A HARVEST OF BONES
- A Chintz ‘n China Novel -
- Book 4 -
YASMINE GALENORN
A Nightqueen Enterprises LLC Publication
Published by Yasmine Galenorn
PO Box 2037, Kirkland WA 98083-2037
A HARVEST OF BONES
A Chintz ‘n China Novel
Copyright © 2016 by Yasmine Galenorn
Second Electronic Printing: 2016 Nightqueen Enterprises LLC
Second Print Edition: 2016 Nightqueen Enterprises
Cover Art & Design: Earthly Charms
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any format, be it print or electronic or audio, without permission. Please prevent piracy by purchasing only authorized versions of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, or places is entirely coincidental and not to be construed as representative or an endorsement of any living/ existing group, person, place, or business.
A Nightqueen Enterprises LLC Publication
Published in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Welcome to Chiqetaw
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Charm to Call a Lost Pet Home
The Back Story of A Harvest of Bones
Biography
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Always and forever…
To my beloved Samwise.
Our love abides and grows
Through both sorrow and joy.
And to all the orphaned cats and dogs,
Waiting in alleys, hiding in abandoned buildings,
Who are hoping against hope to find their “forever” home.
Thank you to my sister, Wanda and my niece Bobbi. To Vicki, Siduri, Tiffany, and Brad—good friends all. Thanks to my assistants Andria and Jenn. Love and thanks to our cats for bringing such joy to our lives. When two of them were lost, I thought I’d go crazy. I want to thank the wonderful regulars on the Cats Forum for helping me keep it together through two weeks of hell I never want to go through again. Thanks to my wonderful readers—old and new. Without you, we authors would be lost. And of course, Mielikki, Tapio, Rauni, and Ukko, my spiritual guardians, gods, and guides.
If you wish to contact me, you can through my website at Galenorn.com.
I’d like to make a plea here: Spay and neuter your pets; support your local cat and dog rescue organizations. And please, if you can, offer a good home to an orphaned fur-baby. Consider opening your heart to those animals who are waiting for someone to take them home.
Lastly, remember: Sometimes when we harvest the fruits of our labors, we end up with more than we expect. Sometimes we must delve into old secrets in order to put them to rest. Sometimes love crosses all boundaries and barriers, no matter who or what tries to stop it. May you find love in your life, and may all your harvests be fruitful.
Bright blessings to all,
~the Painted Panther~
~Yasmine Galenorn~
Welcome to Chiqetaw
IT’S HARVEST TIME in Chiqetaw, Washington; Emerald O'Brien's favorite season. But this year, nature yields a most supernatural bounty. When Em and her sweetie, Joe, stumble over a bramble-covered foundation that has remained hidden for fifty years in the lot next door, strange events begin to occur. The cat vanishes. Will o' the Wisps threaten to harm Emerald and her loved ones. And the ghost of a woman named Brigit and her beloved calico make themselves at home in the backyard. Now it's up to Em and her friends to delve into the past, reveal the secrets of the dead and lay them to rest as they ring in the autumn with a harvest of bones.
Chapter 1
From Brigit’s Journal:
The house is remarkably big, and there are so many things to remember. I hope I do well. Mr. Edward rather frightens me, though the Missus is nice enough.
I didn’t know school would be so expensive; they were very firm on that account—they don’t accept charity cases and I’ve no resources or family to whom I can turn.
My only hope is to save up enough money to try again. I’m disappointed, of course, but at least this situation is better than starving. It won’t be so bad. The time will pass quickly, and I’m used to the work—I’ve never been spoiled or without chores to do. And I’m sure that in a couple of years, I’ll be able to carry out my original plans. I just have to bide my time, mind my manners, and do what is expected of me until then. At least they let me have a cat—bless them for that. My Mab is such a darling, and she’ll be good company for me when I need to talk about my troubles. I learned long ago, best to turn to animals for that, they can’t tell yours secrets. Even a diary isn’t safe from prying eyes. But a cat will listen, and keep her silence for you.
“JEEZUZ!” AN ARGIOPE darted across my hand, off the branch I was holding. A second later, both tree limb and spider went flying. The striped orb weavers had grown fat on the last of the autumn insects; now their webs stretched in a parade through the tangle of brambles, silken strands shimmering under the feeble sunlight glinting through the buildup of clouds.
As long as they stayed where they belonged I could handle them, but we’d invaded their territory, put them on high alert, leading to more than one scare when I pulled a vine out of the way here or moved a branch there. Still, despite the thorns and arachnids and chilled sweat running down my forehead, I was having fun.
I still couldn’t believe it. To my delight, Joe had actually gone and bought the lot next door to my house. Even though it resulted in weed-whacking duty for me, I was happy. When he began making noises about making things between us permanent I’d been nervous at first, not because I didn’t love him, but because I’d been burned in the past—bad. But he was proving himself through his actions, and that was worth far more than a bunch of empty promises.
