A Bone to Pick (Teagarden Mysteries,2) Read online

  ~ A Bone to Pick ~

  only the large bottom cabinets had been disturbed; only the large pieces of furniture in the living room. So, Miss Genius, he was looking for something large. Okay, “he” could be a woman, but I wasn’t go- ing to the trouble of thinking “he or she.” “He” would do very well for now. What large thing could Jane Engle have concealed in her house that anyone could possibly want enough to break in for? Unan- swerable until I knew more, and I definitely had the feeling I would know more.

  I finished picking up the kitchen and returned to the guest bedroom. The only disturbance there, now I’d cleared up the glass, was to the two single closets, which had been opened and emptied. There again, no attempt had been made to destroy or mutilate the items that had been taken from the closets; they’d just been emptied swiftly and thoroughly. Jane had stored her luggage in one closet, and the larger suitcases had been opened. Out-of-season clothes, boxes of pictures and mementos, a portable sewing machine, two boxes of Christmas decorations . . . all things I had to check through and decide on, but for now it was enough to shovel them all back in. As I hung up a heavy coat, I noticed the walls in these closets had been treated the same way as the broom closet in the kitchen. The attic stairs pulled down in the little hall that ~ 41 ~

  ~ Charlaine Harris ~

  had a bedroom door at each end and the bathroom door in the middle. A broad archway led from this hall back into the living room. This house actually was smaller than my town house by quite a few square feet, I realized. If I moved I would have less room but more independence.

  It was going to be hot up in the attic, but it would certainly be much hotter by the afternoon. I gripped the cord and pulled down. I unfolded the stairs and stared at them doubtfully. They didn’t look any too sturdy.

  Jane hadn’t liked to use them either, I found, after I’d eased my way up the creaking wooden stairs. There was very little in the attic but dust and dis- turbed insulation; the searcher had been up here, too, and an itchy time he must have had of it. A leftover strip of the living room carpet had been unrolled, a chest had its drawers halfway pulled out. I closed up the attic with some relief and washed my dusty hands and face in the bathroom sink. The bathroom was a good size, with a large linen cabinet below which was a half door that opened onto a wide space suitable for a laundry basket to hold dirty clothes. This half closet had received the same attention as the ones in the kitchen and guest bedroom.

  The searcher was trying to find a secret hiding ~ 42 ~

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  place for something that could be put in a drawer but not hidden behind books . . . something that couldn’t be hidden between sheets and towels but could be hidden in a large pot. I tried to imagine Jane hiding— a suitcase full of money? What else? A box of— documents revealing a terrible secret? I opened the top half of the closet to look at Jane’s neatly folded sheets and towels without actually seeing them. I should be grateful those hadn’t been dumped out, too, I mused with half of my brain, since Jane had been a cham- pion folder; the towels were neater than I’d ever get them, and the sheets appeared to have been ironed, something I hadn’t seen since I was a child. Not money or documents; those could have been divided to fit into the spaces that the searcher had ignored.

  The doorbell rang, making me jump a foot. It was only the glass repair people, a husband and wife team I’d called when window problems arose at my mother’s apartments. They accepted me being at this address without any questions, and the woman commented when she saw the back window that lots of houses were getting broken into these days, though it had been a rarity when she’d been “a kid.” “Those people coming out from the city,” she told me seriously, raising her heavily penciled eyebrows. ~ 43 ~

  ~ Charlaine Harris ~

  “Reckon so?” I asked, to establish my goodwill. “Oh sure, honey. They come out here to get away from the city, but they bring their city habits with ’em.”

  Lawrenceton loved the commuters’ money without actually trusting or loving the commuters. While they tackled removing the broken glass and replacing it, I went into Jane’s front bedroom. Some- how entering it was easier with someone else in the house. I am not superstitious, at least not consciously, but it seemed to me that Jane’s presence was strongest in her bedroom, and having people busy in another room in the house made my entering her room less . . . personal.

