A young woman Marti assumed was Sara Jones was waiting for them when Marti and Vik returned to the precinct. There was no mistaking her resemblance to the woman they had pulled from the river. She was young, with skin the color of pecans and brown eyes several shades lighter. Her hair hung to her shoulders and was curled under at the ends in a casual flip. They would have to take her to the morgue. Even that would be better than dealing with the lieutenant.
“Miss Jones,” Marti said, walking over to where she sat near the sergeant’s desk.
The young woman stood. She wasn’t more than five feet three and couldn’t wear a size larger than a five. The woman in the morgue was at least four inches taller, but almost as slim.
“I’m Detective MacAlister. This is my partner, Detective Jessenovik.”
“Detectives? What happened? What happened to my mother?” Her voice was calm, too calm. Her eyes were filled with panic.
“First, we have to be certain that this is your mother,” Marti explained. “Then we can talk.”
Unlike most visitors to the morgue, Sara Jones didn’t turn away when the curtain was pulled back. She looked at the woman on the gurney for what seemed like several minutes with her fingertips touching the glass. Then she said, “I want to see her, touch her.”
It was an unusual request, but Marti didn’t know when they would release the body to a mortician.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, she’s my mother.”
Sara’s voice was steady. Marti didn’t expect any hysterics so she agreed.
Once in the viewing room, Sara looked down at her mother, touched her linger to her mother’s lips, leaned over, and kissed her on the forehead.
When she came out, Sara said, “I don’t suppose I can have her jewelry now?”
“Jewelry?” Marti asked.
“Yes, it isn’t expensive, just yellow zirconia in a fake gold setting. It was a matching set, ring, brooch, earrings.”
“I’m sorry,” Marti told her. “There was no jewelry.”
“There had to be. She would not have left it in a hotel room or traveled without it or taken it off unless she was taking a shower or going to bed. There was a clause in all of her contracts saying she would wear some if not all of it.”
“Why was this jewelry so special?”
“Her voice,” Miss Jones said. Tears came to her eyes. “She had thyroid cancer years ago. They got it all out, but they damaged her vocal cords. She couldn’t talk loud or yell. She couldn’t sing. Ma spoke above a whisper, but not by much.” She swallowed hard. “I think the jewelry ... I think it made up for that somehow. I think it was her way of having a voice.” Tears streamed down her face.
Marti gave her some Kleenex.
“Do you have a picture of this jewelry?”
“Not with me, but whoever is shooting the outtakes should have one of her stills. That jewelry might not have cost much, but it belonged to my grandmother.” She dabbed at her eyes, then added, “I guess we have to go back to the police station so you can tell me what happened. When I went in to her, I could >tell from the way they positioned her that something was wrong with the back of her head.”
Marti and Vik took Sara Jones to the Barrister instead of the precinct for a late lunch. Jones ordered the fruit plate with cottage cheese. Marti wished she had that much discipline as she ordered her usual, shepherd’s pie. After Marti explained what they knew so far, or at least as much as she could tell her, she said, “Miss Jones, Sara, how old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“How long can you stay here?”
“Until you find out what happened to my mother and who did it. I’m a teacher. Math and science. A substitute can handle my classes until I get back.”
“Would you be agreeable to staying with one of our church families? I would rather take you to my pastor’s house, have them arrange something, than leave you in a motel.” The pastor had seven children. The oldest girl was attending a local Christian college. She was a little younger than Sara, but not by much.
“This might not be a good time to be alone in a strange place,” Marti added. Despite her composure and obvious maturity, Marti didn’t think Sara should have to deal with this by herself. There was no telling what they might find out about Sara’s mother.
“We’re all family at my church,” Marti added.
Sara hesitated, then nodded.
Marti gave her one of her business cards and put her cell phone number on the back.
As soon as the two detectives left, Sara took her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in Akiro’s cell number.
“Akiro,” she whispered when he answered. “I’m in Lincoln Prairie.”
“I can come if you need me.”
“No, I’m safe, staying with a minister and his family. Come af >ter you wrap up things at the dig, if they haven’t found whoever killed her by then.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. They just found her. In the river. . . .” Her voice broke, but she tried to hold back the tears. “I told them I would stay here until I could bring her home.” She pulled out a Kleenex and wiped her eyes. “They won’t let her go until they know who did it. Akiro. Why would they kill her?”
“I don’t know their ways, Sara. It makes no sense to me. I just want to be sure you’re okay.”
“I’ll call you every day, okay.”
“And I’ll come—next Friday I think, unless something comes up. You’re sure you’re safe?”
“Yes,” Sara lied. “I’m sure.”
There was a message from Nina Rose Peterson, the forensic anthropologist, when Marti and Vik returned to the precinct. She finally had time to look at their skeletal remains. Marti put in a quick call to Lupe and Holmberg. Peterson had already started examining the remains when the four of them arrived at the morgue.
Peterson was a tall slender woman with light brown hair. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and was holding a femur in one hand and a tibia in the other.
“I’m going to pack him up and take him with me,” she said. “We might be able to use him for research.”
“Are the bones that old?” Vik asked.
“Whoever this was, he wasn’t that old, but his bones—from what you tell me—he could have been in the closet for fifty to sixty years. He could have died during the Depression, or the Second World War. And just looking at his skull I can see something very interesting. See the eye sockets?” She pointed. “Somewhat rectangular and wide apart, characteristic of an African American, but the nasal aperture,” she pointed again, “is very narrow as is the palate, which are distinctive Caucasoid features. This man was of mixed race, which makes the information we >might be able to glean from his bones even more interesting. Back in those days, women and minorities weren’t important enough to be included in research studies. We’re discovering a lot of things posthumously.”
