Copycat Killing

3

“You’re bleeding,” Marcus said, grabbing my arm.

I tried to gesture with my hand. “There’s a—”

“—I see it,” he interrupted.

The skull was lying on what seemed to be a corner of an old piece of canvas. I could see what looked like a clavicle and shoulder bones as well.

I was shaking. I closed my eyes for a moment in a silent prayer that whomever the remains had belonged to, the person had died after a long, happy life and had been, as Maggie would say, welcomed by the light.

Marcus reached over and unwound the black scarf I was wearing around my neck under my hoodie, and wrapped it around my hand, pinning my bleeding thumb against my palm. “Can you stand up?” he asked. “We need to get out of the way just in case any more of that bank comes down.”

Slowly, I got my legs untangled and got to my feet. For a moment the world whirled dizzyingly around me. I held on to Marcus, my fingers digging into his arm, and the feeling passed.

My left ankle was stiff and it hurt enough that I grit my teeth together so I wouldn’t moan out loud. I put most of my weight on my other leg and leaned on Marcus as we made our way across the uneven ground toward the old house. I was covered with dirt and probably bruises as well, but nothing seemed to be broken and I hadn’t hit my head. My jeans and sweatshirt were wet and caked with mud, but the only thing that seemed to be bleeding was my thumb.

When we got to the carriage house I looked back over my shoulder. The entire embankment at the edge of the trees had collapsed. For a moment my legs went watery. Marcus’s arm tightened around my shoulders.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes narrowed with concern.

I nodded. “I am. Really.” How had I managed to end up with just a few bumps and scrapes? Even my bleeding hand had been injured somewhere else.

I could see that there had been some kind of stone retaining wall holding up the rise and reinforcing the slope. Could there maybe have been an old burial ground up on the hill? Was that where the skull had come from? No one had ever talked about a Henderson family cemetery out here. Then again, people didn’t really talk about Wisteria Hill much at all.

We made it to the main house and I sank onto the side stairs. Marcus took a couple of steps away from me and pulled out his cell phone, his entire demeanor shifting into police officer mode. I knew the authorities would have to figure out where the bones had come from.

I still had dirt and grit in my nose and mouth. I tried to take a deep breath and started coughing again. I leaned forward, arms on my knees, breathing slowly.

Marcus turned, snapping his phone closed. “Ambulance will be here in a few minutes.”

It took a second for me to realize he meant for me, not for the remains behind the carriage house. Hacking and wheezing I sucked in an uneven breath and then another. “I’m all right,” I said, hoarsely, starting to get up and then flinching as I put my left hand down without thinking. Not only did the gash on my thumb hurt, it felt as though I’d done something to my wrist, too.

Marcus shook his head. “No, you’re not all right.” He gestured at the scarf-wrapped hand that I was hugging to my chest. “Your hand’s bleeding. So is your forehead. You’ve probably got a sprained ankle and who knows how many other cuts and bruises. You fell a good ten feet, Kathleen. You need to be checked out.”

My hand went to my face out of reflex and I squeaked at the pain. The entire right side of my head hurt and there was blood and dirt on my fingers when I pulled my hand away. “Okay,” I said.

His eyes narrowed in surprise. “Okay? That’s it?”

I nodded. He’d probably expected me to argue. It was what we usually did; squabble like six-year-olds.

For a minute we just looked at each other in silence. Then Marcus glanced back toward the collapsed hill.

“Do you think there’s some kind of graveyard back there?” I asked, tipping my head to one side and trying to shake some of the dirt from my hair. For a moment the movement made the world spin again.

“I think there’s a pretty good chance.” He made a face and pointed at my hand. “Do you mind? Can I take a look at that?”

I held out my arm and he unwound one end of the scarf. Blood had soaked all the way through the material. “There was a smallpox epidemic in this area back in 1924,” he said. “I know there’ve been a couple of other unmarked grave sites from that time found in this part of the state.”

He inspected the cut, made a face and folded the fabric back around my hand. “It doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.” He squinted at my face and then reached over to brush dirt from my forehead.

