Ebony Continental: The Sandeen Mysteries, Book One

By Dennis E. Smirl

Kristina Bonner had what every girl wanted. She was slim, tall, athletic, auburn-haired, beautiful, and a straight-A student in a well-respected public high school in the year of our Lord, 1987. Her wealthy, connected father doted on her, granting her every wish, and on the night of her senior prom, he handed her the keys to a prized possession, a classic, perfectly preserved, black 1956 Continental Mark II. She drove away in it that night and was never seen again.

Sandeen is a writer of true-crime books, an espresso-shop owner, a gear head, and a sucker for unsolved mysteries. After John Bonner, Kristina's father, had spent almost thirty years exhausting all conventional investigative avenues, he encounters Sandeen and asks him to find his daughter, or failing that, learn her fate. Sandeen agrees, but only because he believes he can get a book out of it, hopefully, a best-seller.

The inquiry takes Sandeen to the small town of Catalpa, Kansas, John Bonner's family home at the time Kristina disappeared. Once he starts asking questions, Sandeen becomes a target for those who still have a lot to lose. Sandeen begins by interviewing members of Kristina's graduating class, and starts to put a frightening picture together when he learns that two other people Kristina's age disappeared at about the same time.

The local sheriff's office becomes an impediment to the investigation, first managing to frustrate him, and then arresting him on trumped-up charges. Sandeen's attorney and former gal-pal, Elaine McClelland, manages to get him out of jail, but then has to defend him against allegations tossed about by Homeland Security agents.

Sandeen learns that Kristina had a step-brother, and manages to find and interview him. He also finds that one of the three young people who'd gone missing simply left town and no one cared. As he gets closer to the solution of the mystery, Sandeen picks up two unexpected allies. Chief of Police Burnside didn't grow up in Catalpa, and he holds no loyalty to those who might be involved in one or more murders. The 'old guy' who refuses to give his name hands Sandeen tantalizing clues, but never quite enough to solve the mystery.

As Sandeen gets very close, a off-duty deputy sheriff attacks him, having first disabled Griffee, the only friend Sandeen has made in his stay in Catalpa. In the fight, Sandeen permanently disfigures the deputy, but Chief Burnside has a trusted witness who points at the deputy as the aggressor.

When all the pieces come together, Sandeen lays the mystery out for Chief Burnside. The final pieces of evidence are in a cemetery in another county and Burnside has no authority there. After some convincing, Burnside agrees to help find those final pieces. As Sandeen and Burnside dig into an all-but-forgotten and mis-labeled grave, they are attacked by the two men who as boys killed Kristina Bonner and one of her friends, and then stole and hid the ebony Continental. In the fracas, Burnside is grievously wounded, Sandeen is disabled, but the two men—one of them Kristina Bonner's half-brother—wind up dead.

At the belated funeral for Kristina Bonner, Sandeen is confronted by the 'old guy' who is content that he solved the mystery, but furious that so many people suffered and died to get to the truth. He calls Sandeen an amateur and then walks away, leaving Sandeen to wonder if it was all worth it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis E. Smirl
• Release date: Dec 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311451286

Dennis E. Smirl

Dennis E. Smirl has been an Air Force officer, a salesman for a Fortune 500 company, a school psychologist, a computer science instructor at several colleges and universities, and a business owner. Married to his college sweetheart for more than half a century, he has spent time in Mexico, Japan, and South Vietnam, but prefers to take family vacations in the USA and Canada. A writer for as long as he can remember—he attempted a first novel at age ten—his first taste of national publication was a race report written and published in 1965. A science fiction fan for almost the same length of time, Mr. Smirl joined the Science Fiction Book Club when member numbers were much shorter. Beyond his interest in Science Fiction, he has had a lifetime interest in horseback riding, auto racing (as a driver), golf, photography, computers and information processing, and mystery novels. He has written thirteen novels and more than seventy short stories and novellas.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Monday, 10:00 A.M.

The late winter sky crowded down on my shoulders, as did the dismal nature of the town surrounding me. Catalpa, Kansas was a hamlet of about 3,400 souls situated in the far southeast corner of the state, that part of Kansas in which—according to the data in my laptop—the poverty rate is usually several points higher than the national average. A cold wind blew at about fifteen knots from the southwest as I got out of the car. The temperature hovered at 35 degrees and the air felt wet as a rain-soaked blanket.

