Death Night. Todd Ritter
in the crawl space was now sitting on the edge of it, his dangling legs disappearing into the darkness below.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
He pointed a flashlight into the hole, brightening the space enough for them to see the trunk Constance had been slumped over. It was now open, revealing a burlap sack that filled most of its interior space. The mouth of the sack had been pulled wide open and lowered slightly to reveal its contents. At first, Kat thought the objects inside were pieces of old ivory. They had the same jaundiced coloring, the same dull sheen.
Then she saw the teeth.
And the eye sockets.
And finally, the smooth curve of what could only be a human skull.
The sack lay on the floor, smelling of smoke, mildew, and damp earth. Everyone in the gallery stopped what they were doing to gather around it and watch the crime scene techs slowly remove its contents.
The skull came first, leaking chunks of dirt as it was placed on a plastic tarp spread across the floor. A hand was next, the fingers long and tapered. Then a foot, a femur, a rib cage broken into several pieces. Within ten minutes, the sack was empty and the full remains of a human being were scattered across the tarp.
“Why the hell,” Kat said, blinking with disbelief, “was the museum keeping a skeleton under its floor?”
Tony Vasquez, standing beside her, shook his head. “Maybe it was part of their collection.”
“In that condition?” Kat knelt next to the tarp, which in addition to the bones now held a sizable amount of dirt that had fallen off them. A few rocks and leaves were also among the debris, as was the dried and twisted form of a dead worm. “Certainly someone would have at least cleaned the bones. And I doubt they normally keep pieces of their collection in a burlap sack.”
“But what else could it be?”
“I’m more interested in who it could be,” Kat said. “Not to mention how it got here.”
She thought of Oak Knoll Cemetery, the town’s only graveyard. Had a grave there been sitting empty for years, maybe even decades? It was a possibility—worse things had taken place in that cemetery—but she assumed no one from the historical society would resort to robbing graves. Then again, one of them might have resorted to murder. That made digging up a skeleton look like child’s play.
“I’ve got a funny feeling about this,” Tony said.
Kat shot him a look. “Like it’s not a coincidence? Me, too.”
Maybe it was all coincidental. Maybe the fire and Constance’s murder and the words on her hand had nothing to do with a bag of bones under the museum floor. But they couldn’t simply assume that it didn’t. They needed to explore every possibility, especially since this—whatever the hell this was—was just the first.
“We need to find out where those bones came from,” Kat said. “Which means we need to find out who they once belonged to. And in order to do that, we need to find out when and how he died.”
“I know someone who can do that,” Tony said.
“So do I. And I suspect we’re both talking about the same person.”
Kat stepped out the back door of the museum and into the autumn night. The air was chilly, with a slightly bitter sting that told her winter would soon be on its way. At least the cold woke her up a bit. She had no idea when she’d be able to sleep again—an incredibly depressing thought.
Cell phone in hand, she trudged to the rear of the property. A white picket fence about waist high separated it from the yard next door, its gate ajar and swinging lightly. Sensing her presence, a black cat stalking through the grass jumped onto the fence and perched there, staring at her with glinting green eyes. Seeing nothing of interest, it decamped to the neighbor’s yard, leaving Kat alone again to dial her phone.
She shouldn’t have felt bad about calling Nick Donnelly so early in the morning. He would have done the same if the circumstances had been reversed. Still, the panic that tinged his voice when he answered the phone made Kat feel slightly guilty.
“What’s wrong?” Nick asked in that wide-awake way people speak when they are suddenly and soundly roused from sleep. “Is it James?”
“Relax,” Kat said. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“But there’s something going on in town, isn’t there?”
Nick had helped Kat catch the Grim Reaper killer. In turn, she had helped him crack the Olmstead case when it brought him back to Perry Hollow. Kat was now hoping it was again her turn to get assistance.
“Yes,” she said. “There’s been a murder. And an arson. And a lot of stuff I can’t even begin to comprehend right now.”
“Looks like I’ve been away too long.”
“You have.”
Although he lived only forty-five minutes away in Philadelphia, almost two months had passed since she last saw Nick. And Kat missed him. Her son did, too. When you worked that closely with someone, their absence was more palpable when they were gone.
“So why are you calling—” Nick paused as he no doubt checked the clock on his nightstand. “Holy shit, Kat, it’s four-thirty in the morning.”
“I know,” Kat said, her guilt now kicking in at full force. “I’m sorry.”
“Couldn’t it have waited until morning? Real morning. Not whatever the hell schedule you’re on right now.”
It couldn’t, and Kat said as much. She quickly briefed Nick about the fire, the message on Constance’s hand, the bones stashed under the floorboards.
“Damn,” Nick said. “Have you called the state police?”
“Tony’s here right now.”
“Of course,” Nick said. “So why are you calling me again?”
“Do you remember that forensic anthropologist who helped out with the Olmstead case?”
Nick cleared his throat. “Yes. Lucy Meade.”
“Do you have her phone number?”
Kat assumed he did. She was pretty sure—but not certain—that the two of them had gone out on a date when the case was over. Maybe more. Nick had been oddly reticent on the subject.
“I do,” Nick said, hesitating. “But—”
Kat thought she heard another voice, murmuring something she couldn’t make out. A woman’s voice. Nick whispered something back.
“Oh, my God. Is she there?”
“Yeah.” Nick sighed, knowing he had a lot of explaining to do. “I’m just going to hand her the phone now.”
Kat listened to the sounds of rustling sheets and a creaking bed. There was even a high-pitched giggle when Nick apparently dropped the phone. Finally, she heard the voice of Lucy Meade, forensic anthropologist and Nick’s secret girlfriend.
“Hi, Kat,” Lucy said. “I hear you have a skeleton on your hands.”
“I do. I have no idea how old it is. Or where it came from. Or why it was in our town’s history museum.”
“And this has something to do with a murder?”
“Maybe. I don’t really know.”
But she sensed that the two were related. She had a creeping sensation—like an insect crawling up her neck—that Constance died because of those bones. It was why