The Mystery of the Bones (Snow & Winter Book 4) Page 2

  “Speaking of breakfast—it’s back there,” I said. “So watch your step.”

  Quinn made a sound of disgust.

  “A courier service dropped off a package this morning,” I started. “Just before nine.”

  “Which service?” Calvin asked, retrieving the small notepad he kept in his inner coat pocket.

  I shrugged. “I didn’t really take note.”

  Calvin frowned a little. “Why not?”

  “I wasn’t expecting a human head.”

  “Seb’s off his game!” Max shouted from across the room.

  Calvin ignored my assistant. “What about the courier’s name?”

  “No.”

  Calvin tapped his pen against the blank page. “Seb—”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult. You know on any given day I might have up to a dozen packages coming and going from here. Sometimes a mystery delivery slips in.”

  “What can you tell us, then?” Quinn interjected.

  “The package came with a letter.” I motioned at the counter. “It’s still there.”

  Quinn shot Calvin a quick look before moving around us both. She took the stairs, stepped over the vomit, and went to the register to examine the note. “I, hereby known afterward as Party A, am looking to hire Sebastian Andrew Snow, hereby known as Party B, to recover a most unusual article lost to time and neglect.”

  “Yeah. See, that’s not weird,” I stated. “I get asked to hunt down strange and rare artifacts all the time.”

  Calvin made a sound of agreement. After all, he’d been dating a small-business owner who once couldn’t shut up for an entire day about the quality of a taxidermy violet-capped wood-nymph hummingbird and its hand-carved perch, circa 1860, that he’d gotten at an estate sale in Queens. Whether Calvin liked it or not, he knew the ins and outs of my antique store.

  “Upon said article’s salvage, Party A is prepared to reward Party B with a most substantial sum,” Quinn finished.

  I pointed at her. “That’s the weird part. The note never says what they want me to find. Or why. Or what the compensation is.”

  Calvin shut the notepad. He tucked it into his coat and leaned over the countertop to study the note for himself.

  From Calvin’s telltale tics to hearing what was not said between cops, I’d become pretty adept at understanding murder scenes without verbal explanations. Unfortunately—for me or them, I wasn’t certain—the silence, the look between detectives, was one of recognition. Something about this event, be it the letter or the head, was familiar to both Calvin and Quinn.

  Merry Christmas.

  “Am I a victim or a suspect?” I asked.

  They both turned to me with mild surprise.

  I was about to break a very strict rule Calvin had been enforcing in our house since May.

  No work talk.

  His, not mine.

  It was part of the wean-Sebastian-off-sleuthing thing, which I didn’t find terribly necessary after being shot. Even I had my limits. But I abided by the no crime-solving discussion decree because I didn’t enjoy being the source of Calvin’s stress. He dealt with enough bullshit at work. There was no reason for him to talk about murderers roaming the streets after he’d loosened his tie and removed his service weapon for the day.

  And I’d been doing pretty well for half a year. I had the occasional slip of Twenty Questions when I’d seen something interesting in the media, but I’d become especially mindful of being a harassing busybody since Calvin proposed to me.

  No takebacks and all that.

  But in the middle of December, I worked seven days a week due to the holiday rush. I was also planning a wedding—something I knew literally nothing about. Murder and mayhem were the furthest things from my mind. The fact that this particular crime scene matched another of Calvin’s cases, in some fashion, was extremely disconcerting. And I felt justified in my need to inquire.

  I was shaken by a sensation I hadn’t experienced in a long while—the one that would tie my guts up in knots when I realized I’d overlooked an important clue. It was an anxiety of sorts. Unique to me. Had Calvin behaved different at home over the last few days? No. I didn’t believe so. He’d worked late, but this wasn’t unusual when he had new cases. Had there been anything in the newspaper that hinted toward the details of said new cases? Again, no.

  “Seb.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Stop,” Calvin said firmly.

  “But I—”

  He took a step closer. “I can see the cogs turning, baby.”

