A Whisper of Bones

by Ellen Hart

  “She’s hiding something, Janey. Clear as a bell.”

  Jane tended to agree. “Or maybe she just dislikes cops. She deserves the benefit of the doubt, don’t you think?”

  “Yours, maybe. Not mine. What else have you discovered around the place? Secret passages? False walls?”

  “I haven’t had much of a chance to look.”

  “Well, chop chop, Jane. No time like the present. Unless the inhabitants of murder mansion are milling around, you better get to it.”

  “Lena’s out on the front porch. Eleanor’s in bed.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Jane wasn’t sure. Something about the old house did seem to give her the creeps. Not her bedroom, thankfully. “I think I need to move into my examination a bit more slowly.”

  “Nonsense. Go forth and explore.”

  “It’s late. I’m tired.”

  “Why do I detect reticence? You may not be as brainy as me, dearheart, but you generally have an excess of courage.”

  Not tonight, thought Jane. Maybe it was the starkness of the word “witch” on the garage doors. Whatever the case, she felt uncharacteristically spooked and wasn’t about to leave the room until the sun was up. She’d start her examination in the morning. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  “Do that. I want to know all the details. In the meantime, keep the lights burning. Evil hides in darkness. You also might want to keep a cross handy, a necklace of garlic, and a metal stake.”

  “They’re not vampires.”

  “Yet to be determined.”

  “Goodnight, Cordelia.”

  “Oh, all right. Peace, Janey. Out.”

  9

  Breathing hard, Butch banged on the Skarsvolds’ front door. Holding a cell phone to his ear, he yelled for the 911 dispatcher to send the police and fire truck right away. He gave the address, told them his name, then cut the line. “Fire!” he shouted, continuing to bang on the door. “Wake the hell up in there. Fire. Fire!”

  The door creaked open. Lena, looking bleary eyed and disoriented, rolled her wheelchair back so he could come in. “What … what’s going on? It’s the middle of the night.” She spoke with a kind of forced precision; the way drunks did when they were trashed and trying not to show it.

  “Your garage. It’s burning. I called 911. Is Frank here? I saw his truck outside. The wind’s picked up. We gotta make sure none of the flying debris lands on your house.” Behind Lena, Eleanor descended the stairs with slow, measured steps. Frank appeared a few seconds later, rushing into the living room, his protruding stomach covered by a white T-shirt with so many holes it almost didn’t qualify as clothing.

  “What the hell?” demanded Frank.

  “The garage, it’s on fire,” said Butch. “Come on. We gotta get out there.”

  “You called the police?” asked Eleanor, her eyes glassy with shock.

  “Mom, let me handle this,” said Frank. Turning to Butch, he said, “I’ll get my coat and find some shoes and meet you in the backyard.”

  “You own an extension ladder?”

  “Yeah,” said Frank. “It’s in the garage.”

  Butch noticed that the new renter he’d met earlier had also come down the stairs. Hurrying back out to the porch, he ran around the side of the house, finding that the fire had nearly doubled in size while he’d been gone. Not knowing what else to do, he rushed from one piece of burning debris to another, stomping each out. Frank joined him, huffing and puffing so hard Butch was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. They both choked on the thick black smoke, waving it away from their faces.

  As the fire truck arrived, sirens blaring, Butch began to see neighbors emerge from their houses to see what was going on. Several people darted across the street to where he was standing, among them, the block captain, Rich Novak.

  “Jeez,” said Novak. “That garage is so old, I’ll bet it was tinder dry.”

  Butch felt another presence move up next to him. It was the new renter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember your name.”

  “Jane.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you see who set it?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the flames.

  “Probably the same kids who spray painted the garage doors.”

  “Had to be,” said Frank. He stepped between Jane and Butch. “There was nothing in there that would combust on its own.”

  “My money’s on gasoline,” said one of the neighbors, an old guy in a gray bathrobe and pajamas. “An old-fashioned Molotov cocktail.”

  The skin on Butch’s face had grown hot and raw. Two police cruisers eventually pulled up and parked in the middle of the side street, closing it off to traffic. When Butch turned back to the house, he saw Eleanor framed in the kitchen window, watching. She did that a lot. Quiet watching. Unlike her sister, Lena, who tended to insert herself and her opinions loudly into every conversation, Eleanor was more measured, less sure of herself—the kind of woman, Butch suspected, who looked carefully before she leapt.

  “I wonder if the arson investigators will ever figure out who set it,” said Novak.

  Butch understood the deeply human pull toward fire-setting. The flames were mesmerizing, a glowing monster that owed its life to a single spark. A single intentional spark, Butch thought to himself. The spark itself was simple physics. No moral goal or purpose needed. The intention, however, was where the human element entered the equation. And the human element, as Butch knew so well, was a wildcard, the place where the uncertain and the unpredictable slipped in and took over the story. Like Eleanor, who sat in front of the kitchen window, a look of deep concern on her face, all Butch could do was wait and watch.

  10

  The following morning dawned in mist. Just after seven A.M., Jane stood in the backyard, the grass around her covered in hoarfrost, and examined the intricate pattern of icicles hanging off the charred timbers. The temperature had plummeted overnight into the low twenties. The police and firemen had stayed for hours.

