Dead Man's Bones (31 page)

“I know,” I said mildly. “It’s kind of a surprise.”

Brian thought about this for a minute. “Next time we’re up at the cave, I’ll ask Doctor Montoya if I can go to her office and see the bullet hole in the skull.”

“Sure,” I said, helping myself to another piece of pizza. It wasn’t likely that Alana would be going back to the cave. She would either submit her resignation or be fired, and somebody else would take over the dig. But I’d leave it to McQuaid to tell Brian about Alana’s situation at the university. After all, he was the one who had confirmed the résumé fraud. I thought fleetingly of Alana and hoped that she would be all right. Going back to Mexico was probably a good idea. She might even be able to find work there, under circumstances where knowledge and experience counted for more than credentials.

Brian wore a troubled look. “Do you know,” he said after a minute, “whether the bullet was still in the . . . the skull?”

“It wasn’t,” I said. “Doctor Montoya identified the exit fracture. Which means,” I added, “that if the man was shot where you found him, the slug and the cartridge case ought to be there somewhere. Sheriff Blackwell said he’d try to get out to the cave to look for it.”

I expected Brian to clamor to go with the sheriff, but he said nothing, just ate the last of his pizza reflectively, his eyes on the enshrouded lizard that occupied a place of honor beside the pizza.

We held the funeral after dinner. Howard offered to be the pallbearer and carry Leopold in his mouth, but Brian and I agreed that this was not a good idea. We buried Leopold beneath a rosemary bush. Brian always likes to say a few words of farewell over the departed. Myself, I don’t mourn much, since my relationship with these creatures is usually an adversarial one. But I respect Brian’s feelings, so I bowed my head while he said softly, “Good-bye, Leopold. You were a good lizard. I’m glad you lived long enough to get old. I hope you enjoyed your life.”

We had just finished putting a very large rock over Leopold to keep Howard from paying his last respects, when Brian said, “I’ve got something to give you, Mom.” He reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and put it into my hand. An empty brass cartridge casing.

“What’s this?” I asked, turning it over in my fingers.

“It’s a bullet.”

“Let me rephrase the question,” I said. “Where did you get this cartridge casing? And why are you giving it to me?”

In the distance, thunder rumbled. The line of low clouds in the north had risen, mushrooming into a gray-blue mass. The promised storm would be here before long.

“Well . . .” Brian looked sheepish. “I found it in the cave. Not far from where I found the skeleton.”

“Oh, my gosh, Brian,” I said. “The cave is a crime scene. Why didn’t you give the casing to the sheriff?”

“It wasn’t a crime scene when I found the bones,” Brian said defensively. “And I didn’t know that the guy had been shot until you told me just now.” He looked down and scuffed the ground with the toe of his sneaker. “At first I thought he died when the rock fell on him. Then I thought that somebody bashed him in the head. I never figured that the bullet was . . .” He glanced at me unhappily. “I hope Dad and the sheriff aren’t going to be too mad at me.” He bit his lip. Being the son of an ex-cop, he knows what his father is likely to say about something like this.

I composed my face in a stern look and put on my lawyer’s voice. “Removing evidence from a crime scene . . .”

“But I didn’t mean to,” he said desperately. “Really, I didn’t!”

I saw the look on his face and relented. “I think it’ll be okay,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “The shooting happened a long time ago, and this is a cold case. The fact that you’ve had the casing probably won’t make any difference in the way the investigation is handled.”

There was a flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder. Brian gave me a grateful look, cast a good-bye glance at Leopold’s grave, and we went into the house.

I sent Brian upstairs to do his homework under the watchful eye of Howard Cosell and went into the kitchen, where I turned the kettle on to make myself a cup of tea. Ruby had promised to stop by after supper, and she’d be here any minute.

While I was waiting, I examined the casing. Turning it up and looking at the base, I could make out the letters
USCC
and a number,
18
. Greek to me, but Blackie would be able to decipher it. I put the casing into a plastic bag with a zipper top and stuck it in my purse. I’d drop it off at the sheriff’s office on my way to the shop in the morning.