I jerked back, involuntarily, and sucked in a sharp breath between my teeth.

He pulled his hand away. “Sorry. I’ll let the paramedics take care of that.”

“Could you pull my left boot off, please?” I asked. “It’s full of mud.” I’d been trying to toe off the heel with my other foot but it wasn’t working.

I held up my leg and Marcus grabbed the bottom of the rubber boot and pulled. It came off with a loud sucking sound and clumps of wet earth fell onto the grass. There was more dirt stuck to my sock. I shook my foot and sent a spray of it into the air.

Even in the heavy woolen sock I was wearing, my ankle looked swollen. Marcus set the boot down and reached for my foot. “Does this hurt?” he asked, gently bending it forward and back.

I winced. “A little.”

“How about this?” His fingers carefully probed my ankle. He had big, warm hands with strong fingers and a surprisingly gentle touch.

I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to be liking this so much. “It’s…um…it’s all right.” I pulled my foot back and reached for the discarded boot.

He handed it to me as the ambulance arrived, followed by the first police car. I recognized Ric, one of the two paramedics. He’d taken care of me the previous winter when I’d almost been blown to pieces in an explosion out on Hardwood Ridge. He remembered me as well.

“Ms. Paulson, what happened?” he asked, crouching down in front of me.

I explained about the hill collapsing, while his partner checked my pulse and looked into both my eyes. Once they decided I didn’t have any life-threatening injuries or broken bones, they began bandaging the cut on my hand and cleaning the various abrasions on my face.

“How’s your cat?” Ric asked as he carefully tweezered bits of gravel from my forehead. “Still sneaking into your truck to ride shotgun?”

I’d taken Owen with me the day of the explosion. Like me, he’d almost been caught in it. Everyone assumed he’d stowed away in the truck and I’d let the assumption stand.

Marcus knew the cat didn’t like to be touched by pretty much anyone other than me, but one of the police officers on the scene hadn’t taken his warning seriously. It was a wonder I hadn’t regained consciousness to find Owen shackled in a set of kitty-sized handcuffs for assaulting a police officer.

“Sometimes,” I said. “Mostly he’s just terrorizing the birds in the backyard.”

Ric grinned. “He hasn’t gone head-to-head with any more police officers?”

“Thankfully, no. But he does have a stare-down going with a golden Lab that lives up the street.”

I flinched as he pulled out a sliver of tree bark embedded in my skin.

“Sorry,” he said softly.

I looked over his shoulder, focusing on watching Marcus work to distract myself while Ric continued to gently clean my forehead.

Marcus was a good police officer—meticulous and very observant. I thought he was too rigid sometimes, and he tended to come across as cold when he was working on a case, something I knew firsthand because I’d gotten tied up in two of his past investigations.

He’d thought I had no business being involved in either one of them. The fact that I hadn’t wanted to be involved in a murder, or that he’d been investigating people I cared about—and the first time we met, me—didn’t seem to be a good enough reason.

I wasn’t a police officer. I wasn’t even a lawyer. I was a librarian. I knew about books, grant proposals and the Dewey decimal system. The thing was, because of my parents’ acting careers, I’d seen a lot of subterfuge and I was pretty good at spotting a liar. Plus I had Hercules and Owen who had the ability to stick their furry noses—literally—into places they probably had no business being. Of course, I couldn’t share that with Marcus, or anyone else for that matter.

I tried to imagine his reaction if I told him that my cats’ talents went beyond being able to hear a can of tuna being opened from a hundred feet away; that Hercules had the ability to walk through walls and Owen could disappear whenever it suited him, which was generally at the worst possible time for me. How could I explain it to anyone else when I didn’t even understand it all myself? At best, I’d end up somewhere having my head examined, at worst the cats would.

Ric was just putting a gauze bandage on my forehead when Officer Derek Craig came around the side of the carriage house. I’d met the young policeman for the first time the previous summer when I found conductor Gregor Easton’s body at the Stratton Theater. He’d been at the library several times in the past couple of months, checking out books on the law and law school. I wondered if he was thinking about a career change.

