Riptide

everything, omitting only what Adam Carruthers
    had just found out from the medical examiner's office. She didn't
    think the sheriff would like to be cut out of that particular loop.
    Then Bernie Bradstreet asked her to dinner, with his wife, he hastened
    to add when she didn't say anything. She put him off. When
    she hung up the phone, Adam said, "Newspaper? You handled it
    well. Now you need to call the sheriff. Don't tell him you already
    know the answers just encourage him to call the medical examiner's
    office. Jarvis told me they're not ready to release the information
    yet, but if the sheriff calls, he might be able to pry it out of them.

Oh, yeah, when the sheriff comes, tell him I'm your cousin from
    Baltimore come to visit. Okay?"
    "Cousins? We don't look anything alike."
    He gave her a crooked grin."Thank heaven for that."

    Sheriff Gaffney didn't like the news from Augusta. He liked tidy
    conclusions, puzzles where all the pieces finally locked cleanly into
    place, not this: an old skeleton, identity unknown, that had been
    bricked inside Jacob Marley's basement wall after her gruesome
    murder. He didn't really want Ann McBride to be dead, but it
    would have made things so much cleaner, so nice and straightforward.
    He glanced at Tyler McBride. The guy looked calm, but relieved?
    He just couldn't tell. Tyler had always managed to keep
    what he was feeling close to his vest. He "was good at poker, nobody
    liked to play against him. Funny thing, though, the sheriff
    would have sworn that Tyler had killed his wife. He still kept his
    eye on Tyler, hoping to see him do something strange, like visit an
    unmarked grave or something. Well, he'd been wrong before. He
    guessed maybe he was wrong again. He hated it, it wasn't pleasant,
    but sometimes it happened, even to a man like him.
    Sheriff Gaffney looked over at Ms. Powell's cousin, a big, tough-looking
    guy who looked like he could take care of himself. His
    body was hard and in good shape, but he seemed like a man who
    could be patient, as if he was used to waiting in the shadows, like a
    predator stalking its prey. Gaffney shook his head. He had to stop
    reading those suspense novels he liked so much.
    He looked over at Becca Powell, a nice young woman who
    wasn't, thank God, so pale now, or on the verge of hysteria. Hopefully
    her cousin would keep her that way. After finding that skeleton,

just maybe she would be glad to have him around for a while. He
    found himself studying Carruthers again. The guy was dark, from his
    black hair--too long, in the sheriff's opinion--to his eyes, nearly
    black in the dim late-afternoon light in Jacob Marley's living room.
    He had big feet in scuffed black boots, soft-looking boots that looked
    like he'd worn them for a good decade and waited in the shadows
    with those boots on his feet, not making a whisper of a sound. He
    wondered what the hell the man did for a living. Nothing normal
    and expected, he'd bet his next meal on that. Just maybe he didn't
    want to know.
    The sheriff looked around the living room. Jesus, the place
    looked like a museum or a tomb. It felt old and musty, although it
    smelled like lemons, just like at home.
    He knew, of course, that everyone was looking at him, waiting.
    He liked that. It built suspense. He was holding them in the palm
    of his hand. Only thing was, they didn't look all that scared or worried
    or ready to gnaw off their fingernails. A real cool bunch.
    Becca said finally, "Sheriff, won't you be seated? Now, you have
    news for us?"
    He took the old chair she was waving at, eased down slowly,
    then cleared his throat. He was ready to make his big announcement.
    "Well now, it does appear that this skeleton isn't your wife,
    Tyler."
    There was a sharp moment of silence, but not the surprise he'd
    expected, that he'd wanted, truth be told.
    "Thank you for telling me so quickly, Sheriff. I'm pleased that it
    wasn't, because that would have meant that someone had killed her
    and it wasn't me. I hope that wherever Ann is, she's very much alive
    and well and happy."
    But Tyler hadn't acted surprised. He acted like he already knew.
    Well, damn, if Tyler hadn't killed Ann, then he would certainly

know that the skeleton wasn't her, or if it was, then someone else
    had put her there. That logic made the sheriff's head ache.
    "Humph, I wouldn't know about that. I've contacted all the local
    authorities and they're going to check on runaways from between
    ten and fifteen years ago. There's