Ruby arrived about ten minutes later, just as darkness fell and the rain began to come down hard. “Whew,” she said, shaking herself like a damp puppy. “It’s wet out there!”

“Looks like you’re dressed for it,” I said, as Ruby peeled out of her raincoat. She was wearing the blue batik top, blue-and-green print pants, green sandals, and the blue beads she’d gotten at the mall that afternoon, plus her mermaid earrings. “The underwater look.”

Ruby made a graceful pirouette. “Lovely, isn’t it? And such a bargain!”

Bargains are always good for Ruby’s morale. “You look like a mermaid,” I said, “or a strand of kelp. Want some tea? The kettle’s hot.”

“Lovely,” Ruby replied, and sat down at the kitchen table, arranging the blue drapery around her. She took Cassandra’s folder out of her bag and put it on the table. “Have you had a chance to look over Cass’s proposal yet?”

I shook my head, filling the large tea ball and dropping it into the teapot. Might as well make several cups while I was at it. “I was guest of honor at a lizard funeral. Leopold died.”

Ruby chuckled at that. She’s aware of Brian’s creature passions. “I haven’t read it, either,” she said. “We can do it together.”

Which we did, for, oh, maybe five minutes, while the rain pelted the windows. And then there was a sudden glare of blue-white lightning and a thunderous crash so close that it rattled the windows. The lights flickered like wind-blown candles, came back on, and then went out, decisively. The kitchen was plunged into darkness as rain hammered against the windows and wind howled in the trees. Somewhere nearby, there was a splintery crack, the sound of a tree breaking and going down. We don’t lose our power very often, but I had the feeling that it might be a while before the Pedernales Electric Coop got the lights back on.

From upstairs, Brian called reassuringly, “Don’t worry, Mom. I can still do my homework. I’ve got a flashlight.”

“Resourceful kid,” Ruby said.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s on his good behavior right now.” I went to the cupboard, took out the matches, and lit two fat cinnamon candles. I took them to the table and sat down. “Well, what do you think about Cassandra’s idea, Ruby? Seems to me—”

But that was as far as I got. I was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone on the wall. Ruby pushed her chair back.

“While you get that,” she said, picking up one of the candles, “I’m going to visit the little girl’s room.”

Ack. “Don’t flush unless you have to,” I said. “With the electricity off, the pump won’t work. There’s only one flush left in each toilet, and we should probably save it for an emergency.”

“Gotcha,” Ruby said cheerfully.

The caller was Helen Berger. “I suppose you know that I couldn’t talk when you phoned this afternoon,” she said. “There were other people at the nurses’ station.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Thanks for calling back.”

“You were . . . you were asking about Miss Obermann,” Helen said hesitantly.

“That’s right. I heard Florence died of a heart attack. I wondered whether you had any details.”

“A few.” Helen’s tone was guarded. “In the night, she began suffering severe abdominal pain, nausea, and vomiting. I came on the floor at eight, just after she began to experience cardiac dysrhythmia and hypotension—low blood pressure. She went into cardiac shock and died at nine-thirty.”

“I . . . see,” I said, frowning. “Was this . . . was the attack something that might have been expected, given her heart condition?”

“Heart condition?”

“Her sister mentioned several times that Florence had a bad heart.”

“That’s odd.” Helen sounded puzzled. “Doctor Mackey—Miss Obermann’s personal physician didn’t note that in the chart, or point it out to any of the nursing staff. She and I went back over the medications together this morning, thinking that the attack might have been caused by an allergic reaction to one of the drugs. She didn’t say anything about a heart condition then, either.”

I had a sudden feeling of urgency. “Has an autopsy been ordered?”

A pause. “Yes.”

Yes. There was a world of meaning in that single word. If the attending physician had been certain that Florence Obermann had died of natural causes, she would have signed the death certificate, the local justice of the peace would have countersigned, and Florence Obermann’s body would have been released to her sister. The fact that an autopsy had been ordered—

“Helen,” I said, “what’s your feeling about this situation?”