I was in Catalpa looking for a girl who’d been missing twenty-six years. Make that woman—if she was still alive. I didn’t think that would be the case. Disappearing is harder than it looks, especially when someone with money is looking for you. On the other hand, dying is easy.

The files her father had provided were all but worthless. The detective agencies that had looked into her disappearance had spent their time—and John Bonner’s money—chasing their tails. I needed a fresh start if I was going to find her, and the local newspaper office seemed as good a place as any. It occupied a small red brick building on a street just off the main square. I could smell ink and newsprint the moment I got out of my car—or maybe that was my imagination. After coming into a sizeable inheritance, I’d quit the newspaper business to become a true-crime writer and coffee shop owner, figuring I’d become famous in a few short years.

Somehow, it didn’t work out that way.

May I help you? The woman behind the counter was middle-aged, about 5’ 3" tall, a few pounds overweight, gray-haired, and professionally friendly. A look at her glasses told me she was very near-sighted.

I hope so. Do you have microfilm of the city newspaper for the month of May, 1987?

We do. But it might take me a few minutes to locate what you want. Would you care to have a seat? She pointed at a couple of sturdy metal chairs to my right.

No, thanks, I’ll stand. I’ve been in the car for hours and I need to shake the kinks out.

She smiled again, and then disappeared into the maze of office furniture and equipment behind her. While she was gone, I looked around. The walls were cluttered, covered with framed articles and photographs.

The photos were a mixed batch, in no particular order, with shots from the 1940s through the present. None of them were Pulitzer Prize winners, but neither were there any real dogs in the bunch. It was all good work. The images of farmers and bankers, politicians and crooks, and plain, ordinary people captured in their joys, sorrows, and tragedies were clear, crisp, and arresting.

I have the microfilms you wanted. The counter lady had returned. She held out two yellow boxes

I’m sure I can find what I need. Do you have a viewer I could use?

Follow me. She led the way past the counter into the newsroom. Although only a small daily, out in the middle of nowhere, it wasn’t completely stuck in the middle ages. All the desks had modern computers, and judging by the wires sticking out of the backs of them, all the computers were networked. There were three other people in the room, a young woman who might have been a college intern, another woman in her sixties who was pretending not to look at me, and an over-the-hill fat guy with a bad haircut and a mound of paper on his desk that was spilling down onto the floor. It was all sports stuff and I had to grin. We had a guy a lot like that on the paper where I'd worked, and his desk was just as messy.

Here you are, she said. And my name is Alice Kincaid. If I can be any more help, just ask. Mister, uh…

I shook her extended hand. Sandeen. Thanks for the offer.

Sitting at the microfilm viewer, I loaded the reel, jumped into May of 1987, and spun through a couple weeks of monotony before I found what I was seeking. It was a sizable piece with the headline, Local Girl Disappears. No byline, but whoever wrote it took his or her work seriously.

As I read, I learned that Kristina Bonner was what every high school girl wanted to be—at least in the movies. Tall, slim, auburn-haired, honor student, cheerleader and homecoming queen her junior year; she was the girl voted most likely to succeed.

The article went on to say that Kristina had driven her father’s car to the prom and had arrived a few minutes after 8 P.M. Witnesses stated that she had danced with several boys—none of them more than once—and that no one remembered seeing her after 10 P.M.

None of the witnesses could remember an incident that could be considered out of the ordinary. There had been no fights, no threats of fights, and according to the interviews, not so much as an unkind word spoken by, to, or in the presence of Kristina Bonner. Also, when questioned on the matter, no one could remember her associating with anyone for any extended period of time, nor did they remember seeing her leave with anyone—or even leave, period. The final paragraph of the article stated that both Kristina and the car were missing.

Did you find everything you needed? Alice Kincaid asked.

Mostly, I replied. But I'm still looking for a couple of things.

If I can be of any help...?

I'm looking for other articles related to the disappearance of Kristina Bonner.

Bonner. Oh, yes. I seem to remember something about that. Let's see what we have.

She zipped through the microfilm at a pace I wouldn’t have attempted. Then she stopped. Here you go. She pressed a button at the side of the screen, and a moment later, hardcopy of what was on screen emerged from a slot at the base of the viewer.

All the latest technology, I said smiling.