  Try as she might, Jane found it difficult to imagine that a burning garage would have any bearing on her case. Still, as with any catastrophe, even a minor one, it commanded both attention and explanation. Eleanor and Lena had stayed up until the wee hours, watching the scene from windows on opposite ends of the house. Jane had turned in around three, thinking there was little she could learn from the smoking ruins.

  Taking out her cell phone now, she snapped a couple of pictures and sent one to Cordelia and another to Britt.

  “That’s gonna be one hell of a mess to clean up,” called Rich Novak, crossing the hoarfrosted grass to where she stood. “You get any sleep?”

  “A little.” Instead of the painter pants he’d worn last night, this morning he had on a belted blue coverall. On the upper left chest was a patch embroidered with the name RICHARD. “Are you off to work?”

  “Yeah, another day, another thirty cents.” He grinned, but turned serious when he looked back at what was left of the garage. “We gotta talk about this at our next block meeting. One garage fire has a way of generating more. We gotta be proactive about it. Maybe it’s time to organize a block watch.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes. Jane was a little surprised by how much jewelry Novak wore to work. Besides earrings in each ear, he had a silver chain around his neck and multiple rings on each hand.

  “Well,” he said, kicking at a piece of charred wood, “guess I better get going. See you around, yeah?”

  “Sure,” said Jane.

  “You know,” he added as he reached the edge of the grass, “just because you’re renting don’t mean you can’t join our block association.”

  She assured him she’d think about it. As he walked away, she headed back to the house. She came in through the side door and up the three steps into the kitchen, finding Eleanor, in her robe and slippers, standing over the stove watching a pot of water come to a boil.

  “Morning,” said Jane.

  “I was ab
out to make myself a cup of instant,” said Eleanor. “Would you like some?”

  “I would. Anybody else up?”

  “Just us.” She motioned Jane to a chair at the kitchen table as she carried the pan over to the sink. Removing two mugs from the cupboard, she filled them with hot water and then stirred in the Folgers. “Are you hungry? I made sweet rolls yesterday.”

  “Sure,” said Jane. “Thanks.”

  Eleanor took down a couple of plates. She removed the foil from a baking pan on the counter and lifted out two generous rolls, setting one in front of Jane and then bringing over the butter dish, a couple of napkins, knives, and finally the mugs.

  “I’m really sorry about your garage,” said Jane, taking a sip of the coffee, trying not to grimace at the bitterness.

  “My son, Frank—did you meet him last night?”

  “Is he the one with—” She twirled her finger next to her head.

  “The man-bun? That’s what you call it, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, that’s Frank. He said that someone from our insurance company would be out this afternoon. And possibly a fire investigator. They’re calling it arson, you know. I can’t imagine why someone would do such a thing.”

  Jane could. Fire was a way to hide a crime. Another possibility was always the owner of the property. A nice fat insurance settlement could motivate certain individuals to override their normal scruples. Eleanor hardly seemed the type, though Jane knew you couldn’t judge people by what they said or how nice they seemed. “Your insurance should pay for the cost of the cleanup and the rebuild.”

  “That’s what Frank thought. But we have a sizable deductible. It’s not going to be easy for us to come up with enough money to cover that.” Eleanor picked absently at her sweet roll. “I’m just glad you didn’t park your car in there last night. Was it just luck? Or did you have some reason?”

  “Your sister didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  She explained about finding the word “witch” spray painted on the double front doors. “Lena and Butch were sitting on the front porch last night when I got back. I mentioned it and said I didn’t want to disturb the scene in case you wanted to call the police and file a report.”

  She seemed horrified. “Lena didn’t say a word about it.” Her eyes darted around the room. “That woman.”

  “Have you and your sister always lived together?”

  “Oh, my no. No, she left when she was twenty. Didn’t come home again until our father’s funeral, and then, she only stayed for a month. My husband and I lived in an apartment in Minneapolis until he went off to Vietnam. He died there.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Jane.

  “It was a long time ago. But it was a hard time. I was lonely, and also, I felt Frank needed a strong man in his life, so I moved back in here with my dad. I never remarried. And Lena, she never wanted a marriage—at least, that’s what she said. I will say, she had her share of boyfriends when she was young, although none of them ever put up with her shenanigans long enough to pop the question.”

  “Is Frank your only child?”

  She looked away, her expression turning wistful. “My father loved children. Frank was his only grandchild. Well, except for my sister Pauline’s girl, Britt. But she only visited here once—after my father died. He would’ve loved to have been surrounded by grandchildren, but it wasn’t to be.”

  “You and Frank lived here alone after he died.”

  “We did. When I was diagnosed with cancer in my late fifties, Lena moved back in. She knew I needed help. When I got back on my feet and returned to nursing, I thought she’d move out again, but she decided to stay permanently. I could hardly object. This has been our family home for generations. In my father’s will, he made it clear that anyone in the family would always be welcome to live here.”

  “What did Lena do for a living?”

