“You’re running a guilt-trip, aren’t you?” Mur gave me a speculative look. We’d been friends so long she could sense my moods the minute they shifted.
I nodded. “The cat’s skeleton… the ghost cat… I miss Sammy. I know she’s alive somewhere out there, but that doesn’t mean she’s safe. And until she’s back, all the intuition or hunches in the world won’t comfort me as much as seeing her face staring into mine in the morning when I wake up. I have to put on a strong front for the kids, but her disappearance is tearing me up.” Kip and Miranda loved Sammy dearly, but she’d taken to me, while her kittens had bonded with the kids. Samantha was my cat.
Mur slipped an arm around my shoulder. “I know, Em, I know. Hang in there. Tell you what, White Deer should be here by this afternoon. Maybe she can think of something to help.”
The knot between my shoulders loosened a little. If anybody could help, it would be White Deer. “Thanks, Mur. You know I appreciate it.”
“I know,” she said. She glanced back at the yew. “Regarding this case, though, a thought crossed my mind that perhaps this might have been the end result of some form of ritual burial? I remember reading that some cultures bury their dead in trees.”
There was a thought. It wasn’t like the body had been cut to pieces or maimed, as far as we could tell, and whoever buried her had kept her with the cat. That spoke of some compassion, didn’t it?
“It’s an idea, I guess. But around here?”
“Bear in mind that if this is Brigit, then whatever happened took place at least fifty years ago. It was easier to cover your tracks back then. There were a lot of immigrants around who came from overseas after World War II. Many of them brought their customs with them. Not to mention that you yourself said Chiqetaw is a magnet for psychic phenomenon. Maybe it also attracts those with unusual beliefs. After all, you’re here, aren’t you?” She grinned.
“If you’re trying to cheer me up, keep trying,” I said, but smiled despite myself. Murray had a way of making me laugh, even when I didn’t feel like it.
“Detective?” The M.E. strode over. Ms. Johansen certainly had an air of authority about her, I thought. She was no-nonsense, but I had the feeling she’d be on the square far more than Bob Stryker had ever been.
“Yes? What is it?” Mur turned around.
“We’re ready to take the body to the morgue. I’ve got an autopsy scheduled for this morning, but things have been pretty dead lately.” Her straight face didn’t belie a single twitch of the lip, but her eyes smiled. “I should be able to start in on the examination this afternoon.”
Murray nodded. “Good. Let me know what you find. I’ll make sure we hunt down any evidence here and get it right into the labs.”
“Just pray this isn’t the body of one of the tribal folk around here,” Nerissa muttered under her breath. She seemed to recognize her mistake the minute she said it but there wasn’t time for a graceful retreat.
Murray gave her a cool look. “And why are you worried about that?”
Nerissa cleared her throat. “I just thought… well, neither one of us wants another case like the Kennewick Man.”
The Kennewick controversy surrounded the nine-thousand-year-old remains of a man found in the Columbia River near Kennewick, Washington. Even though examination showed the remains to be of Caucasian origin, the question remained: How did the Kennewick Man show up in what was supposed to have been purely native territory at that time? Who was he and where was he from? Natives wanted to rebury him out of respect—they said the bones belonged to them. Archaeologists wanted to study him. The controversy was still being battled out in court.
Murray snorted. “Don’t worry about it, Nerissa. I sincerely doubt if these bones are over fifty or sixty years old. And if they’re native, they’ll be reburied.”
Trying to salvage the conversation, the M.E. said, “I just meant, we don’t want an archaeological nightmare on our hands. You’re probably right, though. We’ll know more later today.” She climbed in her car and took the lead, the ambulance following.
Murray watched her go, shaking her head. “I think she worked on the Kennewick case. That’s her one stumbling block, as far as I can see. Science takes precedence over everything with her. But I guess it’s a good attitude for her line of work—just so long as she doesn’t have to interact with the families of the deceased. She’s not very tactful.”
“She seems competent, though. You couldn’t say that about Stryker.”
