Beastly Bones (2 page)

“May I guess?” I said.

Jackaby rolled his eyes. “You may do whatever you like. It will have no bearing on my decision.”

“Is it . . . Richard Frederic?”

“No, and I am not going to—”

“Russell Francis?”

“No. You're being—”

“Rumpelstiltskin Finnegan?”

Jackaby sighed. “Yes, Miss Rook. Rumpelstiltskin. You've found me out. I am the devious imp of the fairy tales.”

“It wouldn't be the strangest thing you've told me since I started working for you.”

Chapter Three

U
pon our return to the house on Augur Lane, Jackaby sealed himself alone in his laboratory. I had offered to help him manage the furry little chameleomorphs, but he shooed me out with a waggle of his hand and kicked the door shut behind me. I shuffled down the crooked hallway and slumped to my desk in the foyer, resolving to throw myself back into my daily work. The piles of Jackaby's wrinkled receipts and old case files were still in sore need of organizing, but as the afternoon stretched on, my mind refused to focus.

I had only recently managed to convince my employer that I was not some porcelain vase that needed to be protected. I was not inclined, now, to accept a role as the bull in his china shop, either. Admittedly, the fish fiasco was not my finest moment, but I could handle myself in the field. I could. I stuffed another long-forgotten receipt into the dusty filing cabinet behind me and scowled. Nothing set my skin to itching quite like feeling useless.

It wasn't that I didn't understand my employer's concern. My post as assistant to the foremost and perhaps only detective of the supernatural was wondrous in so many ways—but I couldn't deny that it was also dangerous. Jackaby's mad laboratory looked as though it might be equipped to raise Frankenstein's creature, and the library housed menacing shadows that crept across the floor and reached for my heels if I trod too close to the Dangerous Documents section. All around me sat exotic animal skulls and angry statues of foreign gods. Even the innocuous-looking drab green frog in the terrarium beside me—Jackaby called him Ogden—had a habit of venting a noxious stench from his eyeballs when he felt threatened. Such was life with my employer, a medley of madness and menace, and all this within the walls of the house.

During my very first foray into actual fieldwork, I had nearly gotten myself killed, facing off against a murderous villain. Like a careless damsel from one of my storybooks, I had failed to heed the warnings and bumbled directly into mortal danger. I hated to admit it, but if it hadn't been for Jackaby's intervention, I would almost certainly be dead, and I wouldn't be the only one.

“Does it still hurt?” came a gentle voice, startling me back to the present.

Jenny Cavanaugh had drifted into the room, her silvery feet hovering just above the floorboards, and her translucent hair drifting gently behind her. My hand had risen unconsciously to brush the small scar on my chest, a memento of that nearly fatal night, and I quickly let it drop.

“No, I'm fine. Just thinking.”

“Good thoughts or bad?” she asked. Her movements were fluid and graceful as she came to rest, leaning on the corner of the desk. Since my arrival in New Fiddleham, Jenny had become my closest and dearest friend. Immaterial though she was, her counsel had always been solid and sound.

“I botched an assignment today.”

“Any casualties?”

“Just a crystal punch bowl—and very nearly a fish that isn't a fish.”

She raised an opalescent eyebrow.

“It was a Jackaby case,” I said, and slumped my head down on the cluttered desk.

Jenny nodded. “Sounds about right, then. Don't worry about Jackaby. He'll come around. That man has botched plenty of assignments without your help.”

“I know. It isn't even really Jackaby—it's just . . .” I pushed my hair out of my face and slumped back on the chair. “It's everyone. It's the ones who said I couldn't or I shouldn't. My parents. Myself, mostly. In a strange way, I'm glad that Jackaby is disappointed. Don't tell him I said so, but it's nice to have somebody actually expect something of you for once. Still, it makes it all the harder to let go of the regrets.”

Jenny's eyes drifted down to her translucent hand. “I do understand,” she said quietly. “It's refreshing to be treated as an equal. It's one of the reasons I said yes, all those years ago.” The ghost's engagement ring was a slim band, a spectral hint of silver nearly lost in her own silvery complexion. I held my breath as she touched the metal delicately. Jenny so rarely spoke about the years before her death. “Hard as it may be to imagine,” she said, looking up, “I have a few regrets of my own.”

I swallowed. “Jenny . . .”