She smiled back. For thirty years ago. The owner keeps saying we'll get all our back issues on CD or DVD, but I’m not holding my breath. Then she threaded up a different roll and printed off three more articles, one of which was headlined, Police Stumped in Local Girl's Disappearance.

Yeah, that sounded about right.

How long have you lived around here? I asked as she handed me the printed copies.

Since I was in the third grade.

Did you know Kristina Bonner?

The smile disappeared. I… knew of her.

As in—

She cocked her head slightly to the right. I was three years ahead of her in school. I knew who she was, but if you’d asked me to pick her out of a crowd of students, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. And by the time she was a senior, and gone missing, I was married and had a baby on the way.

Did you know people who knew her?

I had classmates who had younger brothers and sisters. I kept in touch with some of them after graduation. When Kristina disappeared, we talked about it some.

I moved a bit closer to her. Do you remember any of the things that were said?

She laughed. Something had changed her mood. Only that her daddy was going to be really mad if she didn't bring back that fancy car.

I glanced at the hard copies I had in my hands. If there was anything special about the car, I hadn't gotten to it. What kind of car was it?

I don’t remember, she said, the furrows between her eyebrows deepening in concentration. I just remember it was some kind of classic, real expensive, and some of us joked that, given a choice, old man Bonner would probably want the car back more than his daughter. She shook her head. "We were cruel, weren’t we?"

I shrugged. People often employ dark humor so they don’t have to acknowledge what they’re really feeling. I doubt anyone really felt that was true.

Maybe. She stepped back a bit. As I said, I really didn’t know her. But I heard she gave her daddy fits. There were some who said that if they’d had a daughter like her, and she’d disappeared, they’d just say, ‘good riddance’ and wash their hands of the whole thing.

She was that much of a problem for her father?

She nodded. Some say she was.

Do you think that’s what her father did?

No. I heard he spent a fortune trying to find her and nothing ever came of it. She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. So why are you looking into her disappearance?

I tried for a modest expression. I thought there might be a book in it.

She laughed quietly. One look at you and I should have known you’re a writer.

Is it that obvious? I was wearing brown slacks, brown loafers that needed a bit of polish, a tweed jacket complete with leather elbow patches, a tan turtleneck sweater, and horn-rimmed glasses with prescription-free lenses. The look was anachronistic and clichéd, but it made the statement.

It certainly is. So what are you up to? Trying to get a book? Like Truman Capote’s, maybe?

I'll never be half as good as Capote. I paused for a moment. Well, seems as though that’s all I need. For now, at least.

She walked me to the door. If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.

I’ll keep that in mind.

I went outside. In the hour or so I’d been in the newspaper office, Catalpa, Kansas hadn’t changed. Probably much the same thing could be said of the town for the past fifty years. I unlocked the driver’s door, glanced back at the building, and saw a face looking at me through one of the plate glass windows. It was the woman who’d pretended not to see me when Alice Kincaid led me back to the microfilm reader, and I was sure she didn’t know I could see her. She was squinting, and writing something on a pad. If I had to guess, it was a description of my car.

I wondered how long it would be before things started getting interesting.

&&&&

Taking the long way back to the motel, I drove west as far as the high school, south to Fairgrounds Road, east to the main highway, and finally north, past Main Street. I saw a lot more of Catalpa, Kansas than I would have if I’d stayed on the main streets. I did it without fear of getting lost because I’d picked up a Chamber of Commerce map of the town when I’d checked into the motel earlier that morning.

The Catalpa Motel wasn’t a Ramada or a Holiday Inn, but neither was it a complete dump. Consisting of about twenty units surrounding a narrow pond that ran from east to west, it looked reasonably clean and well-tended. During the warm seasons, the pond was probably an attractive feature. But on that chilly March day, it was covered with cloudy, dirty ice that had grown rough and bumpy with a succession of hard freezes and partial thaws.

The room hadn’t been ready when I’d checked in, but the desk clerk promised it would be available by mid-morning. I figured 11:30 A.M. was giving them the benefit of the doubt, and they didn’t disappoint me. My unit, like the rest, had an odd feature, a garage without a door, something a bit more effective than a carport in keeping a vehicle out of the weather while at the same time, providing at least the illusion of security. I parked the car, got my luggage, and set the alarm before I walked away.

CHAPTER 2

Monday, 11:47 A. M.