“Is Ms. Paulson okay to go home?” he asked the paramedics.

Ric nodded. “We’re done.” He turned his attention to me. His partner was already packing their things.

“I know,” I said, before he could start giving me his list of warnings. “I should see my family doctor. And if my head starts to hurt, or if I have problems with my vision or breathing, I should go to the emergency room right away.”

“Or if you feel nauseated or start vomiting,” he added. “In fact, you should make an appointment with your own doctor as soon as possible to get checked out. Just to be on the safe side.”

“I will,” I said. “Thank you.” I leaned around Ric to thank the other paramedic as well. Then I turned to Derek. “I’m okay. And my truck’s right there. I can get home.”

He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Ma’am, Detective Gordon told me to drive you home. He also said I should use handcuffs if I had to. Do I have to?”

I didn’t want to leave my truck behind. On the other hand, Marcus wasn’t above having those handcuffs put on me.

I shook my head. “No you don’t have to. But do you have something to cover the seat?” There was mud on my boots, clumped on my clothes, even some still in my hair.

“Not a problem,” he said with a smile. “A little dirt won’t hurt anything. There’s been worse in that car.”

I got to my feet and brushed what dirt I could off my jeans and hooded sweatshirt. I looked around for Marcus. He was at the far end of the field, bent down, clearly studying the bones that had been unearthed by the hill collapse. He turned and straightened up then, almost as if he could feel my eyes on him. I lifted a hand to let him know I was all right and I was going—more or less willingly—with Derek. He raised a hand in return.

I limped my way slowly over to the police cruiser. My ankle felt a little better now that it was wrapped with a support bandage. Derek hovered beside me and I had the sense that he could and would toss me over his shoulder and carry me the rest of the way if I stumbled. I scraped what mud I could off my boots before I got in the car. He reached across me and fastened the seat belt. I wasn’t sure if he thought I was too banged up to do it myself, or that I might bolt for my truck when his back was turned.

We crept down the rutted driveway, bouncing over every bump. I knew I had to have a lot of bruises I couldn’t see and I felt every one of them with every lurch of the car.

At the bottom Derek turned to me. “Where are we headed?” he asked.

“Mountain Road,” I said. “On the left-hand side, not that far from the top.” I gave him the number.

He frowned. “Little white farmhouse?”

I nodded. “That’s it.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence. He pulled into the driveway and before I could tell him not to, he was out of the police car and around opening the passenger door for me.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling up at him.

“You’re welcome,” he said with a dip of his head. I was at the back steps before I heard the car pull onto the street again. It was a safe bet that Marcus had told him to make sure I made it safely to the door.

I pulled off my muddy boots in the porch and unlocked the kitchen door. As if they had some kind of cat radar, Hercules and Owen both appeared in the living room doorway.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said.

They exchanged glances, almost as though they were engaging in some kind of telepathic communication. Then Herc came across the floor to me. I pulled out a kitchen chair and dropped into it, biting off a groan when my right hip made contact with the seat. The little black-and-white cat sat in front of me, eyes narrowed, and looked me up and down.

“The bank behind the carriage house let go,” I said, feeling a little foolish explaining myself to a cat. “I’m fine. Marcus called the paramedics, not that I needed them.” I pulled my muddy sweatshirt over my head and dropped it on the floor.

Hercules recoiled and took a couple of steps backward. He sniffed the shirt, and then he sniffed at me, his face twisting in distaste at the odor.

“Yes, I know I don’t smell very good,” I said. “Kind of the same way someone did after they got into Rebecca’s compost pile.” I shot a quick glance at Owen.

Hercules came closer again. He stood on his back legs, put a paw on my knee and gently nudged my re-bandaged hand. “It’s just a little cut,” I said, reaching down to stroke his fur with my other hand. “I actually did that down at the store with Maggie.”

At the sound of Maggie’s name, Owen bounded over to me. “Maggie’s fine,” I reassured him. He had a major kitty crush on her. “So am I, so you can stop worrying.” Sarcasm was wasted on Owen—he was already poking my sweatshirt with a paw.