Her face lightened, and she smiled at me softly. “Let them go, Abigail. Leave the past to us ghosts and focus on where you're going next. Besides, Jackaby is great with spotting
paranormal
stuff, but you know he's positively lost when it comes to
normal
. If you want to impress him, don't think about your weak spots—think about his. What did
he
miss?”

I shrugged. “This was a pretty simple case—or as simple as his cases are. The whole thing only took a few minutes. He spotted the creature right away—and a whole brood of its kittens.”

“I thought it was a fish.”

“They're fishy kittens. Long story. You know Jackaby's not the sort to bring home an ordinary pet.” I paused. A timid thought peered from around a corner at the back of my mind. “But Mrs. Beaumont is precisely the sort,” I said. “And she seemed to think that she had.”

“Why, Abigail, are you being clever right here in front of me?” Jenny teased.

“Not clever—just wondering,” I said. “Jackaby said they're rare and they're not indigenous. So, where did Mrs. Wiggles come from?”

“Oh, look at you, all inquisitive and focused.” She smiled affectionately. “I'm beginning to think you and Jackaby are cut from two ends of the same cloth.”

Before I could respond, three loud knocks issued from the front door, and I found myself suddenly alone in the room. I said a quiet thank-you to the space where Jenny had been, and I rose to receive our visitor.

Chapter Four

I
glanced out the window as I crossed the room. Parked on the street outside was a sturdy-looking coach with two muscular horses yoked at the front. Unlike the sleek black carriages and hansom cabs one normally saw about town, this wooden cart was somewhere between a modern mail coach and the sort of covered wagon the pioneers all rode in my magazines of the Wild West. It looked delightfully rugged and out of place against the gray buildings of the business district.

It was no surprise, then, that Hank Hudson's bushy beard and broad grin greeted me when I opened the door. “Mr. Hudson! How lovely to see you again.”

“Aw, Hank will do just fine, little lady.”

“Do come in. I'll let Jackaby know you've arrived.”

I hung Hudson's coat beside the door, and tried not to notice the sharp hatchet hanging from one side of his belt or the long bowie knife strapped to the other. He had picked up a paper from a newsboy on the way over, and he waggled it as I escorted him down the winding hallway.

“Electric streetlights, here in New Fiddleham! Can you believe it? Within the year—at least accordin' to the papers. You can tell that mayor fella's up for reelection. They've got 'em up in Seeley's Square already. Hah! I can still remember when they were puttin' in the gas lines!”

I nodded. “Commissioner Marlowe's got them talking about running telephone wires out to the surrounding cities as well.”

Hank shook his head in astonishment and whistled. “It's a helluva world. Still, I'll take stars in the sky and the dirt beneath my feet any day. I'm glad Gad's Valley's a little behind the times. I'm a little behind the times, myself, I guess.”

We reached the end of the hallway, and I knocked gently on the laboratory door. “Just to caution you,” I whispered. “Mr. Jackaby is in slightly bad humor—”

The door burst open and my employer stood before us, holding a long rod with a half-molten nub of metal at the tip. A pair of brass goggles had been pushed up on his head, forcing his already unruly hair upward in uneven tufts. He smiled broadly and threw his hands in the air enthusiastically, catching the door frame with a glancing blow from the metal rod. “Hudson! Auspicious timing. Come in, come in!”

The usual madness of the chamber was in full force, with racks of beakers and test tubes filled with liquids of various hues, a pinging copper boiler with its pipes reaching out like spider's legs, and an odd, lingering aroma of strawberries and sulfur. Strewn across every available surface were panels of thick glass and strips of metal. Jackaby had popped one side off a stout terrarium and had extended the glass box by adding a few new walls. In a corner sat the dented bucket and the box from this morning, and a soft mewling told me the kittens were still inside.

Jackaby crossed the room and flicked off the hot blue flame on a Bunsen burner, dropping the metal rod beside it. “You've put together more animal enclosures than I have,” he said. “Do you think you could assist me in constructing a somewhat larger vivarium? I could certainly use another pair of hands on the soldering.”

Mr. Hudson dropped his newspaper on the table and strode happily over to the project, inspecting the freshly tacked joints.

“You could have called me in, sir,” I said. “I am here to assist—and I'm good for a lot more than sorting papers. As a matter of fact, I've been thinking about an angle on our latest case.”

“It isn't personal, Miss Rook. Hudson and I have simply worked together on similar projects in the past. We all have our areas of expertise, and penning animals happens to be one of his. The beasts
he
hunts are generally still alive.”