  I put my hands up, like I’m innocent, copper! Innocent, I tell ya!

  The front door opened again. Calvin turned, and I peered around his hulking form. Neil Millett, my ex-boyfriend and detective for the city’s Crime Scene Unit, was being directed to the counter by Officer Rossi.

  Hmm.

  This, in and of itself, was not strange. After all, with less than fifty CSU detectives to serve the five boroughs, there was going to be crossover. Neil had ended up a key team member on several of Calvin’s cases over the past year. So seeing him walk toward us, bundled in a coat I’m sure was the style this season, with his shapeless Crime Scene Unit jacket thrown over it as an afterthought, didn’t concern me very much.

  In fact, it didn’t concern me at all. Neil and I had parted ways on… er… less than amicable terms, but had curiously enough circled back to something positive. We’d finally settled into the relationship we were always meant to have—a bickering friendship. And Calvin was cool with it. He was not a man easily prone to jealousy or insecurity.

  Really, the only disconcerting detail was the look of expectancy on Neil’s face as he drew near.

  Had he been anticipating a crime scene today?

  Predicting it’d involve me? Or the Emporium?

  No. If Neil thought that, so would Calvin, and I wouldn’t be here this morning. I’d have been somewhere else—somewhere safe—and the entire situation would have been explained to me. I would not be standing a mere four feet from a decapitated head and my own now-thickening vomit.

  It brought me back to the look Calvin and Quinn shared.

  Recognition.

  Neil seemed to only just notice me as he stopped at the stairs. “Nancy,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Bess,” I countered.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I crossed my arms and took a look around the Emporium as if I had no idea where I was. “Is this… my shop?”

  Neil said, “I mean, it’s Monday. Shouldn’t you be closed?”

  “I’m getting my money’s worth on the rent.”

  “Holiday rush,” Calvin answered for me.

  Neil stared at me while jutting a thumb at Calvin. “See how difficult it was to give a straight answer?”

  “I’m anything but straight,” I replied.

  Neil let out a breath, made a motion with his hand, like I already can’t with you, and started up the steps beside the register. He set his kit down, bent down beside it, and removed a pair of latex gloves. Neil put them on as he stood.

  Quinn pointed at the box. She said something about the head, but too quietly for me to hear. I squinted and watched her lips.

  Bit—more. Bit more. Bit more toe.

  Bit more than a toe.

  Calvin shifted to the right and loomed over me. “Nice try.”

  “What?” I asked quickly—innocently.

  “I know you read lips, Sebastian.”

  “Oh.”

  Calvin frowned.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and briefly looked over my shoulder toward the book corner. Max had gotten to his feet. He’d wisely put Dillon on a leash so the dog didn’t run through our surprise crime scene in order to greet his human. “You shutting me down, Detective?” I asked, turning back to Calvin.

  “I know it’s your busiest time of year.”

  “What’s money matter? Now I have time to pick up our Christmas tree. It may end up being a Cha
rlie Brown, though.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago I threatened to arrest you for being a smartass,” Calvin warned.

  “And instead you put a ring on it,” I said, raising my left hand and tapping the matte tungsten band with the tip of my thumb.

  Calvin grunted. “Come with me.” He walked across the floor, up the farther set of stairs, and into my office.

  Crap.

  I reluctantly followed, then pulled the door shut behind me as I entered the cramped, closet-sized space. “I’m sorry for—”

  Calvin put a hand on the doorframe and leaned in close. “I need you to think carefully.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Okay….”

  “In the past week, have you had any unusual customers?”

  “You’ve seen my clientele, Calvin.”

  Wrong answer.

  “Baby. I’m serious,” Calvin said in a borderline exasperated tone. “Has anyone stood out as… overtly strange? Any requests that made you do a double take? Business transactions that went south?”

  “Why?” I countered. “Am I actually in some kind of trouble?”

  “Sebastian, answer the question.”

  “No. I can’t think of anything. Ask Max if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” Calvin replied.

