Dry Bones Read online

  Carole Morden is a wonderful new voice in fiction. Her debut novel is sure to please mystery fans everywhere. Don’t miss it!

  –best-selling author Norma Beishir

  Carole Morden offers a well-paced, intriguing tale of brutal murder, hidden motives, and lingering mystery. From the opening prologue, her crisp, compact style pulls you in. Morden is a sharp-eyed observer who exposes the quirks of human nature and weaves subtle humor throughout her story of an “ordinary” pastor’s wife drawn into extraordinary circumstances surrounding the death of a former high school classmate.

  –Sam Collins, editor for Warner Press

  An intriguing integration of a current murder and a thirty-year-old cold case. Dry Bones’ twists and turns had me captivated from the beginning. It kept me guessing until the climactic ending.

  –St. Louis’ Images Agency

  Carole Morden’s debut novel is a page-turning mystery from beginning to end. Great heroine! Complex plot! Hopefully, Morden has a series on her hands.

  –Jessica Ferguson, author of The Last Daughter; staff writer for Southern Writers Magazine

  Dry Bones will keep you guessing, as a pastor’s-wife-turned-detective tries to solve a murder case in which she is the prime suspect. Carole Morden’s debut novel will garner her lots of devoted fans—myself included!

  –Kent Crockett, author of The Sure Cure for Worry and Slaying Your Giants

  An intriguing, fun read. Carole Morden gets the important things right. She deals with the difficult, dark realities of today while pointing to the way God works and heals. In addition to poking fun at traditional Christianity in a good natured way, she ministers to believer and non-believer alike.

  –Karen Alexander, reading teacher, Kansas

  Dry Bones

  © 2015 Carole Morden

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION,

  Copyright © 1973, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by

  Deep River Books

  Sisters, Oregon

  www.deepriverbooks.com

  ISBN: 9781940269351

  Library of Congress: 2015930305

  Printed in the USA

  Cover design by Jason Enterline

  For John,

  Muncher, Ethon, Levi

  I couldn’t breathe without you.

  And in Loving Memory

  Of my Dad

  Fred Marjerrison

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Page

  PROLOGUE

  Tuesday, thirty years ago

  Dacia Stewart veered off the path winding through Mounds Park. Her fingers raked through cropped, black hair. Sweat beaded her forehead, and dark-brown eyes snapped in anger. When a wave of revulsion gripped her insides, she deposited the contents of her stomach behind a huge, maple tree. Wiping her mouth on her shirtsleeve, she eyed each park visitor with suspicion. Backing farther into the woods, she hoped no one had seen her get sick. It wasn’t likely. Most people milled around the playground, watching their kids, enjoying the not yet humid May, and taking no thought of the drama unfolding around them. With shaking hands, she twisted the cap off the telephoto lens and focused sharply on the striking young blonde who had just arrived in the park.

  Dacia let her mind wander for a moment. One more week of student teaching and she would be a full-fledged, high school, English teacher. Her applications had already gone to at least fifty townships in Indiana. Bloomington would be her first choice. It was home after all. She missed the rolling hills, fishing on Griffy Lake—her dad patiently teaching her how not to tip over the canoe—but mostly, she missed her fiancé. Craig taught at Edgewood Middle School while taking classes for his masters at IU. He thought he would prefer being a principal to teaching. And he was willing to put off the wedding until she found a teaching position in Bloomington. Dacia objected. She wanted to get married now. The semester of student teaching in Anderson made her an enemy of distance, and she wasn’t prepared to go another year without Craig. How she wished he were here now.

  She turned her attention back to the teen she’d followed from Highland High. Still alone, the girl folded her arms across her chest, her fear palpable. Dacia’s stomach cramped, but she swallowed hard. No time to get sick again. She needed every bit of courage she could muster to take the pictures that would give credence to the ugly story she had to tell. Funny. If it weren’t for Mom, I wouldn’t be here.

  Dottie Stewart was deaf. Dacia grew up learning sign language, lip-reading, and body movements like most kids learn to speak. It was her second language, and she was fluent in it. She could interpret a raised eyebrow as easily as some people interpret their own spoken language. She could watch television with the sound turned down and understand the entire content of the show. And, as was the case this afternoon, she could stumble onto something that demanded stepping out of her teacher role to become both protector and whistle-blower. Could it have been just an hour ago?

  It had been 3:30 and the final bell had rung. Glad chatter filled the halls—another day finished. Dacia maneuvered down the busy walkway toward the teachers’ lounge in search of advice on a matter regarding a parent’s criticism of her teaching methods. All classroom doors had windows in the upper half, a change demanded by the task force to prevent student violence. Ms. Perdue straightened music stands, Mr. B. stuffed papers into his briefcase, and Ms. Alexander hurried out the door.