Mr. Hudson looked up from the glass box. “Not really sportin' to hunt the dead ones, is it?”

“I believe my employer is referring to hunting fossils—which is actually quite a challenge. The paleontologist's prey might not be up and running, but they do have a tendency to scatter themselves about the landscape and lodge bits of themselves in solid rock.”

“Dinosaurs, huh? Bet you're just as excited as a badger in a beehive about that find down in the valley, then.”

“What find? They've found fossils?” I asked.

Hudson jabbed a finger at the newspaper on the table. “Yup. Gad's Valley. Farmer dug 'em up when he was cuttin' into the hillside. The place ain't but a mile or two from my cabin. I've known Hugo Brisbee since way back. A decent rancher, but that place seems like it's always one bad crop away from broke. He's the one who found the bones. Apparently he's got to keep a closer eye on 'em, though. Here, have a look fer yourself.”

I leafed through the paper until I found the article. The story was just as the trapper said. Written by one Nellie Fuller, it read as follows:

Phenomenal Find Leads to Farmland Fiasco.

Gad's Valley may be known for its simple rustic charms, but for one local farmstead, this past week has been more sensational by far. Death, dinosaur bones, and daylight robbery have shaken up the residents of the quiet countryside.

Ground was broken last Wednesday in the foothills behind the Brisbee family farm, unearthing a massive prehistoric fossil. The discovery quickly gained the attention of local enthusiasts and international experts alike.

The excavation has already been marred by some sad and unsettling developments. First and foremost, Madeleine Brisbee, 64, was found deceased yesterday morning near the site of the find. Having taken ill several weeks earlier, she is believed to have collapsed from exertion. Foul play is not suspected.

In the midst of this tragic loss, progress on the discovery has been further hampered by another troubling development. The deceased's husband, Hugo Brisbee, 67, had scarcely returned from making funeral arrangements, when he received word that an invaluable artifact had been stolen from the site. Investigation into the theft is ongoing.

Brisbee has been in correspondence with the renowned American paleontologist Lewis Lamb since the earliest stages of the discovery. Lamb, head of Glanville University's Geological Survey, is expected to arrive within the week to take charge of the excavation.

One thing is certain: in spite of trouble and tragedy, a great deal more will be coming out of the Brisbee soil this season than carrots and cabbages.

“Jackaby, read this! We absolutely must look into it!”

Jackaby took the paper with a scowl and glanced over it for a few moments. “Hmm. Now this
is
interesting.”

“More than interesting, it's spectacular. I mean—very sad about the poor woman, of course—but this is precisely our sort of case! A brazen robbery in which the stolen property is a priceless scientific relic! Do you suppose that if we track down the missing bone, they might let me assist with the dig as well?”

“What's that?” Jackaby looked up from the page. “You already have a job, Rook—and I wasn't talking about that dinosaur business. Here, notice anything peculiar?”

The page opposite the excavation article was littered with half a dozen local happenings, minor accounts of vandalism, petty theft, and missing persons. “The absent professor?” I guessed. “Unusual for an instructor to be truant, I suppose.”

“Falderal! Cordovan's Shoes. There.” He pointed to an article of only two sentences.

The entry briefly explained that an unidentified miscreant had broken into a shoemaker's shop three times in the past week.

“Please tell me you're kidding, sir. It says the cobbler couldn't even find anything stolen. That's annoying, but it's not a case.”

“You mean cordwainer,” Jackaby corrected. “Cobblers only make repairs. Do you know who else is known for slipping into shoemakers' shops and not taking anything?”

“Please, sir. Don't say elves.”

“Elves!”

“It doesn't say they made a nice pair of shoes for him—they just broke in. It's probably some poor vagrant looking to keep dry for the night. It's not elves.”

“It
could
be elves.”

“It
could
be elephants—what it is
not
is a case. Honestly, sir, how often will we have a chance to track down genuine dinosaur fossils?”

Hank leaned against the counter to watch our exchange.

“I really don't see why you find old bones so interesting, Rook,” said Jackaby.

“You told me yourself that you're a man of science. Paleontology is a science, and a thrilling one! Surely you're a bit intrigued.”

“Anything can be studied scientifically. Pedology is a valid science as well, but I have no interest in staring at dirt. I much prefer to devote my time to the study of pertinent, urgent matters, and to preparation for legitimate potential encounters. The likelihood that I will find myself face-to-face with a dinosaur at any point in my life? Very slim. The likelihood that a secretive little scamp will breach Cordovan's Shoes again this very night?” He brandished the page at me again. “Nearly absolute.”

