Free Silver's Bones by Midge Bubany

mother kinda looked down her nose at us farmers, and now her daughter is one.” Her mouth turned up in a slight smile.
    â€œWould you have an address for Aubrey?”
    â€œNo,” Mrs. Dawson said.
    â€œWhere is the Summers’s place from here?” Troy asked.
    â€œGo back a half-mile. First driveway on your right,” Mr. Dawson said.
    â€œDo you have their phone number? I’d like to stop and talk to them.”

 
    Chapter 7
    T he Summers’s farmyard was bordered with old farm machinery, broken wagons, buckets, boards, piles of used barbed wire fencing, and a rusty 1973 Impala on blocks. The buildings were three years past needing a paint job, including the two-story white farmhouse. It was quite a contrast to the impeccably kept Dawson place.
    A large woman opened the patio door on the deck and waved us in. A ramp up to the deck had been installed next to a set of stairs. Mrs. Summers was a round-faced blonde with an abundance of freckles. She was dressed in a black T-shirt that stretched tightly across her large bosoms, and the hems of her jeans shorts were pulled up along her inner thighs at a steep diagonal.
    We showed her our badges and introduced ourselves. She said to call her Patty and explained her husband, Jim, was out in the field. We followed her into the kitchen, where the aroma of simmering meat filled the air. The lid bounced on a crock-pot, allowing puffs of steam to escape.
    The outdoor clutter was mirrored inside. The kitchen counters were so chock-full of shit, the only workspace was near the sink, where potatoes, carrots and onions lay.
    â€œAre we interrupting a meal preparation?” I asked.
    â€œNo problem. Dinner’s not for a while.”
    I remembered that on the farm, dinner was the noon meal and supper was in the evening.
    â€œFranny just called to tell me you found Silver’s jewelry on the body.”
    Jesus. “Did she ask you not to tell others?” I asked.
    â€œNo. Was she supposed to?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. It won’t be official until the remains are identified with dental records and DNA testing,” said Troy.
    â€œBut Franny says it’s her.”
    Troy said, “It would be better if you didn’t talk to the media. I’m surprised they didn’t follow us over. They’re camped out at the end of the Dawsons’s driveway.”
    â€œYeah, she warned me. I don’t think it’ll be as bad as fifteen years ago because now they know the body isn’t buried on our land. What a nightmare that was! You pray they find her . . . but not on your place. You know?”
    â€œDoes your house have the same layout as in ’97?” Troy asked.
    She chuckled. “Unfortunately, yes. We can’t afford to remodel like Franny and Ray did. But I wouldn’t trade lives with them for anything. Such heartache.” She pointed to the patio door. “Oh, but we didn’t have the patio door and deck then. We had to enter through the back porch.”
    We followed her to small square porch housing a chest freezer, a sink, and a board with coat hooks from which dirty outdoor garments hung.
    â€œCould someone have come in the other porch in front?” I asked.
    â€œMaybe, but back at the time it was the toy room. Filled with Legos, trucks, and what not. They would’ve had a hard time navigating through. I use it for storage now.”
    â€œWas there anything out of place when you came home? Any sign of forced entry?” Troy asked.
    â€œNothing we could see. But nobody locked doors back then.”
    â€œDid you happen to find an earring here?” I asked.
    She shook her head.
    â€œDid you miss anything—like, say, a bed sheet?”
    â€œNo, I’m sure not.”
    Troy gave me a puzzled look.
    â€œCan we have a look at the layout of your house?” Troy asked.
    â€œSure.”
    As we followed Mrs. Summers through the kitchen, I glanced at the front porch. It