“You’ve got me there,” Mur said. “Not to change the subject, but I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”
“What is it?” I glanced at her warily. Anytime anybody had a favor they wanted to ask me, it usually involved me getting hurt or having some run-in with an astral beastie.
“I was wondering if there’s a chance I can cajole you into tuning in to see if you can pick up anything about the skeleton? I know you’re nervous about the thought—”
“Nervous? Try terrified.” I thought about the retreating ambulance and sighed. The bones resting in the back made everything real. We weren’t just dealing with spirits and otherworldly creatures now. I wiped my mouth, gauging what I could do without putting myself in jeopardy. “And it’s not just the Will o’ the Wisps that worry me.”
“What, then?”
I looked at the yew for a moment before answering, the aura both fascinating and frightening me. No longer just a tree in a neighboring lot, it had transformed into a grave-yard, a silent witness to a death long forgotten.
“Do you know anything about the lore of yew trees?” I finally said.
Murray shook her head. “Not much, they don’t play a big part in the traditions in which I was brought up.”
“Well, I know a little of their history. In Irish myth and legend, yews were considered some of the longest-lived beings on the face of this planet, and they represent rebirth and reincarnation. Their spirits can be wild, unpredictable.”
“Is that why the Will o’ the Wisps congregate around it?”
“I think they’re here for two reasons. One, because of Brigit. She was Irish and probably had some sort of connection to the Sidhe. But the yew is also connected to the Otherworld—supposedly to be one of the five sacred woods brought over. It seems natural that the corpse candles would be attracted to it, much like a moth to a flame. Yews are often found in graveyards.”
Murray contemplated what I had said, then nodded. “I can see why you’d be leery of touching it on a psychic level.”
“Not only did the Celts hold the tree sacred, but the Norse, too.” I stared up into the wild branches that wove together against the sky. Without meaning to, I tuned in—just a little—and the nimbus surrounding the tree flared to life. “I can believe that Yggdrassil was a yew. The World Tree.”
And in fact, the tree radiated like a torch, warming my skin as it penetrated the chill that clouded the early morning air. It became obvious that its roots ran deep into the ley lines that formed the psychic grid of Chiqetaw. A sentinel, a guardian of the area. I broke away, disconnecting before it noticed me.
I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Mur.”
“Not a problem,” she said. “It would be nice, though, to know what it’s seen over the years. I imagine not much that happens around here escapes its notice.”
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s sentient, all right. I’ve been thinking. I believe that when Joe and I started clearing the brambles and found the basement, we awakened the spirits of Brigit and her cat.”
Murray sighed. “Probably. I think it’s time to go have a talk with Brent Brunswick. Do you want to come along?”
“Brent? But he’s in an institution.” Even as I said it, I realized that the thought of visiting him made me nervous. I wasn’t sure why—maybe I was picking up on something I really didn’t want to know, or shouldn’t know.
She shrugged. “Irena obviously isn’t prepared to come clean with us. Maybe we can find out
something useful from Brent.”
I considered the idea. We had no idea whether Brent was coherent yet dysfunctional, or whether he was totally out of touch. A lot of people were locked away when they shouldn’t be, slipping through the cracks of the system. We couldn’t count him out of the picture until we’d actually met with him. Even if he wasn’t able to provide any information on the mysterious skeleton, maybe, just maybe, he might shed some light on why Irena wouldn’t sell the lot to Joe, and maybe I could get him to agree to the sale.
“I’m game. I should give Joe a call first, to let him know what we’ve found out. He was… shall we say… less than shocked when I told him I’d found the skeleton.” I snickered. “Joe seems to have accepted that I have a knack for stumbling over dead bodies. Now if I could just learn to live with it, I’d be a happy camper.”
“I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation,” Mur said with a grin. “Give me a couple more hours. Here come Greg and Sandy with the food. We’ll get started hunting for evidence, and once I know they’re up to speed on what to look for, I can slip away. We’ll take my truck. No sense in both of us driving.”
