Twice Dead (9 page)

Becca remembered him carefully setting the skull on the skeleton's chest. But he was right, with a skeleton, who cared?

Sheriff Gaffney said on a shrug, “In any case, Dr. Baines will take the skeleton into Augusta to the medical examiner and then we'll see.”

Sheriff Gaffney looked out at the two dozen people who were hovering about and shook his head and waved them away. Of course no one moved. They continued talking, pointing at the house, maybe even at her.

Sheriff Gaffney said, “They'll go on home in a bit. Natural human curiosity, that's all. Now, Ms. Powell, I know you're upset and all, being a female with fine sensibilities, just like my Maude, but I ask that you keep yourself calm for a while longer.”

He had to be about the same age as her father would have been had he lived, Becca thought, and smiled at him then, because he meant well. “I'll try, Sheriff. You don't have any daughters, do you?”

“No, ma'am, just a bunch of boys, all hard-noses, always back-talking me, and covered with mud and sweat half the time. Not at all the same thing for little girls. My Maude would have given anything for a little girl, but God didn't send us one, just all them dirty boys.

“Now, Ms. Powell, Dr. Baines will be talking to the folk in the medical examiner's office in Augusta—that's our capital, you know—once he gets there. They'll do an autopsy, or whatever it is they do on a mess of bones. The folk up there have lots of formal training, so they'll know what they're doing. Like I told you, they'll document that old Jacob or somebody hit her right in the forehead, smashed her head in. They'll determine that it was real mean, that blow. In the meantime we gotta find out who she is. There wasn't any ID on her. You got any more ideas about it?”

“Calvin Klein jeans have been popular since the early to mid-eighties. That means that she wasn't murdered and sealed behind that wall before 1980.”

Sheriff Gaffney carefully wrote that down. He hummed softly while he wrote. He looked up then and stared at her. “You sure do look familiar, Ms. Powell.”

“Maybe you saw me in a fashion magazine, Sheriff. No, don't even consider that, I'm joking with you. I'm not a model. I'm sure I would have remembered you, sir, if I'd ever met you before.”

“Well, that's likely enough,” he said, nodding. “Tyler, you got any thoughts about this?”

Tyler shook his head.

Sheriff Gaffney looked as if he would say something else, then he shut his mouth. However, he gave Tyler another long look. “I'll be in touch,” he said, snapped out a sharp salute, and walked to his car, a brown Ford with a light bar over the top. At the last moment, he looked back at them, and he was frowning. Then he managed to squeeze his bulk into the driver's side. He hadn't been interested in her background, a blessing. Evidently, he realized that she could have had nothing to do with this and so who she was, where she was from, and what she did for a living simply did not matter.

“He's amazing,” Becca said as he drove away. “Too bad he didn't have a daughter to go with all those dirty boys.”

She looked to see that Tyler was staring down at his feet. She lightly touched her fingers to his arm. “What's wrong? You're afraid I really am going to be hysterical about finding that poor girl?”

“No, it's not that. You saw the sheriff. Even though he didn't really say anything, it was clear enough what he was thinking.”

“I don't know what you mean. What's wrong, Tyler?”

“I realize it occurred to him that the skeleton might well be Ann.”

Becca looked at him blankly, slowly shaking her head back and forth.

“My wife. She wore Calvin Klein jeans.”

EIGHT

Becca walked into the Riptide Pharmacy in the middle of Foxglove Avenue the next morning and found, to her horror, that she was the center of attention. For someone who wanted to fade into the woodwork, she wasn't doing it very well. Everywhere she went, she was stared at, questioned, introduced to relatives. She was the girl who'd found the skeleton. She was even given special treatment at the Union 76 gas station at the end of Poison Oak Circle. The Food Fort manager, Mrs. Dobbs, wanted her autograph. Three people told her she looked familiar.

