Old Enough | Chapter 8

Chapter 8
BEST FRIENDS AND MORE BODIES

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Bud tried to recruit first Neal and then Pete but the Mules still needed a catcher. He even asked his sister but forget that! Sally didn't want to play and she was awful. Bud says the position is critical. Well, naturally, since he used to be in it but Neal didn't make a deal. Sometimes when you're the organizer, you don't know how you look and sound and Bud's a good guy. Anyhow, he had to report the Mules were one player short. This meant no official standing in the Salt Lick County League but they did have a two-header scheduled for July 4 with the South Noonday B Team. Mr. Watch fixed it for them. Right now at practices Sammy Culpepper comes in from short to catch and Neal helps to cover his part of the infield. Also everyone is to keep looking everywhere for a real catcher. Baseball's a great game but it's better if you know the rules and exactly what to do. Hey, maybe this is true of all games; Neal wouldn't know but it's totally true of quite a few.

"The birds are too quiet," Aunt Ida said one evening on her front porch. They were the only humans in sight and look out! She was right. No cheep, trill, tweet or peep broke the thick air. In the morning and evening you expect bird noise. When it's gone, you wonder why and maybe you think you should go find out. Actually, Neal didn't want to leave the porch but an agent has to investigate or get another job even if his skin feels charged and slickery. On the north side of the shed, he found the geese huddled with the gander facing the River where black clouds mixed and rolled. The gander stretched his neck and raised his wings. He was ready for a fight to the death but not, for a change, with Neal. Hey, Neal was ready to run for safety. Manno! From inside the house he watched Aunt Ida hustle the geese and their protector into the shed while the twirling black snake from the North traveled just southeast of town and disappeared. Aunt Ida didn't care if the trouble was gone. She shut all the windows and doors any way. "Praise the Lord and live to see another day," she said. She sipped lots of cordial but not enough to go to her head.

The Reader carried a picture of the cold air funnel, which can't hurt you and just looks scary. This was interesting news to someone who'd pretty much figured that he and Aunt Ida and everybody in or near Milo were about to be buzzard meals as he'd watched the funnel lurch by. Anyhow, they might be done with cold air funnels only next it rained forever. Okay, not forever but it seemed like forever. "If you all wait long enough, Missouri weather changes," said Mr. Watch; "one thing you all can count on is Missouri weather won't be the same and I never say never."

Neal thought three days ought to be long enough to wait for a change. Well, that's exactly how long it rained. On Monday he couldn't wait to run his route in the warm chocolate mud. He leaped puddles. Like anything, the more you leap, the better you get at leaping. Look out! Miss Valjean was polishing window glass. He ducked and sidestepped but she saw him and he had to stop right in the middle of a side hop so she could tell him what to do. Her teeth were whiter and her halitosis was gone but she was bossy as ever. "Lemon lozenges," she said, handing him a white packet. "Take them to poor Mr. Watch. Tell him they're from me and this is one of nature's cures. He has a bad summer cold and there is nothing worse."

Mr. Watch and Rufus were alone. Mr. Watch kind of groaned when he came to the window but he was standing on his two feet and his back was straight. "Nature's cure from Miss Valjean," Neal said, pushing the packet under the bars. He could reach the counter fine now. All he had to do was stretch after rising up on his toes.

"How's she like the new choppers?" asked Mr. Watch and blew his red nose.

"Huh?" Neal stopped rising and stretching. Down and back he went, listening.

"Her new teeth -- how's she like them? Do tell, son," Mr. Watch said to a lemon lozenge that he popped into his mouth. Teeth! Were choppers teeth? Neal knew choppers were helicopters and motorcycles. He did not know they were teeth. If they are, he did not want to know more. Actually, he wanted to run out the door.

"She didn't tell me." Neal gave one quick pat to Rufus and hurried by him to make a getaway. Mr. Watch and Miss Valjean were on their own with their choppers. His mother says you should slow down to stay out of the mud but he needed to leap. If you move fast enough in this world, you can save yourself unless you're asleep.

He stopped to see if Pete wanted to go fishing. No, Pete was with the new kid, Jaime Rivera, who spells Jaime with a "J". So what! Jaime is not at all like the Easilys. Jaime is poco y gordo and Mariah speaks better Spanish. "They went to see Iris," said Mrs. Sanchez. "You ought to go, too. She's got a trampoline and she's only charging a nickel a ride. That's our girl, huh, another business on the side?"

Neal finished his route and house chores and knocked on the door to Cabin C. All this time he'd been thinking about how it feels to have your best friend go off with somebody else. Okay, if you want to know how it feels, it feels pretty punkus.

"Take a load off, agent," said the marshal whose fox face was serious.

Good, an assignment might take his mind of Pete. Neal climbed up in his chair. He told the marshal about finding an empty bottle of Old Mr. Boston Spot Bottle Gin at the junction. He did not tell about Mr. Watch's cold or Miss Valjean's choppers. The marshal doesn't want to hear gross stuff unless he has to any more than Neal does. He lifted his weights and tugged on his earring. That's okay; he was listening.

"Okay, agent" he said after Neal had finished, "now let me share some information with you. Maybe it will help to clear my head, which is working like a rusty winch. Let's start with covering the bases. Leaving the mayor out of it (and I surely hope I live to see that day!), I believe the two of should pay a visit on Philomena Fairwell and her present household. To be neighborly if for no other reason. I know you're worried about Delaney and maybe we'll see him. If your mother agrees, is it a deal? We'll take comfort food from Aunt Ida and go tomorrow right after the noon meal."

"She'll agree and sure, it's a deal." Who needs Pete? Well, Neal does. Still the marshal had a decent job for him to do. This helps when something happens you hate a lot and, no matter how hard you try to forget it, it keeps on bothering you.

"You can't talk to Philomena like you talk to other people," the marshal continued, "so before we go banging on the Fairwell door, we need to know more. I've got questions. What's the status of Tom's estate now that Judge Pride is out of the picture? What exactly is Horace Sykeston IV's interest? Who speaks for the boys? And, when I've got nosy questions, there's one person I count on for the answers."

The marshal called Mr. Watch; "I'll buy," he said into the cell phone receiver.

"Sit and listen this evening when Jake gets off," he told Neal. "That is, if you're not too busy. Let's hear what he has to say so we don't go off halfcocked on this social visit. We'll do our homework tonight and be better prepared tomorrow." He held up the book about the marshal and the murder like he was in court and starting to testify. "Strange piece of work," he said; "sure wish I knew who sent it and why."

He read to himself, moving his fox mouth as usual. Okay, one thing Neal does not like to do is sit around while other people read to themselves so how would he spend his time until evening? Well, he walked by Iris's yard and stopped to talk to Pete who was through jumping. Hey, it paid off; you never know; this is the thing.

Neal cast and settled the line in the water and told Pete, "we might visit Delaney."

"Who's Delaney?" asked Jaime.

"He's our hero." Neal and Pete gave each other high fives and thumps on the arms. They laid down their poles and stood and did kicks. They did a bunch of leg tricks.