The early autumn had been mild with an Indian summer, but October came roaring in with a vengeance. A windstorm whipped through Chiqetaw, bringing with it gusts of sixty-five miles per hour, and rain had pounded down for days. All of western Washington was on flood watch—not unusual for this time of year, but still nerve-racking. Jimbo fretted because Goldbar Creek had crested a foot over height, flooding the back part of his woods where we’d found his friend Scar’s body, and Harlow fussed about having to drive the long way into town in order to avoid a washout on the shortcut she and James usually took.
About halfway through the month, though, we finally hit a clear spot and the meteorologist promised us dry weather—give or take a few showers—just in time for my birthday, which was on Halloween. Considering that he worked at KLIK-TV, I had my doubts about the accuracy of the forecast, but hey, I could dream, couldn’t I?
So when Joe suggested I take a week off to help him clear out his new property, I decided, why not? He needed the help and I needed a break. I’d just finished a grueling three-day stint at the store, catering to the Washington Tea Tasters Society during their annual conference. The event left the Chintz ’n China spotty on inventory, but with a tidy profit. So I placed enough orders for the holiday season, told Cinnamon the store
was hers for the week, and promised to drop in every day or so to make sure things were running smoothly.
I stood back and took a deep breath, surveying the inroads we’d made on the mountains of blackberries. It had taken almost all day, but Joe and I’d managed to clear out the longest brambles, fighting our way through thorn and thistle. They were so thick and tall in places that we ended up pruning away at the ends until we could get close enough to clip the vines off at the ground. Then came the chore of digging them out, trying to get as many of the suckers as possible, along with the main root stem. I’d already punctured myself in a dozen places even though I was wearing heavy gardening gloves. At least I’d been smart enough to wear jeans and high-top boots, or my legs would be a bloody mess by now.
I stood back and stretched my neck to the right, wincing as the vertebrae popped. In just two months, the yoga classes I’d been taking had made a tremendous difference in my flexibility, but my body was still rebelling. I wasn’t giving in, though. I’d been feeling on top of the world lately, fitting into clothes I’d tucked away three years ago, and I could make it through an afternoon of physical labor without getting winded now. Maybe one of these days I’d get a chance to really unleash my inner Lara Croft.
Joe pulled off his bandana and mopped his forehead. The thermometer read fifty-six degrees, but we were both sweating. “That’s the third batch, and we aren’t even halfway done,” he said, gazing over the weed-strewn lot.
We’d carted away three loads of thorny blackberries.
Surrounded by thick, chest-high weeds, the lot buttressed up against my yard on the fourth, separated by a tall fence over which the brambles tenaciously crept. We discovered a driveway parallel to my own when we started cutting back the weeds, giving us the impression that perhaps a house had once stood on this lot. A few scrub trees dotted the yard, rising out of the brambles and weeds. Near the back, a tall yew—gnarled and knotted—towered out of the jungle, watching over the neighborhood, stark and solemn.
I calculated the amount of foliage left to clear before we’d be able to see the entirety of the lot. “I’m estimating at least another full day’s work ahead of us,” I said. “Then you can bring in a rototiller and dig up the roots.”
“Sorry you agreed to help?” Joe asked, a grin on his face.
I planted a kiss on his cheek. “Nope, I may not like the spiders or the thorns, but I needed this break. Besides, this way, I won’t have to hire somebody to cut these damned brambles back next year. They’ve been trying to creep over the fence ever since I moved in.”
“I just thought that, you put in such a hard week, you might be regretting all the work this is turning out to be.” He knelt down in the dirt near the leading edge of the remaining blackberries and dug away at the rich loam. “Hey, look at this. What do you suppose it is?”
I cautiously picked my way through the thorny stubble and squatted beside him. He was staring at what looked like a layer of bricks jutting out from beneath the front line of the bramble brigade.
“I don’t know.” The bricks continued beneath the brambles and I used a stick to pry away the vines. “Patio, maybe? Maybe we were right—maybe there was a house under all this mess. Whatever it is, it seems to go back a ways. Why don’t we hack off another two or three feet of berries to get a better look?”
He picked up the machete he was using and started whacking at the vines while I gathered them up and tossed them aside. After a few minutes, more of the brick became visible. As we cleared another few feet, I began to realize that what we thought was a patio actually led to a large brick-lined hole in the ground. The afternoon light was waning, and it was difficult to tell just how big the chamber was.
Joe lay down on his stomach and stuck his head over the edge. “Hand me the flashlight.”
I sorted through the tools until I found the high-beam light. I placed it in his hand and he shone it down into the inky void and scooted forward a bit. Worried that he’d scoot himself right over the edge and plunge to whatever might be waiting below, I knelt beside him and planted a hand on his butt, holding onto his belt.
