A Whisper of Bones

by Ellen Hart

“Good. I’ll let Mr. Mann know you’re coming. Have a nice day, Mr. Devine.”

  “Whatever,” he muttered, clicking the phone off. His mother was motioning him inside. He felt like a fly struggling to get out of a sticky web. He pointed to the garage and once again, shrugged. And then he pointed to his phone. “Later,” he mouthed. He didn’t wait to see her reaction.

  * * *

  Stopping for breakfast at a local diner, Frank made small talk with a waitress he’d known for years. He spent the rest of the morning at the tax office, mostly with his feet up on the desk, reading the latest copy of Entertainment Weekly. Ever since watching The Tudors on TV, he’d had a crush on Natalie Dormer. After devouring an article on her, he stuffed it into one of the desk drawers and forced himself to work on organizing his files for the upcoming tax season. He still needed to sign up for the annual continuing education program—two hours of ethics, three hours of federal tax law updates, and two five-hour sessions on related tax subjects. As usual, he’d left it until the last minute, hoping beyond hope that one of the lottery tickets he routinely bought at the gas station by his house would pay off and he could quit his job and go live on a beach somewhere.

  Before leaving for the day, he texted Wendy again, taking a different tack this time. He hadn’t apologized for his behavior yesterday. Today he would.

  I’m so sorry, hon. I was an asshole.

  I hope to God it’s not a permanent

  condition. If I come by tonight, will

  you talk to me? Please, please please,

  Wendy. Forgive me?

  It wasn’t enough. He left the office and drove to a local grocery store, one that always had nice fresh flowers. He dithered over his purchase for so long that the woman behind the counter started eyeing him, as if he might be loitering for some nefarious purpose. He finally decided on a bunch of yellow daisies. Was that trite? Maybe he should have given her a dozen red roses, but they were so expensive.

  Frank and Wendy had bought a house in Roseville two months before they were married. It represented a new start for him, a place apart from his mother and Lena. He was such a freakin’ cliché, living in his mother’s basement for all those years after his first marriage had blown up. It was just easier. He liked easy. He also thought it was fun to tell people that he lived in his mother’s basement and then watch their reactions. It was better than most prime-time TV shows.

  Driving up 35W, Frank took the County Road D exit. Wendy wouldn’t be home for another hour. She taught fourth grade at the local elementary school. Frank didn’t want to actually run into her. If she wouldn’t return a text, it was even more doubtful that she’d talk to him. But he did want to leave the flowers. And maybe a note. Oh, God. A note. He should have bought a card, or at the very least, taken one of those little cards the flower kiosk gave away for free. But even if he had remembered to buy a card, he had no idea what it should say.

  Fitting his key into the front door lock, Frank carried the flowers into the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Wendy sitting at the kitchen island staring down at a package of Oreos. “You’re home.”

  She raised her eyes to his. “Got one of the other teachers to cover my class so I could leave early.”

  He paused before reaching over and placing the flowers on the counter, pushing them gingerly toward her. “For you,” he said, stepping back away from the island.

  She looked at them as if they were covered in anthrax, then turned toward the patio doors.

  He followed her gaze and saw that the chair he’d broken two nights ago was resting on the deck, on its side. One leg missing. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Did I do that?”

  “It didn’t get that way by itself.”

  “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry if … my actions scared you.”

  “You’re sorry? So you bring me flowers. You think that’s what I want?”

  “I wasn’t trying to scare you, hon. I threw it at the wall.”

  “Where I happened to be standing.”

  “I’d never hurt you. You know that.”

  She picked up a spoon and removed a tea bag from the mug resting next to the package of cookies. “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “You never answered any of my texts.”

  Clearing her throat, she straightened up and said, “Did you really see your therapist?”

  “Do you think I’d lie about that?”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, of course I saw him.”

  “And? Did you tell him about the fight? What you said? What you did?”

  “Well, I mean, sort of.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  He scratched the back of his neck, inadvertently loosening the clip in his bun. Several hunks of hair fell free and covered his ear. Brushing them back, he said, “He said I was depressed.”

  “That’s news? What else?”

  “Well, he said that I might have a problem with anger.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m a mess, Wendy. I always have been. You must have known that when you married me.”

  Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she appeared to give it some thought. “What I knew was that you were a wonderful man with a bad self-image. I thought I could help you with it.”

  “You can, Wendy. You can.”

  “I also knew that your mother was a shameless control freak whose sole mission in life was to prevent you from having a life of your own.”

  “Don’t start,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I? Where did you spend the last two nights? At a motel?”

  “We don’t have money to throw around like that.”

  “Honestly, Frank, I’d be thrilled to learn you spent them with a hooker. Anything but your mother’s basement.”

  The skin on the back of his neck began to prickle. “I was glad I was there. For your information, someone set fire to her garage in the middle of the night. She was terrified.”

  That stopped her. “A fire?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you set it?”

  “What?”

  “Did she get you to do it so she could bank the insurance money?”

  “Are you crazy? Of course not.”

  She shook her head, returning her attention to the contents of her mug. “I don’t know, Frank. I just don’t know anymore.”

  The silence stretched.

  Finally, Frank said, “Can I come home? I love you, hon. I don’t want to be away from you. Not ever.”

  She drummed her fingers on the counter. “I guess I’d rather have you here than think of you in that awful hole.”

  His mother’s basement wasn’t a hole. Well, technically, it was. But it was also comfortable, if a little moldy smelling. “Is that a yes?”

  “No more throwing chairs.”

  “Promise.” He took a couple of tentative steps toward her. “So … I can stay?”

  She looked up at him with her pretty brown eyes, telegraphing, he hoped, forgiveness.

  This was probably the moment when he should have moved the conversation to the bedroom. But, as with all such moments, it passed. “You feel like a pizza?”

  “When don’t I?”

  “I’ll drive.”

  * * *

  Eleanor kept an eye on the clock as she washed the dishes in the sink. She hoped beyond hope that Frank would remember that the insurance man was coming by. Perhaps she should call Iver, see if he might be willing to stop over to give her the support she needed. Lena would be no help at all. Her gruff manner did nothing but put people off.

  Hearing a sound behind her, Eleanor swiveled halfway around to find her sister wheeling herself into the kitchen. The worried look in Lena’s eyes mirrored her own.

  “What are we gonna do?” she demanded, her gnarled hands resting on the wheels.

  “Be patient.”

  “I’m no good at patience. I saw Frank from my wind
ow. Why the hell didn’t do more to look around?”

  Eleanor had the same question.

  “You should go out there, El. See what’s what.”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “Early this morning, after everyone left.”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t want to take a flashlight. I was afraid. I couldn’t see much.”

  “This sucks so bad.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe everything will be all right.”

  “In what universe will cops and arson investigators crawling around our garage be fine?”

  “It was just a fire, Lena. They’ll take a look, determine whether it was an accident or arson, and that will be the end of it. Remember when old man Chung’s garage went up in flames? That’s exactly what happened.”

  “That was twenty years ago.”

  “So? In the end, I think it’s possible that it will be a good thing. We could use the insurance money. We can hire someone to scrape away the debris. So what if we don’t have a garage?”

  Lena drew her eyes away. Her mouth barely moved, though she seemed to be saying something.

  “What?” asked Eleanor. She turned to see what her sister was looking at only to find nothing but the kitchen table. “Lena?”

  “Over there,” she whispered, jabbing her finger. “Don’t you see him?”

  “See who?”

  “He’s right there.” For a second or two, she seemed to be listening.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Oh, bite me.”

  Eleanor placed her hands on her hips, staring down at her.

  “Maybe it’s time we fessed up. You know? Don’t you ever feel like the weight is too much to bear?”

  “No,” said Eleanor flatly.

  “You’re a hard one.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “Great. Let’s have a fight. Perfect timing. The cops will walk in on us, hear us arguing over our sins, and send us to lower hell like we deserve.”

  “Will you stop it?” said Eleanor. “We have to stay strong. Stick together. It’s the only way we’ll get through this.”

  Lena wheeled herself around and headed back through the doorway, belting out the opening words to a song she often referred to as a hard rock spiritual, the Rolling Stones’, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” When she came to the second line, “A glass of wine in her hand,” she raised her arm and gave Eleanor the finger.