It was almost time for lunch. I’d checked the phone book in my room, reading through listings for a chain-store pizzeria, a chain-store tacoria, and two chain-store hamburger stands, with one of them bragging that you didn’t even have to get out of the car to eat your fill. Then I found an ad for a mom-and-pop barbecue joint and hoped that they might even have napkins.

According to the yellow pages, it was only a few blocks from the motel. I decided to walk it. Once there, I sat on a stool at the counter and looked for a menu. It was painted on a piece of plywood that was hanging on the wall facing me. I also noticed that I was the only customer. The fact that it was so close to noon—and that I was alone—did not bode well.

Hi, I said to the waitress who wasn’t rushing to my assistance. Slim, with brown hair and fair skin, her Levis looked as though they were painted on. A nametag pinned to her white blouse read, ‘Betsy’. She looked to be in her early forties—give or take a couple years—and bored with the world.

What’s good for lunch? I asked.

What’s the matter, mister? You can’t read? she asked, looking over her shoulder at the wall-hung menu.

That pissed me off. I decided to mess with her head. Touching the phony glasses with my right index finger, I said, You see, it’s this severe astigmatism. Eye doctors can’t seem to get the prescription right. Then I pointed at the sign. Stuff like that just looks like one big blur. It makes things real hard when you can’t see as well as other people—

Sorry, she said, a spot of red darkening her cheeks. I didn't mean to—

Forget it. We all have our little handicaps to bear. Now, really, what’s good?

Suddenly my new best friend, she leaned across the counter, reducing the distance between us to something approaching intimate. I’ll tell you what. I’ll fix you our special plate, and if you can tell me it isn’t the best barbecued beef you ever tasted, it’s on me.

I smiled. An offer I can’t refuse. And a glass of cold, sweet tea, if you have it.

She laughed. You must be one of them Southern boys.

Nodding, I said, I spent some time down there. I guess that taste for sweet tea gives it away every time.

It sure does.

A minute and a half later, she sat a plate of barbecue beef, baked beans, slaw and cornbread in front of me—and I was still the only customer. She also managed to find some sweet tea. I took a small bite of the beef. Great, I said around it. I would have told her that if it had been all but inedible, but as luck would have it, it was way better than okay

I wanted to ask questions and get answers and I had to start somewhere. I took a few more bites of the beef, sampled the beans and the slaw, found they exceeded my expectations, and looked up. This is darn good. Did you do the cooking?

She nodded. Some of it. Do you really like it?

Yeah, I do. I worried that I was overdoing the ‘Southern Boy’ act. But she had accepted the compliment graciously.

Have you lived around here long? I asked.

She cocked her head as if she hadn’t quite understood the question. Then she replied, All my life.

I ratcheted up the smile. Which obviously hasn’t been that long.

She topped off my tea. You Southern boys sure are full of it.

I laughed and winked again. That’s why we all have brown eyes.

But why is it all the good-lookin’ ones have to be so wet behind the ears?

Why, Betsy, you can't be a day older than me.

She leaned over the counter again. If you think you’re going to get lucky with a little smooth talk—

Just then the bell on the door tinkled and another customer entered. An older guy; heavy-set, jowly and gray-haired with a big bulb of a nose, he wore a denim jacket lined with fleece, blue jeans and laced-up work boots. Betsy left me to take his order.

Once she’d set a steaming plate—an almost exact duplicate of what mine had been—in front of him, she returned to chat.

You must be hell on wheels with the ladies, Southern Boy.

Nah, I'm just a friendly kind of guy.

That’s what they all say. So, what kind of work do you do?

I'm a writer.

She crossed her arms. No kidding.

Nope. I write the true crime sort of stuff. In fact, I’m in town looking for material about someone who disappeared when you were just a little girl.

And who'd that be?

A high school senior named Kristina Bonner. It happened back in 1987. Ever hear of her?

She looked surprised for maybe half a second. Then the smile returned. No, can’t say I ever have. Hey, the lunch crowd finally got here. She hurried away as several groups of men came in from the cold. They were dressed much like the guy sitting two stools down from me. Whether I’d meant to or not, I’d found the local lunch spot for the blue-collar set. I was beginning to wonder how Betsy was going to handle the rush when another waitress showed up. Between them, they managed just fine—even though at its peak, the lunch rush filled every table in the room, and most of the stools at the counter.

I waited for Betsy to come back through the rest of the meal. I dawdled with my tea. Finished it. I was beginning to think I wasn't going to get a check when she came out of the kitchen with a fresh glass of sweet tea.