Hercules suddenly dropped back onto all four feet, looked at the refrigerator door—where I’d stuck the Wisteria Hill feeding schedule—then turned back to me, tipping his head to one side and meowing quizzically. He might have been asking if we had any sardines in the fridge. Or it was possible he was asking if Marcus was okay. Improbable, but not impossible, since Hercules and Owen weren’t exactly ordinary house cats.

“Yes, Marcus is fine too, and in case you were asking about sardines and not everyone’s favorite detective, no, there aren’t any open.”

The answer seemed to satisfy him. He turned to watch his brother still poking at my hoodie. I knew Herc had no intention of touching it. Not only did he dislike having wet paws, he didn’t like having dirty ones either. Owen had found the little purple thingie I’d picked up out at Wisteria Hill. He gave it a swipe with one paw and it slid over the floor like a curling rock, ending up at my feet.

I bent to pick the thing up before Owen sent it underneath the refrigerator. I still had no idea what it was. A wig for some kind of tiny forest sprite, perhaps? It wasn’t the oddest thing to be discarded out at the old estate. I knew that Harry Taylor and his younger brother, Larry, had found a full-sized, claw-foot bathtub out there in the woods. Being practical guys, they’d loaded it in the back of Larry’s truck and it had eventually ended up in Larry’s bathroom—with the approval of Everett Henderson, of course.

My entire right side ached and I guessed I was probably turning into a giant bruise all over that part of my body. I needed coffee and a shower and a couple of aspirin.

I looked at the cats. “I don’t suppose you two know how to work the coffeemaker,” I said. Owen’s head immediately swung in my direction. He knew the word coffee generally meant I’d also be eating something he probably could wheedle a few bites of. “Yes, we’ll have something to eat, too,” I assured him.

I stood up, stretched and groaned a little, partly because everything hurt and partly for effect. Not only do cats not get sarcasm, they don’t get shameless bids for sympathy either. I set the tiny purple puff on top of the refrigerator, washed my hands, started the coffee and headed upstairs for the shower.

“Maggie and I didn’t talk about the boots,” I said over my shoulder to Hercules as I got to the living room doorway. He was zealously cleaning the bottom of his left paw and didn’t even look up. Even though I’d said Maggie’s name, neither did Owen.

“I distracted her,” I added.

Nothing, not even a tail twitch, or two.

I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand. “Yep, tossed a dead rat right at her. Of course, it turns out it wasn’t exactly dead.”

I would have sworn both cats did a double take. They bolted across the floor. Owen skidded to a stop just in front of me. Herc was a little more dignified. Throw the word rat into a sentence and suddenly they were interested.

They trailed me upstairs and sat just inside the bathroom door while I got cleaned up and told them what had happened at the co-op store and later at Wisteria Hill. I knew it was a little weird, okay, probably more than a little weird that I talked to the cats like they understood what I was saying, but I’d found it helped me to sort things out. There were times when it really did seem like they were following the conversation. And I told myself that talking to Owen and Hercules wasn’t as bad as walking around talking to myself.

Owen gave me the cold shoulder while I got dressed. Clearly in his kitty mind I had wronged Maggie. But he came around once I started spreading peanut butter on toast for a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I gave each cat a small bite, glad Roma wasn’t around to catch me. Then I pulled one of the other kitchen chairs closer so I could prop my left foot on it. I’d left the support bandage on in the shower, tying a plastic bag over it so it was only a bit wet on the top edge.

I poured a second cup of coffee and I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the sensation of the earth dropping out from under me again. It was that same stomach-falling sensation as being on a roller coaster— without being belted in the seat—with the world flipping upside down at the same time and dirt flying everywhere.

I shook my head and opened my eyes. A furry black-and-white face and a furry tabby face were both studying me. “I’m okay, really,” I told them, folding both hands around my coffee cup. “But I should call Roma.”

