling Mom.

"But you can't complain, can you, Sheriff? You don't even know the area code for the Attorney General's phone number."

The small lounge in the Straub Hotel was best described as a toy bar, only room for three stools, and two of them were occupied this morning. The waitress, who doubled as bartender, was busy with guests in the dining area.

Dave Hardy sipped his beer from a coffee cup. Oren drank actual coffee as he gathered slow details of the days before his brother disappeared. His drinking companion was inadvertently accounting for his time.

"God, I hated that old bastard," said Dave.

"I barely remember Millard Straub." Oren kept his eyes on the mirror behind the small bar, lest the Widow Evelyn should wander into the conversation.

"Well, I had to look at his ugly face every day."

"Right, I forgot." Oren had forgotten nothing. "You used to do chores here after school. So how did those two get along, him and his wife?"

"Mrs. Straub was the only one who ever liked Millard well enough to call him Honey. But she got past that. Then the two of them settled into pet names like Filthy Whore and Dickhead Bastard." Dave lifted his beer. "And those were their good days."

"You think that old man might've wanted his wife dead?"

Dave's cup hovered in midair for a moment as he considered this. "I'd say it was the other way around. He used to pay me extra to taste his food. I had to come by real early every morning to check his breakfast. And he wouldn't eat one bite of lunch till I got out of school."

"He thought Mrs. Straub was trying to poison him?"

"I wouldn't have ratted her out if she had. But old Millard died of a heart attack. That's what I heard. I was long gone by the time he croaked. I couldn't wait to get out of this town."

"But you came back."