How about some desert, Southern Boy? she asked, suddenly all smiles and just as cheerful as before.

That might be good, I said. And thanks for the tea.

No problem. We’ve got some real tasty chocolate pie—and some lemon meringue. What do you think?

The lemon. I watched her get it. You sure got busy there for a while.

She placed the pie in front of me. It goes that way. Everybody comes in all at once. And thirty minutes later, they’re gone.

I see. I took a small bite of pie. Lemony. So you never heard of Kristina Bonner?

She shook her head. No. At least the name doesn't ring a bell. Was her picture ever on the side of a milk carton?

I had to chuckle. Not to my knowledge.

She busied herself with things behind the counter, and I finished the pie. How much do I owe you?

She handed me the check. Lunch with dessert for less than nine bucks. I handed her a twenty. Keep what’s left, I said, grinning. I liked the service.

I walked back to the motel and made a set of detailed notes on the events that had just transpired. I’d touched a raw nerve the first time I’d mentioned Kristina Bonner to Betsy, but not the second time. What went on while Betsy was busy with the other customers and then in the kitchen? Had she talked to someone? And if so, who? Whatever had occurred, I had a feeling that it might prove to be important.

&&&&

The distance to the public library was about ten blocks. I could have walked but it had turned colder and it was more comfortable to drive and run the heater. I parked out front and hurried up the stairs to the entrance.

Once I got inside, the small, native-limestone library was oppressively hot, and the heat accentuated the odors of musty paper and mildew. I almost let it bother me and then worried that a time might come when libraries were totally electronic. What would the odors be, then? Ozone? Over-heated wiring? It was a depressing thought.

I searched the on-line catalog and then the stacks for forty-five minutes before deciding I wasn’t going to find what I wanted without help. The librarian wasn’t available, but her assistant was. I knew his name was Joel because he wore a nametag. A middle-aged guy, he was obese and sweaty. I tried to keep my distance from him.

Do you have the Catalpa High School yearbook from 1987 in your collection? I can’t seem to find one.

He smirked. That’s because there isn’t one.

That stopped me. They didn’t print a yearbook that year?

No, there is no Catalpa High School. It’s the Chancey County Community Rural High School. CCCRHS, and it’s been that way since 1968. That’s probably why you couldn’t find what you wanted.

I wasn’t thrilled with his patronizing attitude. Nope. I knew what I was looking for. It’s not there.

Well, it should be. Pulling a stained handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his brow. I don’t understand. Let me check. He shambled away like an underpowered tug in heavy seas. Not only did he wallow, he huffed and chugged like a diesel with bad injectors. When he returned after a reasonable interval, he shook his head. I’m sorry, but it's not in any of the shelves, it’s not checked out, and I have no idea why. Is there anything else you might be interested in?

I should have asked before you went looking. Anything from ’85 to '89 would be helpful.

He shuffled away. A minute or so later, he returned wringing his hands. I don’t understand, he said, more to himself than to me. "How could they all be gone? How could that have happened? Then, noticing that I was still there, he said, I’m sorry I couldn't help you. You might try at the high school. Surely, they’ll have what you want."

Thanks for the suggestion, I said, turning to leave.

He stopped me with, Say, aren’t you that writer that’s been asking about Kristina Bonner?

News travels fast in small towns. Yeah. She went missing in May, 1987.

I know. So, do you want to write the truth about what happened?

Always. I moved toward him. Big mistake.

"They took her," he stage-whispered.

I pulled out my notebook. You’re saying someone kidnapped her?

He shook his head and lowered his voice another notch. "Noooooo, I mean she was abducted." He pointed to the sky.

"Uh-huh. Abducted. Tell me more about it."

I let him move closer. Huge mistake. "There were several abductions that year. And people all over the county saw the lights in the sky. They just didn't want to admit what was happening. But I know the truth. They were taking our teenagers and young adults… For breeders." He hissed the last sentence.

Obviously, the guy had been watching way too much Cable TV. "You're saying that… they took her?" I glanced upward as I asked the question.

He nodded. Now you understand. They got her and Billy Parks and Hanna Jackson that year. All of them, and nobody ever saw them again.

If he was hitchhiking to la-la land, I figured it couldn’t hurt to give him a lift. I wrote down the two names. And they took them to some other planet in flying saucers?