  “I hear a but,” I countered.

  Calvin shook his head. “I wish I didn’t.”

  “Believe me? No offense, but that’s a surefire way to guarantee a cold shoulder for at least two—three days.”

  “I don’t mean it like that.” Calvin lowered his hand. He absently unbuttoned his winter coat. “If you were withholding information, I’d actually have something to work with on this case.”

  I cocked my head. “So this is connected to another murder?”

  Calvin answered by saying nothing.

  “How so?” I prodded. “The note or the body part?”

  “Please don’t start poking around.”

  “I’m not,” I replied. “The deerstalker is hung up for good.”

  Calvin shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of my desk chair.

  “I’m only asking for clarification,” I began, “because I would like to know if I’m in some sort of immediate danger.”

  “You didn’t recognize the deceased?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not that it’d be easy to—he was missing an eye and I think a few front teeth. I didn’t study it much more beyond that.” I stared at Calvin. “Did you recognize him?”

  “No,” Calvin murmured. He stared at me again.

  Neither of us wanted to say it. Speaking it out loud gave substance to the situation. We’d already survived too many murder mysteries together in one year. Bizarre mysteries. Where the outcome had hinged on my insight of peculiar characters from a century long since passed.

  True, I had landed myself a soul mate due to those unfortunate events, but now that the red thread was firmly tied between us, I really had no reason to accept a fourth dance with the devil. Between us, we had two more bullet wounds than this time last year, and I’ll be the first to say they aren’t as sexy or romantic as fiction portrays them to be. No more for me, thank you.

  “Son of a bitch,” Calvin swore, very quietly. He raked a hand through his thick, fiery hair.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I said coyly. “People will talk.”

  “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” Calvin eventually said, “but they’ve been talking.”

  “No shit. Apparently even beat cops know of me.” I leaned back against the door. “I have no interest in worming my way into this case… but I’m still curious. You know that, right?” I asked, voice low.

  Calvin let out a breath and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I know.”

  Mysteries were always going to enthrall me—even taking my near-death experience into account. I think I was hardwired to solve puzzles. My ego thrived on proving I knew a thing or two about everything—and if I didn’t, you’d bet your ass I’d make myself the most informed person on the scene. So for as gruesome and unnerving as this morning’s event had been, it was also temptation of the worst kind.

  Interrogatives, burning with regard, buzzed in my mind.

  Who sent the head?

  Unknown.

  What did it mean?

  A threat. Or perhaps a clue.

  Where had the murder taken place?

  Unknown.

  And when?

  While I hadn’t given the head much consideration before blowing chunks, the presence of blood in the bag suggested decapitation happened hours after death, versus days. Had it been more than, say, ten hours, the liquid would have coagulated and solidified inside the body and produced next to no bleeding, despite severing major arteries.

  And perhaps the most important of the Five Ws: Why?

  No damn idea. But since it appeared to involve me… this Collector was undoubtedly looking for something antiquated, weird, and clearly felt it was worth killing for.

  “What can you tell me about that drawing on the note?” Calvin asked.

  “I’m torn between the Eye of Providence and some wackadoo conspiracy theory, or the 1800s Pinkerton National Detective Agency logo.”

  “It’s not a reference to anything? Or anyone?”

  “If it is, it’s not obvious to me,” I said. “But the handwriting is Spencerian script.”

  Calvin cocked his head a little.

  “Cursive from the nineteenth century. It’s accurate too. Someone did their homework.”

  Calvin looked away and studied my desk and the shelving overhead, as if the answer to his latest quandary resided somewhere among the clutter of reference books, binders of inventory, accounting files, and office supplies.

  “I can’t say if you’re in immediate danger, but based on past events, I’m not taking any chances.” He turned to me.

  “Stalker, vigilante, or art thief,” I said, ticking off past players on my fingers.

  Calvin enclosed his hand over mine. “I know you don’t like it, but is your father home today?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Give him a ring? I’ll have a black-and-white drive you over.”