At the sound of Roma’s name both cats made little growly sounds in their throats. Hercules and Owen didn’t exactly like her. They’d either been born out at Wisteria Hill, or abandoned out there as very young kittens. I’d found them when I was exploring the old estate, after I first moved to Mayville Heights. They’d followed me and I ended up adopting them. Sometimes I thought they’d adopted me. They didn’t have the best people skills. A visit to Roma’s vet clinic always involved a lot of yowling, hissing and a Kevlar glove.

Luckily Roma was between patients. I explained what had happened out at the old estate. “When the bank let go, Marcus thinks it disturbed some kind of grave site.” I told her about the bones, picturing that dirt-encrusted skull again in my mind. I shook my head to chase away the image. “There’s going to be a lot of uproar out there for the next few days and I’m worried about the estate cats,” I said.

“And are you all right?” she immediately asked.

“I look worse than I feel,” I said. “But I’m more concerned about the cats with all the people wandering around out there. They’re not used to it.”

Roma sighed. “I don’t want to move them unless I absolutely have to. The change would be incredibly stressful.”

“Maybe you don’t need to,” I said. “Marcus seemed to think the bones were from an unmarked burial site from a smallpox epidemic back in the 1920s. He said there have been other sites found in this area.”

“He’s right,” she said. “A couple of rock hounds stumbled over one near here maybe a year and a half ago.”

I pictured her, mouth pulled to one side as she thought about what to do. “I have time,” she said. “I think I’ll take a drive out there, talk to Marcus and see things for myself.”

“Any chance you could swing by and pick me up?” I asked. “I’d love to get my truck.”

“Are you safe to drive?”

“Marcus didn’t think so, but I am,” I said, shifting in the chair and wincing when more weight went on my bruised hip. “Bring your bag if you want to check me out first.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she retorted. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes or so.”

I pulled on a clean sweatshirt and put my wallet in the pocket. My rubber boots were still damp, but it didn’t take long to dry them with the hair dryer—a trick I’d learned from Maggie. I was ready when Roma tapped on the back door.

She frowned and pressed her lips together when she saw my face. “Ow! Are you sure you feel all right?”

“Scout’s honor,” I said solemnly.

“And when were you a scout?” she asked, tucking her dark hair behind one ear and leaning in to get a better look at my scraped forehead.

“Okay, librarian’s honor then,” I said.

Roma shook her head but there was a hint of amusement in her brown eyes.

I stuck out my leg. “I twisted my ankle.” I touched the side of my face. “I scraped a little skin off my face.” I put one hand on my hip. “And I have some bruises that you’re just going to have to take my word on. That’s it.”

“Your hand?” Roma asked, pointing.

“That doesn’t count,” I said. “I didn’t do that out at Wisteria Hill.” Like Maggie, the paramedic had put on a bandage that was a lot larger than I really needed. “I did that while I was helping Maggie.”

“Kathleen, has it occurred to you that maybe you should have just stayed in bed today?”

“Hey, I’ve done worse,” I said.

“I know,” she said, dryly. “I’ve seen your worse.” She crossed her arms over her chest and studied me. I had the feeling that any moment she was going to sprint back to her SUV and get her bag and I’d find myself being examined by some instrument that was usually used on the working end of a farm animal.

She gave me a stern glare. Or it would have seemed stern if there hadn’t been the beginnings of a smile making her lips twitch. “Okay, let’s go. But if you feel dizzy, or nauseated—”

“I’ll say something, promise,” I finished.

“And make sure you roll the window down,” she said, letting the smile loose.

I locked the house and followed Roma out to her car. As we drove back out to Wisteria Hill I told her more about the hill collapsing. She shot me a quick, sideways glance. “You’re really lucky you didn’t break something, or worse.”

I remembered the feeling of falling, out of control, as dirt rained around me. I blew out a breath. “I know,” I said. “I was just trying to pick up that weird little purple piece of litter. You know what Harry Taylor would say? No good deed goes unpunished.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said, quietly, without taking her eyes from the road. She reached over and patted my leg.

There were more cars and police vehicles at the old estate. A lot had happened in the last hour and a half. The carriage house had been blocked off with plastic crime scene tape and Derek Craig was on “guard duty.” Roma and I skirted the tape and circled the building so she could get a look at the collapsed slope.