  It was a large bedroom, and Jane had a queen-sized four-poster with one bed table, a substantial chest of drawers, and a vanity table with a large mirror com- fortably arranged. In the now-familiar way, the dou- ble closet was open and the contents tossed out simply to get them out of the way. There were built-in shelves on either side of the closet, and the shoes and purses had been swept from these, too.

  There’s not much as depressing as someone else’s old shoes, when you have the job of disposing of them. Jane had not cared to put her money into her clothes and personal accessories. I could not ever recall ~ 44 ~

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  Jane wearing anything I noticed particularly, or even anything I could definitely say was brand new. Her shoes were not expensive and were all well worn. It seemed to me Jane had not enjoyed her money at all; she’d lived in her little house with her Penney’s and Sears wardrobe, buying books as her only ex- travagance. And she’d always struck me as content; she’d worked until she’d had to retire, and then come back to substitute at the library. Somehow this all seemed melancholy, and I had to shake myself to pull out of the blues.

  What I needed, I told myself briskly, was to return with some large cartons, pack all Jane’s clothing away, and haul the cartons over to the Goodwill. Jane had been a little taller than I, and thicker, too; noth- ing would fit or be suitable. I piled all the flung-down clothes and tossed the shoes on the bed; no point in loading them back into the closet when I knew I didn’t need or want them. When that was done, I spent a few minutes pressing and poking and tapping in the closet myself.

  It just sounded and felt like a closet to me. I gave up and perched on the end of the bed, think- ing of all the pots and pans, towels and sheets, maga- zines and books, sewing kits and Christmas ornaments, bobby pins and hair nets, handkerchiefs, that were ~ 45 ~

  ~ Charlaine Harris ~

  now mine and my responsibility to do something with. Just thinking of it was tiring. I listened idly to the voices of the couple working in the back bedroom. You would have thought that since they lived together twenty-four hours a day they would’ve said all they could think of to say, but I could hear one offer the other a comment every now and then. This calm, inter- mittent dialogue seemed companionable, and I went into kind of a trance sitting on the end of that bed. I had to be at work that afternoon for three hours, from one to four. I’d have just time to get home and get ready for my date with Aubrey Scott . . . did I re- ally need to shower and change before we went to the movies? After going up in the attic, it would be a good idea. Today was much hotter than yesterday. Cartons . . . where to get some sturdy ones? Maybe the Dumpster behind Wal-Mart? The liquor store had good cartons, but they were too small for clothes packing. Would Jane’s bookshelves look okay stand- ing by my bookshelves? Should I move my books here? I could make the guest bedroom into a study. The only person I’d ever had as an overnight guest who didn’t actually sleep with me, my half brother Phillip, lived out in California now.

  “We’re through, Miss Teagarden,” called the hus- band half of the team.

  ~ 46 ~

  ~ A Bone to Pick ~

  I shook myself out of my stupor.

  “Send the bill to Bubba Sewell in the Jasper Build- ing. Here’s the address,” and I ripped a piece of paper off a tablet Jane had left by the telephone. The tele- phone! Was it hooked up? No, I found after the repair team had left. Sewell had deemed it an unnecessary expense. Should I have it hooked back up? Under what name? Would I have two phone numbers, one here and one at the town house?

  I’d had my fill of my inheritance for one
day. Just as I locked the front door, I heard footsteps rustling through the grass and turned to see a barrel-chested man of about forty-five coming from the house to my left.

  “Hi,” he said quickly. “You’re our new neighbor, I take it.”

  “You must be Torrance Rideout. Thanks for taking such good care of the lawn.”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to ask about.” Close up, Torrance Rideout looked like a man who’d once been handsome and still wasn’t without the old sex appeal. His hair was muddy brown with only a few flecks of gray, and he looked like his beard would be heavy enough to shave twice a day. He had a craggy face, brown eyes surrounded by what I thought of as sun wrinkles, a dark tan, and he was wearing a green ~ 47 ~

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  golf shirt and navy shorts. “My wife, Marcia, and I were real sorry about Jane. She was a real good neigh- bor and we were sure sorry about her passing.” I didn’t feel like I was the right person to accept condolences, but I wasn’t about to explain I’d inherited Jane’s house not because we were the best of friends but because Jane wanted someone who could remem- ber her for a good long while. So I just nodded, and hoped that would do.

