Bone White Page 6

  Tonight, it might also hold the key to a centuries-old mystery.

  This time, there will be no Mundypalooza. Plenty of James and Eliza’s descendants, like former Mayor John Ransom, are locally prominent. The family would be reluctant, and understandably so, to drag skeletons out of the closet.

  Or the purse, Ora thinks, wearing a thin smile as she pulls into the parking lot.

  Emerson reaches over to the adjoining table and picks up the thin paperback Sullivan Leary left behind in her haste to take her phone call.

  Perfect—this is a good reason to join her and her friend Rowan for coffee tomorrow morning.

  Yes, she’d been invited. Yes, she’d been assured that Rowan won’t mind. But she’s never had a large social circle or been entirely comfortable meeting new people—a remnant of her lonely childhood.

  Growing up, she saw her few friends at their own homes, where even if there wasn’t an intact nuclear family, at least things felt . . . normal. Everyone else had a mother, and most had siblings, too. The fathers, regardless of whether they lived under the same roof, worked regular jobs. Flowers grew in window boxes, cars were parked in the driveways, visitors came and went . . .

  In those houses, unlike her own, she saw the hustle and bustle of ordinary lives unmarred by the heartache—or stigma—of parental abandonment.

  You grow up, you move on—

  Yes, Dad, you move on . . . you taught me well.

  Sometimes even now, memories stab like stray shards underfoot long after shattered glass has been swept away. If you let them burrow in, they’ll fester, so you brush them off and keep going.

  Tomorrow, she’ll go to Valley Roasters to deliver Sullivan’s book. If she feels like a third wheel, she’ll make an excuse to leave.

  If not . . .

  Who knows? Maybe she’ll make a couple of new friends. Maybe she, like Sullivan Leary, will decide to move here.

  Smiling faintly, she starts to tuck the book into her purse, and does a double-take on the title.

  Mundy’s Landing: Then and Now.

  Local history at her fingertips, a sign that she’s meant to be here, and that . . .

  Wait a minute.

  Looking closely at the sepia-toned family portrait on the cover, she’s almost positive she recognizes the parents’ faces.

  Flipping open the book to find a caption, she sees that it is, indeed Aaron and Sarah Mundy, along with their two daughters and three sons. According to the caption, the illustrious Horace J. was their second born, aged nine when the photograph was taken in 1880. He was a wisp of a boy, hovering close at his mother’s side, wide-eyed behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

  Only a year older, and far sturdier by contrast, ten-year-old Oswald seems to gaze back at Emerson. His mouth is solemnly set like the others’, but the glint in his eye transforms his expression into a smirk. His right hand rests on his father’s shoulder; his left is clenched at his side in a fist. It’s missing altogether in the few photos Emerson found among her father’s things—lost somewhere in his youth, and replaced with an iron hand.

  Oswald’s handsome face, too, was later transformed. He grew into a gaunt man whose grizzled beard couldn’t entirely hide some kind of injury that had left a portion of his left jaw and cheek badly scarred.

  But the smirk never left him. Emerson had glimpsed it in later photos, and he’d certainly handed it down to his grandson. She’d seen that same vaguely self-satisfied look on her father’s face over the years.

  She takes out her phone to snap a picture of the old photo, wanting to compare it later to the ones she left behind in California.

  She’d powered down the phone at the airport in Washington. Turning it on now, she sees that she’s missed several calls from Roy, and a string of text messages.

  Where RU?

  Keep trying to call . . .

  Did you land?

  Where RU?

  Worried . . .

  RU OK?

  She quickly texts back Sorry, all is well, knowing the phone is going to ring a few seconds after she hits Send.

  She’s right.

  She considers letting it go into voice mail. But Roy just wants reassurance that she’s alive and well, and who can blame him?

  She picks up the phone. “Hi, Roy.”

  “Emerson! Where have you been?”

  The door opens, and the waiter steps out onto the porch, carrying a tray with pie, beer, and her own order.

  “My flight was really late. I forgot to turn on my phone after I landed,” she tells Roy. “Listen, everything is fine, but I’m in a restaurant, so I can’t talk. I’ll call you back in a little bit.”

  “What—” she hears him saying as she hangs up.

  She turns to the waiter, looking puzzled beside the table Sullivan vacated. “She had to leave in a hurry, but she left you the money.”

  If she mentions that she also left the book, he might tell her to leave it here, and then she’ll talk herself out of going tomorrow.

  “Then you just got yourself a free dessert. And a beer.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’ve already got my wine, and if I eat all that sugar, I’ll be up all night.”

  As if she isn’t up all night, every night, as it is.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” She looks back down at her phone, buzzing with a text.

  “By the way,” he says, setting down her salad, “it’s not like you’re disturbing other diners. You didn’t have to cut your phone call short.”

  “No, trust me, I did.” She takes a long sip of chardonnay.

  “Possessive ex-boyfriend?”

  “Possessive current fiancé.” She sets down the glass, picks up the phone, and glances at the text. “But it’ll be okay.”

  “Are you saying that to me, or to yourself?”

  Surprised, she looks up to see the waiter looking thoughtful.

  “To you. I’m saying it to you.”

