Bones to Pick Page 2

  I hustled around the corner of the barn. A little girl sobbed in the cleared area behind Udderly’s retail sales cabin. I recognized Jenny, a rambunctious five-year-old from a nearby farm. Her mother knelt beside her, stroking her hair.

  No child had produced the operatic screams we’d heard. Maybe Jenny’s mother was the screamer. But the farm wife didn’t seem the hysterical type. On prior visits to Udderly, I’d stopped at the roadside stand where she sold her family’s produce. Right now the woman’s face looked redder than one of her Early Girl tomatoes. Was the flush brought on by some danger—a goat butting her daughter, a snake slithering near the little girl?

  I walked closer. Then I saw it.

  A skull poked through the red clay. Soil had tinted the bone an absurd pink.

  I gasped.

  The sizeable cranium looked human. I spotted the grave digger, or should I say re-digger. Udderly’s newest addition, a Vietnamese potbellied pig named Tammy, hunkered in a nearby puddle. Tiny cloven hoof marks led to and from the excavation. Tell-tale red mud dappled her dainty twitching snout. The pig’s hundred-pound body quivered as her porcine gaze roved the audience she’d attracted.

  A man squatted beside Tammy, speaking to the swine in soothing, almost musical tones. Pigs were dang smart and sensitive. Aunt Eva told me it was easy to hurt their feelings. The fellow stroking Tammy’s grimy head must’ve been convinced she was one sensitive swine.

  “It’s okay,” he repeated. “The lady wasn’t screaming at you, Tammy.”

  Tammy snorted, lowered her head, and squeezed her eyes shut. The pig-whisperer gave the swine a final scratch and stood, freeing gangly limbs from his pretzel-like crouch. Mud caked the cuffs and knees of his khaki pants. Didn’t seem to bother him one iota.

  The mother shepherded her little girl away from the disturbing scene, and Paint knelt to examine the skeletal remains. “Looks like piggy uncovered more than she bargained for.” He glanced at Muddy Cuffs. “Andy, you’re a vet. Animal or human?”

  “Human.” Andy didn’t hesitate. “But all that’s left is bone. Had to have been buried a good while. Yet Tammy’s rooting scratched only inches below the surface. If a settler dug this grave, it was mighty shallow.”

  “Probably didn’t start that way.” I pointed to a depression that began uphill near the retail cabin. “This wash has deepened a lot since my aunts built their store and the excavation diverted water away from the cabin. The runoff’s been nibbling away at the ground.”

  Mom, Dad, and Aunt Eva joined the group eyeballing the skull. Eva looked peaked, almost ill. I felt a slight panic at the shift in her normally jolly appearance. I thought of my aunts as forces of nature. Unflappable. Indestructible. I’d lost one, and the other suddenly looked fragile. Finding a corpse on her property the same day she bid her twin goodbye had hit her hard.

  Dad cocked his head. “Could be a Cherokee burial site. Or maybe a previous farmer buried a loved one and the grave marker got lost. Homestead burials have always been legal in South Carolina. Still are.”

  For once, the idea of finding a corpse in an unexpected location didn’t prompt a gleeful chuckle from my dad, Dr. Howard Hooker. Though he was a professor of horticulture at Clemson University by day, he was an aspiring murder mystery author by night. Every time we went for a car ride, Dad made a game of searching the landscape for spots “just perfect” for disposing of bodies. So far, a dense patch of kudzu in a deep ravine topped his picks. “Kudzu grows so fast any flesh peeking through would disappear in a day.”

  Good thing Dad confined his commentary to family outings. We knew the corpses in question weren’t real.

  Mom whipped out her smartphone. “I’ll call Judge Glenn. It’s Sunday, but he always answers his cell. He’ll know who to call. I’m assuming the Ardon County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Dad nodded. “Probably, but I bet SLED—the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division—will take over. The locals don’t have forensic specialists.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “You spend way too much time with your Sisters in Crime.”

  It amused Mom that Dad’s enthusiasm for his literary genre earned him the presidency of the Upstate South Carolina Chapter of Sisters in Crime.

  Mom didn’t fool with fictional crime. Too busy with the real thing. As the City of Clemson’s attorney, she kept a bevy of lawyers, judges, and city and university cops on speed dial. However, Udderly Kidding wasn’t in the same county as Clemson so it sat outside her domain.