  Torrance Rideout seemed to accept that. “Well, I’ve been mowing the yard, and I was wondering if you wanted me to do it one more week until you get your own yardman or mow it yourself, or just what- ever you want to do. I’ll be glad to do it.” “You’ve already been to so much trouble . . .” “Nope, no trouble. I told Jane when she went in the hospital not to worry about the yard, I’d take care of it. I’ve got a riding mower, I just ride it on over when I do my yard, and there ain’t that much weed eating to do, just around a couple of flower beds. I did get Jane’s mower out to do the tight places the riding mower can’t get. But what I did want to tell you, someone dug a little in the backyard.”

  We’d walked over to my car while Torrance talked, and I’d pulled out my keys. Now I stopped with my fingers on the car door handle. “Dug up the ~ 48 ~

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  backyard?” I echoed incredulously. Come to think of it, that wasn’t so surprising. I thought about it for a moment. Okay, something that could be kept in a hole in the ground as well as hidden in a house. “I filled the holes back in,” Torrance went on, “and Marcia’s been keeping a special lookout since she’s home during the day.”

  I told Torrance someone had entered the house, and he expressed the expected astonishment and disgust. He hadn’t seen the broken window when he’d last mowed the backyard two days before, he told me.

  “I do thank you,” I said again. “You’ve done so much.”

  “No, no,” he protested quickly. “We were kind of wondering if you were going to put the house on the market, or live in it yourself . . . Jane was our neigh- bor for so long, we kind of worry about breaking in a new one!”

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” I said, and left it at that, which seemed to stump Torrance Rideout. “Well, see, we rent out that room over our garage,” he explained, “and we have for a good long while. This area is not exactly zoned for rental units, but Jane never minded and our neighbor on the other side, Macon Turner, runs the paper, you know him? ~ 49 ~

  ~ Charlaine Harris ~

  Macon never has cared. But new people in Jane’s house, well, we didn’t know . . .”

  “I’ll tell you the minute I make up my mind,” I said in as agreeable a way as I could.

  “Well, well. We appreciate it, and if you need any- thing, just come ask me or Marcia. I’m out of town off and on most weeks, selling office supplies believe it or not, but then I’m home every weekend and some afternoons, and, like I said, Marcia’s home and she’d love to help if she could.”

  “Thank you for offering,” I said. “And I’m sure I’ll be talking to you soon. Thanks for all you’ve done with the yard.”

  And finally I got to leave. I stopped at Burger King for lunch, regretting that I hadn’t grabbed one of Jane’s books to read while I ate. But I had plenty to think about: the emptied closets, the holes in the backyard, the hint Bubba Sewell had given me that Jane had left me a problem to solve. The sheer physi- cal task of clearing the house of what I didn’t want, and then the decision about what to do with the house itself. At least all these thoughts were preferable to thinking of myself yet again as the jilted lover, brood- ing over the upcoming Smith baby . . . feeling some- how cheated by Lynn’s pregnancy. It was much nicer ~ 50 ~

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  to have decisions within my power to make, instead of having them made for me.

  Now! I told myself briskly, to ward off the melan- choly, as I dumped my cup and wrapper in the trash bin and left the restaurant. Now to work, then home, then out on a real date, and tomorrow get out early in the morning to find those boxes!

  I should have remembered that my plans seldom work out.

  ~ 51 ~

  Chapter Three

  A

  Work that afternoon more or less drifted by. I was on the checkout/check-in desk for three hours, making idle conversation with the patrons. I knew most of them by name, and had known them all my life. I could have made their day by telling each and every one of them, including my fellow librarians, about my good fortune, but somehow it seemed immodest. And it wasn’t like my mother had died, which would have been an understandable transfer of fortune. Jane’s legacy, which was beginning to make me (almost) more anxious than glad, was so inexpli- cable that it embarrassed me to talk about it. Every- one would find out about it sooner or later . . . mentioning it now would be much more understand- able than keeping silent. The other librarians were ~ 52 ~

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  talking about Jane anyway; she had substituted here after her retirement from the school system and had been a great reader for years. I’d seen several of my co-workers at the funeral.

