ground to crime scene.
At least if it had been a burial ground, Emily Hubrecht would have provided a diversion.
“Find anything?” Jane de la Rosa asked when Emily walked through the museum’s front door.
Emily couldn’t remember Jane or Jane’s mother not being a part of her life. Jane’s mother, Patti, used to work at the front desk of the Lost Dutchman Ranch. She’d been let go a few years ago. Jacob, Emily’s father, said it was because his girls were doing more. Emily knew it had more to do with Patti’s attempts to become more to him than just an employee.
Jane often filled in at the museum when Emily needed someone to spell her. What Jane didn’t know about history, she made up for with enthusiasm.
Hesitating and maybe just now letting it all sink in, Emily slowly said, “Yes.”
“Because you look like you dug all the way to Tucson.”
Since no cars were in the parking lot, meaning no visitors, Emily felt free to share, ending with “The skeleton was no more than two feet down right in the middle of nowhere. Not even close to the old trail leading to the Superstition Mountains.”
“Poor man.” Jane immediately bowed her head, engaging in a silent prayer. Emily followed her example, reminding herself that what she’d found today had been someone’s son, possibly husband, maybe father, maybe friend, and deserved respect.
“Find anything else?” Jane asked.
The skeleton had waited decades to be discovered. The Maricopa County medical examiner would no doubt make him wait a few more days. After all, the skeleton wasn’t going anywhere. Sam Miller hadn’t even bothered telling Emily not to talk about the discovery. Already, four construction workers knew and probably four wives and maybe even a child or two. In Apache Creek, when a girl sneezed, the bless you might come from three miles away. That’s how fast news traveled.
“I stopped digging when I got to the pelvis, which let me know I had a male. There was a knife right next to the hip bone.”
“Recognize it?” Jane’s eye lit up.
“Of course not. I left it half-buried. No way do I want to compromise a crime scene. All I’d need to do is anger the wrong official and suddenly my position identifying local Native American sites would be in jeopardy. I told Donovan Russell not to build there.”
It was true, too. Quite a few people wanted the past to be the past and let progress reign. Case in point, Donovan Russell and the absent George Baer, who’d employed him. Lately, it felt as if she and the townspeople of Apache Creek were in opposition with the mayor and a few other major players, like business owners and Realtors. Their little town was in danger of losing what Emily considered its heart. Others might call it quaintness. Not Emily. Apache Creek’s history set it apart from every other small town. How could people not appreciate it?
“Those acres of land have been for sale since before you were born,” Jane said. “You can’t be mad because someone finally purchased them and is now building. You’ve given Donovan enough grief.”
“You’re sticking up for him because he’s a good tipper.”
“And careful with his money, an overall nice guy. Besides, I’ve known you since you were in diapers. You get your teeth in something and you don’t know when to let go.”
“I’m right more than I’m wrong. And—” Emily wagged her finger “—when I was in diapers you were just eight years old and thought Batman was real.”
“He is real,” Jane teased before sobering. “You’ve got to accept that change happens, and for a reason. I can understand you wanting to preserve a two-hundred-year-old Native American village, but I don’t see a village there. Sometimes you go too far.”
Emily knew where this was going.
“You,” Jane continued, “need to forgive Randall Tucker for tearing down the Majestic Hotel. It stood empty for more than twenty years.”
Now greeting visitors who turned off the highway was an apartment complex that looked like a million others. Boring. And she’d purchased the remnants of the Majestic’s history on her own dime or they’d have been lost. It was history. Apache Creek used to be a favorite shooting location for Hollywood Westerns, and the Majestic had been the hotel the actors, directors and such had stayed at. She had old movie posters, props and even an old script from a Roy Rogers flick.
It wasn’t that she loved Roy Rogers—she didn’t remember him. Or that she loved old Westerns. She didn’t. But, when looking at history, the way the movies depicted culture and mind-set was priceless, a teaching opportunity.
The couple that had been here this morning hadn’t had a clue. They loved the persona of John Wayne, not the real man or the real history.
Looking in her mirror, she had to laugh. She could be right out of an old Western herself, with a dark smudge across her nose, sunburned cheeks and mussed hair. Jane hadn’t been far off when she’d questioned how much dirt Emily brought back with her. She just wished her time spent had done something to halt Donovan’s progress.
One custom-built home, with a backdrop of the Superstition Mountains, would surely lead to another until soon there’d be a gated community—pimples marring the mountains’ beauty.
Jane already had her purse on her shoulder when Emily returned to the front. “Two families stopped by. They loved the place.”
Yeah, Emily loved it, too, but she needed a thousand more people to show a little love if the museum was going to survive.
* * *
Donovan looked at the calendar: Friday. Exactly one week since he’d uncovered the bones. He hated being behind schedule. Once Emily had determined the remains were fairly recent and a crime scene, she’d filled out a report, turning it over to the medical examiners.
What a show that was. The medical examiner and his crew had arrived this past Tuesday—guess Monday was a busy day—with what looked like tool chests. The remains were carried away in individual labeled bags on Thursday.
“What now, boss?” John Westerfield asked, bringing Donovan’s attention back to the present.
“Not a circular drive, that’s for sure.” Donovan glanced at the cordon tape still waving in the tepid Arizona wind. In the past week, what they’d accomplished was piecemeal at most. He’d found it distracting to deal with the various law-enforcement personnel as well as reporters looking for clues that clearly weren’t there.
Except for the knife.
Since the discovery, he and John had done indoor work with lots of interruptions that had Donovan—who’d been instructed by Baer to cooperate fully but not to mention his name—saying, “the homeowner” this and “the homeowner” that...
Smokey and his cousins had taken the whole week off and Donovan could only hope they’d show up on Monday. When, according to Sam Miller, they could resume work with no one interrupting them.
Donovan was disturbed
