A man stood on the edge of her property. He was staring at her house.
She jerked away so he couldn’t see her. Slowly, she eased back toward the window and peeked out. He was lean and dark-haired, dressed against the morning chill in blue jeans and a brown pullover sweater. Mist rose from the grass in feathery wisps, weaving sinuously about his legs. Trespass any farther on my property, she thought, and I’ll call the police.
He took two steps toward her house.
She ran across the kitchen and snatched up the cordless phone. Darting back to the window, she looked out to see where he was, but could no longer glimpse him. Then something scratched at the kitchen door, and she was so startled, she almost dropped the phone. It’s locked, right? I locked the door last night, didn’t I? She dialed 911.
“McCoy!” a voice called out. “Come on, boy, get away from there!”
Glancing out the window again, she saw the man suddenly pop up from behind tall weeds. Something tapped across her porch, and then a yellow Labrador trotted into view and crossed the yard toward the man.
“Emergency operator.”
Julia looked down at the phone. Oh, God, what an idiot she was. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I called you by mistake.”
“Is everything all right, ma’am? Are you certain?”
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I hit speed dial by accident. Thank you.” She disconnected and looked outside again. The man was bending down to clip a leash onto the dog’s collar. As he straightened, his gaze met Julia’s through the window, and he gave a wave.
She opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the yard.
“Sorry about that!” he called out. “I didn’t mean to trespass, but he got away from me. He thinks Hilda still lives there.”
“He’s been here before?”
“Oh, yeah. She used to keep a box of dog biscuits just for him.” He laughed. “McCoy never forgets a free meal.”
She walked down the slope toward him. He no longer frightened her. She could not imagine a rapist or murderer owning such a friendly animal. The dog was practically dancing around at the end of the leash as she approached, eager to make her acquaintance.
“You’re the new owner, I take it?” he said.
“Julia Hamill.”
“Tom Page. I live right down the road.” He started to shake her hand, then remembered the plastic bag he was holding and gave an embarrassed laugh. “Oops. Doggy doo. I was trying to pick up after him.”
So that’s why he’d crouched momentarily in the grass, she thought. He was just cleaning up after his pet.
The dog gave an impatient bark and jumped up on his hind legs, begging for Julia’s attention.
“McCoy! Down, boy!” Tom yanked on the leash, and the dog reluctantly obeyed.
“McCoy, as in real McCoy?” she asked.
“Um, no. As in Dr. McCoy.”
“Oh. Star Trek.”
He regarded her with a sheepish smile. “I guess that dates me. It’s scary how many kids these days have never heard of Dr. McCoy. It makes me feel ancient.”
But he was certainly not ancient, she thought. Maybe in his early forties. Through her kitchen window, his hair had appeared black; now that she was closer, she could see threads of gray mingled there, and his dark eyes, squinting in the morning sunlight, were framed by well-used laugh lines.
“I’m glad somebody finally bought Hilda’s place,” he said, glancing toward the house. “It was looking pretty lonely there for a while.”
“It’s in rather bad shape.”
“She really couldn’t keep it up. This yard was too much for her, but she was so damn territorial, she’d never let anyone else work in it.” He glanced toward the patch of bare earth, where the bones had been exhumed. “If she had, they might’ve found that skeleton a long time ago.”
“You’ve heard about it.”
“The whole neighborhood has. I came by a few weeks ago to watch them digging. You had a whole crew out here.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was being too nosy. But I was curious.” He looked at her, his eyes so direct it made her feel uneasy, as though she could feel his gaze probing the contours of her brain. “How do you like the neighborhood?” he asked. “Aside from the skeletons?”
She hugged herself in the morning chill. “I don’t know.”
“You haven’t decided yet?”
“I mean, I love Weston, but I’m a little spooked by the bones. Knowing she was buried here all those years. It makes me feel…” She shrugged. “Lonely, I guess.” She stared toward the grave site. “I wish I knew who she was.”
“The university couldn’t tell you?”
“They think the grave’s early nineteenth century. Her skull was fractured in two places, and she was buried without much care. Just wrapped in an animal hide and dumped into the ground, without any ceremony. As if they were in a hurry to dispose of her.”
“A fractured skull and a quick burial? That sounds an awful lot like murder to me.”
She looked at him. “I think so, too.”
They said nothing for a moment. The mist had almost lifted now, and in the trees, birds chirped. Not crows this time, but songbirds, flitting gracefully from twig to twig. Odd, she thought, how the crows have simply vanished.
“Is that your phone ringing?” he asked.
Suddenly aware of the sound, she glanced toward the house. “I’d better get that.”
“It was nice meeting you!” he called out as she ran up the steps to her porch. By the time she made it into her kitchen, he was moving on, dragging the reluctant McCoy after him. Already she’d forgotten his last name. Had he or had he not been wearing a wedding band?
It was Vicky on the phone. “So what’s the latest installment of Home Improvement?” she asked.
“I tiled the bathroom floor last night.” Julia’s gaze was still on her garden, where Tom’s brown sweater was now fading into the shadows beneath the trees. That old sweater must be a favorite of his, she thought. You didn’t go out in public wearing something that ratty unless you had a sentimental attachment to it. Which somehow made him even more appealing. That and his dog.