  “Judge Glenn, this is Iris Hooker. I’m at the Udderly Kidding Dairy in Ardon. An animal here unearthed a skull. We think it’s human, but not recent. Should we call the sheriff?”

  Mom nodded and made occasional I-get-it noises while she clamped the cell to her ear.

  “Could you ask them to keep their arrival quiet? Better yet, could they wait until after four? About fifty folks are here for my sister-in-law’s wake. I don’t want to turn her farewell into a circus.”

  A minute later, Mom murmured her thanks and pocketed her cell. “The judge agreed an old skull doesn’t warrant sirens or flashing lights. He’ll ask the Ardon County Sheriff, Robbie Jones, to come by after four. Since I’m an officer of the court, his honor just requested that I keep people and animals clear of the area until the sheriff arrives.”

  Andy stood. “Paint, help me bring some hay bales from the barn. We can stack them to cordon off the area.”

  “Good idea.” Paint stood, and the two men strode off. No needless chitchat. They appeared to be best buds.

  I tugged Dad’s sleeve, nodded toward his sister, and whispered, “I think Aunt Eva should sit down. Let’s get her to one of the front porch rockers.”

  Dad walked over and draped an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Eva, let’s sit a while so folks can find you to pay their respects. This skeleton is old news. Not our worry.”

  Eva’s lips trembled. “No, Brother. I feel it in my own bones. It’s that son-of-a-bitch Jed Watson come back to haunt me.”

  THREE

  Jed Watson? The man Eva married in college? The man who vanished a few years later?

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “Eva, that’s nonsense. That dirtbag ran off forty years back. You’re letting your imagination run wild.”

  Eva straightened. “Some crime novelist you are. You know darn well any skeleton unearthed on my property would have something to do with that nasty worm. Nobody wished that sorry excuse for a man dead more than me.”

  “Calm down. Don’t spout off and give the sheriff some harebrained notion that pile of bones is Jed,” Dad said. “No profit in fueling gossip or dredging up ancient history. Authorities may have ruled Jed dead, but I always figured that no-good varmint was still alive five states over, most likely beating the stuffing out of some other poor woman.”

  Wow. I knew Eva took her maiden name back after they declared her husband dead, but I’d never heard a speck of the unsavory backstory. Dad liked to tell family tales, including ones about long-dead scoundrels. Guess this history wasn’t ancient enough.

  Curiosity made me eager to ask a whole passel of none-of-my-business questions, though I felt some justification about poking my nose here. I’d known Eva my entire life. So how come this was the first I’d heard of a mystery surrounding Jed’s disappearance? Was Dad truly worried the sheriff might suspect Eva?

  I was dying to play twenty questions. Too bad it wasn’t the time or place.

  I smiled at my aunt. “Why don’t I get some of Paint’s brew to settle our nerves? Eva, you like that apple pie flavor, right?”

  “Yes, thanks, dear.”

  “Good idea, Brie,” Dad added. “I’ll take a toot of Paint’s blackberry hooch. Eva’s not the only one who could use a belt. We’ll greet folks from those rockers. Better than standing like mannequins in a receiving line. And there’s a lot less risk of falling down if we get a little tipsy.”


  Aunt Eva ignored Dad’s jest. She looked haunted, lost in memory. A very bad memory.

  I hurried to the small tent where Magic Moonshine dispensed free libations. A buxom young lass smiled as she poured shine into miniature Mason jars lined up behind four flavor signs: Apple Pie, Blackberry, Peach, and White Lightnin’.

  “What can I do you for, honey?” the busty server purred.

  I’m still an Iowa girl at heart, but, like my transplanted aunts and parents, I’ve learned not to take offense when strangers of both sexes and all ages call me honey, darlin’, and sweetie. My high school social studies teacher urged us to appreciate foreign customs and cultures. I may not be in Rome, but I’m definitely in Ardon County.

  I smiled at Miss Sugarmouth. The top four buttons of her blouse were undone. The way her bosoms oozed over the top, I seriously doubted those buttons had ever met their respective buttonholes. No mystery why Paint hired her. Couldn’t blame him or her. Today’s male mourners would enjoy a dash of cleavage with their shine, and she’d rake in lots more tips.

