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“Dr. Chaplin, would you please?—”
“I’m a doctor of archaeology and an expert in the study of bones and fossils. If you take me with you, you’ll get answers faster than if you wait to transport the skeleton to the county coroner,” she explains hurriedly.
Okay, she does have a point. That might help with processing and paperwork.
“Please, Sheriff.” The doctor touches my arm, her touch softer than I’d expect. “Let me help.”
I swallow. This isn’t good precedent. But since when has anything been good precedent in the justice system? Especially in Wabash County. “Don’t make me regret this, Dr. Chaplin.”
Her eyes alight and… is that a smile on her face? Couldn’t be. I must be imagining the upturned corners of her mouth.
But to be honest, I like the thought of making her smile way more than I should.
“Come on,” I say, trying to hold onto my gravitas. “We’ve got a crime scene to get to.”
3
Constance
I make sure to lock up the museum and insist I check the back door too, much to Sheriff McEvoy’s chagrin. I also implore him to put caution tape across the door, which he again does with evenmorechagrin.
I don’t care. It’s his job to restore justice and keep the peace. And I’m going to hold him to it.
The drive to Sycamore Road is quick. “The Wilhelm House,” I say to myself.
The sheriff pulls the car to a stop, turns the keys in the ignition. “The what?” he implores me to speak more clearly.
I give a nod to the big Victorian mansion on the hill, obscured through a tunnel of trees. It looks incredibly ominous today, what with the graying sky and a drizzle forming in the air, creating a fog I could liken to the moors of England. “The Wilhelm House. The Wilhelms were among our town founders and built this house in the mid-1800s. It could stand to be better preserved but?—”
Someone slams a hand on the sheriff’s window and I scream. I recognize the young cop. Stewart Jensen. Gosh, is he already out of high school? I remember the days he and his friends would loiter around Brewed Perfection until closing for stale pastries. He gestures for Sheriff McEvoy to roll down his window.
“Jensen, what’s up?” the sheriff asks.
“It’s a full human skeleton,” Stewart says. “At least it looks human. Maybe it’s not.”
Sheriff McEvoy holds up a hand. “Let’s hold it on the conspiracy theories before we get expert eyes on it, huh?”
Stewart ducks his head lower to get a good look at me. “Oh, hi, Dr. Chaplin.”
“Hello, Stewart.”
Sheriff McEvoy looks over at me. “You know this guy?”
“I know everybody,” I say and settle back into my seat. And everybody knows me. There are only two doctors in this town and one practices medicine while the other “isn’t a real doctor,” at least according to some residents.
Stewart points to the side of the house. “We’re all back here when you’re ready.” The rookie cop skitters off faster than Fred Astaire.
“Um, as I was saying?—”
The sheriff gets out of the car before I can finish my sentence. I leap out after him and, while I’m tall for a woman, Sheriff McEvoy is taller and his strides are longer. We walk without acknowledging how the air is filled with a cool mist, dampening our skin. I’m breathless as I try to speak. “As I was saying, the house, it could be better preserved, but the Wilhelms didn’t want to donate it to the museum, so they sold it.”
“So the Wilhelm House isn’t owned by the Wilhelms?” McEvoy asks, raising an eyebrow.
At leastthatgot his attention. “No, it was purchased a few years ago by a businessman named Fred Frederickson.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, now you know. He could buy and sell all of us in the blink of an eye,” I mutter.