“Sounds good.” I waved at her as the guys climbed out of their car, loaded down with breakfast. Sandy handed me the mocha and I saluted Murray with it, then headed back to the house, my stomach rumbling like a freight train. The Danish I’d eaten for breakfast was a distant memory, as were the eggs and bacon I’d managed to snag. I decided it was time for lunch, even if it was only mid-morning, and was in the middle of fixing a sandwich when the phone rang.
“So what’s the buzz?” Joe’s low-slung voice echoed over the line, making me melt. “Any more bodies in the tree?”
I stared at my roast beef sandwich, gauging whether it was thin enough to allow me to talk and eat at the same time. Nope, too thick. I wistfully set it on the counter and told him what we’d discovered.
“We’re going over to Fairhaven Psychiatric Hospital to meet Brent. Maybe I can find out what the deal is with Irena and the land. Murray thinks maybe Irena knew the skeleton was there and didn’t want to sell for that reason.”
Joe cleared his throat. “Did you ever think that maybe Brent’s in that hospital for a reason? Maybe he’s dangerous and his family knew he did something he shouldn’t have?”
I had to admit, the thought hadn’t occurred to me. I wondered if Murray had been mulling it over. “I suppose you have a point. I doubt if the possibility’s escaped Murray’s notice. She thinks by the book.” I wiped up a trail of mustard dripping off my sandwich and licked my finger. Yum.
“Are you eating while you’re talking to me?” Joe laughed. “I bet you’re sitting there, staring at a big old mug of mocha or something, just dying to get me off the phone so you can chug it down. Well, am I right?”
The ice in my mocha was melting, and the sandwich was tempting me to cave in and admit that he was right, but I had my pride. “No.”
“Right, and I’m not sitting here wishing I was right there next to you so I could rip off your clothes and drag you up to the bedroom, either. But we both know that’s a lie.” The lonely note in his voice caught my breath short. My appetite disappeared and I dropped into a chair.
“I wish you were here. I like having you around.”
He seldom stayed at his apartment anymore, using it more like a pit stop between my house and the station. I suddenly felt bad for him—he must feel so ungrounded with no real home base. Earlier in the year, he’d mentioned that he was going to ask me to marry him on my birthday, but we hadn’t talked about it since then. I wondered if he remembered, but didn’t want to ask. No sense setting myself up for heartache if he’d changed his mind.
“Do you have to work tonight?”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding depressed. “But I can get away for dinner. Want me to come by? I can eat at the station if you have plans with the kids.”
“The only plans we have are to continue looking for Sammy. I’m scared, Joe. What if she doesn’t come home?”
He let out a sigh. “I don’t know, love. I don’t know. We’ll weather it through, whatever happens. I’ll be over there around six. That good?”
“That’s wonderful.” I suddenly wanted him with me now, his arms wrapped around me, holding me close. “I’ll make fettucine Alfredo.”
With a smack of the lips, he blew me a kiss through the phone, and signed off. I hung up, feeling unaccountably lonely. As I was staring at the phone, it occurred to me that maybe Margaret Files, Joe’s aunt, might know something about the Brunswicks. She had lived here during the same time they did.
I dialed her number but got her answering machine. After leaving a message I finished my second breakfast, then headed upstairs to change for our trip. What did one wear to a mental institution?
I decided to err on the side of conservative. After a quick shower, I slipped into a brown suede skirt, a hunter green cowl-necked sweater, and zipped up my knee-high brown leather boots. I hooked a gold chain around my neck and slipped matching hoops in my ears, then quickly brushed my hair back and deftly wove it into a French braid, fastening it with a gold barrette. I’d just finished dressing when the doorbell rang.
Murray’s voice echoed from the hall. “Em? Are you ready to go?”
I dashed down the steps, and stopped short. Apparently Murray had decided to change too. She wore a deep burgundy pants suit with black leather pumps, and was carrying a shoulder-bag briefcase. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon. I was used to seeing her in both jeans, and her everyday suits for work, but she looked so classy and chic that I caught my breath.