  “Sweetie, do you have a tray I can use to take drinks to the folks on the porch?”

  The devil still made me add the “sweetie” when I addressed Miss Sugarmouth. She didn’t bat an eyelash. Probably too weighed down with mascara.

  “Sure thing, honey.”

  I winced when the tray slid over the wood sliver firmly embedded in my palm. Suck it up. No time for minor surgery.

  As I walked toward Eva’s cabin, crunching noises advertised some late arrivals ambling down the gravel road. On the porch, Dad and Eva had settled into a rhythm, shaking hands with friends and neighbors and accepting sympathy pats. Hard to hug someone in a rocker.

  I handed miniature glass jars to Eva and Dad before offering drinks to the folks who’d already run the gauntlet of the sit-down receiving line. Then I tiptoed behind Dad’s rocker.

  “I’ll see if Mom wants anything and check back later to see how you and Eva are doing.”

  “Thanks, honey.” He kissed my cheek.

  I returned to Paint’s moonshine stand and picked up a second drink tray, gingerly hoisting it to avoid bumping my skewered palm. Balancing the drinks, I picked my way across the rutted ground to what I worried might be a crime scene.

  Mom perched between Paint and Andy atop the double row of hay bales stacked to keep the grisly discovery out of sight. The five-foot-two height on Mom’s driver’s license was a stretch. At five-four, I had her by at least three, maybe four, inches. My mother’s build was tiny as well as short—a flat-chested size two. I couldn’t recall ever being able to squeeze into her doll-size clothes. My build came courtesy of the females on Dad’s side of the family. Compact but curvy. No possibility of going braless in polite society.

  Mom’s delicate appearance often confounded the troublemakers she prosecuted for the city. Too often the accused took one look at Iris Hooker and figured they’d hire some hulking male lawyer to walk all over the little lady in court.

  Big mistake. The bullies often reaped unexpected rewards—a costly mélange of jail time, fines, and community service.

  Mom spotted my tray-wobbling approach. “Are these Paint’s concoctions?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, Daughter, sip nice and slow. Someday I may file charges against Magic Moonshine. Paint’s shine is often an accomplice when Clemson tailgaters pull stunts that land them in front of a judge.”

  Paint lifted his glass in a salute. “Can I help it if all our flavors go down easy?”

  Mom turned back to me. “Have you met these, ahem, gentlemen?”

  I suddenly felt shy as my gaze flicked between the two males. “I met Paint earlier. This is my first chance to say hi to Andy. I’m Brie Hooker. You must be the veterinarian Aunt Eva’s always talking about.”

  Andy rose to his feet. “Andy Green. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Your aunts were my very first customers when I opened my practice.”

  He waved a hand at Tammy, the now demure pig, wallowing a goodly distance away. “I’m really sorry Tammy picked today to root up these bones. I feel partly to blame. Talked your aunts into adopting Miss Piggy. It aggravates me how folks can’t resist buying potbellied pigs as pets when they’re adorable babies, but have no qualms about abandoning them once they start to grow.”

  Andy’s outstretched hand awaited my handshake.

  I held up my palm to display my injury. “Gotta take a rain check on a handshake. Unfortunately, I already shook hands with the barn.”

  Andy gently turned up my palm. “I’ll fix you right up, if you don’t mind a vet doing surgery. Give me a minute to wash up and meet me at my truck. Can’t miss it. A double-cab GMC that kinda looks like aliens crash landed an aluminum spaceship in the truck bed. I’m parked by the milking barn.”

  As Andy loped off toward the retail shop’s comfort station, Paint called after him. “Sneaky way to hold hands with a pretty lady.”

  Andy glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

  Paint chuckled and focused his hundred-watt grin on me. “Bet my white lightning could disinfect that sliver. Sure you don’t want me to do the honors?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Somehow I doubt honor has anything to do with it.”

  The moonshiner faked an injured look.

  Mom rolled her eyes. “Heaven help me—and you, Brie. Not sure you’re safe with the wildlife that frequents this farm. Forget those coyotes that worry Eva, I’m talking wolves.” She looked toward the porch. “How’s Eva holding up?”