“…and I really think you should start dating again.”
Julia’s attention snapped back to Vicky. “What?”
“I know how you feel about blind dates, but this guy’s really nice.”
“No more lawyers, Vicky.”
“They’re not all like Richard. Some of them do prefer a real woman to a blow-dried Tiffani. Who, I just found out, has a daddy who’s a big wheel at Morgan Stanley. No wonder she’s getting a big splashy wedding.”
“Vicky, I really don’t need to hear the details.”
“I think someone should whisper in her daddy’s ear and tell him just what kind of loser his baby girl’s getting married to.”
“I have to go. I’ve been in the garden and my hands are all dirty. I’ll call you later.” She hung up and immediately felt guilty for that little white lie. But just the mention of Richard had thrown a shadow over her day, and she didn’t want to think about him. She’d rather shovel manure.
She grabbed a garden hat and gloves, went back out into the yard, and looked toward the streambed. Tom-in-the-brown-sweater was nowhere in sight, and she felt a twinge of disappointment. You just got dumped by one man. Are you so anxious to get your heart broken again? She collected the shovel and wheelbarrow and moved down the slope, toward the ancient flower bed she’d been rejuvenating. Rattling through the grass, she wondered how many times old Hilda Chamblett had made her way down this overgrown path. Whether she’d worn a hat like Julia’s, whether she’d paused and looked up at the sound of songbirds, whether she’d noticed that crooked branch in the oak tree.
Did she know, on that July day, that it would be her last on earth?
That night, she was too exhausted to cook anything more elaborate than a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. She ate at the kit
chen table with the photocopied news clippings about Hilda Chamblett spread out in front of her. The articles were brief, reporting only that the elderly woman had been found dead in her backyard and that foul play was not suspected. At ninety-two, you are already living on borrowed time. What better way to die, a neighbor was quoted as saying, than on a summer’s day in your garden?
She read the obituary:
Hilda Chamblett, lifelong resident of Weston, Massachusetts, was found dead in her backyard on July 25. Her death has been ruled by the medical examiner’s office as “most likely of natural causes.” Widowed for the past twenty years, she was a familiar figure in gardening circles, and was known as an enthusiastic plantswoman who favored irises and roses. She is survived by her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine, and her niece Rachel Surrey of Roanoke, Virginia, as well as two grandnieces and a grandnephew.
The ringing telephone made her splash tomato soup on the page. Vicky, no doubt, she thought, probably wondering why I haven’t called her back yet. She didn’t want to talk to Vicky; she didn’t want to hear about the lavish plans for Richard’s wedding. But if she didn’t answer it now, Vicky would just call again later.
Julia picked up the phone. “Hello?”
A man’s voice, gravelly with age, said: “Is this Julia Hamill?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So you’re the woman who bought Hilda’s house.”
Julia frowned. “Who is this?”
“Henry Page. I’m Hilda’s cousin. I hear you found some old bones in her garden.”
Julia turned back to the kitchen table and quickly scanned the obituary. A splash of soup had landed right on the paragraph listing Hilda’s survivors. She dabbed it away and spotted the name.
…her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine…
“I’m quite interested in those bones,” he said. “I’m considered the family historian, you see.” He added, with a snort, “Because no one else gives a bloody damn.”
“What can you tell me about the bones?” she asked.
“Not a thing.”
Then why are you calling me?
“I’ve been looking into it,” he said. “When Hilda died, she left about thirty boxes of old papers and books. No one else wanted them, so they came to me. I admit, I just shoved them aside and haven’t looked at them for the past year. But then I heard about your mysterious bones, and I wondered if there might be something about them in these boxes.” He paused. “Is this at all interesting to you, or should I just shut up and say goodbye?”
“I’m listening.”
“That’s more than most of my family does. No one cares about history anymore. It’s always hurry, hurry, hurry on to the hot new thing.”
“About those boxes, Mr. Page.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve come across some interesting documents with historical significance. I’m wondering if I’ve found the clue to who those bones belong to.”
“What’s in these documents?”
“There are letters and newspapers. I have them all right here in my house. You can look at them, anytime you want to come up to Maine.”
“That’s an awfully long drive, isn’t it?”
“Not if you’re really interested. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other whether you are. But since this is about your house, about people who once lived there, I thought you might find the history fascinating. Certainly I do. The tale sounds bizarre, but there’s a news article here to substantiate it.”
“What news article?”
“About the brutal murder of a woman.”
“Where? When?”
“In Boston. It happened in the autumn of 1830. If you come up to Maine, Miss Hamill, you can read the documents for yourself. About the strange affair of Oliver Wendell Holmes and the West End Reaper.”