Afterwards the three of them sat on the bank and watched the red and white bobbins for bites and brown current for snakes. Water moccasins don't ask questions. Neither did Neal when Pete and Jaime knocked on Aunt Ida's back porch door. If they want to be friends, fine with him. Besides, he was way ready for anything but Kansas City. His mother had come in half way through to say "no more" so Mariah had rewound and filed away the movie which was totally fine because Harry Belafonte, Jr. is the meanest man ever no matter how it ends. With someone this mean, you don't want to see the end; you do want to see friends.

Also, Jaime's okay. He knows how to tie flies. Pete and Neal once tried to tie trout flies but forget that. Also Jaime is awesome with a Frisbee. He waddled on his little feet in the Park grass and did a wrist turn that wheeled his yellow Frisbee right out in front of Molly's nose. He doesn't kill chickens because Neal asked. Anyhow, Molly likes to catch and return anything. She went nutso with Jaime. Hey, could he handle a baseball? Neal got his for practice. Jaime had never played baseball but caught on fast. Neal and Pete were major impressed. They taught him to slide. He promised to come to the Thursday practice and do his best; then Bud can decide.

It took a long time to tell him about Delaney but Pete and Neal kept at it. They explained the first day of first grade and Tyler Hooper. They told about the deer farm, how Delaney found dead Mr. Jasper, about his trouble and being sent away. Jaime crossed and uncrossed his eyes. He pulled in line to tease, let it out to play.

"Never mind," he said, "so now you're going to see if Delaney's okay?"

"It depends on Mr. Watch. Tonight he's talking about stuff to the marshal and me." Then Neal joked a little but not a lot about Miss Valjean's new choppers -- wur!

"Don't you think we worry too much," Pete said; "my mother says he's cured."

"I just want to see for myself that he's all right."

"Dad says times are tight. The deer farm needs to open again. That's plain."

"The ball team could use him, too," said Neal. "Everybody knows it but Bud won't ask him." Nobody understood why this was but there wasn't anything anybody could do if they did. The sun made Neal sleepy. Also, the day had been way busy.

From his tackle box Jaime took a green hula popper and tied it to his leader. There are no bass in the River but he probably wanted to practice for when he goes for real game fish. Neal opened his eyes. Mr. Noland had come down from his porch to inspect the lure. He was the reason they had permission to fish. Mr. Noland told Neal's mother that he would be here and wouldn't let them drown, not that they would. Anyhow, you have to set things up in advance for what you want happen. Mr. Noland owns the catfish farm. He has cool Indian bowls and arrowheads and a headdress that Miss Valjean wants for the museum. Like Pete's dad, he doesn't say much but it's enough. He said flat out no to Miss Valjean about his Indian stuff.

Actually, he was talking now. "See that," he said, pointing out over the water where something big splashed. "Asian bighead." He returned the popper to Jaime and took from his back pocket a handline with weights and a six-pronged hook. He bent down and reached for the stringer. "I'll get you all back for this," he said and removing the smallest of the cats, he ran two of the prongs swiftly and neatly from one side to the other right above the tail. Jaime covered his eyes. Neal hated like anything to look but Mr. Watch uses small blue gill to catch big bass. Big fish like little fish. Well, the hooked cat risked the danger and dove deep with a swish.

Downstream leaped the bighead, too big and mean a carp for Iris to bury or carry. You wouldn't have wanted to be in a boat if it came up underneath you. Mr. Noland followed, throwing line ahead so the bait was in the path of the fish. When the fish turned against the current, he wrapped the handline around a hackberry sapling and hunkered down. He was there in his black jeans when they picked up their gear and the remaining catfish for Aunt Ida. "Might land a turtle," he said as they started home. There was a dead skunk on the side of the Highway. This time both Neal and Jaime looked away but Pete pinched his nose with his fingers and nudged the body with his toe. He stared until he had to come away to breathe. Neal bet he was going to draw or paint the dead skunk and he hoped Pete would show it alive instead. Personally, he would rather never look at or dream about the dead.

That evening he and the marshal waited for the Mellow Men to finish practicing. Actually, it was the Mellow Men minus Preacher Venable who refuses to sing Ding Dong Daddy from Dumas so the rest of them mean to sing the song without him at Doc Oats' medical class reunion and with Mr. Watch taking the tenor lead. Neal cannot figure out why the preacher feels this way and he's listened to the song plenty. Too bad for you if you're looking for bad words because you won't find any.

Anyhow, after the last ding (stomp your foot) , dong (stomp your foot), daddy from Dumas, you oughta' see me do my stuff (stomp twice), Mr. Watch came over to the bar. Behind his glasses his eyes were fiery red. His nose was swollen. He raised his eyebrows, making his head skin wrinkle like a mashed sweet roll.

"Men need privacy. What ever happened to the old 'go outside and play'?" Pulling a giant red checkered handkerchief from his back zippered pocket, Mr. Watch blew hard and folded. "I mean if you all know, tell me," he said to the handkerchief before he put it away. Well, you didn't have to be a handkerchief to understanding him. Okay, would the marshal explain that in order to his job well, an agent has to listen? Hey, Neal didn't see why this was too much to ask but it didn't happen.

"Jake, you should let me give you something for that cold before it gets worse," said Doc Oats. Ho! The marshal must be waiting for him to leave before ordering two Buds and one crème soda. Doc Oats used to drink alcohol but now he doesn't so people try not to drink theirs in front of him. Mr. Watch sniffled and snuffled. "Thank you kindly but Valjean's taking right good care of me." He took out his handkerchief again. Next he dug the packet of lozenges from his zippered side pocket. He worked one loose and into his mouth, twirling and twisting his long fingers around the vanishing candy like he was screwing a light bulb in a socket.

Mr. Watch and Doc Oats fight about sickness and medicine. Mr. Watch won't see a doctor even for broken bones. In 1984 when he'd cracked his wrist, Mr. Noland splinted and wrapped it and Mr. Watch took off the wrapping himself, probably using his choppers. Neal's mother says he isn't a Christian Scientist or Latter Day Saint. She says he simply refuses treatment from people in the medical field. Well, he must have decided it was okay from someone in the museum field. "Listen to your body not the quack," he'd told Aunt Ida last year when she was trimming Neal's hair and Doc Oats was elsewhere. "The body tells you what it needs loud and clear. You get in trouble when you don't give it what it asks for." Doc Oats says Mr. Watch's time will come but so far, outside of colds and his back, he's doing okay.

"I'll be kicking my heels at your whoop-de-do, Doc, never fear; better every day."

Doc Oats left and Mariah served them. Manno! She didn't bring glasses or napkins. She smacked down the bottles, snatched the marshal's $10 out of his hand, rang up the sale and tossed his change on the counter. She was reading two books at a time. She likes to do this. Neal knew about the books because she'd told him. Just like Iris, she has to talk about her books whether or not you want to hear. They lay open by the cash register and she went back to them. One was about the singer, Blind Boone. "Born nearby and left soon," snarled Mariah. The other, On Being Blue written by William Gass, has been a favorite of hers since Neal can remember. She was in a bad mood -- his sister. She glared like she wished they'd go to Emma or Sweet Springs or Boonetown for their darn beer and pop and not bother her.