He glanced over his shoulder with an evil grin. “Want to take a break?”
I smacked his ass. “Yes, but not right now. Get your nose back in there and tell me what you see.”
“Yes’m.” He peered back into the hole and flicked the light from side to side. After a moment, he rolled back up again, looking confused. “That’s a pretty big hole down there. Basement, maybe?” He shrugged. “Do you know if there was a house on this lot? When I bought it, the lawyer didn’t mention anything about one. He just told me that Mrs. Finch said go ahead and start work on it whenever I wanted, because she didn’t have any use for it.”
Irena Finch, nee Irena Brunswick. One of the town’s economic mavens. She ran in the same circle as Harlow, but she had old money. Once in a while, she showed up in my shop. I had a suspicion she belonged to the smelling-salts crowd—those women who used fainting as a form of manipulation, and who practiced the art of the guilt-trip with as much finesse as Trump practiced the art of the deal.
I frowned. I’d lived here going on three years, but had never heard anything relating to a house on the corner. “I have no idea. Until we uncovered the driveway, I thought it was just an empty lot that had never been used. I’ve never had any reason to ask. What did you see?”
He shrugged. “Hard to tell. The brambles are still covering most of it. They’ve draped down over the sides, and it looks like the longer vines grew over the top until they formed a canopy. Whatever the case, this has been covered up for a long, long time.”
Curious, I jerked my thumb, motioning for him to move over. “I want a look.”
He handed me the flashlight and I stretched out, poking my head over the edge. The next thing I knew, Joe had grabbed a firm hold onto my legs. Probably a good idea, considering my track record. In the past year, my skirmishes into mayhem and murder had landed me in the hospital twice. Though, to be fair to myself, during my last adventure, it had been Joe who’d ended up in a cast.
As I flickered the light around, I began to get a feeling for the immensity of the brick-lined lair. Joe was right. It looked like a basement, and I was pretty sure I caught a glimpse of a staircase descending from the other side, but any access—if it was a set of stairs—was still obscured by brambles. I caught my breath as the scent of bonfires and decay and mold settled into my lungs. A chill raced along my spine and I suddenly longed to be in my house, warm in front of the fireplace. I scooted forward as a sound caught my attention.
“What is it?” Joe asked.
“Shush. Let me listen.”
I closed my eyes and reached out with all of my senses, listening to the creeping tendrils and soft fall of soil where we’d dislodged the roots near the edge. There—a movement of the wind through the leaves, something shuffling through the foliage? A small animal stalking its prey through the bushes?
Perhaps. Then, a lone caw of a crow echoed and once again, a sound that didn’t belong. Soft and low, like a woman sobbing. As I tried to pinpoint where it was coming from, a cold gust of wind shot through the tangle and slapped me in the face. A single shriek echoed in my ears, and then, all was silent.
“What the hell?” Shaken, I rolled away from the edge. I stumbled to my feet. Joe was staring at me, a bewildered look on his face.
“What happened?” He slipped an arm around my waist. “Are you okay?”
I tried to gather my wits. “Didn’t you hear that? The scream?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t hear a thing.”
“But it was so loud that my ears are still ringing.” How could he have missed it? Unless it had been my imagination.
“Em, honey, I didn’t hear a thing except you grunting. There couldn’t be anybody down there. Look, there’s no way we can even think of getting into that hole without tearing ourselves to shreds on the thorns. Maybe you’re just tired.”
Quizzically, he turned back to the basement of bricks, then wrapped his arms around me. “Hon, it’s just the foundation of an old house. There’s nobody down there. We have to clear out the brambles at some point. Don’t get upset, please. With all the storms and stress, everybody’s been on edge lately.”
I took a deep breath. “You’re probably right, but I could have sworn I heard someone scream, Joe.”
“I know, I know.”
“We’d better rope this off so nobody goes tripping in and breaks their neck,” I said.
As Joe and I strung a rope around the area, tying it to several bushes, he glanced at the sky. “Come on, time to get inside. The light’s almost gone and the temperature’s dropping. The weatherman’s wrong, there’s another storm on the horizon.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had the feeling that the storm had already broken and was bringing with it more than a downpour of autumn rain. In silence, we gathered up our tools and placed them under the tarp. I took one last look at the sky as we headed back to the house. All Hallows Eve was on the way, all right. I could feel it in the air.
I’M EMERALD O’BRIEN, the owner of the Chintz ’n China Tea Room, and I’m also the town witch. I gave up fighting the title long ago, because it fits, and the majority of folks in Chiqetaw use it as an endearment rather than a putdown. My two children are my life’s hope and joy. Miranda’s a fourteen-year-old genius who wants to go race around the stars someday, and Kipling—or Kip, as we call him—is my nine-year-old son who’s forever getting himself into one scrape or another. He’s a good kid, but I swear, half the silver hairs on my head are thanks to him.
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