Page 4 of Evil Bones
“Tempe.” Nguyen’s voice carried hints of Boston and some other far more exotic locale. “You are well?”
“I am. Thanks for asking.” Knowing the boss hadn’t come to query my health.
“I have just had a call from the Stanly County sheriff’s office. An elderly woman named Bella Abato was involved in a single-car accident late yesterday near the town of Frog Pond.”
“Is this a joke? Were you reading my mind?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Knee-jerk reaction on my part. Nguyen was not a kidder.
“A trucker called to report the crash. Abato was concussed and hysterical when officers arrived. They couldn’t make much sense of her rambling. But they persuaded her to go by ambulance to an ER.”
I was clueless why Nguyen was telling me this.
“Abato calmed overnight but is still insisting she was driven off the road by a sign from Satan.”
“The devil.”
“Yes.”
“Is she on pharmaceuticals?”
“She is. But when a tow truck arrived at the scene this morning, the driver, too, encountered a sight that unnerved him.”
Nguyen hesitated, unusual for a woman perpetually cool and unruffled. I waited for her to continue.
“The driver claims he saw a painted human head nailed to the tree.”
An image popped in my forebrain.
“Was the head wearing a hat, wrapped in fabric, and decorated with glitter and feathers?”
“Yes.”
“It’s probably another of these sick animal displays showing up around the county.”
“Perhaps itisanother snatched pet.” Nguyen didn’t sound convinced.
It was clear she expected me to swing into action. I summoned my best bright-eyed-and-curious expression. “I assume the driver called the sheriff and that the sheriff called you?”
“Yes,” replied Nguyen. “The sheriff’s name is Hattie Spitz. Finding the man’s story quite bizarre, but wanting to take no chances, she drove out to see for herself. She says the item in question is about ten feet off the ground and that it’s something she doesn’t want to touch. She’s ordered a deputy to stand guard until personnel from this office arrive.”
I vaguely remembered Spitz, a thin woman with a jowly hound dog face. An overly earnest type who’d approached me after one of my “call in the experts and don’t contaminate the evidence” lectures at some regional law enforcement conference.
Advice I was now mildly regretting.
Nguyen studied my expression, which by this point was considerably less than bright-eyed. A scene visit wasn’t in my pre-weekend plans. In the event our mountain holiday panned out, I had to organize my cat, Birdie, for delivery to the neighbor, have the air pressure checked in my tires, make a pharmacy run, buy the drinks and munchies Ryan and I would want for roady snacks, and pack.
A trip to the boonies to collect a putrefying raccoon or opossum held absolutely no appeal.
“You want me to go out to Stanly County?” I asked with zero enthusiasm.
“I think that would be best. Sheriff Spitz has offered to send a vehicle and driver to transport you.”
“Can’t this—”
“The deputy has been on site for several hours now.” Then, almost as an afterthought. “He was instructed to bring a ladder.”