The marshal didn't pay any attention to Mariah. He moved on with his own business but first he took the time to defend his agent. You feel good when your boss stands up for you especially when you know he has plenty of important things to do. "Listen, Jake," he said, "on young Neal here, the boy admires Delaney and he's gotten interested in Fairwell history. I told him if he listened to you, he might pick up the straight material. Say, did you get those specs at Dollar General?"

"Family Dollar," Mr. Watch answered. He held the glasses to the light. "Got you all there, didn't we?" he asked them, "and don't forget it's on you all what gets allowed in this young one's ears. Since he's so all-fired interested in Fairwell history, suppose we start with the surname. Ever wonder why Fairwell not Jasper has the staying power? This is because Philomena allowed the use of her family name in the deer business in exchange for Tom's agreement to her granddaughter Ann's change of surname and the change for the twins when the time came. The Fairwell name has a bearing on the whole kit and caboodle; I wager Tom was to blame."

Neal's head was full of Jasper and Fairwell surnames and the complications created by Horace Sykeston IV when Mr. Watch ordered his second Bud, which is always his last, and let the marshal try his new glasses. Both men magnify what they see by three. You know this because 3.0 is printed on the frame. Neal's mother says they need prescriptions and are cheaping it and that eventually they will pay. The glasses were too big for the marshal who sees Doc Oats when he has to but not for his eyes. He ordered his second beer which is usually the last that he'll take.

"Never was very close to Tom Jasper, Jake."

"Who was?" asked Mr. Watch. "Nobody. Here's Tom's story in a nutshell. He had his earliest sights set on Helen Fairwell. You all must remember that. He was after her from the 5th grade on and never once let up. When she showed pregnant and the couple went over to Noonday County to get married, folks reasoned Philomena would wash her hands of them but folks were wrong. Instead she took them in. Tom went to work with the Easilys on the Fairwell bottomlands, raising corn and soybeans, doing what he could to make a dollar. When Helen died in childbirth, Tom and Philomena were left to raise Ann. And if that's not when and where the entire kit and caboodle commenced, then you all tell me when and where," he said to another lozenge on the way to his mouth, "and you all'll be wrong because that is when and where Tom's story commenced, got off the ground, came alive, began."

"Tom Jasper and Philomena spoiled poor Ann rotten," said Aunt Ida. She made them lift up their arms, glasses and bottles. This isn't easy all at once. Then she wiped down the bar with her bleach solution that makes your nose run even if you don't have a cold. "No wonder she turned out the way she did! Pretty as a picture she was, too!" Aunt Ida disapproves of beer drinking and of Neal listening to men doing what she calls gabbing. After she left, Mr. Watch sneezed and they moved away from the bar. To get the bleach out of their noses, they had to go pretty far.

"Will, would you all like to tell me what makes her so blame hard on the rest of us? Her blackberry cordial is as strong as any malt liquor, lager, ale, beer, booze, whiskey or wine. I'll bet you all can't buy stronger in Paris, France or Rome, Italy."

"She's okay;" the marshal smiled since he and Neal know the cordial's for quinsy.

"What ever you all say. Who was I talking about? Was it Ann? Ann turned out like Helen only got pregnant younger and lived a bit longer. She never married and the expectant mama remained with Philomena and Tom. Don't know who daddy was or what became of that one. Before the twins were a year old, mama ran off with a Florida truck driver who got the two of them killed right at the US 65 junction."

Mr. Watch walked to the salad bar. "Of course, Mary Comfort stayed on after the twins were born," he told the jar of Aunt Ida's pickled eggs, carefully screwing the lid back on after helping himself with a fork. "That was Doc's idea," he said, munching and waving the fork. "Doc knew from the start there was something different about Preacham. Having Mary live in was a real blessing for Philomena. Meanwhile, of course, Tom started scheming on his deer farm. He must have worked that idea a good ten years. Along came Horace Sykeston IV, kind of an angel from heaven on both counts. Mary's doing well out west, from what I hear. But what do you all figure Horace is up to? What's the future of the deer farm? I truly wonder," he said to the pickled egg jar. Leaving the salad bar, he returned for his John Deere cap. Slapping the cap on his head, he gave the brim a sharp snap.

"Guess tomorrow Neal and I'll take a run out to the mansion and try not too look like a pair of fools. Right, agent? Come on, let's feed the dogs." It was the marshal's week. No matter whose week it is, Neal helps feed the dogs and they were late but it wasn't his fault. He might help every week but he isn't and doesn't want to be the main dog feeder. Also, an agent follows the leader and your boss is your leader.

The clouds in the north were the color of dark purple ink as the three of them walked to the cabins. "Storm brewing," Mr. Watch told an old tarp he unfolded and placed over his scooter. "Behave," he told the tarp and scooter and closed his door. Then he opened it again and stuck out his head. "Did you all read that St. Louis is losing more people than any US city? And those folks aren't moving to the country either, not on your all's life. Missouri is going to heck in a handbasket. If you all know what to do, you all should write Jeff City." Mr. Watch shielded his red eyes to stare at the sky. Then he squinted at the marshal and Neal and waved good-bye.

The marshal removed the two containers from the small refrigerator in Cabin C. Aunt Ida donates beef broth and bacon grease and scraps of this and that but the marshal fills the containers. Also, he'd better not bring dog dirt into her clean kitchen or she'll know the reason why. Thunder came with a rumble and kaboom. White lightening slithered up and down outside and shimmered through the room.

They hurried to the pen. Huddled in the shed the nervous dogs whined. They were hungry but they knew about the storm. The year before the marshal had run a water line to make it easier to give the dogs fresh water and clean the pen. He washed the bowls while Neal rubbed Rufus and electricity crackled in the curly coat. They were a team. Neal poured the right amount of dry food, the marshal mixed in broth and grease and Neal set down the bowls where the dogs could dig in. Every third or fourth bite, the dogs looked up, worried. "Sounded like a round of ammo!" said the marshal when the thunder made Neal jump. Maybe, like the dogs, he was scared a bit. Okay, maybe he would like to have been out of the storm and in his bed or, better yet, under it.

In Cabin C they sat in their chairs and waited. After the water began to beat on the roof, the marshal called Neal's mother. "You okay over there?" he asked with the speaker on. You're lucky when you have a boss who knows what to do when you're worried about your mother. Thunder does sound like guns. It's a good comparison.

"Sweetheart, we're fine. Aunt Ida got out the kerosene lanterns and cookstove. If the power goes, we plan to close up shop tomorrow. Are you and Neal okay? It sure is a relief to know he's with you. You are a dear, good man to spend quality time with my little boy. Please come spend quality time with me as soon as you can."

Okay, turn it off; his mother was fine; that's all Neal cared about; manno!

