“The real question is, why did Nemeth have synthetic decomp? I found that in his pack. Survival gear I get. But eau de decomp?”
My gaze is still on Marge. Her weathered face has gone blank. She is sitting perfectly still.
Luciana eyes the two of us, the tension now clear in the room. “Okay.” Luciana murmurs the release command to Daisy, who reluctantly slinks back to her. Daisy should be getting her reward toy and heaps of praise right now. But even the canine seems to understand there’s something else going on here.
I address my comments to Marge: “Your sister is the first one who went missing. Nearly twenty years ago, in fact.”
The diner owner doesn’t say anything. The sheriff doesn’t interrupt, letting me play it out.
“I’m not an expert in murder,” I comment casually. “I’m about missing persons because, God help me, I really can’t stand gore. But I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that when it comes to serial killers, the first victim is always the most important.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marge manages. “You need to leave, all of you. Nemeth is already at death’s door. Hiding the smell of a cadaver in his bed? Is this your idea of a joke?”
“Now,” I continue as if she’d never spoken, “we don’t know the identities of the bodies in Devil’s Canyon yet. That will take some time, right, Sheriff?”
He nods.
“But, from the moment I arrived in Ramsey, I’ve been hearing about at least six people who’ve disappeared around here. Old missing persons cases, new discovery of human remains. This is an equation I understand. Last night I looked up articles on the various persons who’d vanished. Which brought me to a local case. Jessica Santi. Your sister.”
“That was a terrible tragedy. No need to bring it up—”
“Was it an accident the first time? Maybe you and your sister were hunting together in the woods and your gun went off? Or you two got into a fight and in the heat of the moment you pulled the trigger?”
“Stop it—”
“You got your parents’ log cabin out of it, you becoming the sole heir and all. Is such a thing worth killing over? I wasn’t sure. So I went to check it out last night.”
Marge goes pale. She opens her mouth; nothing comes out.
“My car,” Luciana mutters.
The sheriff is watching us all intently. I notice he has his hands close to his gun. If Marge has killed as many people as I think she has, that’s a good call.
“Did you call your longtime friend Nemeth, guru of all things wilderness, to help you out? Was it his idea to hide your sister’s body in Devil’s Canyon, a place few visit and where even fewer probably know about the hidden spaces beneath the rocks?”
Marge doesn’t speak.
“Is that how the two of you became lovers?” I venture further, genuinely curious. “You bonded over your sister’s dead body? Nothing like a shared secret to bring a couple close. But you didn’t stop there. The two of you . . . the need to protect your sister’s grave from discovery, frustration with the tourists taking over your town. You did it again. And again. And again.
“That morning, when Timothy O’Day’s friends ran into your diner looking for help, they had no idea what they were handing you and your lover. Not your next mountain rescue, but your next victim.”
I can hear a slight change in the machine behind me. Nemeth regaining consciousness? I think he should. I think he owes us that much.
“Marge,” Sheriff Kelley interjects now, voice stern. “Is this true? You know we have forensic experts crawling all over the damn place. They’re gonna figure it out. Better to speak up now, when I’m still in a position to help you out. Because once the FBI arrives . . .”
“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Marge delivers in clipped tones. “I think the poor girl’s still suffering from the trauma of her experience. Which is why novices have no business hiking through backcountry.”
“Your parents’ hunting cabin, Marge. I visited it, remember? I also possibly broke into it. But you didn’t hear that from me, Sheriff,” I add quickly. “Another thing everyone knows from crime novels: Serial killers always take trophies. Those bodies. All of them missing their clothes, backpacks, possibly jewelry. Had to go somewhere.”
A single tremor runs down Marge’s spine.
I turn my attention to the sheriff. “Send your deputies, notify the feds—hell, send in the marshals. But on that property, you’ll find everything you’re looking for. Doesn’t Wyoming have the death penalty? Feds do. Trust me, Marge, this novice will happily return just to watch you fry.”