’What about skin color?” Marti asked.
“I can’t even make a guess,” Peterson told her. “He could have passed for white. He could have been dark-skinned.”
Marti thought of Lieutenant Nicholson—Caucasian features, brown skin.
“Can you tell us how old he was?” Holmberg asked.
“Well, he was definitely an adult, and looking at his rib ends, I’d guess not over thirty, but I can’t be more specific until I’ve had a closer look at him. I’d rather not estimate height or weight either. We have computerized methods that are much more accurate. And if you do have missing persons’ records going back that far, my guess is that your chances of finding him are slim to none. The population was so migratory from the Depression until after the war that an awful lot of people went unreported.”
Marti also knew that if he looked like and lived as an African American that would make it even less likely that anyone would have reported him missing.
Peterson packed up her instruments. “If you do come up with some data we could try matching him with, let me know. Meanwhile, I’d prefer to indicate ’unknown’ on my data base and fill in verifiable information as I go along.”
“Will it take long?” Lupe asked.
“Oh, no, not the basics at least. This young man is much too interesting to work with in my spare time. And I’ve got a couple of lab assistants as well as some graduate students who will be delighted to meet him.”
Vik raised his wiry eyebrows in a gesture that would usually be followed with, We’ve got a live one here.” Dr. Peterson didn’t seem ditzy to Marti though. If anything, Marti was impressed by her enthusiasm for her work.
“We haven’t been able to get going on this yet,” Lupe said as they left the morgue.
With typical enthusiasm, Holmberg added, “But we are going to start first thing tomorrow.”
“You’re going to get started first thing in the morning,” Lupe told him. “I’m sleeping in.”
“In fact,” Holmberg went on, “I’m going back to the precinct so I can get started on it right now.” He jumped over a puddle and hurried on, walking ahead of them.
“No second shift for me today,” Lupe said. “I’m going home.” She crossed the street and entered the parking lot.
“Let’s put in a call to Mark Dobrzycki,” Marti suggested to Vik as they walked slowly back to the precinct. The rain was hesitating between drizzle and downpour and the forecast for sunshine was postponed.
“The FBI guy? Why?”
“Just to be sure he knows about Savannah Payne-Jones’s death. She was an actress. She was traveling interstate. There weren’t any drugs in her system or any indication of drug or alcohol abuse, but this could have been done by almost anyone. Maybe she didn’t pay off a gambling debt or she borrowed money from the wrong people. Maybe she just saw something she shouldn’t have. There are records and information that he can access faster than we can, should the need arise.”
“MacAlister, are you feeling okay today?”
Marti thought about Ben but didn’t say anything. “We need to see Miss Tansy Lark again, check out those stills of Savannah Jones, and hope there’s a good shot of that jewelry,” she said. “The only thing we’ve got right now as a possible motive is somebody wanting that jewelry.”
“It could be caught in an undercurrent and halfway to the Mississippi by now.”
Tansy Lark had her head down on her desk and was napping when they arrived.
“Looks like the manic phase is over,” Marti whispered, then, louder, said, “Miss Lark!”
She came awake all at once. “Yes? Now what? What is it?” She sat straight up, then said, “Oh, it’s you two. Now what do you want?”
Vik explained about the pictures.
“Well, if we do have anything . . .” She went over to a file cabinet and spent about five minutes flipping through loose papers, folders of various colors, and manila folders. “Here,” she said and pulled out a shiny blue folder.
Inside there were several shots of Savannah in profile and one full face. Even dead she looked as youthful as she did in the photos. It was hard to believe she was in her forties.
“Do you recognize this jewelry?” Marti asked.
Tansy reached for her silver case and took out a cigarette. “I never paid much attention but I would assume it’s the jewelry she puts in her contracts.” She looked at the photos. “Old stuff, isn’t it? I wonder if she had it on for the shoot. It would have been perfect. Deadly Deceptions is a takeoff on a forties gangster movie.”
“Can you find out if she was wearing it Tuesday night?”
“I’m not sure about the ring or the brooch, but if she was wearing the earrings we might have a shot of that. I can find out for you, but not right this minute. The guy who handles that won’t be here until about six.”
Marti took one of the profile shots and the full face. Back at the precinct, she asked for enlargements of the jewelry. As she ordered Chinese and settled in to wait, she wondered what Momma had fixed for supper. She hadn’t eaten with the family since Monday.
Come to think of it, it had been two days since she had talked with her kids. Joanna was between basketball and softball season and would be spending more time at home. The boys were getting ready for a camping trip. Marti had planned to drop in at Staben House to see her sister-in-law Iris and her niece, Lynn Ella. They had attended church with the family on Sunday and >stayed for dinner, but Lynn Ella was still being tutored and was as shy as ever, except when she was around Ben. Marti wanted to see Lynn Ella more often, spend more time with her.
And she needed to spend more time with her own children. Before they grew up, before they went to college, before they were on their own. Now. She needed to be with them now while she could snatch a few more memories to store up. Now while Ben was with them. No, Ben was always going to be with them. He was going to be just fine. The antibiotics would take care of everything. There wasn’t anything to worry about at all.
Ben had been awake and waiting for her when she came home last night. They lit candles and got into the hot tub together, and, as tired as she was, she listened to him as he talked. He told her about things that happened when he was growing up, things like being bigger than all of the other kids, and having to walk— good weather and bad—to get to the Catholic high school he attended when there wasn’t enough money for bus fare. And his first job, sweeping out the barbershop, more because his father had been laid off than because the barber needed his help. Ben would be all right. He had made it through ’Nam. He would be fine. He had to be.