  “Oh, mostly waitressing jobs. She never liked being tied down. She’d quit one job and then go off on her motorcycle for a few weeks. When she got home, she’d look for another.”

  “She had a motorcycle?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s led a very different life from mine. She’s in that wheelchair because of arthritis, but also, in my opinion, because she burned the candle at both ends. Our father was very arthritic before he died, so I suppose there’s that. I seem to have escaped joint problems, knock on wood. But Lena and me … we’ve never really seen eye to eye on much, although, over the years, circumstances have forced us to.”

  “You mean because she moved in with you.”

  Eleanor touched the pearls at her throat. “Yes. That’s right. We had to pull together to keep the place afloat. She had her unsavory friends and I had my job and my church. And never the twain, as they say…” She let the sentence trail off. “I’m sorry if that sounds cold.”

  “No,” said Jane. “Family relationships can be hard.”

  “And close quarters only exacerbates the challenges.”

  The front doorbell chimed.

  “I hope that isn’t the insurance agent. I’m not even dressed.” She pushed away from the table with a sigh.

  Jane quickly buttered the caramel roll and wolfed it down. She couldn’t believe how wonderful it tasted, probably because she’d had nothing but a small bowl of soup for dinner last night. She looked longingly at the pan on the counter as she washed the roll down with several gulps of the awful instant. When she came around the corner from the dining room into the living room, she found Eleanor talking to a young man. He was wearing tan corduroy slacks and an army-green field coat, a snap-brim hat pulled down over his blond hair. Hanging off one shoulder was a black canvas briefcase.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” the man was saying apologetically. His eyes roamed the room. “I saw your sign outside. My name is Quentin Henneberry. I need a place to stay for a couple of weeks.”

  Eleanor seemed hesitant. When she saw that Jane had come into the room, she appeared to relax a bit.

  “Is it possible to see one of the bedrooms?”

  He spoke softly, almost reverently, which Jane found a bit odd.

  “We only accept cash,” said Eleanor. “No credit cards or checks.”

  “That’s fine.”

  She continued to hesitate, but eventually gave him the same spiel she’d given Jane yesterday—the house rules, what was permitted and what wasn’t.

  He listened politely. “Would I be allowed to play the piano?” he asked when she’d finished.

  “I … I don’t know. Nobody’s ever asked that before. I guess I don’t see why not, as long as it’s during the day and isn’t too loud or disruptive.”

  “I love classical music. And hymns.”

  “Do you? Same with my father. That was his piano.” When she turned to look at it, her eyes softened. “My sister plays it occasionally. And she gives piano lessons to some of the kids in the neighborhood.”

  “Could I see the bedroom?” he asked again.

  “Oh, yes, of course. If you’ll follow me.”

  Jane moved over to the window above the couch and looked out. The morning mist had lifted as far as the treetops. She glanced at her watch, deciding it was probably time to get to work. And yet, on her way to the front door, she paused by the stairs, wondering if she should leave Eleanor alone with a total stranger. Eleanor’s life had undoubtedly been made of many moments like this. There wasn’t much Jane could do to change it. Even so, she felt a stab of guilt as she trotted out to her car and slipped into the front seat. She started the engine and turned up the heat, but sat for a few seconds looking back at the house, not quite willing to leave. Instead, she sent Julia a text.

  What about lunch? Early? Late?

  The response came back almost immediately.

  Won’t work. Will I see you tonight?

  Jane texted back:

  Absolutely. What time will you be home?

  Julia’s response:

  7ish. Found
the fictitious boy yet? Try

  under the rugs.

  Jane wrote back:

  Funny.

  Julia responded with an emoticon: a smiley face wearing sunglasses.

  Smiling herself, Jane put the car in gear and headed back to Minneapolis.

  11

  Frank paused next to the garage, as close as he could get without actually stepping into the rubble. He refused to look back at the house, and yet even without doing so, he knew his mother was watching him through the kitchen window, urging him on. She’d sent him outside to do a visual inspection. The problem was, with so much charred debris covering the floor, what she wanted to know was impossible to find out. She was being overly cautious, in his opinion. The last thing he wanted was for a fire investigator or insurance adjuster to find him squirreling through the wreckage. Not that simply looking into what was left of the old garage suggested anything untoward.

  Stop it, he ordered himself. He dithered like this all the time—back and forth, examining one side of an argument and then the other. He was sick to death of himself. His self-loathing was redirected by the sound of his cell phone. Holding it to his ear he barked “Hello.” He knew it wouldn’t be Wendy. He’d texted her three times yesterday and received nothing but silence in return.

  “Mr. Devine? This is Caroline Millbank. I’m Walter Mann’s secretary?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, moving away from the garage. He could see his mother pointing toward it. All he could do in response was shrug.

  “I’m wondering if we can set up a time for you to meet with Mr. Mann.”

  “What’s this about?” he asked, holding a hand to his other ear as a passenger jet flew overhead.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any information on that. Would this afternoon be a possibility?”

  “Tomorrow would be better,” he said, remembering that he’d promised his mother that he’d be around when she met with the insurance guy.

  “Would ten work for you?”

  “I suppose.”