Dead on the Fourth of July (David Dean Mysteries)

Everyone moved closer as Fitzgerald ceremoniously opened the box. There, staring up at the group, nestled in an assortment of other bones, packed into a grubby plaid shirt, was a cracked white skull. Ginger jumped back with a scream, but the others who were closer simply laughed. It was obviously artificial.

"There, good citizens, is the result of a wasted day in the mountains." He turned to Dean. "Only a little kid could think that was real, and not a very smart little kid at that."

"It looks kind of real," Paulette said hesitantly from across the room.

"Maybe from back there," her husband answered, "but anyone would know it was a joke."

Joseph saw no humor. "I own The Lucky Pup mine. What gives you the right to go poking around up there?"

His question caught Fitzgerald totally off balance. "I looked up the ownership but the records were nearly fifty years old. Besides, blame Dean. He's the one who made this an official matter for the sheriff's office." Then he smiled. "I guess that means you now own a plaster skeleton!" He pushed the box forward with his foot toward Joseph Dawkins.

"He doesn't own shit!" snarled brother Paul. He turned to Joseph. "I don't give a damn about a bunch of bones, but where do you get off saying The Lucky Pup Mine is yours? That's not been decided-not by a long shot!"

"While you guys straighten the business end, I'll just leave this junk here. I'm a little busy with real law enforcement." Then he added, "Too bad you folks don't vote." He turned and looked at Dean as he spoke. "I figured this county deserves a more astute sheriff than the current candidate, so I tossed my hat in the ring this morning."