He shook his head vigorously. "No! You don’t understand! Just up to the mother ship!" I was amazed that anyone could whisper with that much emphasis.

Or moisture.

And where is this mother ship? I asked, trying to keep a straight face.

In orbit around the earth. He had reached such a point of damp excitement that I was now ducking.

Really. So why can’t NORAD or NASA see them with their Radars?

"Oh, they can. They do. But they intentionally keep it from the people. It’s all part of the… conspiracy."

I nodded knowingly. And they’re using young people for—what did you call it—breeders?

"Exactly. They take the eggs from the women and the sperm from the men. Then they—no, you don’t want to know the details. It’s too horrible."

I didn’t doubt it for a moment. I backed out of nose-shot. Thanks for looking for those books, and for the tip about the high school. I’ll go check it out.

He glanced upward with a worried expression on his face. Be careful. Be very careful. They’ll know you're looking, and then— His eyes widened. "They’ll take you, too."

I’ll keep that in mind.

CHAPTER 3

Monday, 2:50 P.M.

I checked my watch as I left the public library. It hadn’t melted the way they do in Salvador Dali paintings, which meant I hadn't strayed into the Twilight Zone, or whatever level of unreality Joel inhabited. I wondered how anybody would give a guy like that a job, and then decided the library had to be desperate for help.

It was almost three. I figured the high school office was still open, but that the secretaries wouldn’t be all that happy to see me that late in the day. I made a mental note to start the next day’s business with that item.

Stepping off the curb near the front of my car, I was about to unlock the door when the driver’s side window exploded out of the frame. Immediately, I heard a loud BANG! I dropped to the pavement and tried to roll under the car.

Nothing else happened for a few seconds. Then I heard someone asking, Are you okay down there?

I looked up. An old man in a gray topcoat, dark trousers, and a black beret stood there with a puzzled expression on his face.

I needed to invent an excuse. I dropped my keys, I said. They bounced under the car.

You’ll ruin a good set of clothes that way. Plus you’ll get dirty and cold. Might better have used a jack handle, or something to drag them out from under.

I got up and brushed most of the large chunks of dirt off my coat and slacks. Did you hear a loud noise a moment ago? Maybe like a shot?

The old man shook his head. I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

I heard another loud BANG! My head swiveled. A farm tractor motored down the street, backfiring as it went. I looked back at the old man. Yeah. Nothing out of the ordinary for a farm community.

As I opened the car door, he said, You’d be smart to get that window replaced. This time of the year, it’s way too cold to be driving around without one.

Perceptive devil. But what did take the window out of the car? Inside, the seat was covered with tiny fragments of broken glass… and a piece of asphalt about the size of my fist. That’s what had knocked the window out. But who’d thrown it? I'd been looking at the street, and then turned to unlock the door, but surely I’d have seen someone if they’d been close enough to hurl a pound of rock through the window.

The thing with the window frightened you, didn’t it?

The old man was still there. What are you talking about?

He snorted as he laughed. I saw the whole thing. I saw the tractor tire throw that chunk of pavement, saw the look on your face as it went through your window, saw you hit the ground—you know, you’re quicker than you look. What did you think it was, someone taking a shot at you?

I shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He laughed again. Son, maybe you need to find a line of work where you don’t get shot at so much.

Maybe so. I brushed most of the broken glass off the seat and onto the floorboard, then got in the car and started it. As I drove away, I knew the old guy was right. Driving around without a window was damned uncomfortable.

&&&&

When I got back to the motel, the first thing I planned to do was find out where I could get the window replaced, or failing that, rent a car. But once inside, I saw the light on the phone blinking. I hung my coat on the metal rack near the door, then punched zero for the front desk.

May I help you? the desk clerk asked.

I’m in unit six. There's a message light blinking on my phone.

I waited. Oh, yes, sir. You had one telephone call. He gave me a local number, but no name and no message—just a request to return the call to that number.

Thanks. I hung up, wondering who knew I was there. Even Bonner wouldn’t know where I was staying unless I told him. After running through a very short list of possibilities, and coming up with nothing, I dialed the number. The phone rang twice before a man answered.

Pryor Funeral Home. How may I assist you? His voice was calm, cultured, and extremely solicitous.

I took a breath. Ah… yes. My name is Sandeen. I had a message to call you.

The pause at the other end lasted several seconds. "I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t find anything on my desk that