Then he must have fallen asleep and the marshal must have carried him all the way. It had to have been the marshal because he's too heavy for his mother. Anyhow, he woke in his own bed in his own room. The worst shadows come late at night. If he goes to bed early and reads, the reading light throws dark circles around the room but he isn't afraid of round shadows. Not since he was seven. It's when the reading light is off and the security light makes building patterns on the walls. Those are the shadows that scare him now -- squares instead of balls.

The storm lasted hard and heavy until morning but the sun rose like it meant to stay. Neal ran his route and reported and after dinner, he and the marshal and Molly got in the truck and the marshal handed him a pink box. Look out! But it wasn't deviled crab. Hey, you know this right away! There was a card on top addressed to the matriarch and inside was Aunt Ida's cream cheese pie that's really more like cake. "Always bring a gift of food," she'd told Neal, "for politeness sake."

Neal buckled in with the box. He leaned back and listened to the truck. Good old truck! The wheels clopped like horse's hooves on the asphalt. The marshal talked to Molly. He turned off the highway onto the Fairwell mansion road and shifted into 4-wheel drive. Now the wheels crunched and the marshal didn't have to brake. Delaney, probably, or someone had dumped pea gravel on the road and raked.

"Never too much of a good thing, agent, and the roadwork's a good sign. Boy's grandfather wasn't afraid of work and you know my feelings about Tom Jasper. Still, be a crying shame if Tom's efforts come to nothing. Let's hope the eastern treatment did wonders and Fairwell Whitetail Farms lives again." Farmer Pardee had borrowed a dozer from Mr. Kelly to widen his lespidiza field. He was taking a shortcut so before zipping across the one-lane bridge, the marshal had to yield.

"Isn't Delaney too young?" asked Neal who'd been meaning to ask the marshal this question for a long time although he wasn't sure what the answer would tell him since he wasn't exactly sure what being too young or too old, either one, meant.

"You might have something there, agent. Wonder how much of his own family history Delaney knows. All that stuff Jake was spouting last night. Then again, being a man without history, could be I'm more curious than I have a right."

"Were you on an orphan train, marshal?" For an even longer time he'd been meaning to ask the marshal this question. Questions for grown-ups pile up because you think about asking but they get to talking and the asking doesn't get done.

"Born too late, agent. Trains stopped running around 1925. Poor orphans didn't disappear when the trains stopped running but that's another story as the world turns. Now, me, I figure I was hatched in Salt Lick County. At any rate, I was parked at Ma and Pa Lightfoot's front door in September of 1944. About two months old, Ma believed. The Lightfoots adopted Red Noland first, you know, but shuffled him off to old man Noland after they learned his mother was from the Missouria Tribe. Things were harder on Red. Surprises me he stayed around here. Of course, surprises me I'm back here until I think of your mother and you. To return to the past, Ma and Pa were the only childless couple in town. Ma ran the telephone switchboard and Pa did odd jobs. They gladly agreed to keep me for an orphan's stipend. The Orphans Fund Committee thought they could use the money and they were so right. Committee members came from Milo's first families. Bates and Oats and Sykestons paid into the fund but Philomena Fairwell headed it up. She's the one I thanked. Did I tell you about that weekly thank you business?"

"Yes. Didn't it make you feel funny? It would me."

"I guess. Time was when I thought if I lived to grow up, I'd go where nobody knows I'm an orphan and here I am back with folks I haven't seen in 50 years who treat me like I've never been away. The River and the seasons and your mother and you lock things in place for me, saying about time you came home, Will Lightfoot; you been too long in the wide, wide world. But you know it ain't easy, is it, Molly girl?"

Deer crossed in front of them, four does and two spike bucks. Molly shot a quick look at the marshal. The thing is since the Old Man, the Old Woman and other Fairwell Whitetails escaped the round-up, the only reason that Molly got to come today is because she doesn't chase deer. Over in Tennessee and West Virginia that's all Walkers do. Deerstalkers, they are called and they are great big hounds, twice as big as Molly is. But Bud's grandfather bred and trained her to leave deer alone or else. All you can really count on Molly for are cats, raccoons and squirrels.

"Wonder if Tom ever considered asking Boyd to raise deerstalkers? Jake says a lot of successful deer farmers offer them to hunters at a good price." Okay, how did the marshal know what Neal had been thinking? Weird! Also, what a totally dumb idea! Have dogs stalk the Old Man? No way! The marshal opened the glove box and removed a small silver can. He sprayed mist in his mouth and made a face like a mad rat. "Pah! What ever happened to Sen-sen, agent? If you want to cover up a smoker's breath, Sen-sen is the ticket. Not these stupid mints and fishy swish they sell today. Make your breath smell like bilge water and taste like tin hay!"

"Why raise dogs to chase the Old Man?" Neal was anxious to return to something important. Also, he was anxious to leave behind fishy swish and bilge water and tin hay. "I thought Homer and Mick were supposed to keep out other dogs and protect the herd; I thought that's what the Newfies were there for and supposed to do."

"Well, you're right Tom ran it that way and he probably had good reasons for deciding against deerhounds. You'd have to keep them confined and under close control. Maybe I'll ask Horace. Never hurts to show a healthy interest in a business, especially when you're sticking your nose in it. You know, agent, the Newfies were sold last winter right after the herd. Lewis N. Clark bought them when Delaney left and paid a ton of money, at least according to what Jake heard."

No, Neal did not know this and he hated it. He thought about the broad shiny backs and big smiles. His blue eye got blurry but the marshal had already said a bunch of times that he didn't like the mission they were on today and you don't get anywhere making bad things worse so Neal snuffled and choked. He turned and stared out the side window while they drove through new and old and white oak.

"Edged and protected! Look at those sprouts!" The marshal pointed to the little sapplings wrapped in wire. "Got to be Delaney. Good for the boy! See how most of the old trees are dying the natural death of age. Until Tom, no one thought about the need for regular replacement. White oaks are home to more than deer, agent."

Neal felt a little better. Today the stone mansion looked like it belonged in Disneyworld. Neal hasn't been to Disneyworld but he's seen pictures of the buildings. Missing were the flags and the cartoon characters and the people.

"Authentic turrets, they say," said the marshal; "a turret's a kind of steeple."

"Those pointy things?" Harry Potter fans would be way happy. Probably.

"Yes. The first Delaney Fairwell inherited the bluff location and bottomland acreage from his father who'd inherited the same from his. That Delaney married Philomena Preacham and built the mansion for her. The Fairwells originally came from Kentucky and go back to the founding of Milo in 1804. Maybe before."

The marshal stopped the truck and unbuckled but he didn't get out. "Just take a look at the size of this place. Always wondered how that New York ad writer got past Philomena and inside for a tour. According to Jake, the house was never part of the property offering Tom and Horace put together. But it ended up in the ad anyway. Remember what he wrote: '1 bathroom per floor, 10 bedrooms, 3 parlors, so much room you have to see it to believe it!' According to Elizabeth, all the rooms are small, dark and stuffed to the gills with dustcatchers. I saw her yesterday. She says she only does for Mrs. Fairwell once a week now. Elizabeth is closemouthed about the Fairwell household and family but she's fond of your mother so she tolerates me. We best go pay our respects. She's watching us from her deck."

