Chapter Nine
Wade didn’t leave the ranch immediately after his chat with Mary.
He went to retrieve his cell phone, which was plugged into an outlet in the kitchen, and heard stirring down the hall.
His mother was awake. He was familiar with the layout of the house, so he knew there were two bedrooms on the right.
The door on the left side of the hall was open.
As he headed that direction, he noted the empty gun rack on the wall.
His footsteps sounded heavy on the hardwood floor.
Wynona was sitting at a desk inside her new office.
Cardboard boxes were stacked neatly in one corner.
Shelves that had once housed useless junk now held wicker baskets of block-shaped soaps.
The random knickknacks she collected had been organized by theme, at least in this room.
Wade spotted a dozen rodeo clown figurines in one section their homely faces polished to a dull shine.
His mother glanced over her shoulder at him. “You’re still here?”
“I’m on my way out,” he said, even as he ventured forward. There were business cards on her desk with a purple flower decal. The insignia was repeated on all of the products. Every soap bore an oval-shaped sticker with the design.
She wore a guarded expression, as if she expected him to criticize the design, or perhaps her appearance. Her usual glamour hadn’t been applied yet. He was annoyed by the fact that she looked pretty good, even without makeup.
“What’s with the clowns?” he asked.
“They’re antiques. People buy them.”
Wade squinted at the price tag on the nearest clown. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He couldn’t find any fault with the soaps.
He’d been using the cedar-sage variety since he’d arrived, and it had a clean, woodsy fragrance.
She counted out five lavender squares and put them in a small shipping box.
The old-fashioned packaging, twine and plain brown paper, would appeal to nature lovers.
“There’s room for a small mattress in here,” she said. “Mary’s bed will fit if we move things around.”
“I don’t want to sleep in her bed,” Wade said.
His mother arched a dark brow at his wording.
Wade felt his neck heat, and he stifled the urge to tug at his shirt collar.
He wondered if Mary had talked to her about him this morning.
Maybe she’d complained about the kiss he’d planted on her.
The idea darkened his mood considerably.
He reminded himself that Mary was his mother’s employee, her personal assistant and partner in crime.
She couldn’t be trusted—and he shouldn’t be touching her, regardless.
Something had come over him last night, temporary insanity mixed with a gut punch of lust. He couldn’t let it happen again.
“I wasn’t suggesting that you take her bed, Wade. I was suggesting that you take her room, and she’ll sleep here in the office.”
“The living room is fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Wynona said. “You need a private space.”
“Why?”
“You’re making Mary uncomfortable.”
“Did she say that?”
“She didn’t have to. I can tell.”
Wade removed his hat and brushed off some invisible dirt from the brim.
He doubted his mother cared about Mary’s comfort, or anything else that didn’t involve her directly.
Wynona was uncomfortable with his presence.
She didn’t want him hanging around, meddling in her life or reminding her of Billy.
“I don’t need Mary’s room,” he said. “I’ll bunk down to the basement. You won’t even know I’m here.”
She snorted her disbelief.
“I’m going to be working late most nights, anyway. I have a case to investigate.”
“Well, aren’t you important?”
Wade didn’t react to her sarcastic tone. She’d never been impressed by his athletic or academic feats. She clearly wasn’t impressed by his new position, even though he’d worked hard for the promotion. He picked up one of her business cards and read the company name: Wisteria Farms Natural Products.
“Wisteria Farms?” he asked. “Who thought of that?”
“I did. I designed the logo.”
“Who makes the soap?”
“Mary.”
“It smells good.”
She placed a hand over her heart, feigning shock at his compliment. Funny, he felt the same way about her. He would be slack-jawed with amazement if she said something nice to him.
“I can pitch in for groceries,” he offered.
“Don’t worry about it.”
With a slight nod, he made his exit. It was better to go out on a high note, or at least, a non-bitter one.
Mary had advised him to connect with his mother.
The task was easier said than done. Wade had always felt that the responsibility for repairing their relationship fell on her, as the parent, and the person who had damaged it.
But holding his breath for that day hadn’t made it come any sooner.
He would have to take the first steps toward reconciliation, and he would have to tread lightly.
