The Skeleton's Knee by Archer Mayor Read Free Book Online

their former lives, either through pictures, or mementos, or even a single Mother’s Day card sent during a moment’s nostalgia.
    Abraham Fuller had been more successful than most. He had kept only his money, an indecipherable chart on his wall, a box of bullets, and an empty holster. Eccentric as it all seemed, I could only hope it would eventually speak to me in a voice I could understand.

4
    THE CABIN HAD NO PHONE , so I retraced my steps through the garden, along the overgrown path, and back to my car, where I’d earlier tossed the department’s new cellular phone as an afterthought.
    Tony Brandt had wanted me to investigate Fuller’s place alone to cut as low a profile as possible. It hadn’t been an unreasonable request, given the supposition that Fuller had brought his festering wound, and his bagful of money, from far beyond our jurisdiction. Chances were I would find a normal, empty house and nothing more. But I’d been nagged from the start by the thought that this case would not slip from our grasp quite as smoothly as we all seemed to be hoping.
    Harriet Fritter answered the detective squad’s private line on the first ring.
    “Hi, it’s Joe. You better send Tyler and the crime kit up here for a search. Who’s within easy reach to help him out?”
    “Ron and Willy.”
    I grimaced. As a team, Ron Klesczewski and Willy Kunkle made cats and dogs look mutually compatible.
    She caught my hesitation. “Want someone else?”
    “No. I don’t want to lose time.”
    “All right. Consider them on the way.”
    As I stood by the car, I felt rather than heard Fred Coyner behind me. He was standing out in the open, his back to the panoramic view, watching me, his hands empty, hanging loosely by his sides. I had the uncomfortable feeling he’d been there for quite a while.
    I was well used to the famous Vermont reticence. My own father considered anything beyond a few sentences a day to be idle chitchat. But that was while he was working, when talking usually meant taking time off to lean on a shovel. During off-hours, with his family or friends, he opened up some and the dormant humor I often saw in his eyes crept out, if only a little.
    I saw no such glint in Fred Coyner’s eyes. They were as cool and expressionless as water.
    “Mind if I ask some questions?” I inquired.
    “Wouldn’t make much difference if I did.” He turned his back to me to face the valleys and hills below us. I moved beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder.
    “You know Abraham Fuller well?”
    He shrugged. “Nope.”
    “Was that his real name?” The question was purely spontaneous, which I thought was a better approach than some textbook psychological angle he’d spot a mile off.
    There was a pause. His expression didn’t change, from what I could see of it, but I sensed he was surprised. “I suppose.”
    “So you had no personal connection to him.”
    He shook his head. “Not likely. He rented the place.”
    “For how long?”
    “Twenty years, about.”
    I resisted doing a double take, but just barely. Instead, I kept my voice as flat as his. “That’s quite a while. Looks like he led an exotic life—hot tub, the greenhouse, the garden. Unusual guy. What was he like?”
    “Wouldn’t know. He was a granola-head; kept to himself, which suited me fine.”
    “He pay the rent in cash?”
    Again, there was a pause, calculating this time. Coyner chewed his lower lip a while before answering. “Wasn’t that kind of rent. I didn’t use the place. It was being wasted, buried back there.”
    I guessed at a possible explanation for this incongruous generosity. “If you’re worried about the IRS, don’t be. I just want to know why Fuller died.”
    “Don’t give a damn about the IRS.”
    “They might give a damn if you haven’t declared his rent as income.”
    “He bartered—food for the house.”
    “And the electricity.” I remembered the wire looped through the trees between the houses.
    “That was my idea. I didn’t