She had to mean the matriarch, Neal figured, and not Mrs. Carver. The marshal brought Molly's bowl from the truck bed. He poured water from his thermos into it and set it on the floor. Molly understood that she was going nowhere so she drank some. Neal left his window cracked so she'd have air. She was almost asleep. The marshal accepted the cake box and waited. Neal looked up at the second floor before he got down from the truck. The matriarch rose from her rocker on the balcony. It wasn't a deck. She made her way to the rail, tiny and stiff and grand. The marshal carried the cake box under his arm and took Neal by the hand.

"Over 100 years old, they say, with a clear heart and head," he said. "Hope Horace and Delaney are around. Doesn't seem right to lay problems at the feet of an old woman who's survived so much plus I do not relish talking to her alone. Like I told you, since I can remember, she has put the fear of God into every boy child born in Milo MO and parts east and west. Can't speak for the female set. Just for me and every boy that grew up with me. Sure glad you agreed to come along for company."

The marshal has his jokes; behind his foxy grin he whistled between his teeth.

"William?" and so what if the matriarch was high up and they were underneath?

"Yes, ma'am. Got young Neal Edruns-Striker with me. Pleased to see you so well. We'd like a word with you, Mr. Sykeston and Delaney if it isn't too much trouble."

"Horace is tutoring Delaney, William. They are studying. You and the boy come in for iced tea where it's cool. I believe you know Delaney excelled in the Washington University scholastic aptitude test and was recommended highly by their talent scout program and this fall intends to attend their legal preparatory school."

"Yes, ma'am. That good news has gotten around and you surely do have my congratulations although I was kind of sorry to hear about him giving up on the University of Missouri Ag College and deer husbandry. I believe that's the right terminology. But he's a talented boy and ought to do well in the field of law. I was just wondering about the future of the deer farm, which is why I was hoping to catch the three of you. If you don't plan to reopen the farm, it would be good if I could let people know. Don't mean to interfere in your business but it would be good for Milo and the area if folks could hear how the wind is going to blow."

"Firstly, William, opportunists thrive in state universities whereas Washington University, founded in 1853, is a fine school, safe and respectable for a young man with grave responsibilities to shoulder who later when he attends Missouri University will be prepared to study the law not deer. Secondly, the Fairwells are not accountable to the town of Milo." The matriarch's voice was cold and hard.

"Yes, ma'am; Aunt Ida sent you this and asked to be remembered most kindly to you;" the marshal's voice was soft but not warm as he stepped back in the yard.

"Very well. Wait at the door until I come let you in. Elizabeth is cleaning. In spite of my warnings, she continues to believe the activity is sensible and holds meaning."

In the doorway, the matriarch's eyes were glassy gray marbles. She let them in and disappeared down the hall with the cake. When she returned she led them into a long side parlor crammed full of big furniture and hundreds of little things that are easy to break. Neal walked behind her and the marshal walked behind him. Animal heads and tall chests with mirrors lined the walls. A leathery oak table stretched the length of the room. The matriarch held to this table's edge but Neal shagged by, careful not to knock off the crystal bottles and handpainted china vases, which he'd heard Aunt Ida say were worth a fortune. She'd told Mr. Watch the matriarch has more handpainted china and fine crystal than anyone in the county. Okay, does Lewis N. Clark expect the house and everything in it for his offer of $3.5 million that used to be $5.5 million? The thick dark red drapes were shut and the room seemed about to burst. Neal was terrified. He expected to hear corpse growls and rat squeals. Any minute, he knew he was going to run into and trash something worth a fortune or step on the matriarch's wobbly, saggy-stockinged heels.

Finally, she opened the door to a room with windows and sunlight. It wasn't as big and bright as the corner room with all the locks, refrigerators, collections and Ham's blocks but it was way better than the parlor. There were two desks, each with a PC. Mr. Sykeston sat at one, his short leg propped on a stool. He peered over the top of his glasses and waved his hand in the air. Delaney sat at the other with books and notebooks piled by his feet. He seemed one hundred percent better than on that awful day last summer when he'd told Pete and Neal goodbye with his white face all pimply and puffy. Now he looked like their hero again. Well, he did sort of. He was growing a little mustache that might take getting used to and wearing a black silky robe with a long white sash. Anyhow, he gave Neal a high five and came over to shake the marshal's hand. Actually, Neal liked the mustache.

"Good to see you, marshal. I want to thank you." Delaney squeezed Neal's shoulder. He was thinner and smelled like peppermints; maybe he was just older.

"Good to see you, Delaney," said the marshal, "especially looking so well."

"William wants to discuss the use of our land," said the matriarch, "apparently what we plan to do or not do with what is rightfully ours, we are expected to tell. It seems the township of Milo has an interest and the mayor and city council have sent William for a declaration of our intentions." Manno, did she look grim! Neal was very sorry for his boss; no way would he want the matriarch mad at him.

The marshal didn't look at her. He turned to Delaney and to Mr. Sykeston who was no longer smiling. "Certainly you own the land, ma'am, and nobody disputes it. But the three of you know that, whether or not it was smart, the economies of Milo and this end of Salt Lick County came to depend on Tom's hunting operation. Since the deer farm closed, money has gone across the River. All folks wonder is will you open again and if so, when. You can tell me to mind my own business. Guess you have a right. But we're talking food on the table here and shelter for the night."

"We hope to re-open." The old Delaney! Neal couldn't wait to tell Pete and Jaime.

"Your education in law and jurisprudence comes first." Look out! The matriarch was tapping the floor with her cane. They all looked at her and she gave Delaney such a stare! Then he and the marshal went back to talking like she wasn't there.

Neal couldn't quite hear them. Mr. Sykeston left his desk and limped over. He and the marshal shook hands. "Sit down, marshal," he said, "and you too, young Neal. Delaney, you are the proper party to lead any discussion of the Fairwell Whitetail Farm interests. I'm sure you agree, Mrs. Fairwell, as his great-grandmother. And I'm equally sure we can count on him to fully represent and protect his brother."

The couch and chair were made of corduroy like the black bib overalls Mariah had ordered on the Internet from Famous Barr except the couch and chair were the color of old cardboard milk cartons. Later the marshal would tell Neal's mother he was reminded of the Navy Relief geedunk in Pensacola, Florida. This is not a good memory for him. Delaney sat on the couch between the two men who leaned forward so they could see each other across him. Neal stood beside the marshal's leg. He stood close, too. The matriarch, in the chair, faced all four of them dead on.

"I represent the interests of both, I'll thank you to remember, Horace Sykeston."