  “Well, that’s good. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Just the check, thanks. I’m going to gobble this and go.”

  “Take your time. Sure you don’t want the pie and beer?”

  “All yours.”

  He glances back toward the door, then says, conspiratorially, “Want me to sit here with you while I have it?”

  “What? Oh . . . um . . .”

  “Never mind. You have a fiancé. Now he’s texting you?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “He is possessive. I’ll go get your check.”

  Watching him walk away with his tray, she reminds herself that he’s only a kid, a good fifteen years younger—and, yes, she does have a fiancé.

  A fiancé who’s asking, Where RU?

  She quickly types back, Restaurant. Will call you later.

  She shuts off her phone, picks up her fork, and opens the book again.

  “Barnes? What’s up?” Sully asks, pressing the phone to her ear as she strides down the street, away from the Dapplebrook Inn.

  “Can you talk for a second?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you alone?”

  The street isn’t entirely deserted. People are sitting on porch swings with candles flickering. Several teenagers are shooting baskets at a garage hoop. A trio of women are chatting on a driveway. The only person in earshot is an elderly man in pajama bottoms and slippers, standing patiently as his leashed dog noses around a fire hydrant.

  “Yeah, I’m alone,” she tells Barnes, walking on toward the corner. “Why?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Okay.” She waits.

  He’s silent.

  “Hey, are you okay?” she asks.

  “I’m . . .” A pause. “Can I stay with you for a few days?”

  “Sure. When?”

  Another pause.

  She rounds the corner onto State Street.

  Her address is two doors down. Like its neighbors, the house is a clapboard Queen Anne Victorian and sits close to the street on
a small lot. While most of the other homes have elaborate paint jobs in charming vintage colors, Sully’s place is white with black shutters and trim. The lot is heavily landscaped with blooming perennials. Dense shrub borders threaten to choke a white picket fence along the street and wrestle with the wisteria vines that crawl over an arched arbor gate.

  “Hello? Barnes, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I said you can stay. When do you want to come?”

  “I’m here,” he says again.

  “No, I heard that.” Must be a bad connection. “I asked when—”

  “I said I’m here.”

  “You’re where?”

  “Right here.”

  She hears his voice both in her ear and nearby.

  The wisteria rustles, and a human shadow emerges.

  Barnes.

  But not the clean-shaven, impeccably groomed, well-dressed man she knows.

  He smells of stale cigarettes, though he quit smoking three years ago, and of sweat. Not of musky, almost-pleasant masculine heat, but of the fetid BO that wafts from many a perp.

  Even in the streetlight’s dim glow she can see that his face is gaunt, eyes bloodshot and underscored by purple slashes, jaw and lip gray-stubbled. He’s wearing dark jeans and sneakers with an untucked navy blue T-shirt that hangs on his frame. He must have lost a good twenty pounds.

  “You look like hell.”

  His failure to respond with a sarcastic zinger is even more worrisome than his appearance.

  He disconnects the call, shoves his phone into his back pocket, and meets her gaze.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I need a place to stay for a few days.”

  “Get your stuff and come on inside. Where’d you park?”

  “I don’t have any, and I didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “No stuff. No car. Just me.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Train. And bus. There will be time for questions later, so can we . . . ?” He motions at the house.

  “Why didn’t you drive? And, wait—you took a bus?”

  “I took three.”

  “Three buses? And a train? Why? There’s an express bus that—”

  “I know, Leary.”

  Not Gingersnap.

  And no dig about Mundy’s Landing being in the middle of nowhere.

  “Why’d you take the long way here?”

  He looks her squarely in the eye and gives the answer she already suspected. “To make sure I wasn’t being followed.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “I’m in trouble. I didn’t know where else to go, and I don’t trust anyone but you.”

  She smiles faintly. “Someday, I’m going to remind you that you said that. I might even give you a hard time. But not tonight. Come on in.”

  Letter

  October 24, 1955

  My Dear Aurora,

  I have instructed Mr. Duvane to deliver this letter to you upon my demise. He is also in possession of my last will and testament. I’m certain it is no surprise that I’ve bequeathed all of my worldly belongings to you, as my beloved grandniece and sole heir. In the pages that follow, I have provided itemized background information for some of my most cherished artifacts, which I entrust knowing you shall keep, preserve, and protect from exploitation.

  It is my last wish that when my time comes, you will take my place as curator of the historical society, and live out the rest of your days in this village I have loved more dearly than I could ever have loved a spouse.

  Thank you for the joy you have brought to my life. Carry on in my good work, and know that I shall always be with you, as will your dear papa, and that we will meet again in the great beyond.

  Fondly,

  Etta Abrams

  Chapter 4

  Ora drives across the broad parking lot behind Muller Hall, complimenting herself on her navigational skills though the pavement is largely wide open.

  She has her choice of parking spots. She selects one beside the door, marked by blue pavement stripes, and hangs her disability parking tag from the visor. It expires in a month, and Dr. Duncan won’t approve a replacement.

  Silly man. She may be getting up there in years, but her mind, memory, and senses are as sharp as ever.

  Aging is inevitable. Dementia is not. Aunt Etta remained astute until the end.

