Page 11 of Promise Keeper

I faced the ladder on the wall, widened my stance and put my palms on the bottom side of it. Liam ran between my feet, threatening to trip me. "Knock it off, Fuzzball!" I shouted. Then I pushed up with all my strength. It lifted from the hooks and balanced on my hands. It wobbled precariously. I didn't know how to get it down, how to get a grip on it. I didn't think this through. The ladder tipped and began to fall backward off my hands. Liam yipped and backed away, not willing to put any bets on me. I tried to steady it, but my arms weren't strong enough and they jerked back with the weight of the ladder. I lost my footing and went backward with it, kicking my feet like I was running in the air, hoping to gain some leverage. I hit the floor, and the ladder made a loud crash right behind me.

There are things a woman of a certain age shouldn't do. There's a time when a woman should realize she doesn't work out and can't lift heavy, awkward objects without busting her heinie. At least when that woman eats her weight in cookies most weeks. To say I was a little out of shape is to say the moon is only a little far from home. I was beyond out of shape.

Liam eased over to me and stopped beside my face, looking down at me. I think to see if I was still alive. Then he pounced, rolling around under my chin making doggie play time growls and demanding I rub his tummy.

"This wasn't some elaborate game," I told him, but I scratched him anyway. What else was I going to do while I lay there catching my breath? At least I wasn't laying there alone.

Then I heard the scratching from the opposite corner of the garage. Liam shot off of me and stood erect and alert, a low rumble in his throat. The scratching sounded again and he let out a stream of shrill barks, running toward the sound.

"No, Liam!" I yelled, trying to get up, but there were aches, and would be bruises. "Liam! It's a raccoon. Liam, come!"

Liam didn't listen. Liam should've gone to dog training with his brothers. "Treat!" I shouted. "Liam, treat! Go for a walk?" The W-word always worked.

He stopped and looked back at me, intrigued.

"Treat? Walk?" I repeated.

He gave one more glance at the corner, and hightailed it back over to me. I scooped him up, and hobbled out of the garage.

I wasn't sure where I wanted to end up when I was nothing but bones, but I was glad I made it out of the garage and today wasn't the day I needed to decide.

6

Iwas struggling to stay awake until Andy and Alexis Hartline arrived. I'd made tacos for dinner and ate too much. Now I was battling a food coma.

Ben paced the family room, reciting what he knew about the case, which was nothing more than what he'd known this morning at the Soapy Savant.

"Don't be nervous," I told him. "You'll do great."

"I've never been on TV," he said. "This is the first time I've given an update on the news about a case. My insides are Jello."

The doorbell rang.

"They're early," Ben said, his face white as a sheet.

"I'll get it," I said, trying not to smile at what I knew was a waste of nervous energy. He was more than prepared and he would do a great job on the news. My husband was an excellent police officer who was usually so confident and took anything that popped up during a case in stride. It seemed a TV crew was the only thing that could shake him.

My back twinged from my feat of strength in the garage that afternoon, so I wasn't moving at full speed. I really hoped I wasn't hobbling around in the morning. I hadn't had an achy knee for a month or so and now I'd gone and taken a fall flat on my back. I'd told Ben what happened and after he read me the riot act, he promised to seal off the attic vent tomorrow.

I opened the door to the coroner and a woman I didn't know. "Hello," I said. "Come in. Ben's in the family room."

"Thanks, Cam," Walter Keene, the coroner, said stepping inside. He was as old as my dad, but nowhere ready for retirement. He'd be running the morgue until he was on one of the tables himself. "This is Pamela Hodgeson," he said, "a forensic anthropologist from the University of Cincinnati."

Pamela was about my age, maybe a little younger since I tend to think of myself as mid-thirties still. She was tall and thin and had strawberry blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The strap of a messenger bag hung across her chest.

"Nice to meet you," I said, holding out my hand to shake hers. "I'm Officer Hayman's wife, Cameron."

"Likewise," she said. She smelled faintly of cinnamon, which I found surprising. I guess I would've thought anyone who worked with bones would smell dusty or like an old crypt.

"Come on back." I led them to the family room.

Ben stopped pacing. "Hi, Walter. Do you have news?"

Walter introduced Pamela, and she and Ben shook hands.

"I'll make coffee," I said.

"Please," Ben said, "sit down."

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