"I told her what we found and that we believed her and we're closer to finding the man's identity. There wasn't time to ask her anything. She said she'd try and call when she got the chance. Then the line went dead."

Westlake reached over and took her arm. "But the bones are fake. We all saw them. Shouldn't you tell the child it was all a big joke?"

Before she could answer, Joseph Dawkins came up the steps with Fred O'Connor close at his heels. Mrs. Lincoln hopped down, stretched languidly, looked at Dawkins and hissed.

"What about the bones?" Dawkins asked as he waved a foot at the cat, who scurried back and repeated her greeting.

"Nothing," Cynthia said, now realizing she'd spoken with unwise candor as she bent down and picked up her pet.

She turned away from Dawkins, and with a forced smile at Pumpkin and Westlake, left the porch. Dean followed close behind, with Fred O'Connor trailing.

The three entered the Dean's office. Fred closed the door. "What was that all about?" the old man asked.

"Martha called." Cynthia related the conversation to Fred. "Then I spoke out of turn in front of our guests about the bones being real," she added. "I'm sorry. It was stupid of me to open my mouth."

"No harm done," Dean answered. "It might get the pot boiling a bit. If word gets back to whoever switched the bones, they'll know we know what they did." He turned to Fred. "What did you learn at the library on your poking expedition?"

Fred plunked down in a side chair and began sorting through his notes like a professor beginning a lecture. "I zeroed in on 1961," he said. "I read all the weekly newspapers and there was no mention of any foul play, but this little ad caught my attention." He adjusted his glasses and read. "'If anyone knows the whereabouts of Josh, last name unknown, contact Miss Edith Plotke on 6th Street.' It was repeated for three weeks. In September, there was another ad. 'Reward for information leading to Josh, last name unknown, worked around Ouray this past year as a miner, foreman, or manager. Contact Ed Plotke, on 6th Street.' That was only in the paper for one week. What do you make of it?"

"Sounds to me Josh might have been something of a cad," Cynthia said as she glanced at her husband.

"If I could establish some connection to Paul Dawkins, Sr.," Fred said, "or The Lucky Pup, I'd have something."

"Careful," Dean cautioned. "You're skating on thin ice, Mr. Juror."

"I wonder who Josh is?" Cynthia asked, already knowing the answer.




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