~ Charlaine Harris ~
hooked up. I reminded myself again I’d have to do something about that, and looked at the cat, now grooming herself with great concentration. “What am I going to do with you?” I muttered. I decided I’d leave her here for the night and call Parnell from my place. He could come get her in the morning. Some- how I hated to put her outside; she was an inside cat for the most part, I seemed to remember Jane telling me . . . though frankly I’d often tuned out when Jane chatted about the cat. Pet owners could be such bores. Madeleine would need a litter box; Jane had had one tucked away beside the refrigerator. It wasn’t there now. Maybe it had been taken to the vet’s where Madeleine had been boarded during Jane’s illness. It was probably sitting uselessly at the Engles’ house now.
I poked around in the trash left in Jane’s room from my cleaning out the closet. Sure enough, there was a box of the appropriate size and shape. I put it in the corner by the refrigerator in the kitchen, and as Madeleine watched with keen attention I opened cab- inets until I found a half-full bag of cat litter. I felt rather proud of myself at handling the little problem the cat presented so quickly; though, when I considered, it seemed Madeleine had done all the han- dling. She had gotten back to her old home, gained ~ 96 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
entrance, been fed and watered, and had a toilet pro- vided her, and now she jumped up on Jane’s armchair in the living room, curled into a striped orange ball, and went to sleep. I watched her for a moment envi- ously, then I sighed and began sorting papers again. In the fourth box I found what I wanted. The car- pet had been installed three years ago. So the skull had become a skull sometime before that. Suddenly I realized what should have been obvious. Of course Jane had not killed someone and put his head in the window seat fresh, so to speak. The skull had already been a skull, not a head, before Jane had sealed it up. I was willing to concede that Jane obviously had a side unknown to me, or to anyone, though whoever had searched the house must at least suspect it. But I could not believe that Jane would live in a house with a decomposing head in the window seat. Jane had not been a monster.
What had Jane been? I pulled up my knees and wrapped my arms around them. Behind me, Madeleine, who had observed Jane longer than anyone, yawned and rearranged herself.
Jane had been a woman in her late seventies with silver hair almost always done up in a regal chignon. She had never worn slacks, always dresses. She had had a lively mind—an intelligent mind—and good ~ 97 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
manners. She had been interested in true crime, at a safe distance; her favorite cases were all Victorian or earlier. She had had a mother who was wealthy and who had held a prominent place in Lawrenceton society, and Jane had behaved as though she herself had neither. She had inherited from somewhere, though, a strong sense of property. But as far as the liberation of women went—well, Jane and I had had some discussions on that. Jane was a traditionalist, and though as a working woman she had believed in equal pay for equal work, some of the other tenets of the women’s movement were lost on her. “Women don’t have to confront men, honey,” she’d told me one time. “Women can always think their way around them.” Jane had not been a forgiving person, either; if she got really angry and did not receive an adequate apology, she held a grudge a good long while. She was not even aware of grudge holding, I’d observed; if she had been, she would have fought it, like she’d fought other traits in herself she didn’t think were Christian. What else had Jane been? Conventionally moral, dependable, and she’d had an unexpectedly sly sense of humor.
In fact, wherever Jane was now, I was willing to bet she was looking at me and laughing. Me, with ~ 98 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
Jane’s money and Jane’s house and Jane’s cat and Jane’s skull.
After sorting more papers (I might as well finish what I’ve begun, I thought), I got up to stretch. It was raining outside, I discovered to my surprise. As I sat on the window seat and looked out the blinds, the rain got heavier and heavier and the thunder started to boom. The lights came on across the street in the little white house with yellow shutters, and through the front window I could see Lynn unpack- ing boxes, moving slowly and awkwardly. I wondered how having a baby felt, wondered if I would ever know. Finally, for no reason that I could discern, my feelings for Arthur ended, and the pain drained away. Tired of poring over receipts left from a life that was over, I thought about my own life. Living by myself was sometimes fun, but I didn’t want to do it forever, as Jane had. I thought of Robin Crusoe, the mystery writer, who had left town when my romance with Arthur had heated up. I thought of Aubrey Scott. I was tired of being alone with my bizarre problem. I was tired of being alone, period.