“Good heavens,” she said, softly.

My stomach did flip-flops, looking at how much of the hill had fallen away underneath my feet.

The entire field behind the carriage house was cordoned off as well. Marcus was at the far end, watching a woman who was sitting on her heels, examining something. It was a pretty safe bet she was looking at the bones that had been unearthed. There were two other people staking off a grid. Roma followed the yellow tape around the edge of the muddy, rocky ground and I limped behind her, working our way over to Marcus.

He turned as we got close, said something to the woman kneeling in the dirt, who nodded without looking up, and then came over to us.

“Hi,” he said, peeling off a pair of mud-covered latex gloves. I couldn’t miss the quick once-over he gave me before he turned his attention to Roma. “I was going to call you,” he said to her.

“Thank you for sequestering the carriage house,” she said, glancing back at the old building. “Are we going to have to move the cats?”

Marcus frowned. “For now, they’re probably okay. Beyond that, we’re waiting for Dr. Abbott to tell us more about the bones.” He tipped his head in the direction of the woman hunkered down in the dirt. “She’s an anthropologist.”

“Do you think this is another of those unmarked graveyards from the smallpox epidemic?” Roma asked.

He shifted from one foot to the other, the wet ground pulling at his boots. “Probably.”

She looked past him. “I don’t know Marcus,” she said, frowning. “That’s Henderson land all the way back through the trees. Maybe you should talk to Everett.”

“I plan to,” he said. He turned his attention to me, lowering his voice. “I didn’t expect to see you back here. You okay?”

I nodded, a little surprised. I’d expected him to give me a hard time about coming back out to Wisteria Hill. Behind him the anthropologist, Dr. Abbott, got to her feet and started toward us.

“Detective Gordon,” she called. She was holding something in her gloved hand.

As she came level with us I realized it was a heavy gold ring. From the size it looked as though it was a man’s ring and the insignia on the front looked familiar.

“That’s an old Mayville Heights High School graduation ring,” Roma said, leaning past Marcus for a better look. “My father wore one,” she added by way of explanation. “Those were his glory days. According to my mother, he never took it off.”

“I thought it was a high school ring,” Dr. Abbott said. She looked to be about forty, tall, with blond hair in a low ponytail.

“With the ring facing you, the date’s on the left,” Roma continued. “See the sixty-three right there?” She pointed, and then paused for a moment. “Funny. That’s the same year my father graduated.”

She looked up at Marcus. “It would have been a pretty small graduating class. It shouldn’t be that hard to figure out who owned that ring.” She shifted her attention back to the piece of jewelry. “In fact, some of the kids had their initials in raised lettering on the other side. I know my father did. T.A.K.”

T, A, K? That didn’t make any sense. Roma’s dad’s name was Neil Carver.

Dr. Abbott stiffened, still holding the ring between her gloved thumb and index finger. Beside me, Roma had gone rigid as well. It almost seemed as though she’d stopped breathing. “What are the initials on that ring?” she asked. The tightness in her body was in her voice too.

The anthropologist hesitated. Her eyes went to Marcus and back to Roma.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Thanks for the information about the ring,” he said to Roma. “Dr. Abbott and I need to get back to work.”

Roma ignored him, or maybe his words didn’t register. “What are the initials on that ring?” she said again. “I can see a T. What are the other two letters?”

Her hand was at her side and her fingers were moving, bending, flexing, then closing into a fist again. I touched her arm. “Roma, we should go check on Lucy and the other cats,” I said.

But her entire focus was on Dr. Abbott. “T.A.K.,” she repeated, her voice low and insistent. “For Thomas Albert Karlsson.”

It couldn’t be her father’s ring. Even if he’d changed his name—and it appeared that he had—how could his high school ring have ended up in the ground with the bones of someone who’d died in 1924?

Usually I’m not that slow.

“Those are the initials, aren’t they?” Roma asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Abbott said, in a voice so quiet I almost missed the word.

Roma swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she looked out across the grass and dirt to where the skull and a few other bones were resting on a tarp. “That’s my father,” she whispered.