I nodded, a little surprised. I’d expected him to give me a hard time about coming back out to Wisteria Hill. Behind him the anthropologist, Dr. Abbott, got to her feet and started toward us.
“Detective Gordon,” she called. She was holding something in her gloved hand.
As she came level with us I realized it was a heavy gold ring. From the size it looked as though it was a man’s ring and the insignia on the front looked familiar.
“That’s an old Mayville Heights High School graduation ring,” Roma said, leaning past Marcus for a better look. “My father wore one,” she added by way of explanation. “Those were his glory days. According to my mother, he never took it off.”
“I thought it was a high school ring,” Dr. Abbott said. She looked to be about forty, tall, with blond hair in a low ponytail.
“With the ring facing you, the date’s on the left,” Roma continued. “See the sixty-three right there?” She pointed, and then paused for a moment. “Funny. That’s the same year my father graduated.”
She looked up at Marcus. “It would have been a pretty small graduating class. It shouldn’t be that hard to figure out who owned that ring.” She shifted her attention back to the piece of jewelry. “In fact, some of the kids had their initials in raised lettering on the other side. I know my father did. T.A.K.”
T, A, K? That didn’t make any sense. Roma’s dad’s name was Neil Carver.
Dr. Abbott stiffened, still holding the ring between her gloved thumb and index finger. Beside me, Roma had gone rigid as well. It almost seemed as though she’d stopped breathing. “What are the initials on that ring?” she asked. The tightness in her body was in her voice too.
The anthropologist hesitated. Her eyes went to Marcus and back to Roma.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Thanks for the information about the ring,” he said to Roma. “Dr. Abbott and I need to get back to work.”
Roma ignored him, or maybe his words didn’t register. “What are the initials on that ring?” she said again. “I can see a T. What are the other two letters?”
Her hand was at her side and her fingers were moving, bending, flexing, then closing into a fist again. I touched her arm. “Roma, we should go check on Lucy and the other cats,” I said.
But her entire focus was on Dr. Abbott. “T.A.K.,” she repeated, her voice low and insistent. “For Thomas Albert Karlsson.”
It couldn’t be her father’s ring. Even if he’d changed his name—and it appeared that he had—how could his high school ring have ended up in the ground with the bones of someone who’d died in 1924?
Usually I’m not that slow.
“Those are the initials, aren’t they?” Roma asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Abbott said, in a voice so quiet I almost missed the word.
Roma swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she looked out across the grass and dirt to where the skull and a few other bones were resting on a tarp. “That’s my father,” she whispered.
4
“What do you mean, that’s your father?” Marcus asked, eyes narrowed in confusion.
I put my arm around Roma’s shoulder. “We don’t know who that is,” I said. “We have to let Dr. Abbott get back to work so she can figure that out.”
Roma turned her head to look at me. She opened her mouth to say something then closed it again. Her gaze went back across the field.
I gave her shoulder a squeeze so she’d look at me again. “Even if it is your father’s class ring, it doesn’t mean that’s…him.”
“It’s his ring,” she said in a low voice.
“Roma, are you sure?” Marcus asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. I knew he liked Roma, as a person, not just for all the work she did with the cat colony and pretty much every other stray animal in the area.
“I have a picture somewhere of him wearing it,” she said. She couldn’t take her eyes off those bones spread on a blue tarp. “I’ll see if I can find it.”
He nodded.
“He walked out on us,” Roma continued, “when I was a little girl. At least that’s what I thought. My mother always said he was just too young for the responsibility of a family.”
“It’s just a ring,” Marcus said. “We don’t know how it ended up out here. Let Dr. Abbott do her job. Let me do my job. I’ll call you later.”
“C’mon, Roma, let’s go,” I said. I had no idea who those remains belonged to, but I knew it wasn’t good for her to be standing there, staring out at them. The pain I could see in her pale, still face made my chest hurt.
I looked at Marcus, and mouthed the words thank you. He nodded.
We made our way back along the edge of the field. I clenched my teeth, concentrating on not stumbling on the slippery, uneven ground. When we got level with the back of the carriage house Roma stopped and faced me. “Can we check on the cats and…and leave all of this until after? Please?”
I nodded. “Of course we can.”
Derek let us duck under the yellow crime scene tape and I followed Roma into the old building, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light. My ankle hurt every time I took a step and I tried to concentrate on the cats, on Roma, on anything else to distract myself. “What are we looking for?” I said.
Roma rubbed the top of her shoulder. “I don’t really know,” she said. “I’d feel better if I knew Lucy was here. The rest of the cats follow her lead.”
Lucy wasn’t the largest cat, but she was the undisputed leader of the feral cat colony. She may have been a tiny calico, but she had the heart and the spirit of a jungle cat.
There was no sign of Lucy anywhere. “Why don’t we take a look at the shelters,” Roma said.
The cat shelters were made from oversized plastic storage bins, well insulated to keep the cats warm during the freezing Minnesota winter. They sat in the far corner of the building in a space that had probably once been used to keep feed for the horses. Harry Taylor—the son, not the father—had made a raised platform for the shelters to sit on, and straw bales around the three walls added extra insulation and warmth.
I squinted in the dim light. There wasn’t so much as a twitching whisker to be seen. Beside me Roma let out a slow breath.
“The cats could be asleep,” I whispered. “They could be out prowling around. They’re probably okay.”
She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, between her eyes. “You’re right,” she said. “I just don’t want them to get spooked and run.”
I craned my neck, looking for some movement, some sign that some or any of the cats were around. Something caught my eye near the farthest stack of straw bales. I crossed my fingers it was a cat and not a field mouse.
“Lucy, c’mere puss,” I called softly.
Roma looked at me like I was crazy. “That’s not going to work,” she said.
The cats were nobody’s pets. They were skittish around people—even the volunteers they saw regularly. They didn’t come when they were called. They were a lot more likely to bolt, but Lucy and I had a rapport that was impossible to explain.
I put a hand on Roma’s arm. “Hang on a second,” I said. I took a couple of steps closer to the shelter space and crouched down, biting my tongue so I didn’t groan out loud.
“Lucy,” I called again. I kept my eyes on the corner where I thought I’d seen that flash of movement and held my breath.
I saw the ears first. They poked up over the top of a straw bale, followed by the rest of a furry face. Lucy’s furry face.
My shoulders sagged with relief. The small, calico cat tipped her head to one side and stared at me, almost as though she was wondering what the heck I wanted.
“She’s fine,” I said to Roma.
“As long as Lucy is here the other cats should stay around too,” she said.
Lucy meowed and ducked back behind the straw. I had to put my good hand down on the rough wooden floor to push myself upright. My ankle objected and I almost fell over sideways.