  But I couldn’t think of any casual way to drop Jane’s legacy into the conversation. I could already picture the eyebrows flying up, the looks that would pass when my back was turned. In ways not yet real- ized, Jane had made my life much easier. In ways I was just beginning to perceive, Jane had made my life extremely complicated. I decided, in the end, just to keep my mouth shut and take what the local gossip mill had to dish out.

  Lillian Schmidt almost shook my resolution when she observed that she’d seen Bubba Sewell, the lawyer, call to me at the cemetery.

  “What did he want?” Lillian asked directly, as she pulled the front of her blouse together to make the gap between the buttons temporarily disappear. I just smiled.

  “Oh! Well, he is single—now—but you know Bubba’s been married twice,” she told me with relish. The buttons were already straining again. “Who to?” I asked ungrammatically, to steer her off my own conversation with the lawyer. “First to Carey Osland. I don’t know if you know ~ 53 ~

  ~ Charlaine Harris ~

  her, she lives right by Jane . . . you remember what happened to Carey later on, her second husband? Mike Osland? Went out for diapers one night right af- ter Carey’d had that little girl, and never came back? Carey had them search everywhere for that man, she just could not believe he would walk out on her like that, but he must have.”

  “But before Mike Osland, Carey was married to Bubba Sewell?”

  “Oh, right. Yes, for a little while, no children. Then after a year, Bubba married some girl from Atlanta, her daddy was some big lawyer, everyone thought it would be a good thing for his career.” Lillian did not bother to remember the name since the girl was not a Lawrence- ton native and the marriage had not lasted. “But that didn’t work out, she cheated on him.”

  I made vague regretful noises so that Lillian would continue.

  “Then—hope you enjoy these, Miz Darwell, have a nice day—he started dating your friend Lizanne Buckley.”

  “He’s dating Lizanne?” I said in some surprise. “I haven’t seen her in quite a while. I’ve been mailing in my bill instead of taking it by, like I used to.” Lizanne wa
s the receptionist at the utility company. Lizanne was beautiful and agreeable, slow-witted but ~ 54 ~

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  sure, like honey making its inexorable progress across a buttered pancake. Her parents had died the year be- fore, and for a while that had put a crease across the perfect forehead and tear marks down the magnolia white cheeks, but gradually Lizanne’s precious routine had encompassed this terrible change in her life and she had willed herself to forget the awfulness of it. She had sold her parents’ house, bought herself one just like it with the proceeds, and resumed breaking hearts. Bubba Sewell must have been an optimist and a man who worshiped beauty to date the notoriously un- touchable Lizanne. I wouldn’t have thought it of him. “So maybe he and Lizanne have broken up, he wants to take you out?” Lillian always got back on the track eventually.

  “No, I’m going out with Aubrey Scott tonight,” I said, having thought of this evasion during her recital of Bubba Sewell’s marital woes. “The Episcopal priest. We met at my mother’s wedding.”

  It worked, and Lillian’s high pleasure at knowing this exclusive fact put her in a good humor the rest of the afternoon.

  Ididn’t realize how many Episcopalians there were in Lawrenceton until I went out with their priest. ~ 55 ~

  ~ Charlaine Harris ~

  Waiting in line for the movies I met at least five members of Aubrey’s congregation. I tried to radiate respectability and wholesomeness, and kept wishing my wavy bunch of hair had been more cooperative when I’d tried to tame it before he picked me up. It flew in a warm cloud around my head, and for the hundredth time I thought of having it all cut off. At least my navy slacks and bright yellow shirt were neat and new, and my plain gold chain and earrings were good but—plain. Aubrey was in mufti, which defi- nitely helped me to relax. He was disconcertingly at- tractive in his jeans and shirt; I had some definitely secular thoughts.