The Wrong Bones (Widow's Island #10)(7)

Tessa drained her coffee, then wiped her mouth. “My suspect went to considerable effort to attempt to bury some bones in the cemetery. They could have just tossed them out with the trash, thrown them off a boat, or stuck them in a hole anywhere. Choosing the cemetery was risky, with a much greater chance of being seen. Can you think of a reason someone would do this?”

Cate leaned against the stainless steel prep table and sipped her coffee. Her face went thoughtful. A minute later, she said, “Respect and guilt come to mind.”

Tessa let the words sink in. “Giving the remains a proper burial.”

Jane agreed with a solemn nod. “A cemetery is consecrated ground.”

“Maybe they knew the victim,” Tessa mused.

Cate added, “Or they’re religious and had an attack of guilt.”

“So burying the victim somehow absolves them?” Tessa asked. “Now I wonder if they killed the victim, or did they acquire the bones another way?”

“Both good questions.” Cate wiped her hands on her apron.

The doorbell rang, and Cate headed for the front of the shop.

Tessa said goodbye to Jane and followed Cate. “Thanks for the help and the breakfast.”

“Glad to help.” Cate turned to her customer.

Tessa drove home. In the yard, her sixteen-year-old sister, Patience, waved from the chicken enclosure. Tessa stepped out of her vehicle and carried the bakery bag to the wire-and-frame door. “I brought breakfast sandwiches.”

“Great.” But Patience looked worried. “I can’t find Killer Hen.”

“She’s not in the coop?” Tessa glanced around. Most of the chickens were friendly, but the alpha hen despised Tessa with every feather of her fluttery being. If Killer was outside the pen, she typically attacked Tessa.

“No. I walked the yard too.” Patience scattered the last of the chicken feed from her bucket. “No sign of her.”

“Does Mom know she’s missing?” Tessa didn’t see any blood or loose feathers that would indicate the hen had been taken by a fox or hawk.

“Not yet.” Patience left the enclosure and fastened the door. “I don’t know how she got out. The door was latched when I came out.”

“Who knows how she ever gets out?” Tessa turned in a circle and scanned the yard but saw no sign of the chicken.

“What are we going to tell Mom?” Patience headed for the house.

“Nothing.” Tessa fell into step beside her sister. “The hen usually turns up.”

“I hope so.”

Killer was their mother’s favorite. Tessa would have given the birds away a long time ago. They required a surprising amount of upkeep. But they gave her mother joy, something she had very little of these days.

Patience left her rubber boots on the porch, and they went inside. Their mother sat in the kitchen, staring into a cup. Patience had helped her dress, but Mom’s hair was still tangled around her face. Her focus was vague as she watched Patience and Tessa wash their hands.

“She wouldn’t let me brush her hair.” Patience went to the cabinet and took out plates.

“You did good.” Tessa unwrapped the sandwiches.

Patience flushed. She tried to help care for their mother, but Tessa tried just as hard to give Patience as normal a life as possible.

“I have to go back to work today,” Tessa said. “But Jane is sending someone to sit with Mom.”

Relief crossed Patience’s face, then guilt. “I shouldn’t be so happy about passing off Mom’s care.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. You need to recharge. We all do. That’s why we share the load.”

“I want to do my share,” Patience said.

“And I appreciate that.” Tessa set a sandwich in front of her mother. “Hi, Mom.”

Without acknowledging Tessa’s greeting, her mother disassembled her sandwich and picked up a slice of bacon. They ate a peaceful meal. Then Tessa showered and donned a fresh uniform. By the time she left the house, her mom was settled in a rocking chair on the front porch. Another woman sat in the rocker beside her.

“Bonnie, would you wind this yarn?” the woman asked. Tessa’s mother took the yarn with shaky hands and began to ball it up on autopilot.

Grateful, Tessa said goodbye and climbed back in her vehicle. She drove to the station, studied a map of the island, and found four houses with a view of the cemetery. Out of the four, three were full-time residences. The fourth appeared to be a vacation home, as the owner listed a permanent address in Oregon. Initial background checks found nothing more serious than traffic tickets for any of the homeowners.

At nine o’clock, she felt it was late enough to start making calls and knocking on doors. While she drove, she called the law enforcement contact listed for Alyssa Collins’s missing person case, Detective Hillary Kreisler of the Bainbridge Island PD. The call went to voice mail, and Tessa left a message.

Tessa parked in front of the first house on her list. Municipal records listed the homeowner as Lillian Marshall. Ms. Marshall had purchased the home the past July. Her previous residence was registered as Seattle, Washington.

She stepped out of her vehicle and walked to the door. A slim woman in her midtwenties answered her knock.

Tessa started to introduce herself, but the woman stopped her. “I know who you are.” She tucked her smooth black hair behind her ear. “I’m Lillian Marshall.”