I told myself to switch mental tracks in a hurry. ~ 99 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
There was something undeniably pleasant about being in my own house watching the rain come down out- side, knowing I didn’t have to go anywhere if I didn’t want to. I was surrounded by books in a pretty room, I could occupy myself however I chose. Come on, I asked myself bravely, what do you choose to do? I al- most chose to start crying, but instead I jumped up, found Jane’s Soft Scrub, and cleaned the bathroom. A place isn’t really yours until you clean it. Jane’s place became mine, however temporarily, that afternoon. I cleaned and sorted and threw away and inventoried. I opened a can of soup and heated it in my saucepan on my stove. I ate it with my spoon. Madeleine came into the kitchen when she heard me bustling around and jumped up to watch me eat. This time I was not horri- fied. I looked over the book I’d pulled from Jane’s shelves and addressed a few remarks to Madeleine while I ate.
It was still raining after I’d washed the pot and the spoon and the bowl, so I sat in Jane’s chair in the liv- ing room, watching the rain and wondering what to do next. After a moment, the cat heaved herself up onto my lap. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about this liberty on the cat’s part, but I decided I’d give it a try. I stroked the smooth fur tentatively and heard the deep percolation start up. What I needed, I decided, ~ 100 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
was to talk to someone who knew Lawrenceton in depth, someone who knew about Carey Osland’s hus- band and the Rideouts’ tenant. I’d been assuming the skull came from someone who lived close by, and suddenly I realized I’d better challenge that assump- tion.
Why had I thought that? There had to be a reason. Okay—Jane couldn’t transport a body any distance. I just didn’t think she’d been strong enough. But I re- membered the hole in the skull and shuddered, feeling distinctly queasy for a moment. She’d been strong enough to do that. Had Jane herself cut off the head? I couldn’t even picture it. Granted, Jane’s book- shelves, like mine, were full of accounts about people who had done horrible things and gone unsuspected for long periods of time, but I just couldn’t admit Jane might be like that. Something wasn’t adding up. It just might be my own dearly held assumptions and preconceptions. Jane, after all, was a Little Old Lady.
I was worn out physically and mentally. It was time to go back to my place. I unseated the cat, to her dis- gust, and filled her water dish, while making a mental note to call Parnell. I stuffed my car full of things to throw or give away, locked up, and left. For Christmas, my mother had given me an ~ 101 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
answering machine, and its light was blinking when I let myself into my kitchen. I leaned against the counter while I punched the button to hear my messages. “Roe, this is Aubrey. Sorry I didn’t catch you in. I’ll talk to you later. See you at church tomorrow?” Ah oh. Tomorrow was Sunday. Maybe I should go to the Episcopal church. But since I didn’t always go there, wouldn’t it look a little pointed to show up right after I’d had a date with the pastor? On the other hand, here he was inviting me personally, and I’d hurt his feelings if I didn’t show . . . oh hell. “Hi, honey! We’re having such a good time John and I decided to stay for a few more days! Stop by the office and make sure everyone’s busy, okay? I’ll be calling Eileen, but I think it would impress everyone if you went yourself. Talk to you later! Wait till you see my tan!”
Everyone at Mother’s office knew that I was strictly an underling, and that I didn’t know jack about the real estate business, though it wasn’t uninteresting. I just didn’t want to work full-time for Mother. Well, I was glad she was having a great time on her second (lit- erally) honeymoon, and I was glad she’d finally taken a vacation of any sort. Eileen Norris, her second-in- command, was probably ready for Mother to come ~ 102 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
back. Mother’s force of character and charm really smoothed things over.
“Roe, this is Robin.” I caught my breath and prac- tically hugged the answering machine so I wouldn’t miss a word. “I’m leaving tonight for maybe three weeks in Europe, traveling cheap and with no reser- vations, so I don’t know where I’ll be when. I won’t be working at the university next year. James Artis is over his heart attack. So I’m not sure what I’ll be do- ing. I’ll get in touch when I come back. Are you doing okay? How’s Arthur?”
“He’s married,” I said to the machine. “He mar- ried someone else.”
I rummaged in my junk drawer frantically. “Where’s the address book? Where’s the damn book?” I muttered. My scrabbling fingers finally found it, I searched through it, got the right page, punched in numbers frantically.
Ring. Ring. “Hello?” a man said.
“Robin?”
“No, this is Phil. I’m subleasing Robin’s apart- ment. He’s left for Europe.”
“Oh, no,” I wailed.
“Can I take a message?” the voice asked, tactfully ignoring my distress.
~ 103 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
“So he’s going to be coming back to that apart- ment when he returns? For sure?”
“Yep, his stuff is all here.”
“Are you reliable? Can you give him a message in three weeks, or whenever he comes back?” “I’ll try,” the voice said with some amusement. “This is important,” I warned him. “To me, any- way.”
