"I can see the bones all right," replied the Sawhorse, "and they are admirable and distinct.
The bones are probably forty years old.
But at least it proves Fitzgerald's bones were a replacement.
She scraped bones from a plate into a hole she had dug in the sand.
"It's time we got working on these bones," the old man said.
Now, if we could get the sheriff's office to work that fast we could put this whole bones business to bed.
There, staring up at the group, nestled in an assortment of other bones, packed into a grubby plaid shirt, was a cracked white skull.
She was obsessed with them locating him and transporting his bones to the light of day.
"Her little friend Caleb knew the bones were there," Dean said.
I don't give a damn about a bunch of bones, but where do you get off saying The Lucky Pup Mine is yours?
Let's forget about the election and see what Martha's bones really look like.
In addition to the bones themselves, the box contained a ripped plaid flannel shirt, and nestled at the bottom, dirty jeans, boots, and yellowed, soiled undershorts.
If someone tampered with the real bones, we don't want to give them a chance to clean up whatever they might have left behind.
Someone dropped it when they switched the bones for the ones Fitzgerald found!
Where the make-believe bones were found?
I don't see the harm in Fred trying to find out whose bones Martha found.
It's hard to say there's no connection with the bones until we're sure there is a third Dawkins, who he or she is, and what the suit is all about.
In the eyes of the Deans, it was looking more and more as if person or persons unknown did in fact take the original bones and switch them for the theatrical imitations Fitzgerald dragged out of The Lucky Pup mine.
Cynthia Dean, in hoping for further confirmation that the bones had been switched, tried to contact the parents of Caleb Jones, Martha's friend who was with her in the mine.
The mock bones had been in storage for a couple of years—since the theater group went bust—in an unmarked trunk.
Switching the bones and killing him in the first place are two different acts—forty years apart.
Wouldn't the bones be taken for a stage prop?
When were the bones switched?
Remember, Caleb knew where to find the bones because someone told him.
That would be reason enough why the bones went undiscovered for four decades.
Why wouldn't whoever discovered the bones simply report what they found?
But the bones are fake.
"Then I spoke out of turn in front of our guests about the bones being real," she added.
Is that where the bones were found?
If your bones belong to someone who impregnated a young girl years ago, why do you care now?
Frankly, I could care less who your bones belong to.
But there were bones and now they're gone.
If he, Cynthia, and Fred were tasked with simply finding the identity of the old bones, the chore would be difficult at best and limited to Fred and his cronies researching old records.
Much as I'd like to, I won't ask her if her mother's maiden name was Plotke, nor will I tell her daddy's bones may be taking a motor home trip up the west coast—or that his pinkie is in your jewel case.
All that stuff looked 'old' to her—the bones, the clothing, everything.
I can't answer that for sure, but don't you think their sudden interest in the property and the discovery of the bones is quite a coincidence?
As much as Dean wanted to press his guest on the possibility that the bones were those of her father, he realized such a question was tasteless and inappropriate.
I got some news on the place where the bones were stored.
"If he'd do something like that—chase that poor lad down the mountain and then leave the scene—he'd switch the bones," Fred said.
The horse was an old, worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept coat, and bones that showed plainly through it; the knees knuckled over, and the forelegs were very unsteady.
It was a coffin with bones inside.
He felt it in his bones, just as he'd felt a soul-deep connection to her the moment he'd touched her.
He dreamed of bones and babies and lost little girls.
"I'm sure the bones will be the first thing Martha asks about when she calls," Cynthia said.
So whose bones are they?
Dean considered mentioning Martha's discovery of bones but decided not trespass on Jake Weller's vacation.
"The clothes are old even if the bones aren't," Dean said.
I figure them bones is another matter.
I was just pissed that some kids were messing around the mine— pulling that dumb stunt with the bones and all.
But the bones are rather interesting.
The fact that Mrs. Worthington's sister was playing tourist on the road for at least the next two weeks made prospects bleak for catching up with Martha's bones, at least in the near future.
Why would whoever switched the bones hide the real ones back in the trunk—in a place where they were sure to be discovered?
If word gets back to whoever switched the bones, they'll know we know what they did.
I'm still convinced that the identity of the bones somehow rests with that group.
While Dean had briefly touched on his search for Martha's bones at the park that morning, he and Cynthia now repeated the story in greater detail.
"If it had any bones, I ate them," replied the kitten, composedly, as it washed its face after the meal.
But I doubt the bones are the same.
Then she asked, Why do you say the bones are forty years old?
The bones weren't that old.
Or are their bones more brittle?