Six
1830
ROSE DRAPED HER SHAWL over her head, wrapped it tight against the November chill, and stepped outside. She had left baby Meggie nursing greedily at the breast of another new mother in the lying-in ward, and tonight was the first time in two days she’d left the hospital. Though the night air was damp with mist, she inhaled it with a sense of relief, grateful to be away, if only for a short time, from the odors of the sickroom, the whimpers of pain. She paused outside on the street, breathing in deeply to wash the miasma of illness from her lungs, and smelled the river and the sea, heard the rumble of a carriage passing in the fog. I’ve been locked away so long among the dying, she thought, I’ve forgotten what it is to walk among the living.
Walk she did, moving swiftly through the bone-chilling mist, her footfalls echoing off brick and mortar as she navigated the warren of streets, toward the wharves. On this inhospitable night, she passed few others, and she hugged her shawl tighter, as though it offered a cloak of invisibility against unseen eyes that might regard her with hostile intent. She picked up her pace, and her breath seemed unnaturally loud, magnified by the thickening fog that grew ever denser as she moved toward the harbor. Then, through the rush of her own breathing, she heard footsteps behind her.
She stopped and turned.
The footsteps moved closer.
She backed away, her heart hammering. In the swirling mist, a dark form slowly congealed into something solid, something that was coming straight at her.
A voice called out: “Miss Rose! Miss Rose! Is that you?”
All the tension drained from her muscles. She released a deep breath as she watched the gangly teenager emerge from the fog. “Dash it all, Billy. I should box your ears!”
“For what, Miss Rose?”
“For scarin’ me half to death.”
From the pathetic look he gave her, you’d think she had boxed his ears. “I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered. And of course it was true; the boy couldn’t be blamed for half of what he did. Everyone knew Dim Billy, but no one wanted to claim him. He was a constant and annoying presence on Boston’s West End, wandering from barn to stable in search of a place to bed down, begging a meal here and there from scraps handed out by pitying housewives and fishmongers. Billy wiped a filthy hand across his face and whined, “Now you’re all wrathy at me, ain’t you?”
“What’re you doing out and about at this hour?”
“Lookin’ for my pup. He’s lost.”
More likely ran away, if the pup had any sense. “Well then, I hope you find him,” she said, and turned to continue on her way.
He trailed after her. “Where’re you going?”
“To fetch Eben. He needs to come to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Because my sister is very ill.”
“How ill?”
“She has a fever, Billy.” And after a week in the lying-in ward, Rose understood what lay ahead. Within a day of giving birth to baby Meggie, Aurnia’s belly had begun to bloat, her womb to drain the foul discharge that Rose knew was almost invariably the beginning of the end. She had seen so many of the other new mothers on the ward die of childbed fever. She had seen the look of pity in Nurse Robinson’s eyes, a look that said: There is nothing to be done.
“Is she going to die?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I don’t know.”
“I’m afraid of dead people. When I was little, I saw my own da dead. They wanted me to kiss him, even though his skin was all burned off, but I wouldn’t do it. Was I a bad boy not to do it?”
“No, Billy. I’ve never known you to be a bad boy.”
“I didn’t want to touch him. But he was my da, and they said I had to.”
“Can you tell me about it later? I’m in a hurry.”
“I know. Because you want to fetch Mr. Tate.”
“Go look for your pup now, why don’t you?” She quickened her pace, hoping that this time the boy would not follow her.
“He’s not at the lodging house.”
It took her a few paces to register what Billy had just said. She stopped. “What?”
“Mr. Tate, he’s not at Mrs. O’
Keefe’s.”
“How do you know? Where is he?”
“I seen him over at the Mermaid. Mr. Sitterley gave me a spot of lamb pie, but he said I had to eat it outside in the alley. Then I saw Mr. Tate go in, and he didn’t even say hello.”
“Are you sure, Billy? Is he still there?”
“If you pay me a quarter, I’ll take you.”
She waved him away. “I don’t have a quarter. I know the way.”
“A ninepence?”
She walked away. “Or a ninepence, either.”
“A large cent? A half cent?”
Rose kept walking and was relieved when at last she was able to shake off the pest. Her mind was on Eben, on what she would say to him. All the anger that she’d been holding in against her brother-in-law was now rising to a boil, and by the time she reached the Mermaid, she was ready to spring on him like a cat with claws bared. She paused outside the doorway and took a few deep breaths. Through the window, she saw the warm glow of firelight and heard the rumble of laughter. She was tempted to simply walk away and leave him to his cups. Aurnia would never know the difference.
It’s his last chance to say goodbye. You have to do this.
Rose pushed through the door, into the tavern.
The heat from the fireplace brought prickles to her cold-numbed cheeks. She paused near the entrance, gazing around the room at patrons gathered at tables, huddled at the bar. At a corner table, a woman with wild dark hair and a green dress was laughing loudly. Several men turned to stare at Rose, and the looks they gave her made her pull her shawl tighter, even in that overheated room.
“You want to be served?” a man called out to her from behind the bar. This must be Mr. Sitterley, she thought, the barkeep who’d given Dim Billy a taste of lamb pie, no doubt to shoo the boy out of his establishment. “Miss?” the man asked.
She said. “It’s a man I’m looking for.” Her gaze came to a stop on the woman in the green dress. Sitting beside her was a man who now turned and shot Rose a resentful look.
The Bone Garden Page 6