The realization didn’t fill him with as much dread as he’d anticipated.
Part of what it meant to be an adult was doing things that were difficult, but necessary.
As he drove down the country road, he let his mind drift to more pleasurable avenues, namely his encounter with Mary last night.
His offer for a massage had been innocent.
Her face had looked so pinched, her brow furrowed with hurt.
He’d felt a surge of triumph when her breathing had eased and her shoulders relaxed.
Then he’d noticed the suppleness of her skin, so warm and silky beneath his fingertips, and the sweet press of her nipples against her thin shirt. He’d felt a surge of something else.
He groaned, shifting in the front seat of the cab. She had freckles on her shoulders, exquisitely shaped breasts, and a mouth like a wet dream.
“Don’t think about it,” he said out loud.
His cell phone chimed with a notification that helped distract him. It was a text from Dr. Forester, the physician who’d been recommended to him by the deputy coroner. He wanted to meet Wade at the morgue.
On my way, Wade replied, and his pulse kicked up a notch.
*
The morgue was about ten miles from Lost Lake, in the basement at Hill County Hospital.
Hill County, like many rural places, had no medical examiner to perform autopsies, nor any special facilities for the task, so they were done by local physicians.
Wade stopped at the station for his utility belt and service vehicle before he departed.
He didn’t want to be accused of going rogue on his first week, but he also expected to be given a certain amount of autonomy.
If Sheriff Nava had more important duties for him, he could say so.
Until then, Wade was prioritizing this case.
Dr. Forester met Wade by a side entrance where ambulances unloaded patients.
He was a distinguished-looking gentleman in his sixties, with silver hair and a trim goatee.
After a brief handshake, they walked down a concrete hallway and into a small laboratory.
The remains that had been disinterred yesterday were now on a stainless-steel exam table, illuminated by a surgical lamp.
Wade studied the gleaming skull and puzzle-piece bones.
While still discolored by age, they’d been cleaned of dirt and debris.
Forester donned a pair of blue latex gloves and directed the light at the skull’s bulging forehead. A hairline crack traveled about two inches away from a thumb-sized depression. Wade leaned closer, his heart pounding with excitement.
“This depression is evidence of a head injury,” Forester said. “Peri-mortem, blunt force trauma.”
“Peri-mortem,” Wade repeated. “Around the time of death.”
“Yes, and most likely the cause of death.”
“Most likely? What else could it be?”
Forester smiled at the question. “There is no lung tissue to study to rule out drowning. It’s possible the victim sustained this injury in a fall.”
“Okay,” Wade said, “but he didn’t wash up on the bank and bury himself.”
“I presume someone else buried him,” Forester said. “I can’t determine if someone else hit him. The injury is consistent with impact from a rounded object, such as a rock. A strike from a fall can be indistinguishable from one by hand.”
Wade crossed his arms over his chest. “What else can you tell me?”
“There was a particle of resin at the fracture point.”
“Resin?”
“Tree sap turns into resin as it ages.”
“Could he have been struck by a tree branch?”
“I don’t think so,” Forester said. “A rock is my best guess.”
“A rock with tree sap on it?”
“Very possible, and quite common in nature.”
“Huh.”
“The good news is that resin acts a natural preservative, and it included a hair sample. Your victim had blond hair. I estimate the remains were buried between twenty-five and thirty-five years ago. He was a healthy white male in his late teens, perhaps twenty. His teeth are all intact, with only one aluminum filling.” Forester moved from the light downward, to one of the leg bones.
“He was six feet two, and he reached this height several years before his demise. He sustained a fractured tibia around age twelve. It was properly set and healed well. There is evidence of healed fractures on multiple phalanges, as well.”
“Phalanges?”
“Toes. They’re common fracture points, depending on the habits of the deceased. Most contact sports increase the likelihood of breaks.”
Wade rubbed his own tibia, which he’d broken around the same age as the victim.
He’d sustained more injuries than he could count on the football field, and by riding his bike around the neighborhood at lightning speed.
Nothing had slowed him down. He’d played just as hard with his arm in a cast than without. “How can I identify him?”