Free Chesapeake Summer by Jeanette Baker Page B

Wade?”
    â€œI’ve seen hotter,” Wade replied, unwilling to be distracted. “There’s no blood anywhere but on the victim. Whoever this is was shot somewhere else and dumped.”
    Marshall nodded his head. “Terry Gilmore is on her way. She’s our new forensic anthropologist.” He looked around. “Has the photographer been here yet?”
    Carlisle exchanged a look with Wade. “He’s coming from Salisbury. He could have hitched a ride with you if anybody had thought of it.”
    Wade laughed. “You don’t want to work us too hard, now, do you, Blake?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œHow old do you think these bones are?” asked Wade.
    â€œIt’s hard to say.” Marshall scribbled something on his own clipboard. “I’ll do a field test after the photographer is through and then we’ll send everything to the crime lab. It may be that Terry Gilmore can be more specific but, either way, I’ll fax you the details as soon as I know.”
    Wade nodded. “Carlisle,” he asked. “Did you get a statement from the geologist?”
    Blake handed it over.
    Wade skimmed it quickly and handed it back. “How big is your office?” he asked.
    â€œBig enough for one at a time.”
    â€œThat’s too bad because there’ll be quite a few of us there until I’m satisfied we haven’t missed anything.”
    â€œI figured.” Blake glanced at his watch. “If we get back in time, I’ll have my deputy make a food run. With any luck, Verna Lee might be willing to throw in some of her potato salad with the sandwiches.”
    â€œI knew a Verna Lee in high school.” Wade stroked his jaw. “Verna Lee Washington. Pretty black girl with a knock-’em-dead body.”
    â€œThat would be her, except now she’s Verna Lee Fontaine.”
    Wade frowned at something in the distance. “I wouldn’t have figured her for a shopkeeper. She was smarter than the rest of us put together and not afraid to let everybody know it.”
    â€œShe came back from San Francisco about fifteen years ago and started up her business. It’s a health food store, and a little bit of everything else. Verna Lee’s a success story.”
    â€œMost people don’t come back to places like Marshy Hope Creek once they’ve had a taste of the big city.”
    Blake shrugged. “Verna Lee and her grandmother, Drusilla, don’t have any other family. That’s reason enough, I guess.”
    Wade acknowledged that it was. His attention was diverted by the photographer who had just arrived on the scene. “What took you so long?” he asked bluntly.
    â€œI’m backup for Ken Mitchell. I was in a movie theater.”
    â€œWatch where you’re stepping,” Wade warned him. “We need close-ups of the head wound, a full figure shot, any evidence we find and an orientation photo. Do you know what you’re doing?”
    The photographer, a young man with a black goatee and hoops in his ears, nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “This isn’t exactly new territory.”
    â€œGood.” Wade pulled out his dark glasses and settled into his watch-and-wait mode until the forensic anthropologist showed her face.
    Fifteen minutes later she was in the field, a tall woman in her forties, dressed in what looked like hospital scrubs and tennis shoes. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and knelt beside the body. Wade walked over to introduce himself.
    â€œI’ll be with you in a minute, Detective,” she said tersely.
    Wade backed away. He appreciated efficiency when he saw it in action.
    Jim Marshall approached him. “We’ve got a few other cases on the schedule. Is this one a high priority?”
    â€œWhat have you got?”
    â€œOne domestic homicide. Victim was strangled with a necktie.” Marshall looked up at the sky. “We’ve got a