Another pause. When Helen finally answered, her voice was uneasy. “I wish you wouldn’t ask me that, China. I’m sure you appreciate my professional position.” She cleared her throat. “The autopsy report will be ready in a few days. I doubt that my feelings will have any material affect on its outcome. I just wanted you to know because . . .”

The silence stretched out.

“You wanted me to know,” I said quietly, “because you didn’t feel comfortable keeping this knowledge to yourself.”

She sighed heavily. “I guess that’s it. You and Ruby sent flowers and visited. In fact, you were the only visitors that poor woman had—except for her sister, of course.” She hesitated, as if she were searching for the right words. “It’s the way . . . the way she died, China. There’s something—” She swallowed audibly. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about this some more, I guess.”

I paused, reading between the lines and guessing at what she didn’t feel able to say. “What kind of toxicology tests are routinely done at autopsy, Helen?”

“Oh, gosh, I . . . I wouldn’t know,” Helen said, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. “That’s out of my area, I’m afraid.”

“Did Doctor Mackey order any special tests?”

“I don’t know that, either. I couldn’t really ask, you know,” she added hesitantly. “That sort of thing is the doctor’s business entirely. And while Doctor Mackey is very nice, I don’t think she’d like it if I butted in. It wouldn’t be . . . professional, you know.”

I thought back over what she had said. Nausea, abdominal pain, cardiac dysrhythmia, hypotension—

“Helen, do you remember the program you gave last year on plant poisons?”

Helen sighed. “I was thinking of that, actually. But I hate to suggest that—” She stopped. I imagined her with the phone in her hand, her pleasant face screwed into a worried frown, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “You know what I mean,” she said at last. “I could be fired for something like this.”

“I know there’s a risk. But you have to share your suspicious, Helen. If the autopsy is treated as routine, it might not include testing by a forensic toxicologist—at least, not the kind of tests that would be necessary to identify plant poisons. You know this stuff better than many toxicologists, I’ll bet. If you could suggest specific possibilities—”

“I suppose I could make a list,” Helen said doubtfully. “But then what? I really don’t think I should be the one to . . .” Her voice trailed away.

I paused. I don’t usually step back into my lawyer mode, but this was one occasion where it seemed like a good idea. “If you’ll give me a list of the plant materials that might have caused this kind of reaction, I’ll talk to Doctor Mackey, first thing in the morning. That will keep you out of it.” I was momentarily glad that I had just renewed my bar membership. At least I wouldn’t be lying when I told the doctor that I was a lawyer—not that it would explain my nosiness. I’d have to think of another explanation.

“Oh, China, would you?” Helen sounded vastly relieved. “I have all my research materials here. I’ll go through the list of possibilities right now. Do you have a fax machine? I could fax it to you.”

“Sure,” I said, and gave her the number. “I don’t think the fax machines will work until the power is back on, though,” I added.

“Oh, right.” Helen gave a little laugh. “I forgot all about the power. Thank heaven the phone isn’t out, too. I guess the phone company must have backup generators, like the hospital’s.” I was hanging up the phone when Ruby came back into the kitchen.

“That was Helen Berger,” I said. “She’s the charge nurse at the hospital. She was calling about Florence Obermann.”

“Oh?” Ruby put her candle on the table and sat down. “I’ve been thinking about that ever since you told me, China, and I’m more and more certain that there’s something wrong. What did she say?”

“She said that Doctor Mackey ordered an—” The rest of my sentence response was lost in a loud thunderclap, and when the sound had died away, I became aware of a repeated rapping at the front door.

“Is that somebody knocking?” I asked, startled. I hadn’t heard anybody drive in, but that wasn’t a surprise, with the rain pouring down.

“Sure sounds like it,” Ruby said. “Are you expecting anybody?”

“Not that I know of,” I said. I picked up the candle and carried it down the hall to the front door, Ruby tagging along behind. I opened it, on the chain, and held up the candle. The flickering yellow light fell on the face of a young man standing on the porch, his shoulders huddled against the rain.

I unhooked the chain and stepped back. “Juan!” I exclaimed. “Juan Gomez! Come in, please—it’s wet out there.”