Read Online Bone Harvest by Mary Logue - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Logue
Tags: Fiction, General, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Women Detectives, Pepin County (Wis.), Wisconsin, Sheriffs, Claire (Fictitious character), Pesticides, Watkins
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once told her that smiling made the voice sound sweeter. She tried again.
“What I’m really hoping is that you can analyze the feed. I sent you one of the chickens just in case it might help you out.”
She heard Folger grumbling at the other end of the line and imagined his digging through the papers on his desk as if he would find an answer there.
Just then Chief Deputy Sheriff Stewart Swanson squatted down in her line of vision and held his hands in the T position—time out—his signal that he needed her now. He had played football in high school. Claire was sure it had been the best time of his life. Even though he was in his early sixties he could still recite some of his plays.
She needed to wrap up this phone call. “I know you’ll do the best you can. I’ll call you back later today.” Without waiting for an answer she disconnected.
“Yeah?” She looked up at Stewy. He motioned her into his office.
Unlike him to be so secretive about anything, she mused. Following him, she was struck by how broad his back was. Lot of good meat loaf and pie went into maintaining that physique, she was sure. Mrs. Swanson was an acclaimed baker. Even at his age, she wouldn’t want to run into his sheer mass on a football field—or down a dark alley.
He held open the door to his office for her and then closed it behind them. “Claire, just got a call from the newspaper.”
She nodded.
“Harold Peabody. You know him?”
“I know who he is.”
“He just found a note on his counter. A threatening note. He thinks it’s related to the stolen pesticides.”
Claire hoped this editor wouldn’t leave his marks all over the note. “Is it from our guy?”
“I think so.” The sheriff looked at her. “You better go talk to him. He wants to run it in the paper tomorrow.”
The first thing Harold Peabody did after he called the sheriff was to make a copy of the note and put the copy safely away inside a volume of the Oxford English Dictionary on the page that included the definition for murder. He had bought the set in 1970 at a used bookstore for a hundred dollars. The dictionary was published in the 1950s, but he didn’t figure words went out of style.
He spent the rest of his time waiting for the deputy, clearing off his desk. The condition of his desk was an apt metaphor for the state of his mind: mildly organized chaos.
When Deputy Claire Watkins showed up, he ushered her to the back room and held out a chair for her. The chair, too, had been recently cleared of a stack of papers.
Then he sat down opposite her in his rolling chair and looked this deputy over. She was an attractive woman. Harold found that she resembled her name—there was something clear and open about the way she looked at him. She had the start of good lines in her face, and terrific eyes. She was growing outwardly into who she was inwardly—what one did in one’s forties. For better or worse.
“You’re the new investigator,” Harold commented. “I don’t think the sheriff’s department ever had one before.”
“No, this is a new position.”
“Good idea.” He had folded a piece of paper in two and placed it around the note so he could hold it without disturbing the surface. “Here it is.”
She pulled on a pair of latex gloves. First she read the note; then she turned it over and examined the backside of it carefully. She looked in the envelope, then put it in a plastic bag, and the note in another plastic bag. She placed the plastic-covered note on the desk in front of her so she could see it easily. When she was finished, she looked up at him. “Any idea what the numbers mean?”
“I think so. I think it’s a date. The date an entire family was murdered on their farm. The Schulers. Otto and Bertha Schuler and their five kids. Slaughtered on their farm on the tenth of July, 1952. The case was never solved.”
“But what about the first seven?”
“The number of people killed.”
Claire’s hand rose to her
“What I’m really hoping is that you can analyze the feed. I sent you one of the chickens just in case it might help you out.”
She heard Folger grumbling at the other end of the line and imagined his digging through the papers on his desk as if he would find an answer there.
Just then Chief Deputy Sheriff Stewart Swanson squatted down in her line of vision and held his hands in the T position—time out—his signal that he needed her now. He had played football in high school. Claire was sure it had been the best time of his life. Even though he was in his early sixties he could still recite some of his plays.
She needed to wrap up this phone call. “I know you’ll do the best you can. I’ll call you back later today.” Without waiting for an answer she disconnected.
“Yeah?” She looked up at Stewy. He motioned her into his office.
Unlike him to be so secretive about anything, she mused. Following him, she was struck by how broad his back was. Lot of good meat loaf and pie went into maintaining that physique, she was sure. Mrs. Swanson was an acclaimed baker. Even at his age, she wouldn’t want to run into his sheer mass on a football field—or down a dark alley.
He held open the door to his office for her and then closed it behind them. “Claire, just got a call from the newspaper.”
She nodded.
“Harold Peabody. You know him?”
“I know who he is.”
“He just found a note on his counter. A threatening note. He thinks it’s related to the stolen pesticides.”
Claire hoped this editor wouldn’t leave his marks all over the note. “Is it from our guy?”
“I think so.” The sheriff looked at her. “You better go talk to him. He wants to run it in the paper tomorrow.”
The first thing Harold Peabody did after he called the sheriff was to make a copy of the note and put the copy safely away inside a volume of the Oxford English Dictionary on the page that included the definition for murder. He had bought the set in 1970 at a used bookstore for a hundred dollars. The dictionary was published in the 1950s, but he didn’t figure words went out of style.
He spent the rest of his time waiting for the deputy, clearing off his desk. The condition of his desk was an apt metaphor for the state of his mind: mildly organized chaos.
When Deputy Claire Watkins showed up, he ushered her to the back room and held out a chair for her. The chair, too, had been recently cleared of a stack of papers.
Then he sat down opposite her in his rolling chair and looked this deputy over. She was an attractive woman. Harold found that she resembled her name—there was something clear and open about the way she looked at him. She had the start of good lines in her face, and terrific eyes. She was growing outwardly into who she was inwardly—what one did in one’s forties. For better or worse.
“You’re the new investigator,” Harold commented. “I don’t think the sheriff’s department ever had one before.”
“No, this is a new position.”
“Good idea.” He had folded a piece of paper in two and placed it around the note so he could hold it without disturbing the surface. “Here it is.”
She pulled on a pair of latex gloves. First she read the note; then she turned it over and examined the backside of it carefully. She looked in the envelope, then put it in a plastic bag, and the note in another plastic bag. She placed the plastic-covered note on the desk in front of her so she could see it easily. When she was finished, she looked up at him. “Any idea what the numbers mean?”
“I think so. I think it’s a date. The date an entire family was murdered on their farm. The Schulers. Otto and Bertha Schuler and their five kids. Slaughtered on their farm on the tenth of July, 1952. The case was never solved.”
“But what about the first seven?”
“The number of people killed.”
Claire’s hand rose to her
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