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I rush over to the exhibit barrier, grabbing onto the railing to steady myself. My heart has leapt into my mouth and it’s racing.
I can’t even begin to understand or comprehend why someone would do such a thing. The bones are worthless without the entire skeleton. Was somebody planning a heist to sneak the bones away day by day thinking I wouldn’t notice? And what would they do with it? Is this some weird black market scheme?
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic. Breathe.
I chew on my lower lip, trying to relax my grip. My knuckles have gone white.
This can’t be happening. The deer skeleton, its mythos and lore, is what keeps our stream of cash buoyant. If people find out parts of it have gone missing… on my watch…
I don’t want to think about what I could lose.
In the timeit takes the police to get to the museum, ten laborious minutes, I realize the humeri, ulnae, and radii are missing too, the bones of the forelegs of the deer. It’s worse than I thought. How could I have missed that? Maybe there is something to that false memory theory.
“Hello?” I hear a man’s voice I don’t recognize from the vestibule. “Police.”
“In here,” I call back from my place crouched at the back leg of the deer skeleton.
From the hallway emerges a man I’ve never seen before, and I know most of the police force here in Horace. A true tall, dark, and handsome type with a layer of scruff across the lower part of his face. He’s not in the usual police blues, but a light brown button-down with a golden star badge.
“I’m here about the missing bones?” he says, cocking a dark eyebrow.
I rise to standing. “You’re a little young for a sheriff, aren’t you?”
He smiles. It’s a nice smile. I know a nice smile on a man is considered a gift to women, but it just makes me wary of him. “Minimum age is twenty-one,” he answers.
Well, he’s certainly not twenty-one, thank goodness. That sounds like a nightmare. But he’s probably hovering right around mid-thirties, about my age if I’m sizing him up right. And I usually do. “Yes, I called about the missing bones.”
He takes a few steps toward the display. “Can’t say I’ve ever dealt with something like this before.”
“What do you usually deal with?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know,” he replies.
I quirk an eyebrow. “I’ve got a stronger stomach than you think.”
“Yeah, I get that impression, seeing as you’re up close and personal with a…” He glances down at the information plate. “Deer skeleton.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He’s not from around here, or if he is, he’s lived under a rock his whole life. Everyone in the county knows about the Horace Township History Museum and our small yet formidable claim to fame.
“If you wouldn’t mind stepping away from the skeleton, Miss…”
“Doctor.”
His eyebrows jump. “Ms. Doctor?”
I shake my head. “Doctoris my title. NotMiz.”
“Ah, forgive me. I had no idea.”
On one hand, how could he? On the other, I already dislike him.
“I should have known. You seem quite distinguished, Doctor,” he says with an easy smile.
I bet that works on most people. However, I’ve learned not to be susceptible to the charms of men early on in my life. Especially those in roles of authority.
“So, how can I refer to you, Doctor?” he asks.
“Dr. Chaplin. Dr. Constance Chaplin.”
