Free Mortal Remains by Peter Clement Page A

late.”
    “I mean why isn’t she home?”
    The vagaries of labor had sabotaged yet another evening of all three of them being together, but try and explain that to a four-year-old. “I told you, sometimes babies don’t want to come out on time,” he said, placing him in bed and tucking in his covers.
    “Can’t she make them?”
    “Sometimes, but not tonight.”
    “She could holler real loud at them, like she does for us when we’re playing outside, and it’s time to eat.”
    He grinned down at the budding obstetrical genius. “Mummy won’t be home until long after you’re asleep.”
    “I can stay awake.”
    “No, you can’t.”
    “Look. My eyes are open wide.” He scissored his lids apart with his fingers and grinned like some goofy space creature.
    Earl slowly reached toward him with twitching fingers. “Not for long.”
    Brendan started to giggle. “Yes, for long.”
    “But Mr. Tickle’s here.”
    His small hands flew out to grab Earl’s. “No, not Mr. Tickle,” he squealed, wriggling with delight in his bed. “Cuddle sandwich! Cuddle sandwich!”
    “Time to sleep, little man.”
    “Tomorrow morning?”
    “Hey, you’re as relentless as your mother.”
    “What’s ‘rentless’?”
    “Relentless. It means you never give up.”
    “Do I get a cuddle sandwich?”
    “Okay. Tomorrow morning, you can crawl into bed between Mummy and me, but not until the sun comes up.”
    “Promise?”
    “You bet. Now good night, and let’s see who can give the strongest hug.”
    Brendan’s arms flew around Earl’s neck and squeezed for all their worth. The embrace had the restorative power of a resuscitation. “Night, Daddy,” he said.
    Earl gently held him a second longer, pronounced him the winner, and turned out the light.
    A quarter of an hour later, alone in his own bed, except for Muffy sprawled on her back, he once again wrestled with what to tell Janet. There’d been small follow-up stories on the evening newscasts, and other New York papers posted updates on their web sites. The only new development was that the NYPD had turned the investigation over to the local authorities in the Adirondacks who had found the remains. Anyone with pertinent information on the case should contact Sheriff Dan Evans or Dr. Mark Roper, coroner. Earl recognized a slough when he saw it, having had his own share of unwanted work dumped on him.
    At first he’d felt relief. Recalling the sleepy countryside surrounding Chaz Braden’s estate, he couldn’t imagine there being much of a police force there. Any attention to her murder would probably focus on local acquaintances of hers. It might even be directed at Chaz again, and this time subject his alibi for the day she disappeared to the rigors of small-town scrutiny. After all, weren’t rural murders more apt to get solved than urban ones, what with everybody being into everybody else’s business? It was their equivalent to live theater. Rather than draw the curtains and remain uninvolved, people noticed things, stored them up, and kept them at the ready for later tellings. As long as the case was out of the NYPD’s hands, no one would be stirring up old memories in his former classmates, and he might be home free. So why say anything to Janet and worry her for nothing?
    Because he felt as if he was betraying her by staying silent.
    He rolled over and picked up the original, well-creased
New York Herald
article from his nightstand and studied it again. The name of the local coroner, Dr. Mark Roper, seemed vaguely familiar. Now why, he wondered, did it resonate?
    Then he remembered.
    Kelly had sometimes talked about a Dr. Roper. He was the man who encouraged her to go to medical school and whom she often visited, confiding her problems to him whenever she went up to Hampton Junction. He even counseled her to escape her marriage to Chaz.
    Could this Mark Roper be the same man? Hell, if he was, he must be in his early seventies. And that would mean trouble if Kelly