Bone Deep. Janice Kay Johnson

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      He relaxed a little when she explained that it had been in compost she’d shoveled into a wheelbarrow that morning from the piles in back that were regularly replenished by Wallinger’s. Grant’s men had dug through those heaps of compost, bark and shavings after Hugh’s disappearance. No body. So this bone had nothing to do with her. Cruel chance had made her the one to come across it. Hell, most people probably would have thought, animal bone, shrugged and tossed it out.

      And maybe it was an animal bone.

      He had her walk him to the greenhouse where the wheelbarrow sat, and with her permission combed through the dark, damp compost carefully to be sure the rest of the finger wasn’t in it.

      “Show me which bin you got this batch out of.”

      Back outside, shrubs in big black pots marched in rows, evergreen separated from deciduous, all carefully labeled so purchasers would know the eventual size, sun and soil needs and time of bloom. Then flowering trees, some already budding, were heeled into ridges of shavings. Half a dozen customers prowled out here on the back forty. He knew several of them, including Pete Timmons, one of his own deputies who happened to be off today. Pete returned his nod, but eyed Kat speculatively. She clearly noticed, because her cheeks flushed.

      Grant was most surprised to see George Slagle, who owned the lumberyard and hardware store in town. There’d been talk that George resented Kat’s nomination for Business Owner of the Year, considering his revenue was likely two or three times hers. And Grant knew his house had been landscaped by the builder and probably maintained by a yard service. George was no gardener.

      Some woman Grant didn’t know spotted Kat and called, “Can I ask you something?”

      She smiled and held up her hand. “Give me a minute and I’ll be right back. George, nice to see you.”

      George nodded, looking a little unhappy.

      She was good, Grant mused. She must be thrumming with tension, but she’d exuded the friendliness and helpfulness that brought return customers.

      Behind the last greenhouse, a row of bins, each five or six feet wide and maybe eight feet deep, had been constructed with railroad ties. Lower fronts allowed access. Kat pointed to one, with the compost getting low.

      “Go help that woman,” he suggested. “I’ll dig through this.”

      She bit her lip, nodded and left him to it.

      He should have asked her for gloves, but shrugged, grabbed a shovel leaning against the dark ties and stepped into the bin.

      Trying to be systematic, he lifted one shovelful at a time, moving compost from the back to the front. As he poured compost from the shovel, he watched closely.

      Nada.

      His arms and shoulders ached by the time he was confident he’d examined every damn inch of that pile. Since he’d moved it to the front, he had to climb over it to get out, his shoes sinking into the soft, damp heap.

      Damn it, despite a temperature in the high thirties, he was sweating and filthy. He’d better go home and shower before he went back to the station.

      Kat appeared as soon as he leaned the shovel against the ties. Seeing the anxiety in her eyes, he didn’t make her suffer.

      “Nothing. May turn out I’m wrong and it’s from an animal. If not…” He shrugged. “Chances are, we’ll never know how that one bone ended up in there. I’ll go talk to them at Wallinger’s, though. They might’ve had an accident, or know of one at a logging site or with one of the road crews.”

      Relief leaped into her eyes. “I was thinking that earlier. It would be easy to stick a hand into a shredder.”

      He nodded. “That’s my best guess. Not something we’d necessarily hear about.”

      “Yes.” She gave a long exhalation as tension left her body. “Okay. You’ll take it, then?”

      “I’ll take it.” He already had; he’d slipped it into an evidence bag and then his pocket.

      “And you’ll let me know?”

      “Minute I hear anything.”

      “Okay.” Shyness wasn’t usual for her, but she was plainly feeling it. Still, she met his eyes. “Thank you.”

      So now she was grateful he had come, Grant realized, which meant she’d been more scared than she would want to admit.

      “Coming out here’s my job.”

      “You could have sent someone.”

      “I want to find Hugh as bad as you do.”

      Seeing the turmoil on her face, he cursed himself immediately for baiting her that way. Their history had no place here, and neither did his longing for something that wasn’t going to happen. “That’s the only major open case on our books,” he explained. Let her think that’s all he’d meant.

      After a moment, she managed to suppress her reaction and give a jerky nod. “I’ll walk you back.” Her gaze lowered, seeing his hands. “You popped a blister.”

      He’d acquired several blisters. The one that was now flattened and seeping burned. “Don’t worry. I’ll wash it up at home.”

      “I should have found you some gloves.” Kat sounded contrite. “I didn’t think.”

      “Don’t worry,” he said again. He nodded at the nursery around them. “Business looks good.”

      “It’s been great. Didn’t even slow down this winter as much as usual, maybe because of the mild weather.”

      “I was surprised to see George Slagle here.”

      “He’s planning to put in a row of trees to screen the lumberyard from Legion Park.”

      Beautification didn’t seem George’s style, but who was Grant to say?

      Changing the subject, he said, “You’ve turned this nursery into something special.”

      “Hugh and I made plans years ago.”

      He didn’t believe it. She’d probably made plans, and her husband had nodded agreeably. Hugh Riley had been known for charm but not ambition. Grant had never been one of his fans, although the fact that he coveted Riley’s wife might have had something to do with that.

      They’d arrived out front. “What smells so good?” Grant asked, at random.

      “Daphne mezereum.” She pointed out a small shrub with pink flowers just opening and no leaves.

      “I wouldn’t mind one of those in my yard,” he said at random, wanting to hold her in conversation.

      Eyebrows raised, she glanced at his blisters. “They can be fragile.”

      So, okay, she could tell he wasn’t any kind of gardener, but, irked by her pitying tone, he said, “I’ll take one.”

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