Beastly Bones: A Jackaby Novel
(eBook)

In the second installment of the New York Times bestselling series, detective of the supernatural R.F. Jackaby and his assistant Abigail Rook follow a case to a paleontological dig site in nearby Gad's Valley on the trail of a thief, a monster, and a murderer. In 1892, New Fiddleham, New England, things are never quite what they seem, especially when Abigail Rook and her eccentric employer, R. F. Jackaby, are called upon to investigate the supernatural. First vicious shape-shifters disguise themselves as a litter of kittens, and a day later, their owner is found murdered. Then in nearby Gad's Valley, bones from a recent dig mysteriously go missing, and an unidentifiable beast starts attacking animals and people, leaving mangled bodies behind. Charlie calls on Abigail for help, and soon Abigail and Jackaby are on the hunt-for a thief, a monster, and a murderer. In this highly anticipated sequel, Abigail and Sherlockian detective of the supernatural Jackaby follow a trail of mysterious deaths from New Fiddleham to nearby Gad's Valley. There they are reunited with exiled police detective Charlie Cane, and the three race to find the culprit before more lives are lost. William Ritter is an Oregon author and educator. He is the proud father of the two bravest boys in the Wild Wood, and husband to the indomitable Queen of the Deep Dark. Beastly Bones is the second book in his acclaimed New York Times bestselling Jackaby series. Chapter One "Follow my lead, Miss Rook," Jackaby said, rapping on the ornately trimmed door to 1206 Campbell Street. Were my employer a standard private investigator, those might have been simple instructions, but in the time I've been his assistant, I've found very little about Jackaby to be standard. Following his lead tends to call for a somewhat flexible relationship with reality. Tall and lanky, Jackaby swam in his long, brown coat. It looked like it might have once been an expensive garment, but it was now battered and affixed inside and out with myriad clinking, jingling pockets and pouches, each loaded with trinkets and tools he insisted were essential to his work. Around his neck he had wound a ludicrously long scarf, the ends of which brushed the cobblestones as he walked. On his head, stuffed over a dark mess of wild hair, was the main offender. Jackaby's cap, the knit monstrosity, was a patternless composite of uneven stitches and colors. The threads clashed with his scarf. They clashed with his coat. They even clashed with one another. Alone on a hat rack, the thing would have looked mismatched. Jackaby was not an ugly man. He kept himself clean-shaven, and always seemed to smell of cloves and cinnamon. In a fine suit and tie he might have been downright attractive to the right sort of girl, but in his preferred garb he looked, by all accounts, like an eccentric lunatic. He was fond of reminding me that "appearances aren't everything," but I dare say they aren't nothing, either. My employer can be single-minded about some things. Most things, in fact. The woman who answered the door appeared far too overwhelmed by her own concerns to bother about silly hats, anyway. Jackaby and I soon found ourselves ushered past the threshold and into an elegantly furnished sitting room. The house looked like so many of the regal English manors to which my mother had dragged me as a child. My father was a bit of an explorer-you may have read about the intrepid Daniel Rook-but my mother much preferred tradition and civility. Mother took full advantage of my father's notoriety to find her way into countless London garden parties, and she brought me along in the hopes that a little exposure would make me wish to be a proper lady as well. It generally made me wish instead that I could go outside and play in the dirt, like my father. In some ways, there was really nothing new about New England. Our current hostess looked as though she wo