that he held in one hand.
“Where’d you find that?” Ben asked.
My mind instantly filled with apprehension. I cursedand approached along with Ben, hoping that this was just a dog’s old bone. But there were no telltale teeth marks, and its shape and size looked all too human. Someone’s upper arm. R. Garcia’s?
“It was in the pile of rubble,” the man explained, gesturing with his chin.
Just then I heard someone approach, turned, and saw a grouchy-looking Wendell Barton striding toward us. “What’s everyone standing around for?” he demanded. “Ben! Did you fail to understand Mr. Baker’s directive last night that this was to be done on double time?! Why do you have a crew of just two men?”
“There’s a problem, Wendell,” I interjected. “They found a bone in the debris from the steps. It looks like part of a human skeleton.”
Ben showed him the bone. “Nah. That’s nothing,” Wendell said with a dismissive wave. “Probably a dog’s treasure trove. That’s hardly an excuse to stop working.”
“Maybe not, but
this
is,” the second worker said, removing his gloves. He pointed at a spot in the top of the pile that the bulldozer had created, and even from where I stood—some ten feet away—I could make out the shape of a human skull. “I’m out of here. I don’t need the work this bad.” He started walking toward the driveway.
“Wait. You can’t leave,” I told him. “We have to call the police. They’re going to want to know precisely where you found the first bone.”
“I gotta go, too,” the second man said as he trotted down the walkway. “I’m not waiting for no police….” They both hopped into their respective pickup trucks and drove off.
“Ben!” Wendell scolded. “Are you some kind of an idiot? Those men are obviously illegal immigrants! Didn’t you ask to see their drivers’ licenses or their papers before you hired them?”
“No, Mr. Barton. I have a hard enough time getting workmen without—”
“This town’s chomping at the bit to shut us down!” Wendell growled. “I can’t risk getting socked with a fine or work-stoppage due to hiring illegal immigrants!”
While Wendell carped at Ben, I dialed 911 on my cell phone. When the dispatcher answered, I said, “My name is Erin Gilbert and I’m calling from Henry Goodwin’s house on Goodwin Road, in Snowcap Village.” I paused. “I’m sorry. This isn’t an emergency. Force of habit. But a crew that was digging up some cement steps came across some human bones. I’m pretty sure they were from the grave that was robbed earlier in the week.”
“How do you know that the bones have been moved from a grave?”
“I don’t. It’s an educated guess.”
“Erin!” Wendell snapped in a half whisper. “Hang up! We can’t get the police involved in this!”
“It’s too late,” I replied calmly. “They’re on their way.”
Chapter 6
F ifteen minutes later, nicely bundled up in a stylish plum parka and white Lycra ski pants, Chiffon came outside; Audrey was long gone, having left for a film session at the local TV studio. I barely had a moment to consider how interesting it was that Chiffon was emerging from the inn, considering she owned a condo ten minutes away. She appeared to have spent the night here. Ben rushed to fill her in on the workers’ grisly discovery.
Some five minutes after Chiffon joined Ben and me, Sheriff Mackey, the superior officer in Snowcap, finallyarrived, driven here by a second officer who had all the assertiveness of a whipped puppy dog. With V-shaped eyebrows that echoed his receding hairline, the sheriff bore a passing resemblance to Jack Nicholson. Frankly, he seemed to have no idea what to do. He interviewed Ben; asked about the men—Pedro and Juan Martinez; asked if Ben himself had seen “any bones or bonelike fragments” while he was digging, which he hadn’t; and was then stymied. Ben volunteered the fact that I’d been talking to him when the
“Where’d you find that?” Ben asked.
My mind instantly filled with apprehension. I cursedand approached along with Ben, hoping that this was just a dog’s old bone. But there were no telltale teeth marks, and its shape and size looked all too human. Someone’s upper arm. R. Garcia’s?
“It was in the pile of rubble,” the man explained, gesturing with his chin.
Just then I heard someone approach, turned, and saw a grouchy-looking Wendell Barton striding toward us. “What’s everyone standing around for?” he demanded. “Ben! Did you fail to understand Mr. Baker’s directive last night that this was to be done on double time?! Why do you have a crew of just two men?”
“There’s a problem, Wendell,” I interjected. “They found a bone in the debris from the steps. It looks like part of a human skeleton.”
Ben showed him the bone. “Nah. That’s nothing,” Wendell said with a dismissive wave. “Probably a dog’s treasure trove. That’s hardly an excuse to stop working.”
“Maybe not, but
this
is,” the second worker said, removing his gloves. He pointed at a spot in the top of the pile that the bulldozer had created, and even from where I stood—some ten feet away—I could make out the shape of a human skull. “I’m out of here. I don’t need the work this bad.” He started walking toward the driveway.
“Wait. You can’t leave,” I told him. “We have to call the police. They’re going to want to know precisely where you found the first bone.”
“I gotta go, too,” the second man said as he trotted down the walkway. “I’m not waiting for no police….” They both hopped into their respective pickup trucks and drove off.
“Ben!” Wendell scolded. “Are you some kind of an idiot? Those men are obviously illegal immigrants! Didn’t you ask to see their drivers’ licenses or their papers before you hired them?”
“No, Mr. Barton. I have a hard enough time getting workmen without—”
“This town’s chomping at the bit to shut us down!” Wendell growled. “I can’t risk getting socked with a fine or work-stoppage due to hiring illegal immigrants!”
While Wendell carped at Ben, I dialed 911 on my cell phone. When the dispatcher answered, I said, “My name is Erin Gilbert and I’m calling from Henry Goodwin’s house on Goodwin Road, in Snowcap Village.” I paused. “I’m sorry. This isn’t an emergency. Force of habit. But a crew that was digging up some cement steps came across some human bones. I’m pretty sure they were from the grave that was robbed earlier in the week.”
“How do you know that the bones have been moved from a grave?”
“I don’t. It’s an educated guess.”
“Erin!” Wendell snapped in a half whisper. “Hang up! We can’t get the police involved in this!”
“It’s too late,” I replied calmly. “They’re on their way.”
Chapter 6
F ifteen minutes later, nicely bundled up in a stylish plum parka and white Lycra ski pants, Chiffon came outside; Audrey was long gone, having left for a film session at the local TV studio. I barely had a moment to consider how interesting it was that Chiffon was emerging from the inn, considering she owned a condo ten minutes away. She appeared to have spent the night here. Ben rushed to fill her in on the workers’ grisly discovery.
Some five minutes after Chiffon joined Ben and me, Sheriff Mackey, the superior officer in Snowcap, finallyarrived, driven here by a second officer who had all the assertiveness of a whipped puppy dog. With V-shaped eyebrows that echoed his receding hairline, the sheriff bore a passing resemblance to Jack Nicholson. Frankly, he seemed to have no idea what to do. He interviewed Ben; asked about the men—Pedro and Juan Martinez; asked if Ben himself had seen “any bones or bonelike fragments” while he was digging, which he hadn’t; and was then stymied. Ben volunteered the fact that I’d been talking to him when the
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