U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

“A lot of breeds are good for search-and-rescue, which is what they’re usually trained for first. They learn to locate lost hikers or kids who wander off on a camping trip. You need a dog with a powerful retrieval instinct, a keen sense of smell, and a strong work drive. Even then, some are better than others. The last dog I worked with was a shepherd. He was good but high-strung, and he had a tendency to mope. Great nose, but it was clear the work upset him. I finally retired him because I couldn’t bear the accusatory look in his eyes.”

“What happened to him?”

“He’s now the family watchdog, which suits him better than sniffing for dead bodies in the underbrush. I heard about Belle through a friend of a friend, who’d been breeding Labs for years. She was just a little fur ball when I got her, but smart as they come. Labs are easy to train and they’re physically strong. They’re also good-natured, which is great for PR purposes. I can take her into schools and nursing homes and everybody falls in love with her.”

By then, Belle was lying on the grass at his feet, her gaze flicking across his face as he spoke. He smiled at her. “Look at that. She knows I’m bragging about her.”

“Does she work on a leash or off?”

“That depends on the terrain. Here I’ll take her off the leash and let her go about her business. If she finds something, she’ll come get me and take me back with her.”

Cheney reappeared and headed in our direction. Gerald signaled to Belle and the two walked out to meet him. A portable generator had been hauled out on the site, along with the big lamps that would make it possible to continue working when the daylight waned. I knew without even being present what the scene would look like. The digging would be done by hand. Two officers would run the loose dirt through a two-man sieve, hoping to capture any physical evidence left behind. The chances seemed slim to me, but these guys knew what they were doing and who was I to say? The entire process would be photographed and sketched, with relevant landmarks noted and measurements taken to ensure that a thorough record of the scene was kept.

The rest of us were left to amuse ourselves as best we could. A number of cars slowed and then moved on. As is usual, bystanders had begun to assemble. I assumed some were neighbors and others driving past the scene on the way home from work who had spotted the police cars and pulled in to see what was going on. There was nothing to do and not much to say after the first scanty explanations were passed along to new arrivals. People lingered, unwilling to leave before the final moments had played out. It was like being in a waiting room while someone else is giving birth. There was no drama in our immediate vicinity, but we all knew something important was going on. Such gatherings are often written off as morbid curiosity, looky-loos hoping for a glimpse of the injured or the dead. I prefer to attribute the behavior to a sense of community, people drawn together in the face of inconceivable tragedy.

Sutton had returned to the parking area and I could see him talking to a man nearby, filling him in. It was a story he’d tell repeatedly if Mary Claire’s body came to light. Madaline, still wearing her short shorts, had pulled on a pair of leggings and a loose-necked sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder, exposing the same tank top I’d seen earlier. She sat in Sutton’s MG smoking cigarettes with the passenger-side door open. I’d spent half a day in Sutton’s company and I already felt a motherly urge to warn him about skanks and tramps like her.

“What’s going on?”

I looked to my right and found a woman standing next to me, early thirties by my guess. She had shiny shoulder-length brown hair, blunt cut and very straight. Her glasses were frameless and the lenses accented the brown eyes behind them.

I said, “The police may have a line on an unsolved case.”

“Really. What’s the deal?”

“Remember when Mary Claire Fitzhugh disappeared? Someone came forward with information about two guys digging what might turn out to be her grave.”

We exchanged idle remarks with our attention turned toward Alita Lane. I glanced at her outfit—brown blazer, tweed skirt, black tights, loafers—wondering how she managed to look so sensible and stylish at the same time.

“Where’d the tip come from?” she asked.

“Someone read an article about the kidnapping. He thinks he might have stumbled on the burial when he was a kid.”

“Wow. That would be a break after all this time,” she remarked. “So what’s your connection?”

“I’m a PI in town. I know Cheney Phillips, the lead investigator.”