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Liliana watches me from the front porch. I get into my cruiser, feeling uneasy with her eyes on me, and for a second, I wonder if that’s not Liliana at all but some weird Victorian ghost. That would be silly, though. “Ghosts did it” is definitely not the simplest explanation.
As I drive down to the Horace police station to gather my next steps, I get back on track and begin to sort out what Constance Chaplin has to do with this whole thing. I can’t help but be suspicious with the timing of her bones going missing, her insistence to join me at the crime scene, the bones showing up again, and then her temper tantrum on not being able to get them back.
Everything seems to slot into place. I almost feel bad.
Almost. If her priorities are so turned around to create a fake crime scene as to keep the Fredericksons from tearing down the Wilhelm House, I think she might need to be humbled.
Which means I’m going to be taking another trip to the Horace Township Historical Museum.
5
Constance
I hate streamers. I hate balloons. And I especially hate banners.
But I need to dosomethingto spruce up the place for the Bicentennial that distracts from the fact the Horace Township Historical Museum’s pride and joy ismissing bones. I barely slept, tossing and turning over what the Horace Township police force is doing with my precious bones.
Yes, I’ve curated a special exhibit in room two that focuses on the chronological history of the town of Horace, dating all the way back to the poet, Horace, and his impact on Latin poetry. Whether the citizens like it or not, heisthe namesake, and it would do them all some good to get familiar with his work. I swear I’m the only person who reads on the regular around here.
Anyway, all that is to say I know that the exhibit isn’t going to be as appreciated as I’d like it to be. Which means a boneless skeleton is going to make the Bicentennial celebration an absolute disaster.
Steadying the ladder, I take the other side of the limp banner I managed to hang on the other side of the entryway and put it between my teeth. I should have called Harvey to help me with this, but didn’t have the heart after seeing how shaken up he was by finding that skeleton yesterday.
Besides, I can do it myself. I practically run this museum by myself. A banner shouldn’t be a problem.
I cling to the ladder as I climb rung by rung, careful as possible in my socked feet. I know. Socked feet. Ladder. Not the brightest idea. But better than my backless clogs.
My head is still reeling from yesterday. It almost feels surreal. Although any day different from the norm feels surreal these days. Dad could tell something was off when he saw not one, not two, butthreepolice cruisers drive down our street today. And he was right to be confused. There are more cops than ever on the streets of Horace, appraising everyone with an intensity that seems unnecessary for our sleepy town. Even Kate tried to give me an extra-large rooibos on the house to try and cheer me up from the events of yesterday, but I insisted she stick to the script and give me my usual, act as ifnothing happened. If I can stick to the script, then everything is okay.
Everything isjust fine.
I take the banner out of my mouth and begin to stretch it toward the peg in the wall.Don’t look down, don’t you dare.
“Rats,” I spit. I’ve positioned the ladder just a hair out of reach.
No worries. I can stretch. It will be fine.
I shift my feet all the way over on the rung of the ladder, then rise up on my tiptoes, grabbing tight to the top of the ladder.
So close… just one more inch…
“You’ve grown!”
I scream at the sound of a man’s voice, my whole body jumping. Before I can try to right myself, I feel my socked feet slip out of place. I try to hold on to the top of the ladder, but the banner is caught around my one hand and I don’t have enough grip.
In short, I’m falling.
Backwards. To my potential death. Or gentle maiming. Either way.
Not a great follow-up to yesterday.
To my surprise, I don’t hit the hardwood floor, but land in a pair of arms. Strong and soothing at once.
So much better than the floor.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy…”
I can barely speak. “How… what…” I look up into the face of Rory McEvoy, county sheriff and pain-in-the-butt extraordinaire.
