Free Death in Cold Water by Patricia Skalka

still lunchtime and, hoping that they could have a quick bite together, Cubiak called to see if she’d eaten. She hadn’t, and so he stopped in town for sandwiches. When he arrived, he found that Cate had walked to the small beach north of the village and that she’d brought Butch with her.
    â€œThe poor thing seemed restless. I think the kittens are stressing her a bit and I figured she could stand a break,” Cate said as the dog scampered away. They ate sitting on a log that had come ashore in a recent storm and watched Butch trundle back and forth across the sand.
    Cubiak reached for Cate’s hand. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said.
    She smiled. “Me, too.”
    â€œI missed you.” Cubiak wanted to say more but Butch was barking, demanding attention. She’d wandered into the rolling mounds of soft dunes along the road and raced back toward them. Almost smiling, she bounded down the sand with a small branch in her mouth. When she reached Cubiak, she dropped the stick at his feet and waited patiently while he stripped off the leaves. He hurled the twig into the water, and the dog leapt into the waves. For several minutes the game went on.
    Overhead, tiers of cloud pillows floated against a backdrop of brilliant blue.
    â€œIt’s a Georgia O’Keeffe sky,” Cate said as she looked across the bay. “You’ve seen the painting at the Art Institute.”
    Was it a question or a statement? Cubiak wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been to the Art Institute since he was a kid on a school field trip but was embarrassed to admit as much to Cate. True, he had seen pictures of the famous painting but he wasn’t sure if that counted.
    â€œI . . . ,” he said and stopped. The beach was suddenly empty. The dog had disappeared. “Where’s Butch?” he said.
    â€œThere,” Cate said. She pointed to the far end of the sand where Butch had emerged from a patch of tall grass bearing another treasure.
    The new stick was long and slender. As the dog ran toward them it shimmered pearly white in the sun. Delighted with her performance, Butch deposited the stick at their feet and sat panting.
    â€œGood girl,” Cubiak said.
    He stroked the top of Butch’s head as Cate bent over for a closer look.
    â€œOh, God,” she said, pulling back. “I think it’s a bone.”
    They were both silent a moment. Then Cate spoke again. “Do you think it’s human?”
    Cubiak went down on one knee and picked it up. “It might be,” he said.
    â€œHow’d it get here?”
    â€œProbably washed ashore from somewhere out there.”
    Wordlessly they looked toward the water. From the beach, the shoreline followed a spit of land that extended out toward the lake and then curled down into a long tail that ran parallel to the beach before it tapered off in a pile of rocks and scrub trees. The sheltered bay lay inside the curving sweep of terrain, but on the far side, the vast expanse of Lake Michigan stretched to the horizon.
    â€œSo many shipwrecks, and with the currents . . .” Cate’s voice trailed off.
    â€œIt could be from anywhere,” the sheriff said, completing her thought.
    Holding the bone seemed an oddly intimate act. Cubiak loosened his grip. The piece was solid and surprisingly heavy. It was narrower at one end and slightly bowed where it grew wider at the other end. The surface was gouged and pitted, worn by repeated contact with underwater rocks and stones on the beach. There were two nicks in the middle. Teeth marks, Cubiak thought as he touched them gently. They were too worn down to have been made by Butch and probably were the work of other dogs or carnivores on the prowl. “It’s pretty worn, probably bleached by the sun, too,” he said.
    Cate knelt beside him. “In Paris there are a couple hundred miles of underground tunnels filled with millions of human bones.”
    Cubiak