Hank laughed heartily and clapped a hand on Jackaby's shoulder. “Hah! You haven't changed a bit, my friend. Aw, let the girl have her fun. What d'ya say, Miss Rook? I'm headin' out to Gadston first thing tomorrow. I got some business in town before I get down to the valley, but I could meet you down there an' introduce ya to Brisbee. That is . . . if yer grumpy ol' boss will give ya the time off.” He nudged Jackaby, who rolled his eyes. I liked Hank Hudson even more than I had before.

“That is out of the question,” Jackaby said. “The last time I permitted an assistant to pursue an investigation alone, he came back as waterfowl. I need someone in this house to maintain her opposable digits, or I shall have to do everything myself.”

“Yer gonna be doin' that anyway if you drive her away.” Hudson gave Jackaby a nudge. “You've got those special eyes—take a good look at the kid. Tell me the truth. Is she the type to let go of an adventure when she's sunk her teeth into it? Ain't a bad quality in yer line of work.”

I felt my employer's piercing gaze for several seconds and resisted the urge to shuffle my feet. Jackaby took a deep breath. “Be that as it may, she has yet to finish chewing on our current morsel. As a matter of fact, weren't you just saying something about another angle on the case, Miss Rook?”

I silently cursed his selective attention. “Right. That. I'm sure it's nothing.”

“You're better at sorting papers than you are at lying.” Jackaby raised an eyebrow at me.

“I was just having a bit of a think earlier,” I admitted, “and I realized we never asked Mrs. Beaumont where she bought her cat. There might be something in it—but it could just as well be nothing.”

“Or it could be everything.” Jackaby's eyes narrowed. “It definitely merits further investigation. We will call on her first thing in the morning. I'm sorry, Miss Rook, but we must finish properly insulating New Fiddleham from wild, insidious predators before gallivanting off after a bit of dry bone.”

Hank's smile remained, but his eyes took on a focused glint. “There somethin' you forgot to tell me?”

Jackaby turned back to the trapper with a sly smile. “Why do you think we're building the box?”

Jackaby was rarely forthright with the public about the nature of his cases—possibly owing to the public's tendency to laugh, jeer, or throw things at him when he did speak his mind—but he held nothing back as he explained the chameleomorphs to Hudson. The trapper's eyes shone with excitement as he listened. “Wait—that mackerel I snagged for ya was one of yer camel-morphy things? Didn't look like nothin'—you swear you ain't just messin' with me? You know how much I love me a rare breed.”

“Would you like to see her kittens?” Jackaby asked.

“The fish had
kitten
s
?”

Three of the little fur balls fit in the palm of Hank's big hand, and he stroked their ears and fuzzy fins with remarkable gentleness.

“Can I keep one of 'em?” He looked like an enormous toddler, coddling the little things as they played in his arms. “You know me, Jackaby—I'd take real good care.”

“I'm afraid that is out of the question,” Jackaby replied. “As I have been explaining to Miss Rook, they are far too dangerous. I much prefer to manage their handling myself.”

“You ain't gonna kill 'em, are you?”

“No, as it happens, I am not—but if you find the thought of killing an adorable kitten distasteful, then keep in mind that is precisely what
these
creatures are currently disguised to do.”

Hank carefully deposited the litter back into the box. “Well, I can't say I ain't a little disappointed, but I do appreciate you lettin' me have a look at 'em. We're gonna need us a much bigger box.”

“The vivarium will not be housing them in their current form for long—that's the point of the endeavor. I would like them to fit comfortably, but they will be far less dangerous if I can force them into a smaller form as soon as possible and introduce a more plentiful food source. The Gerridae are just maturing, and in our little pond, alone, we're likely to see more than our fish can consume.”

“Gerridae? That some kinda bug?”

“Indeed. More commonly, I believe they are called water striders or pond skaters.”

“Skeeters? Yer gonna turn these sweet little kittens into skeeters?”

“They are not kittens, and yes. Providing them a small, manageable form will allow me to keep them more easily contained, and it will allow them to live out their lives without continuing to ravage the actual feline population.”

Hank looked a little sad, but nodded. “Yer probably right. Durn shame, though. I woulda called the little one Peanut.” He gave the kitten a last scratch between its ears and returned to assembling the big glass terrarium. I caught Jackaby's arm before he could start up the burner and get back to soldering.