“Okay, shoot. I’ve got a pencil and paper right here.”
“Tell Robin,” I said, thinking as I spoke, “that Roe, R-O-E, is fine.”
“Roe is fine,” repeated the voice obediently. “Also say,” I continued, “that Arthur married Lynn.”
“Okay, got it . . . anything else?”
“No, no thank you. That’s all. Just as long as he knows that.”
“Well, this is a fresh legal pad, and I’ve labeled it ‘Robin’s Messages,’ and I’ll keep it here by the phone until he comes back,” said Phil’s voice reassuringly. “I’m sorry to sound so—well, like I think you’ll throw it in the wastebasket—but this is the only way I have to get in touch with him.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Phil politely. “And really, he will get this.”
~ 104 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
“Thanks,” I said weakly. “I appreciate it.” “Good-bye,” said Phil.
ìParnell? This is Aurora Teagarden.”
“Oh. Well, what can I do for you?”
“Madeleine showed up at Jane’s house today.” “That dang cat! We’ve been looking for her high and low. We missed her two days ago, and we were feeling real bad, since Jane was so crazy about that durn animal.”
“Well, she came home.”
“We sure got a problem. She won’t stay here, Au- rora. We’ve caught up with her twice when she started off, but we can’t keep chasing after her. As a matter of fact, we’re leaving town tomorrow for two weeks, going to our summer place at Beaufort, South Carolina, and we were going to check her back in the vet’s, just to make sure everything went okay. Though animals mostly take care of them- selves.”
Take care of themselves? The Engles expected pampered Madeleine to catch her own fish and mice for two weeks?
“Is that right?” I said, letting incredulity drip from my voice. “No, I expect she can stay at the house for ~ 105 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
that two weeks. I can feed her when I go over there and empty her litter box.”
“Well,” said Parnell doubtfully, “her time’s almost up.”
The cat was dying? Oh my Lord. “That’s what the vet said?” I asked in amazement.
“Yes, ma’am,” Parnell said, sounding equally amazed.
“She sure looks fat for a cat that sick,” I said doubtfully.
I could not understand why Parnell Engle suddenly began laughing. His laugh was a little hoarse and rusty, but it was from the belly.
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed with a little wheeze of joy, “Madeleine is fat for a cat that’s so sick.” “I’ll keep her then,” I said uncertainly. “Oh, yes, Miss Teagarden, thanks. We’ll see you when we come back.”
He was still barely controlling his chuckles when he hung up. I put down the receiver and shook my head. There was just no accounting for some people. ~ 106 ~
Chapter Six
A
As I retrieved my Sunday paper from my seldom- used front doorstep, I could tell it was already at least 83 degrees. The paper predicted 98 for the day, and I thought its forecast was modest. My central air was already humming. I showered and reluctantly put my hair up in hot curlers, trying to bring order to chaos. I poured my coffee and ate breakfast (a micro- waved sweet roll) while I burrowed through the news. I love Sunday mornings, if I get up early enough to re- ally enjoy my paper. Though I have my limits: I will only read the society section if I think my mother will be in it, and I will not read anything about next sea- son’s fashions. Amina Day’s mom owned a women’s clothing shop she had named Great Day, and I pretty much let her tell me what to buy. Under Mrs. Day’s ~ 107 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
influence I’d begun to weed out my librarian clothes, my solid-color interchangeable blouses and skirts. My wardrobe was a bit more diverse now.
The paper exhausted, I padded up the stairs and washed my glasses in the sink. While they dried, I squinted myopically into my closet. What was suit- able for the girlfriend of the minister? Long sleeves sounded mandatory, but it was just too hot. I scooted hangers along the bar, humming tunelessly to myself. Shouldn’t the girlfriend of the minister be perky but modest? Though perhaps, at nearly thirty, I was a bit old to be perky.
For a dizzying moment I imagined all the clothes I could buy with my inheritance. I had to give myself a little shake to come back to reality and review my wardrobe of the here and now. Here we go! A sleeve- less navy blue shirtwaist with big white flowers printed on it. It had a full skirt and a white collar and belt. Just the thing, with my white purse and sandals. All dressed, with my makeup on, I popped on my glasses and surveyed the result. My hair had calmed down enough to be conventional, and the sandals made my legs look longer. They were hell to walk in, though, and my tolerance time for the high heels would expire right after church.
I walked as quickly as I safely could from my back ~ 108 ~