  POP ENDED up being home and with no plans of his own until later that afternoon. I kept our conversation brief. No reason to explain over the phone what I could lie by omission about to his face. Not that lying to my father was something I found particularly enjoyable. In fact, it rarely worked to my benefit. Pop could smell my shit from a mile away.

  But he was in his sixties, and I had no desire to be the reason he had a stroke.

  It’s the thought that counts, at least.

  Donned in coats and scarves, Calvin saw me and Max out the door. The sky was still spitting big fat snowflakes. The air froze my lungs on every intake and settled around me in a jagged, razor-sharp cloud with every outtake. Our steps crunched loudly along the salt-coated sidewalk as we walked away from the shop front and a parked NYPD Crime Scene Unit van that advertised a crime, probably gruesome, had occurred on the property.

  “He needs to get to Brooklyn,” Calvin told an officer as he pointed at Max.

  Max handed Dillon’s leash to me. “Thanks, Calvin.”

  He nodded. “Let Sebastian know when you get home safely.”

  “10-4,” Max said with a salute. He spared me a look. “Don’t get into trouble, boss.”

  “Me? I’m hurt.”

  Max snorted. The cop opened the back door of the cruiser for him, and Max walked to it, got inside, and gave us both a wave before the car pulled onto the road.

  Calvin motioned to the second cruiser. “It’s a good thing we’ve got this routine down pat.”

  “Sebastian sits on his ass and Calvin catches the bad guy.”

  “You got it.”

  “Make sure you lock up the shop when you’re done,” I finished. I gave Calvin a hug and took a step away with Dillon before my name was ca
lled. I turned and, despite sunglasses, needed to shield my eyes to look at the Emporium door.

  Neil stepped outside, sans jacket, with his camera around his neck. He yanked his latex gloves off as he walked toward us. “Be honest with me,” he began.

  “This slim-cut suit you’ve been sporting for the last month is sure to bring all the boys to your yard,” I answered.

  Neil gave me an incredulous expression, glanced at Calvin, then drew out, “Thank you?”

  “Sure. Lose the PPE, though.”

  He tucked the used gloves into his suit coat pocket.

  “Unless you’re looking for a cop groupie,” I continued.

  “I meant,” Neil interrupted, “about the package.”

  I stared at him. “It’s pretty self-explanatory.”

  “You have a tendency to conveniently misplace details so you can snoop into the matter yourself,” Neil pointed out.

  “I’ve stopped doing that,” I told him while patting my abdomen, where I was now rocking one hideous scar.

  “Yeah.”

  “Boy howdy, do I remember that tone,” I stated.

  Neil looked at Calvin again. He let out a held breath, and it puffed like a cloud of smoke.

  Calvin shook his head in response to the stare, which I caught from the corner of my eye.

  “If he knows—” Neil started.

  “No,” Calvin said in his don’t-fuck-with-me voice, which I’d say no one ever wanted to be on the receiving end of. I speak from experience on the matter.

  I waved my hand between the two, breaking their showdown. “I’m right here.”

  Neil lifted his camera and began to press buttons on the menu. After a moment, he removed the strap from around his neck and turned the digital screen for me to see. “What do you think?”

  “Millett,” Calvin barked.

  “It’s an ear,” I stated, staring at a photo taken of a drawing on a sheet of paper. Antiquated in appearance. Similar in style to the eyeball rendition left on my own note.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Neil answered.

  “I’m sorry,” I said dryly. “Was I supposed to glean a deeper meaning behind van Gogh’s love note?”

  “You could try,” Neil said. “I’m in the doghouse now. Make it worth it.”

  I rolled my eyes and took the camera from his hold. I brought the screen closer and stared hard at the drawing. It was a very good piece of art, as far as I was concerned. Done by a professional. Or a gifted amateur. But it went beyond an understanding and respect for realism. It was almost… clinical. Not a drawing of an ear, but the study of one.