Page 181 of Cold, Cold Bones

“Not this one.”

“What else did CSU find at Shagbark?” Katy dropped her chin and swirled the ice in her glass.

We hadn’t talked about that. Until now, she hadn’t asked.

“Each item will be listed on the evidence log,” I said, then took a very long swig.

Reacting to my evasiveness, Katy turned my way. “Seriously, Mom? You think I can’t handle a full sitrep?”

I set my chilled glass on the brick at my feet.

“Surgical equipment. Rope. A freezer that yielded human hair and skin cells. Hundreds of news stories on me and my old cases, going back years. I’m sure the tech guys will find a motherlode of incriminating info on her computer. Being a cop, Henry also had access to inside intel. There’s some of that—police reports, specialist reports, coroner’s reports.”

“And the gun and garrot, of course.”

“Guns. And a knife and a sap.”

“Probably what she used to hit you on the head.”

“The lady liked to be armed.”

“So, no surprises.” Katy sucked the juice from her lemon wedge.

“One. Sort of. Look at this.”

I handed over my phone and showed her a CSU image Slidell had forwarded to me. Pictured was a lighted magnifier lamp, much like the one I use at the MCME. Below the lamp was a slotted tray holding a Ziploc bag full of long grain white rice, and another containing a wad of polymer clay. Filling the remaining slots were a vial of magnifying oil, a Micron fine-tipped pen, and tiny stoppered vials.

Katy frowned at the assemblage, baffled. Or maybe her face was puckered from the straight hit of citrus.

When her eyes rolled up, I said, “She was into rice grain art. This is her kit.”

The frown held. Then understanding dawned.

“Henry was a miniaturist.”

“She belonged to some sort of miniaturist club or society. Got into the hobby via therapy when she was a teen.”

“Henry was in therapy as a kid?”

“After the move to California her parents sensed that something was off.”

“No shit.”

“That explains the GPS coordinates on Kwalwasser’s eyeball.” I stated the obvious.

“It surely do.”

“Don’t call me Shirley. Did I tell you that her full name was Donna Scott Henry?”

Katy raised her free hand in a “so what?” gesture. Then her eyes widened. “It was Henry who asked the Charleston County Coroner for a copy of the Cruikshank file. She signed the form with her initials. DSH.”

“Wish I’d figured that out earlier.”

There was another long silence. Except from the mockingbird.

“What’s happening with Kramden?” Katy asked.

“He’ll do time for kidnapping Olivia Lakin. And he confessed to tackling me outside his bus bunker. Claims he was defending his property. I’m not inclined to press a complaint, but if Slidell has his way something may come of that.”