Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane 3)

Lance’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. “Speak of the devil. It’s King.” He answered the call. “Kruger.”

Morgan couldn’t make out the sheriff’s words, but whatever he said wiped all traces of humor from Lance’s face.

“No. My mother doesn’t leave her house. You’ll have to go to her.” A few seconds later, he ended the call. His fingers tightened around the phone, as if he wanted to crush it.

“What’s wrong?” Morgan asked.

He shoved his phone in the console cup holder.

“Sheriff King is on his way to interview my mother. I want to get there before him.” Lance pressed on the accelerator, and the Jeep surged forward. “I wonder if this means they’ve identified the body.”

Chapter Twelve

Lance sat across the kitchen table from his mother, relieved that he and Morgan had arrived before the sheriff. Dark circles hung beneath his mom’s eyes, and her skin was papery, as if she was dehydrated.

He glanced up at Morgan. “Would you get her a glass of water?”

“Of course.” Morgan filled a glass at the tap and brought it to the table. She sat next to his mother. “Have you eaten lunch today, Jenny?”

His mother nodded. “Yes. I ate lunch at noon. Today is Tuesday. I had a tuna salad sandwich.”

“Sheriff King is on his way here to ask you some questions about dad. Before he gets here, I have some news for you.” Lance reached across the table and covered her hand. “The skeleton in dad’s trunk wasn’t him. It belongs to a young woman.”

Shock filled her face for a few seconds. “Why would a young woman be in your father’s trunk? And where is he?”

“That’s what we’re all trying to find out,” Lance said. “Do you remember a woman by the name of—”

The doorbell rang.

Leaving Morgan with his mother, Lance went to the door and opened it. Sheriff King stood on the front stoop. Lance went out onto the step and closed the door behind him.

“My mother suffers from acute anxiety and agoraphobia.” Lance cut straight to the bone. “She hasn’t had a stranger in her house in years.”

King nodded. “Noted.”

Lance led the way into the house and back to the kitchen.

“Mom, this is Sheriff King,” he said.

In a gallant, old western gesture, the sheriff swept his hat from his head and held it in front of his chest. “Thank you for seeing me, ma’am.”

The sheriff took the chair across from her.

She shifted backward, her shoulders curling in. She glanced at the sheriff from behind a curtain of her white hair. “You look familiar. Have I seen you on TV?”

The sheriff nodded. “I do press conferences now and then.”

“You’re here about Vic.” His mother clasped her hands together in her lap, her arms tight to her sides, as if she could physically hold herself together.

“Yes, ma’am.” The sheriff’s tone softened. Maybe he wasn’t a total hard-ass. “When was the last time you saw your husband, Victor Kruger?”

“August 10th, 1994,” she said.

“And you’ve had no contact with him since? No phone calls, no e-mails, no letters?”

His mother shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Does the name Mary Fox ring a bell?” the sheriff asked.

His mother frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“This would have been from twenty-three years ago,” the sheriff clarified.

“I can’t say for sure,” his mom said. “I’m sorry.”

The sheriff’s upper body leaned an inch closer to the table. “Mary worked as a waitress at PJ’s.”

Lance stiffened. He’d been right. The remains were Mary Fox.

His mother’s brows dropped. “We used to go to PJ’s for burgers. Vic went more often than I did. He’d stop to have a beer with Stan and Brian a few times a week.”

Lance’s brain whirled.

His father had known the dead girl. Although the fact that she worked at his favorite restaurant meant that their connection could have been entirely innocent.

The sheriff pulled a photo from his pocket and slid it across the table.

His mother reached forward, her fingers touching just the edges as she slid it in front of her. “She looks familiar. Is this Mary?”

“Yes,” the sheriff said. “We pulled your husband’s car from Grey Lake yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t visit you then. Lance told me it would be better if he notified you. I also wanted to verify if the remains inside were his or not.”

“Lance told me.” Her fingers curled on the table.

Morgan took one of her hands and held it.

“But it was Mary’s skeleton that was found in the trunk of your husband’s car.” Despite his polite tone, the sheriff studied her face, waiting for a reaction.

But Lance’s mom just blinked. “I don’t understand. How did she get there? And where is Vic?” Her voice rose as confusion segued into distress.

“That’s what we want to find out, ma’am.” The sheriff tapped the photo. “The night your husband went missing, did he say anything about going to PJ’s?”

His mother shook her head. “No, he was going to the grocery store.”

“Did he have a cell phone?” the sheriff asked.

“No.” His mom’s fingers tightened on Morgan’s, the knuckles whitening. “They were expensive back then. The coverage out here was so poor, it wouldn’t have been worth the expense. But Vic would have called me from PJ’s if he was going to stop. He was good about not wanting me to worry.” She looked down and opened her grip, releasing Morgan’s hand. “I’ve always been a worrier.”

“So he was considerate,” the sheriff said.

“Vic was a good man.” A tear rolled down Jenny’s cheek.

“What did you do the night Vic went missing?” the sheriff asked.

“When Vic didn’t come home, I drove around looking for him. I called everyone I could think of, but no one had seen him.” She wiped the tear away. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out,” the sheriff assured her. “You can help me by giving me as much information as possible. Did Vic go anywhere regularly except for PJ’s?”

“I don’t know.” His mother’s hands shook harder. She started picking at the skin around her fingernails.

“This is going to be a difficult question, and I’m very sorry for having to ask it,” the sheriff said, his voice gentle, even apologetic. “To your knowledge, did your husband ever have an affair?”

Anger boiled in Lance’s gut. At the same time, he understood the necessity of asking the question. So instead of punching the sheriff in the face, he gripped the table edge.

His mother’s head shook hard. “No. He would never have . . .”

The sheriff rested his forearms on the edge of the table. “Did you receive any odd phone calls or hang-ups?”

“No,” Jenny whispered.

“How much time did he spend at PJ’s?” the sheriff asked.

Jenny ripped a piece of skin from her finger. Blood welled. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.” She repeated the phrase in a monotone, almost under her breath.

The sheriff leaned back. His eyes flickered to Lance in question.