  “Better.” I wanted to grill Mom about Jed Watson, but I needed to do so in private. “Guess I should steel myself for surgery.” I took a Mason jar from the tray I’d set on a hay bale. “Down the hatch.” My healthy swallow blazed a burning trail from throat to belly. Before I could stop myself, I sputtered.

  “Shut your mouth,” Paint said.

  Yowzer. My eyes watered, and my throat spasmed. I coughed. “What?”

  “Shut your mouth. Oxygen fuels the burn. You need to take a swallow then close your mouth. None of this sipping stuff.”

  “Now you tell me.” I choked.

  Mom laughed. “That’s the best strategy I’ve heard yet to shut Brie up.”

  I wiped at the tears running down my cheeks. “Your moonshine packs more punch than my five-alarm Thai stir fry.”

  Paint’s eyebrows rose. “My shine is smooth, once you get used to it. You want a little fire in your gut. Keeps life interesting.”

  A little too interesting. I’d been at Udderly Kidding Dairy just over a week, and I already felt like a spinning top with a dangerous wobble.

  FOUR

  “Afraid my operating theater’s a little dusty.” Andy whisked dirt off a spot on his open tailgate and spread an Army blanket he’d retrieved from the cab. “Hop on up.”

  What do you know? A gentleman. I wasn’t about to complain that the white dog hairs coating his blanket would jump on my black wool slacks like fleas on a Bluetick hound. The realization I could identify a Bluetick hound testified to my ten-year immersion in Southern culture.

  “Eva tells me you grew up in Iowa. How did your whole family wind up down South?”

  “Despite rumors to the contrary, our family wasn’t banished from Iowa. Aunt Eva moved to Ardon when she married, and Aunt Lilly came to help her with the farm. My folks were surprised they both stayed.”

  “Did your folks move at the same time?”

  “No. Mom and Dad didn’t move south until I was in college. Dad was a professor at Iowa State University when Clemson offered him the head of the horticultural department. Living near his sisters was a bonus. I was a short drive away, too, in the MBA program at Wake Forest University.”

  Andy’s eyebrow twitched up. “You got an MBA to be a cook?”

  Cook? The v
et just lost points.

  “After I got my MBA, I worked for a mortgage bank. Had my mid-life crisis early, in my late twenties. Realized I hated my job and decided what I really wanted was to be a chef—a chef who catered to vegans and vegetarians.”

  Andy opened one of a bevy of aluminum drawers in his truck’s rendition of an animal ER. The instruments would have looked at home in a torture museum. I scrunched my eyes shut. When I opened them, I carefully fastened my gaze on the hazy top of a distant mountain.

  “Won’t take a minute,” Andy said.

  I’m a baby about blood and sharp objects poised to rip into my flesh. Perhaps that’s why I’m the only thirty-three-year-old I know with virgin earlobes. Some friends sport three studs per ear. I’m too squeamish for even one piercing. A tattoo? I don’t think so.

  Andy gripped my wrist to steady my hand. Icy liquid oozed over my splinter. I kept my focus on the horizon, biting my lip in anticipation of a big ouch.

  A teensy pinch.

  “Got it,” Andy said. “Good to go.”

  “Thanks. Painless. You’ll be my first call if my puppy needs a vet.”

  “You have a dog?” He sounded downright gleeful.

  “A Teacup Morkie. She’s a toy cross between a Maltese and a Yorkie.” I laughed. “Guess as a vet you know that.”

  “Yep, Morkies are cute,” Andy said. “How did you pick her?”

  “Like my aunts, I’m a sucker for orphans. My pup comes courtesy of a ditzy waitress who wanted a dog that fit in her purse. One day she couldn’t gush enough about her teeny-weeny pet. The next she blew town and decided her puppy wasn’t a great travel accessory.”

  “What’s your dog’s name?” Andy asked.

  “Cashew, ’cause I’m nuts about her.”

  He smiled. “Is she here with you?”

  “Yes. Though she seems a mite confused by her new companions. Eva introduced her to Udderly’s guardian and herd dogs to make sure they understood Cashew wasn’t a light snack. I think my pup confounds Udderly’s cats more than the dogs. One old Tom hisses like Cashew’s an overgrown mouse every time she comes near.”