"Great-grandmother!" Delaney said this loud like he meant her to behave. Well, she might but only if she wants. When you're 18 in Missouri, you're an adult and can do what you want to do. Okay, not what you want to do but a lot more than a kid can do. Anyhow, in some places when you're 18, you aren't an adult. What you are and what you can do there depend on where you are; this is weird and if you're trying to understand what's happening in the world, makes it totally difficult.

"Wouldn't bother you," said the marshal, "but the mayor can cause a real uproar."

"And what is that to us?" asked the matriarch, tapping the floor some more.

"Well put, Mrs. Fairwell," said Mr. Sykeston. "I'm inclined to agree no explanation is owed the elected officials of the town of Milo as to our immediate or future plans. This seems to go without saying. What about it, Delaney, want to weigh in?"

"Great-grandmother and you know that I'd like to open again and I'd like the town to know this, Horace. Why not? What's the problem?" Delaney stood up. Actually, the robe was awesome, especially the sash or tie. "Look, marshal," Delaney said, "here's the deal. If I get through the necessary high school and advanced general courses and pre-law and obtain my law degree from the State University and pass the Missouri bar, I have great-grandmother's promise I can go back to deer farming if I still want to. She won't stand in my way. It should take me about ten years pushing it like a demon. I'm not dumb but I don't kid myself I'm Neal Striker or Iris Kelly." He grinned at Neal. "Anyhow, Horace thinks I can do it and he's helping me." Okay, the possibilities and probabilities of a 10-year contract with the matriarch made Neal dizzy. Did she think she would live to 150; did Delaney?

"Sounds like quite a goal," said the marshal, "here's luck to you."

"So put out the word we intend to re-open in ten years but better warn people it depends on me doing good over the next decade at Washington U. and Mizzou."

"You'd be wise to avoid putting the cart before the horse," said the matriarch. Neal wanted to grab her cane and shout in her old ear that ten years is too far off. Tappity-tapping, she looked hard at her grandson and Neal was glad she wasn't looking hard at him; actually, he'd rather she never looked at him, hard or soft.

"Dreams can overcome realities," said Mr. Sykeston; Neal thought about this.

"True dreams are tough to resist." Delaney smiled. "We need our dreams, don't we, Neal? And did you notice the timber stand improvement, marshal, when you drove in? I know it's not near done but I laid new gravel, burned, got new trees planted."

"We saw your work; Neal and I were admiring it," the marshal said.

"Delaney!" Look out! The matriarch was mad. "The agreement was for you to abandon Tom Jasper's foolish legacy and concentrate on your studies so you'd be prepared. Have you forgotten high school equivalency tests are offered once a year and we're rapidly approaching the last week in September or don't you care?"

Delaney pointed to the computer and raft of books. "Ask Horace if I'm making an effort. Besides, grandfather was an original. He was no fool, was he, marshal?"

"Tom Jasper stood tall. He was a man with a lot of old-fashioned wherewithal."

"Satisfied, William?" The matriarch stood and so did the marshal -- fast.

"Ten years from today," said Delaney in his silky black and white contrast.

"Report as you see fit, marshal. Still, your time might be better spent in convincing the good people of Milo to work out their own futures," Mr. Sykeston limped back to his desk and opened a drawer. "Friend Neal," he said, "please take this to your sister with my compliments." Neal accepted the DVD and while Mr. Sykeston was checking his eyes, read the title to himself: The Singing Detective. "Okay," he said. "Don't misplace it. It has more value than I do," Mr. Sykeston told him. "Okay," he said, flashing on Miss Valjean and Iris. There are people who have to tell you what to do and be the last to talk; that's how they are and that's how Mr. Sykeston is.

The matriarch has ideas about what you should do but doesn't have to talk last or at all. Neal watched her silent bony back as he followed her from the room. She used her cane like a trash spike, poking it in front of her little feet here and there.

Since he could hear the vacuum cleaner after dust, Mrs. Carver had to be upstairs.

Look out! The matriarch was talking. "I have instructions for you, William. Firstly, be sure and tell Aunt Ida I appreciate the cake. Secondly, be sure and tell the mayor and council the town is their concern and not ours. I made that clear to Mr. Lewis N. Clark last year when he called from New York. We weren't responsible for the disappearance of his unfortunate daughter and we aren't responsible for the economic failures of Milo. Whatever peculiar dealings Tom Jasper might have had with elected officials and East Coast people, for that matter, are nothing to do with us. Now, good afternoon, William Lightfoot and Neal Preacham Edruns-Striker. Come back when you can spare the time to discuss matters of genuine interest."

"She remembers my whole name," Neal whispered; he felt scared like he'd passed and was moving to a new grade level when he didn't know he'd been taking a test.

"Of course she does," said the marshal, holding Neal's hand which was totally fine by Neal. "Philomena Fairwell remembers more than most of us ever learn and then some. Well, I'm glad this assignment, if you can call making a fool out of yourself an assignment and I guess you can, is over. Thanks again, agent, for coming along with me. Imagine you feel much better about Delaney. He looks good, doesn't he?"

When they got in the truck, Molly yawned and then woofed at the marshal.

"After we leave the Fairwell property, girl, because now we're about to haul."

"Woof;" Molly looked at the marshal like maybe he had a hearing problem.

"Dogs just do not understand such delays, agent; it's all natural action to them."

The marshal hit 55 on the highway and pulled into River Park. No other trucks, boat trailers or cars were in the parking area and he let Molly out on his side. Neal unbuckled and got out too because Molly may not understand delays in natural actions but she never hurries. How this works he isn't sure but both are true facts. Sometimes two different things are true together like there's some sort of contract.

"Say, this is what I call one fine day after the storm," said the marshal, "with the sky that baby boy blue and the Old Muddy frisking by. Reminds me of when I was a boy, fishing, swimming -- all the good things in life for free. You know, agent, you could be wasting your precious youth hanging around an old duffer like me."

"Yesterday Pete and Jaime and I went fishing; Mariah took us to Mallard Lake."

"That's a good fishing hole, at least it is, according to Jake."

"Pete and Jaime caught fingerling bass but had to put them back because they were too small. We got a mess of blue gill and crappie. Pete's mom cooked them; she used her mother's recipe for the dish. They were okay, I guess, if you like fish."

The marshal dug out his Bugler tobacco packet and leaned against the truck. He had ten cigarettes rolled and lined up on the hood when they spotted Ham in the middle of a maple stand high on a slope. The marshal lit up slowly. "No sudden moves, agent," he said softly. "We don't want to spook the poor boy." They stood still a long, long time while Ham dodged back and forth and peeked out at them from behind the branches and through the leaves. His hair blended with the purple red color of the soft maple trees. Finally the marshal raised his open left hand slowly but not high, like when he waves a friendly "hoddo" at oncoming traffic.

"How you, Preacham; out here on a picnic?"

Ham ducked and then came forward just a little and began to walk down the hill.

"Hey, Ham," said Neal who was curious about "picnic" and they they were still.