  At one classroom, Dacia stopped short. A teacher and student were engaged in what looked like a nasty confrontation. Dacia watched the teacher’s lips move: threatening, demanding, and then insistent. He gripped the girl’s thin arm and squeezed, his other hand tracing its way down her frightened face. Shame, revulsion, and panic passed through the young eyes—and finally, submission. Stunned, Dacia raced back to her own classroom to pick up her camera, thankful she was wearing flat shoes and slacks. She dug in her purse for the Anderson map and found the quickest route to Mounds Park—the forced rendezvous spot.

  Dacia jolted back to the present.
Concentrate. He’ll be in the park any minute now. Stay alert. Stop shaking. The mantra continued in her head even as she scoured the park for any trace of the man.

  Broadening the focus to include the area surrounding the young woman, Dacia was ready for the teacher to show up. Her camera wobbled. Take slow, deep breaths. If she didn’t settle down, the photos would be of little value. It was the only way to prove what she had “overheard” this afternoon. Accusing a teacher of molesting a student was a serious charge, and she hoped the photos would protect the girl, her own job, and make sure nothing like this would ever happen again. Looking at her watch, she frowned. He should have been here already. Had she misread the time? Where was he?

  A twig snapped behind her. She turned just as a thick, black crowbar swung toward her head. Dacia crumpled to the ground, murdered without uttering a sound.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tuesday—Present Day

  I feel compelled to tell you that you never suspect when your life will take a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. You busy yourself with the mundane routine of living and then wham—right in the kisser, as Ralph Kramden would have said.

  Today my routine consisted of baking pies for the annual church bake sale. I opened the oven door to check on the third set of pies. Five more minutes should do it. Gooey sugar sauce oozed out of the wheat-shaped cuts I’d sliced into the crusts. The aging, three-bedroom parsonage smelled of cinnamon and apples. Six pies already steamed on the table, and three more unbaked pies nestled on the flour-covered counter waiting their turn.

  My name is Jamie Storm. I’m the pastor’s wife of a small congregation in Great Falls, Montana, which is one hundred and twenty miles south of the Canadian border. It is the third largest city in Montana and still has only sixty thousand people.

  Being a pastor’s wife doesn’t net me much coin, but it’s a full- time job none the less. You can bet I’ll be fodder for the gossip mill if I arrive with a paltry offering of baked goods. Not that the church women are mean. They just go all out for this annual sale. It has quite a community following and at least fifteen tables would be full of cookies, cakes, breads, rolls, and candies. For a small church, we always outdo ourselves. The sales from this event generate enough income to provide the support for two overseas missionaries. I didn’t want to disappoint the constituency, and twelve pies should keep tongues from wagging. No tarnished pastor’s wife halo for me.

  The phone’s shrill ring interrupted my train of thought. Swiping flour-coated hands off on my faded Wranglers, I snatched the receiver off the hook by the fourth ring. With hardly a chance to say hello, the caller cut in, talking a mile a minute.

  “The last pastor’s wife only brought three dozen cookies to our bake sale. Three dozen cookies! Can you imagine? You can’t send a missionary to Africa on three dozen cookies,” snapped Abigail Thornbush, the nearly deaf and self-appointed conveyor of useful information. I could almost see her shaking her little, gray-bunned head in despair at the thoughtlessness of pastors’ wives.

  “Hello, Sister Thornbush. How are you today?” I forced a cheerfulness into my voice I didn’t feel. I love the people in the church, including Abigail, but she has a knack for setting my teeth on edge. She’s eighty-two, opinionated, and involved in everything that goes on in the church. My take? This woman could get on God’s nerves.

  Ignoring my attempt at small talk, Abigail continued in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not even sure they weren’t store-bought. Store-bought! Can you imagine that?”

  Sigh. “No, no, I really can’t.”

  Clutching the phone between my left shoulder and chin, I pulled one of three bubbling pies out of the oven. Time to cut the conversation short.

  “I’m baking pies so you needn’t worry. No store-bought cookies for me. But the timer just dinged so I need to let you go before I slop apple goop all over the oven. Bye, bye.”

  Without waiting for an answer, I dropped the receiver in its cradle. “I love you though,” I muttered. That was my “Christian” way of saying, “You annoy me to no end.”

  I removed the baked pies from the oven, positioned the remaining three on the lower rack, and reset the timer for fifty-five minutes. Once again I wiped my hands on the multi-purpose jeans, thankful for washing machines.

  Scraping the countertop with a dishcloth, I pushed bits of raw crust and flour into a pile. I cupped my left hand into a makeshift dustpan and slid the unused crumbs into it. Struggling with my sweet tooth, I tossed the makings of an excellent cinnamon-sugar snack into the garbage. Unfortunately, my thighs were already trying to split the seams of my size twelve jeans. I’d like to blame my weight gain on the numerous meals I ate in parishioners’ homes—one of the many perks of being married to the preacher—but truth be told, restraint was not my strong suit. Nor was boring exercise.

