“No, Papa!” Britta flew to his side, stroking his arm in an effort to calm him.
“Killing the man would be murder, Mr. Anderson,” the sheriff said. “You’d probably hang for it. I suggest you get control of yourself and wait for the investigation.”
“And how long will that take?” Lars stormed. “If you don’t round up that devil now, he’ll be on his way out of the country, just like last time.”
“Mr. Dollarhide has been cautioned not to leave town,” the sheriff said. “If he’s responsible, the law will make him pay.”
Kristin had been listening. When she’d set up her practice in Blue Moon, she’d been aware that serving as coroner might become part of the job. She certainly hadn’t looked forward to it, but now, suddenly, she saw it as an urgent way to move forward.
Now she motioned the sheriff outside, onto the porch. “You’ve dealt with Mr. Anderson before,” she said. “You know he can be difficult. But he’s a father who loved his daughter. He deserves answers as soon as we can get them. So does his family. If you have Gerda’s remains, I could do an exam now. Would that be possible?”
“My deputy’s bringing in the body on a cart. There’s a storage room with a gurney in the rear of the jail, but—”
“No, have him bring her to my surgery. I’ll have everything I need there. What about her baby?” The question was vital for what she needed.
“It’s with the body. She was holding it in her arms.”
Emotion tore at Kristin’s heart. But she was a doctor with a job to do. “Get your deputy to bring her to my place. I’ll talk with the Anderson family and meet you there.”
As the sheriff left, Kristin went back inside to face Gerda’s family. Inga was sitting up on the sofa. Britta sat beside her, one arm around her mother’s shoulders. Lars was pacing the floor. His fists were clenched, his face flushed with rage.
“Please sit down, Lars,” Kristin said. “I have something important to say.”
“I don’t care what you say,” Lars snapped. “If you’re defending that no-good half-brother of yours, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m not defending anyone. But we all need to know the truth. The sheriff’s men are bringing Gerda’s body to my surgery. I’ll be examining her in the hope of finding out how she died and whether anyone, including Mason, was responsible. I promise to tell you everything—no matter how painful it might be.”
“Leave her alone!” Lars thundered. “We already know how she died. And we know who was responsible.”
“Stop it, Lars.” Inga was on her feet, shaky but defiant as she faced down her towering husband. “This must be done. We need to know the truth. Go ahead, Kristin. If you need permission, you have it from me.”
“Thank you, Inga,” Kristin said, although she already had permission from the sheriff. “As for you, Lars, I’ll get back to you soon as I can—it shouldn’t be more than an hour or two. Promise me you’ll stay here with your family while I do my work. They’ll be needing you.”
“Just don’t take too long,” Lars growled. “That bastard got away once. He’s not getting away again.”
* * *
By the time Kristin arrived home, the horse-drawn cart, with Gerda’s remains swaddled in a canvas sheet, was waiting outside the gate. The sheriff was there as well. The two men grasped the canvas by either end, lifted the body off the cart, and carried it through the door, across the front room, and into the surgery. Neither of them spoke. This was all that remained of a beautiful girl and a child who would never draw breath. Silence was all the respect they could pay.
With the wrapped body laid on Kristin’s operating table, the young deputy was given leave to go outside and wait. The sheriff remained behind.
“I know you didn’t invite me,” he said as Kristin donned a protective coat and pulled on rubber gloves. “But since there might be an inquest, and especially since a relative of yours is involved, it could prove useful to have a witness.”
“I understand,” Kristin said. “In fact, I was expecting you to stay. Take that chair in the corner. You can sit as close as you like. I’ll tell you what I’m finding.”
In her hospital training, Kristin had assisted in autopsies. This examination would fall far short of those. In this room, with its limited resources, she wasn’t equipped to run tests, bathe the body, or open it and remove the organs—nor did she see any need. This would be a simple inspection of what she could see and feel to determine, as best she could, what had led to Gerda’s death. She could only hope it would be enough.
The sheriff had moved the plain wooden chair to a spot about ten feet away, at an angle that would give him a clear view. “Will you be all right?” Kristin asked him.
“I’ll have to be.”
“If you get queasy, just get up and leave. The bathroom’s across the hall.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Then let’s begin.” She peeled back the canvas covering the head. There was Gerda, her face as white and still as Carrera marble. Only a long scratch down her cheek marred her beauty. Such a waste of a young life. Kristin fought back tears. She was a doctor, doing her job. She continued the examination, talking as her hands moved through the matted hair and down to the throat.
“Dry weed matter imbedded in the scratch. No other marks. No sign of swelling or bruising on her head. No bruises or contusion marks on her neck.”
Now that the shock of seeing Gerda had passed, Kristin pulled back the rest of the bloodstained canvas. There she saw what she’d been most anxious to find. Cradled between Gerda’s side and her arm was the unwashed body of her infant. The tiny girl was no bigger than a week-old kitten, but her fingers and toes had formed, as well as eyebrows, eyelashes, nails, and facial features—all typical of a fetus at four months. The sight was heartbreaking, but it proved one thing. Mason was telling the truth.
This little one couldn’t have been his.
The baby would have been conceived sometime in March. Mason hadn’t returned to Blue Moon and met Gerda until April.
The identity of the father was easy enough to guess. Gerda had been distraught when Ezra decided to move away with his parents. Although she might not have known it, she must have already been pregnant with Ezra’s child.
If the sheriff hadn’t been here, Kristin would have dropped everything and raced to the Andersons’ to tell the family what she’d discovered. But she couldn’t leave now. One more vital question had yet to be answered. What had triggered Gerda’s miscarriage, and had that been the cause of her death?
After wrapping the infant in a flannel receiving blanket, she took a pair of sharp scissors and cut through the blood-stiffened layers of clothing to expose the body down the front. The sheriff’s stoic expression didn’t change. If the man felt any emotion, he kept it under control.
Gerda’s corset was laced to excruciating tightness, probably to hide her pregnancy. Could that have caused her to miscarry? Not likely, but she wouldn’t rule it out, Kristin mused as she cut through the stubborn busk.
Gerda’s hands were skinned and embedded with weed matter, as if she’d fallen into the field and caught herself. But fallen how? Had she jumped? Maybe even been pushed? There were stems and stickers embedded in her skirt as well, including the bodice.