Ham was saying something but they were too far away from him to hear him. They might not understand him anyway but they decided to move closer. You keep going sometimes even if you don't know whether it will do any good. An engine popped and sparked. Neal turned to see Mr. Watch's ancient Chevy pickup pull into the lot and kick up gravel. The scooter was roped in the bed where Rufus rides. Rufus isn't privileged like Molly is. He jumped out and snuffled around the Ford. He knew his friend was near. Neal was watching Rufus; that's why he didn't see Ham disappear.

"Que pasoodla, mountain doodla?" Mr. Watch doesn't mean anything by this stuff. He just comes up with it. The marshal says he has a mouth full of overcooked oatmeal and a head full of foam. Usually the marshal laughs; not this time though.

"Make some noise, why don't you? Didn't you see Preacham Fairwell? I was about to question him." Okay, why? What made the marshal think Ham would reply?

"Since when? You all know what? Don't you all find it pretty durn funny how hard we been working to get the Fairwells interested in the outside now that Horace Sykeston IV has weasled himself inside. We been stewing right and left over this situation and find it pretty durn funny. Don't we?" Mr. Watch asked Rufus.

"Tom respected the man, Jake; don't get libelous."

"Tom Jasper was an innocent who couldn't see trouble until it hit him upside the head or smackdab between the eyes in broad daylight. You all got told no, right?"

"No and yes is more like it. The good part is Delaney seems to have cleaned up his act. He hopes to be back in the deer business when he gets out of school in another ten years if we're lucky." Neal thought again about the crazy contract for ten years. Since it's easy to make a dog happy, he scratched Rufus behind his floppy ears.

"Ten years! Wait'll Birdie gets that news! Well, appears to me you all done enough for today. Let's us relax. Sit at a picnic table and play Scrabble? I brought the traveling game. Got pop in the cooler. Got crème soda. Ain't that your all's favorite, youngun? Well, ain't it?" Mr. Watch asked his truck keys. "Even got iced tea."

"Stop! Hold on, Jake! Did you see Molly?" The marshal looked at Neal and Neal freaked. Where was she? Hey, she was partly his responsibility. The marshal nipped out his cigarette between his thumb and second finger, tore the butt down the center and shook the tobacco and ash on the ground. He stamped around and stowed the wadded paper in his pocket so he wouldn't leave traces. You call this fieldstripping. He'd done it on board the Hialeah when ferrying ammo and artillery to the troops in Nam. All USN marine cargo vessels are named for volcanoes. The marshal doesn't know why and Neal should have been thinking about a lost dog instead of old Navy ways and sayings. Actually, though, the fieldstripping and thinking only took one second. That's how freaky time goes, quicker and quicker.

"Listen up, isn't she with you all?" and Mr. Watch shook his keys for an answer.

"Come on." The marshal, Neal and Rufus took off for the County Road junction. They didn't care if Mr. Watch followed. Well, the marshal and Neal didn't care. Rufus probably did. Anyhow, the three of them knew exactly where they were going. The junction is full of squirrels and raccoons and one of Molly's favorite places. Neal heard her. She had something. What? It wasn't a coon or squirrel. It wasn't that kind of sound. At the head of the footpath to the Riverside Cemetery, they saw Ham and then Molly next to him. Rufus got to Molly first with his tail swinging side to side. She smiled and began to dig so he started digging, too. Ham was talking 90 miles a minute to them but neither dog listened. They clawed at the dirt and tossed it over their heads like a house afire. Usually Molly isn't a digger. The marshal and Neal stopped, breathing hard. The dogs shuffled and dug more.

"I'm afraid I know what they're after," said the marshal, "better hold up where you are, Preacham, and you, too, agent; better look aside and let me be the crime scene investigator."

No way was Ham looking away. His hands clasped behind him, he leaned forward to watch. The headstones and markers on the rise above them stood out against the sky. "At least Molly's okay," the marshal said as softly as he could while he gulped in air. "I should have known not to worry. She's savvy at sensing danger. But where's Horace? Why's Preacham running around loose? Guess that isn't my worry. Got plenty else to worry about. Seems when you least expect it is when there's something to spoil the day, some unpleasant task."

"What are they digging for?" and okay, Neal was pretty sure he knew the answer but even so, sometimes you have to ask.

"Well, agent, I'm guessing another corpse has rolled down the hill. We run that risk every time the River changes its mind and fills Muddy Flats Creek. Can't argue it isn't part of my job. Arranging for the redisposition of any disturbed remains and notification of family if remains are identified and family remains to notify. That's straight out of my contract. Hard to forget after what was left of old man Hooper showed up by the highway last year. Molly spotted him first, too, remember? I don't know, you would think Missouri varmints and mud would take total toll. But bones and shape last. Listen, you go on back to the truck and I'll make this fast."

"No, please," but without making a deal, Neal got his hands ready to cover his eyes. You might as well do this when you know ugly stuff is coming and you may not want to look at it; you don't get the chance when the ugly stuff comes as a surprise.

They got right up next to Ham. Was he ready to cover his eyes? Probably not. He held out his hands and turned them over and sort of moaned. Neal thought he might be crying. Mr. Watch appeared, whistling. The marshal waggled his foxy arm behind his back with the palm turned around. Hopefully, Mr. Watch would take the hint. "Molly," said the marshal firmly. Molly stopped digging. So did Rufus. "Good girl." Molly wagged her tail twice and started digging again. So did Rufus. Ham put his hands over his mouth but not his eyes so he could see. He sounded like a muffled owl when he asked, "when will she, when will she, when will she?"

"Waddup?" shouted Mr. Watch just as Mr. Sykeston showed on the rise with his plant presses. Purple loose strife and henbit spilled from his backpack. Sweat streaked his little face. "Preacham, Preacham," he said, "I've been every place."

Ham ran to the woods and Mr. Sykeston limped after him. Ham looked back with such a sad expression that Neal wondered if he knew or knows the corpse or remains or however you're supposed to talk about whatever. The marshal grabbed Molly by the collar and dragged her away by force. With his tail between his legs, Rufus ran to Mr. Watch. Neal quit worrying about Ham and crossed his arms over his chest. He took a deep breath and held it. He turned and focused his eyes. Molly and Rufus had uncovered a pile of shiny bones and dry black hair. The bones were more polished than Mr. Watch's head. The dogs had found no clothes, jewelry or papers to tell whose bones and hair these were. Neal looked again at the markers against the sky. There was a full row of graves from which these bones and hair might have tumbled. Mr. Watch kept quiet; "about time," the marshal grumbled.

"How will you know whose bones they are or who it is?" Neal asked; "run a test?" Okay, whose bones they were or who this was might be what you say, he guessed.

"Hair won't count for much after soaking in the good old Missouri muck. Sheriff's laboratory people may be able to tell something from the bones. They've got what they call forensics and the new DNA sciences. Of course, DNA testing is expensive and I don't know how far the sheriff will go or how far we should want him to go."

To tell Pete and Jaime, Neal stared but didn't touch -- not even with his boot toe.