  The doorbell rang, saving me from further self-recriminations. I gave the countertop one more quick swipe and hoped it wasn’t Abigail popping over to inspect the pies. She couldn’t have gotten here that fast, could she? My T-shirt left a Hansel and Gretel trail of flour through the kitchen and living room as I brushed myself off, hurrying to open the front door.

  Two Great Falls police officers stood on the porch steps. It took a minute to register what I was seeing. Then a sickening sensation rolled over me and settled in my gut. David. My heart pounded. I tried hard to quell the rising alarm I felt. No luck.

  “What’s wrong? Is it David? Has something happened to David?”

  The older and heftier of the two cops pushed his way into the entry, looking around as he did so. Ignoring the rising panic in my voice, as well as my question, he said, “We just need to talk to you for a few minutes, ma’am. Can we come in?”

  Despite my fear, I bristled at his boldness. “Looks like you’re already in.”

  A lazy grin crossed the officer’s face. I struggled not to slap him. Yeah, I know, not the proper response for a pastor’s wife, but this guy didn’t deserve proper. Instead, I repeated my question between tightly clenched teeth.

  “Is David all right?”

  “David?”

  “My husband. He left for a fishing trip this morning.” I could hear the strain in my voice.

  “As far as we know, your husband is fine.”

  Relief washed over me for a few seconds before confusion set in. Police don’t come to my door that often. Never, actually. If David was all right, I couldn’t think of a single reason for their visit.

  The burly, redheaded cop swaggered—seriously, it was a swagger—into the living room. “This is about Timothy Manter. You do know Mr. Manter, don’t you, ma’am?”

  His tone was so thick with insinuation I half expected him to hitch up his britches and sniffle condescendingly—ROSCO P. Coltrane like. It sounded like a statement and not a question. I didn’t bother to respond. His sidekick—young and with much better manners—removed his hat and stood on the porch looking apologetic and more than a little embarrassed.

  Now that I knew David was okay, I regained a sense of calm. Curious about Tim Manter, but irritated at the unprofessional conduct of the officer, I snapped, “Please step outside until I see your badge. You seem to have forgotten what country we live in.”

  That wasn’t a question either. I tried to match his insinuating tone. Not fazed, the beefy officer stepped back, rolling his eyes as he produced his badge. The younger one also held out his badge for inspection. Satisfied, I nodded.

  “Well, Officers McCready and Johnson, please come in and have a seat.”

  I gestured toward the thirteen-year-old, faded blue couch. Years ago, I had pushed it against the wall to shore up the sagging back. My boys had used it for a wrestling mat, high hurdle, fort, and all-purpose gym. No amount of upholstery would fix it. David and I had planned to replace it with last year’s Christmas bonus, but then Jake and Caleb, now in college, called from Anderson needing help with second-semester books and fees. Maybe next Christmas.

  The officers sat.

&n
bsp; “How can I help you?” The coldness in my voice almost surprised me. Almost. Friendliness was out of the question, even if my pastor’s wife conscience was doing jumping jacks on my shoulder and shouting in my ear to be civil. This little guy usually got my attention when I felt like God’s reputation was on the line, or the church’s, or David’s. I had to be extra peeved to ignore it. Evidently, McCready’s rudeness, coupled with two minutes of sheer terror, made me extra peeved.

  “Timothy Manter is dead.”

  My mind grappled for a response, but I couldn’t believe what he had just said.

  McCready’s eyes never left my face. “He died two days ago in Anderson, Indiana. Gunshot.” He relayed the information in a detached, matter-of-fact way as if the complexion of the world hadn’t just drastically changed.

  Gunshot? I felt the color drain from my face as I sank into a chair. “Tim? Dead?”

  Johnson cleared his throat. “Obviously, you two were pretty close. We thought you might be able to shed some light on this.” His voice sounded kind.

  It took me a minute to process that. I clenched my jaw. The edge in my voice snapped back like a boomerang. “What are you implying, Officer? Tim and I were close, yes—thirty years ago. I haven’t seen him since he left for college.”

  Officer Johnson smiled. “But you’ve kept in touch?”

  I swallowed, then nodded. “E-mail, Christmas cards, that sort of thing. I was supposed to see him at our class reunion Friday.”

  “I just bet you were.” McCready snorted. “If you haven’t seen him since high school, why would he leave you his ten-million-dollar estate?”

  “Wha—? What are you talking about?”

  I felt like I was swirling down the rabbit hole. How could English suddenly sound so foreign to me? I jumped up and started pacing. I didn’t know what to do with my fists. They clenched and unclenched as though they had a life of their own. I wanted to scream but didn’t dare. I might never stop.

  “The Anderson PD is investigating Manter’s death,” McCready continued. “Ten million dollars is one heck of a motive, don’t you think?”