  But Papa . . .

  Ora turns off the car and snatches the keys from the ignition. It’s time to meet Savannah Ivers. Past time.

  She retrieves her antique rosewood walking stick from the seat and leans heavily on it as she steps out of the car. Dizziness swoops in like a bat, and her right hand tightens around the carved bone handle.

  She’s spent the latter part of her adult life fearing that her father’s fate would one day become her own, and now—

  No. No, it’s simply the excitement. She’s been so looking forward to meeting this young scholar, and to helping her poor Jane Doe.

  She stands very still, eyes closed, willing the spell to pass. When it does, she makes her way around to the passenger’s side to remove the large purse containing the skull. She slings it over her left forearm as if it merely contains lipstick, mascara, and knitting needles. She hasn’t used any of those things in years, as her eyesight is . . .

  Oh, it’s not failing. No, her senses are sharp indeed. But who has time to fuss with cosmetics and hobbies when there are so many other important things to do?

  “Come on, Jane. It’s time.”

  Heading toward the door as spryly as her old legs and walking stick will let her, she notes that Miss Ivers failed to prop it open as asked. Did she ignore Ora’s request? Or did she tire of waiting and leave for the night? Wouldn’t that be just like this younger generation—not a shred of patience.

  I don’t like her at all, Ora decides abruptly. I do wish I didn’t need her help.

  Standing beside the closed door, she wonders whether she might indeed find the answer another way.

  No, she needs an expert. One located in convenient proximity to Mundy’s Landing, but without an emotional connection or preconceived notions.

  Suitable candidates are hardly swarming the museum like high season tourists.

  Resigned, Ora reaches out to knock on the door, but it opens before she makes contact.

  “Are you Ora Abrams?” asks a young woman who can’t possibly be Miss Ivers.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Savannah. Come on in.”

  She isn’t wearing glasses or a lab coat, as she was in the Tribune photo. Her short skirt and tank top reveal long, shapely limbs. Her hair, pulled back tightly in her photo, now ripples past her bare shoulders in a mass of waves and ringlets. Unlike Ora, she seems to have time to fuss with mascara and lipstick. Eyeliner or shadow, too. She’s wearing hoop earrings and a stack of bracelets, and a silver pendant dangles above daring cleavage.

  She starts off down the corridor, bangles jangling, then turns back. “Sorry, am I walking too fast for you?”

  “Of course not.” Indignant, Ora thrusts the cane forward and takes a few brisk steps to prove that she’s not feeble of body any more than of mind. “But I thought you worked in the lab.”

  “I do.” Seeing Ora’s pointed look at her attire, she adds hastily, “I don’t usually dress like this. But I have a date, and you were late, so I had to get ready while I was waiting. In fact, I thought maybe you’d come and gone while I was in the restroom. The door is locked.”

  “Yes. I’d asked you to leave it open for me.”

  “I was afraid to. I’m not used to being here alone this late at night. Earlier, I could have sworn I heard footsteps in the hall, but when I looked, no one was there. Either this place is haunted, or someone is sneaking around. You probably think I’m losing my mind.”

  Ora doesn’t deny it, pleased to note that if anyone is losing her mind around here, it isn’t Ora herself.

  She follows Savannah do
wn the hall, past reproduction portraits of famous scientists and the closed door to the department chair’s office. The name plaque has changed twice since Professor Malouf retired.

  However, the forensics laboratory is very much the same. The perimeter is lined with cabinets, counters, and computers; sinks, screens, and scopes. In the center of the room, a row of tall steel tables await specimens. The wall art consists of anatomical diagrams. In one corner, a life-sized skeleton is propped in a chair wearing a tasseled mortarboard, gold braided honors cords draped around its bony shoulders.

  Ghoulish grad student humor. Years ago, Ora arrived to find that every skull displayed behind the glass door of an antique cabinet had a blue-banded “It’s a boy” cigar prodding from its gaping jaw. Professor Malouf explained that a colleague had just given birth.

  Savannah pulls out a stool. “Have a seat. Or should I get you a regular chair?”

  Of course she should, but she shouldn’t ask. She should just do it. Young people today have no manners.

  “No, thank you,” Ora says stiffly. “I’ll stand.”

  Savannah checks her watch, lifting her wrist so close to her face that Ora wants to ask about her glasses. Probably took them off for vanity’s sake. Foolish, foolish girl—and quite clearly indicating that she’s in a hurry.

  Ora sets her bag on the table, switches her walking stick to her left hand, and opens the bag. She reaches past the skull for her checkbook. “As I said, I’d like to hire you for a special project.”

  “What is it, exactly?”

  “I can’t tell you until you’re hired.”

  “How can I accept the job without knowing what it is?”

  “May I please have a pen?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A pen. I’d like to borrow one, please?”

  As Savannah produces a Bic from a nearby desk, Ora glances at the stool, wondering if she should dare to climb onto it. Her legs are feeling a little wobbly, but the stool appears just as wobbly. The last thing she needs is to topple onto the floor and break an old bone.

  Stoic, Ora thanks Savannah for the pen, writes a check, tears it out, and offers it to her.