"What do we do now? Gather them up? That's what I'd do if I was you all." Mr. Watch was talking to his keys but he made Neal jump. It's not that Neal's that easy to scare. But it was a crime scene and he'd forgotten that Mr. Watch was there.

Okay, the marshal got angrier than Neal had ever seen him. He screwed up his fox face and let his oldest friend have it with all the barrels loaded. "You know, Jake, seems like every twenty years or so, I have to shake sense into you. If you don't stop interfering when I'm doing my job I'm going to stop doing it. See if you can make yourself useful. Go to Juanita's and call Sheriff Jackson. Tell him we have another Riverside Cemetery spillover and need his help. Tell him where I am. You got that? I hope so because if you don't, I swear I'm not going to sleep tonight until I've pounded you to a pulp and chased you clean out of the county. You hear me?"

Mr. Watch didn't say yes, no, maybe so, or certainly. He was probably going to do as he'd been told. Neal sure wouldn't have argued. Like a good dog, Rufus followed his master. Molly whined. "You better find yourself some new fun," the marshal told her roughly. They were back at the truck collecting his smokes and it was like he was mad at everyone but Neal. Still, before he locked her in, he patted Molly.

"Let's see if we can spot a disturbance in the first row. Not that I think these are Tom Jasper's remains; the bones are too big and look to be from too long ago."

The cemetery grass was thick and soft like nice green carpet. To Neal the first row seemed okay but what does a grave disturbance look like? They climbed down and returned to what he'd decided to call uncovered remains. The bones and hair were too old for a corpse. Also, cover's important if you think about it. Human remains are everywhere but most are buried or covered so you can't see them. The marshal smoked his coffin nails. Neal chewed sour grass and tried not to think about bones. In the truck, Molly slept. Finally, the sheriff arrived driving a county car, a white sedan. Next came the white-haired trooper driving the county emergency van.

"Stay where you are," the sheriff called out; "we'll come down to you." He led the way and he was smiling his nice smile but the trooper was way serious. He kept his eyes on the sheriff's back and one hand on his billy club; maybe he was nervous.

"Good afternoon," said Neal; you might as well get it said.

"Good afternoon to you;" said the sheriff; the trooper lowered his head.

The marshal pointed out the uncovered remains the dogs had found on his watch. "And if you don't think I'm more than glad to turn these sorry puppies over to you, then think again, please, sir." He lit a new cigarette and puffed hard and harder.

The sheriff took off his shades, knelt and poked with a stick. He stood and looked to the cemetery, shading his eyes. He told the waiting trooper to get his supplies.

Concentration like for cut-throat Scrabble gripped the red face of the trooper who might have white hair but Neal bet that he was young enough to be the marshal's grandson although not old enough to be Neal's father. Using gloves and a trowel, he scooped up hunks of mud with the bones and hair. He layered the hunks in a tin container and slid wax paper between the layers. The container had an awesome locking lid. Neal couldn't wait to see how it all fit together. He was way impressed with how the trooper did his job and watched carefully. When someone does something right with something cool, you might as well see whatever you can see.

"Any clue to identification?" The sheriff checked his watch and the western sun.

"The first cemetery row is Fairwells and where Tom Jasper's buried but there's no disturbance at his gravesite. Still, you know it rained the other night. We found Tom's grandson with the dogs digging. Real upset the boy was. Of course, he's different. You thinking a man, sheriff?" The marshal's fox face was hard as river rock, tight as a tin can. Who cares if uncovered remains are from a woman or man?

"Could be. The bones are big enough," the sheriff said slowly.

"Tom was tall but frail. He wasn't a big-boned man. You don't suppose they're starting to drop down this far from further in, do you? I realize it's outside your job to know how old river cemeteries behave and what to do about the ramifications. I'm just speculating. Not too happy to get these is the pure and simple thing."

"How old? Any idea?" the sheriff asked the trooper.

"Not really, sir. It could be real old if it came from that graveyard on the hill, huh? Depends on how long it's been in the gumbo. One year and there isn't much left. See those long bones. I'm guessing femurs. Now, a long bone has a shaft and two ends and contains yellow bone marrow and red bone marrow -- perfect for the lab work. Forensics should be able to tell if it's worth sending samples for DNA testing to the state. We'll have to get in line for results. They're busy over in Jeff City."

"Are you saying this didn't come from the cemetery?"

"One thing at a time, marshal," said the sheriff. "Why don't you and your young friend allow me an opportunity to enjoy fine food. Afterwards, we can engage in relevant conversation. Keep up the good work," he told the trooper. "Take what you gather to the lab and leave instructions. I'll see you in the morning. Fine job." The trooper relaxed. Like the marshal, the sheriff's a good boss. When they left, the trooper had begun to layer the muddy remains in a pattern like a crisscross.

They followed the sheriff to the Travel Stop. Neal was starving. Also, he was worried because he didn't know what was going on in his town and neighborhood or why. Was the marshal still mad at Mr. Watch like he had been earlier? Wur!

The sun was down in Milo. The café would stay open another hour or so.

"Smells wonderful," said the sheriff, taking off his sunglasses and bowing.

"Aunt Ida, Sheriff Jackson's here," Neal's mother called and she was smiling.

So was Aunt Ida in the kitchen doorway, wearing an apron. "Venison stew today," she said, her eyes bright. "Delaney Fairwell brought me a nice piece of meat last fall before he went back east for the cure, praise the Lord and count the blessings, and Will froze it. They say in a stew you can't tell the difference from fresh meat."

"Delightful!" said the sheriff; he pulled out a chair but stayed on his feet.

"Suits me fine," the marshal said and took a seat.

"Me, too," said Neal who was way ready to eat! He gave Mariah the movie and it's amazing what makes his sister happy. She clapped her hands and carried it over to the bar where she was washing glasses. The sheriff watched her until he couldn't see her any more. Then he sat down and wrote a check to Neal's mother which he does every month so it's not like he eats and drinks at the café for free. Later they heard Mariah on her computer keyboard. The sheriff munched biscuits and drank iced tea. "Let's wait on the stew, my friends," he said, "if you don't mind waiting."

"You don't think what we found today," the marshal said; he quit talking.

"No." The sheriff frowned. "That hair and those bones do not belong to Trinity Clark. I think what you think, that the cemetery leaked a corpse down the hill. I'll get back to you as soon as we have the lab analysis and we'll take it from there. Actually, I wanted to see you about Trinity Clark. So let's bring the girl up and put the girl away. Those are not her bones. That is the truth so leave the truth alone."

"Second item I wanted to see you about is concealed weapon permits." The sheriff wiped his mouth and leaned back. "I'd appreciate your reaction to recent statewide data. Since legalization an overwhelming number of applications for permits is coming from senior citizens. Not kids, not moms and pops. Are you surprised?"

"Nope," and both men stared off into space like they were hypnotized.

Both men stood when Neal's mother brought the stew. He would have, too, except he forgets his manners if he's cranky and if he's hungry, he's cranky. While he ate, he tried to forget long bones and killer seniors. Why? Hey, you might as well try.