“Where did you get that? I love it!” I circled her, examining the suit. This wasn’t her usual business suit. No, indeed. “This is an Anne Klein!”
She blushed. “I asked Harlow to go shopping with me last month. Once I accepted the promotion, I needed a few really nice outfits for times when I have to appear as a consummate professional. After all, I am the head of detectives now.”
“That you are,” I said with a smile.
“I may not know fashion, but I knew the look I needed. So Harlow helped me find a few things that I can wear into meetings or to address the press, when necessary. I told Bonner that I’m not about to let the department stay sloppy—Coughlan may have let the men slack off on both attitude and fitness for the job, but that’s going to change under me.”
I scribbled out a note for the kids, should they arrive home early, and grabbed my cell phone and purse. Too bad Horvald had taken off on his mini-vacation—I’d gotten used to having him around. He was as wonderful about looking after the kids as Ida. With both of them gone until Halloween, the neighborhood felt empty.
Arming the security system, I turned back to Murray. “Still having trouble with the guys at work?”
She shrugged as we climbed into her truck. “Well, it’s not like it’s a huge department. They can either shape up or find another job. Bonner agrees with me on this, at least, especially after Rusty’s stunt. The place has gotten slack. Half the guys there couldn’t pass their physical entrance exam if they had to right now. So I told them to hit the gym, cut down on the carbs, and tone up that muscle.”
I snorted. “Do you really think they’ll listen?”
She nodded. “I know they will—they don’t like being beaten by a woman when it comes to arm wrestling. I made them a deal. If they can’t beat me in the best two of three, and if they can’t pass the number of push-ups I can do, then they have to shape up. I’ve got three detectives under me. All of them lost the bet. Their egos are bruised and they all want a rematch.”
“Now that you know none of them are the ones trying to get you fired, do you think things will get easier?” I was hoping that her discovery of her not-so-secret admirer was going to shift the mood.
She eased onto the main highway and we headed toward Bellingham. “Honestly? I don’t know, Em. But I think Rusty was stirring up some of the troub
le. Right now, it’s a wait-and-see situation.”
We headed north on Highway 9 for ten miles or so, then veered west toward Bellingham. The Fairhaven Psychiatric Hospital was located a mile or so east of the city. Residents had, many years ago, feared the type of people who would be housed there and insisted on the state removing it from near the boundaries.
As we rounded a curve, a large sign proclaimed that Fairhaven was just ahead, to the right. Murray flipped on her blinker and veered onto the wide, spacious road. Lined with maple and horse chestnut trees, the drive was lovely. The long meadows of grass were covered with brightly colored autumn leaves, and the trees looked sparse against the overcast sky, but there was still a genteel feel to the place. I had a feeling this institute was more of a private haven for those from well-to-do families who had decided their loved ones weren’t well enough to withstand society. It certainly didn’t resemble a state-run facility, that much was for sure.
We’d barely driven one hundred yards along the park-way before a wrought iron gate barred our way. Booths sat next to it on either side, manned by security guards wearing olive uniforms. I had a feeling they were packing guns beneath those jackets.
I glanced at Murray. “This isn’t a day spa, tell you that much.”
She nodded, rolling down her window. The guard remained behind his bulletproof glass and motioned for her to speak into the intercom.
“I’m Detective Anna Murray with the Chiqetaw Police Force. I’ve come on official business. I spoke to Dr. Ziegler this morning and he said you’d have me on the list.” She flashed her badge.
The guard checked over a list and nodded. “And your guest?”
“Emerald O’Brien,” she said. “She’s connected with the case in question.”
The guard made a quick phone call, then stepped out of his booth and handed Murray two passes—one for each of us—and a sticker for the truck. He admonished us to wear our passes at all times while inside. Along with the passes, he gave us a brochure about Fairhaven, then returned to his booth and the wide gates swung open.