It was too late to dye her hair black. She went home and stayed there. She got at least twenty phone calls that day. She didn't see Tyler, but he'd been right about what the sheriff had thought, because everybody else was thinking it, too, and was talking about it over coffee, to their neighbors, and not all that quietly. Tyler knew it, too, of course, but he didn't say anything when he came over later that evening. He looked stoic. She had wanted to yell at everyone that they were wrong, that Tyler was an excellent man, that no way could he have hurt anyone, much less his wife, but she knew she couldn't take the chance, couldn't call attention to herself anymore. It was too dangerous for her, and so she listened to everyone talk about Ann, Tyler's wife and Sam's mother, who had supposedly disappeared fifteen months before without a word to anybody, not her husband, not her son. Ann had had a mother until two years before, but Mildred Kendred had died and left Ann all alone with Tyler. She'd had no other relatives to hassle Tyler about where his wife had supposedly gone. And look at poor little Sam, so quiet, so withdrawn, he'd probably seen something, everyone was sure of that. That he wasn't at all afraid of his stepfather meant that the poor little boy had blocked the worst of it out.

Oh, yes, it all made sense now to everyone. Tyler had bashed his wife on the head—she probably wanted to leave him, that was it—and then he'd bricked her in the wall in Jacob Marley's basement. And little Sam knew something, because he'd changed right after his mother disappeared.

Tyler remained stoic during the following days, saying nothing about all the speculation, ignoring the sidelong looks from people who were supposedly his friends. He went about his business, seemingly oblivious of the stares.

He was in misery, Becca knew that, but there was nothing she could do except say over and over, “Tyler, I know it isn't Ann. They'll prove it was someone else, you'll see.”

“How?”

“If they can't figure out who she was, then they'll check for runaways. There are DNA tests. They'll find out. Then there are going to be a whole lot of folk apologizing to you on their hands and knees.”

He looked at her and said nothing at all.

Becca went shopping at Food Fort at eight o'clock the next night, hoping the store would be nearly empty. She moved quickly down the aisles. The last item on her list was peanut butter, crunchy. She found it and picked up a small jar, saw that it had a web of mirrored cracks in it, and started to call out to one of the clerks, only to have it break apart in her hands. She yelped and dropped it. It splattered all over jars of jams and jellies before smashing onto the floor at her feet. She stood there staring down at the mess.

“I see you buy natural, not sugar-added. That's the only kind I'll eat.”

She whirled around so fast she slid on the peanut butter and nearly careened into the soup. The man caught her arm and pulled her upright.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Let me get you another jar. Here comes a young fellow with a mop. Better let him wipe off the bottom of your sneaker.”

“Yes, of course.” The man not two feet from her was a stranger, which didn't mean all that much since she hadn't met everyone in town. He was wearing a black windbreaker, dark jeans, and scuffed black boots. He was careful not to step into the peanut butter. Her first impression was that he was big and he looked really hard and his hair was on the long side, and as dark as his eyes.

“The only thing,” he continued after a moment, “it's a real pain to have to stir the peanut butter before you put it in the refrigerator. The oil always spills over the sides and on your hands.” He smiled, but his eyes still looked hard, as if he looked at people and saw all the bad things they were trying to hide, and was used to it, maybe even philosophical about it. She didn't want him looking at her that way, seeing deep into her. She didn't want to talk to him. She wanted to get out of there.

“Yes, I know,” she said, and took a step back.

“Once I got used to it, though, I found I couldn't eat the other peanut butter, too much sugar.”

“That's true.” She took another step away from him. Who was he? Why was he trying to be so nice?

“Miss Powell, I'm Young Jeff. Ah, Old Jeff is my pop, he's the assistant manager. Hold still and I'll clean off your sneaker.” He picked up her foot, nearly sending her over backward. The man held her up while Young Jeff wiped a wet paper towel over the bottom of her sneaker. He was very strong, she could feel it since his hands were in her armpits. “I'm sure glad you're here, ma'am. I wanted to know if that poor dead skeleton was Mrs. McBride. Everyone is talking about how it can't be anybody else, what with Mrs. McBride up and disappearing like she did not all that long ago. Everyone says you know it's Mrs. McBride, too, that you were sure, but how could you be? Did you meet Mrs. McBride?”

