Sheriff Gaffney looked over at Ms. Powell’s cousin, a big, tough-looking guy who looked like he could take care of himself. His body was hard and in good shape, but he seemed like a man who could be patient, as if he was used to waiting in the shadows, like a predator stalking its prey. Gaffney shook his head. He had to stop reading those suspense novels he liked so much.

He looked over at Becca Powell, a nice young woman who wasn’t, thank God, so pale now, or on the verge of hysteria. Hopefully her cousin would keep her that way. After finding that skeleton, just maybe she would be glad to have him around for a while. He found himself studying Carruthers again. The guy was dark, from his black hair—too long, in the sheriff’s opinion—to his eyes, nearly black in the dim late-afternoon light in Jacob Marley’s living room. He had big feet in scuffed black boots, soft-looking boots that looked like he’d worn them for a good long time and waited in the shadows with those boots on his feet, not making a whisper of a sound. He wondered what the hell the man did for a living. Nothing normal and expected, he’d bet his next meal on that. Just maybe he didn’t want to know.

The sheriff looked around the living room. Jesus, the place looked like a museum or a tomb. It felt old and musty, although it smelled like lemons, just like at home.

He knew, of course, that everyone was looking at him, waiting. He liked that. It built suspense. He was holding them in the palm of his hand. Only thing was, they didn’t look all that scared or worried or ready to gnaw off their fingernails. A real cool bunch.

Becca said finally, “Sheriff, won’t you be seated? Now, you have news for us?”

He took the old chair she was waving at, eased down slowly, then cleared his throat. He was ready to make his big announcement. “Well now, it does appear that this skeleton isn’t your wife, Tyler.”

There was a sharp moment of silence, but not the surprise he’d expected, that he’d wanted, truth be told.

“Thank you for telling me so quickly, Sheriff. I’m pleased that it wasn’t, because that would have meant that someone had killed her and it wasn’t me. I hope that wherever Ann is, she’s very much alive and well and happy.”

But Tyler hadn’t acted surprised. He acted like he already knew. Well, damn, if Tyler hadn’t killed Ann, then he would certainly know that the skeleton wasn’t her, or if it was, then someone else had put her there. That logic made the sheriff’s head ache. “Humph, I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve contacted all the local authorities and they’re going to check on runaways from between ten and fifteen years ago. There’s a good chance we’ll find out who she is. She was young, probably late teens. That makes it even more likely that she was a runaway. She was murdered, though. Now, that makes it a big problem, my big problem.”

“It’s not possible that it’s a local teenager, Sheriff?” Becca asked.

The sheriff shook his head. “Nobody just up and disappeared in the town’s memory, Ms. Powell. Something like that, folk just wouldn’t forget. Nope, it’s got to be a runaway.”

Adam Carruthers sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “You think this old man, Jacob Marley, did it?” He was sitting in a deep leather chair that old Jacob had liked. He looked like he was the one in charge and that burned the sheriff a bit. Fellow was too young to be in charge, not too much beyond thirty, about the same age as Maude’s nephew, Frank, who was currently in prison out in Folsom, California, for writing bad checks. Frank had always had soggy morals, even as a boy. Maybe the fellow was shiftless, like Frank. But hell, the last thing this guy looked was shiftless.

“Sheriff?”

“Yeah? Oh, it’s possible. Like I told Ms. Powell here, old Jacob didn’t like people poking around. He had a mean streak in him and no patience to speak of. He could have bashed her.”

Adam said, a dark eyebrow raised a bit, “Mean streak or not, you believe he actually bashed a young girl in the face with a blunt instrument and walled her in his basement because he was pissed to see her trotting across his backyard?”

Sheriff Gaffney said, “A blunt instrument, you say. Well, the ME didn’t know what the murderer struck her with, maybe a heavy pot, maybe a bookend, something like that. Did Jacob do it? We’ll just have to see about that.”

“Nothing else makes much sense,” Tyler said, jumping to his feet. He began pacing the room. His whole body was vibrating with tension. He had good muscle tone, the sheriff thought, remembering his own buffed self that the ladies had stared at when he was that young. Tyler whirled around, came to a stop, nearly knocking over a floor lamp. “Don’t you see? Whoever killed her had to have access to Jacob’s basement. Surely Jacob would have heard someone knocking away bricks, then putting them back up. The killer had to have cement to do that. Also, he had to haul the body into the house and down the basement steps. That would be quite an undertaking. It had to be Jacob. Nothing else makes sense.”