He finally released her foot. She pulled away from Young Jeff and the man, a good two feet. She felt cold, very cold. She rubbed her hands over her crossed arms. “No, Jeff, I never met Ann McBride. I didn't know anything about her. No one said a single word to me about her. Also, everybody is being premature. Now, I'll bet we'll be hearing very soon that the poor woman I found can't be Ann McBride. You tell everyone I said that.”

“I will, Miss Powell, but that's not what Mrs. Ella says. She thinks it's Ann McBride, too.”

“Believe me, Jeff, I was there, and I saw the skeleton; Mrs. Ella didn't. Hey, I'm sorry about the mess. Thanks for cleaning off my shoe.”

The man stuck out his arm and helped her over the shards of glass. “Young Jeff is a teenage boy with raging hormones,” he said, very aware that she had pulled away from him again. “I'm afraid you're now the object of his affection.”

She shuddered. “No, I'm the object of everyone's curiosity, nothing more, including poor Young Jeff.” She stopped. The man couldn't help it that she was spooked. She drew a deep breath, gave him a nice big smile, and said, “I've got a few more things to buy, Mr.—?”

“Carruthers. Adam Carruthers.” He stuck out his hand and she automatically shook it. Big hand, hard, just like the rest of him. She'd bet the last dime in the bottom of her purse that even the soles of his feet were hard. She knew without being told that he was very disciplined, very focused, like soldiers or bad guys were focused, and that made her so afraid she nearly ran out right that minute. Which was silly. Only one thing she really knew for sure—she didn't ever want to have to tangle with him. Actually, if she never saw him again, it would be fine by her. “I haven't seen you around town before, Mr. Carruthers.”

“No, I got here yesterday. The first thing I heard about was your finding that skeleton. The second thing I heard was it was the missing wife of your neighbor, Tyler McBride, and that you were seeing him and now wasn't that interesting?”

A reporter, she thought. Oh God, maybe he was a reporter or a paparazzo, and they'd found her. Her brave new world in the boondocks was going to be over just as it was beginning. It wasn't fair. She began backing away from him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. I'm very busy. It was a pleasure to meet you. Good-bye.” And she was nearly running down the aisle lined with different kinds of breads, hamburger buns, and English muffins.

He stared after her. She was taller than he'd expected, and too thin. Well, he'd be skinny, too, if he'd been under as much pressure as she was. What mattered was that he had found her. Amateurs, he thought, even very smart ones, couldn't easily disappear. He thought about how he had managed to misdirect the FBI, and grinned at the jars of low-fat jams and jellies. They had more procedures, more requirements, more delays built into the system, a system that could have been designed by a criminal to give himself the best shot at escaping. Another thing they didn't have was
his
contacts. He was whistling when he carried his can of French roast drip coffee to the checkout counter. He watched her climb into her dark green Toyota and drive out of the parking lot.

He went back to his second-floor corner room at Errol Flynn's Hammock, booted up his laptop, and wrote a quick e-mail:

He sat back in his chair and smelled the coffee perking in the Mr. Coffee machine he'd bought at Goose's Hardware when he'd gotten into town.

She was wary of him, maybe even afraid. Well, he couldn't blame her, a big guy trying to pick her up in Food Fort after she'd found a skeleton in her basement, while already on the run from the FBI, the NYPD, and a murderous madman. He didn't think she'd been amused by his peanut butter wit, which meant she wasn't a dolt.

He poured a cup of coffee, sipped it, and sighed with bone-deep satisfaction. He leaned back in the dark brown nubby chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. The TV played quietly on its stand against a far wall, providing background noise. He closed his eyes, seeing Becca Matlock again.

No, now she was Becca Powell. Under that name she'd quickly rented the Jacob Marley place and promptly had a skeleton fall out of her basement wall after that incredible storm that had battered the Maine coast.