  12

  Jane sipped from a can of Coke as she sat in her Mini across the street from the Skarsvolds’ backyard. Eleanor and a gray-haired man stood together arm in arm near the garage and spoke to a second man holding a clipboard. Since it was close to three, Jane assumed the second man was the insurance adjuster. If Eleanor’s son Frank had come back for the meeting, he was nowhere in sight.

  Both Britt and Cordelia had responded with texts after viewing the photo Jane had sent them. Cordelia was suitably appalled, mostly because she’d missed a dramatic event. Britt said she was sorry that it happened, but was pressed for time. She would be giving her presentation to the symposium tomorrow morning and was stressing about it. Jane sent a text wishing her luck.

  Since she had no desire to intrude on the insurance conversation, Jane stayed in her car, glancing through the research she’d done on the case earlier in the afternoon. She hadn’t learned much. Lena and Eleanor had lived quiet lives, so there were no criminal warrants or arrest records, no court cases, nothing that would suggest that anything had ever been amiss. All Jane had come up with were employment records, family birth and death records, and credit history. On paper, at least, the two women looked like model citizens.

  Jane hadn’t run anything on Frank Devine yet, but hoped to get to that soon. Because he’d been a boy of thirteen when Britt met him, it seemed unlikely that he was involved in Timmy’s disappearance, though she couldn’t discount it entirely. The more Jane searched the internet for information, the more she realized that she would need to find answers elsewhere.

  Shortly after everyone in the backyard moved into the house, a red Ford SUV, with the words SAINT PAUL FIRE printed on the side, turned onto the side street from Cumberland Avenue and swung into the drive. A woman in cargo pants and a navy-blue jacket jumped out. She moved around to the back of the SUV, opened the rear door, and began strapping on a utility belt. Once it was secured, she hung a camera around her neck, lifted a heavy metal utility box out of the rear and shut the door. She approached what was left of the garage and began taking photos. She appeared to be most interested in the back of the garage, where the fire had done the most damage.

  Setting her research aside, Jane slipped on her sunglasses and headed across the street. The woman was crouched down next to some scattered glass on the lawn, when Jane walked up. “Afternoon,” she said. “Are you the fire investigator?”

  The woman nodded, squinting up at her.

  “I live in the house,” said Jane.

  “Were you here last night when the garage went up?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Know anything about how it happened?”

  “No. Except … some kids in the neighborhood painted the word ‘witch’ across the garage doors last night. I’m told they think the house is haunted.”

  The investigator straightened up. “Yeah, I noticed some black paint on one of the doors. You have any idea who the kids are?”

  “I’m just a renter. You should ask the owner, Eleanor Devine. She may have more information.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jane. Jane Lawless.”

  The woman looked at her quizzically. “Lawless?”

  “It’s not a commentary on my morals,” said Jane.

  The woman studied her for a few seconds, then laughed. “Good to know.” She lifted the strap from around her neck and set the camera on the ground next to the toolbox. Opening the top of the box, she retrieved a pair of leather work gloves, slipped them on, and then waded into a section that was mostly sodden cinders and ash.

  “The fire seemed to burn hottest toward the back,” said Jane.

  “Probably a single point of origin. The broken glass tells me there was a window right about here.” She drew her hands apart, framing it. “Basically, you go from the heaviest burned area to the least, which gives you the direction it migrated. The front of the garage is still partially intact, and the beams have a lighter char.”

  “Are you positive it was arson?”

  “No, not yet, but I’m leaning that way. From what my supervisor tells me, there was no electricity out here. I’ll have to confirm that. The homeowner said there wasn’t any stored gasoline or other combustibles. No space heaters. Nobody was refinishing a desk or a chair, so no possibility of combustible rags.” She stepped around a fallen beam. “This floor is unusual. Looks like someone tried to cover packed dirt with concrete, but they didn’t know what they were doing. See there, how thin it is in spots? And a lot of it has cracked.” She straightened up and looked around. “It would have been easy enough to break the window and toss in something combustible. Wouldn’t take much with wood this old.”

  Moving deeper into the rubble, she leaned down to examine what appeared to be an old hubcap.

  Jane turned and glanced back at the kitchen window, wondering if Eleanor was monitoring what the investigator was doing. Sunlight glinted off the glass, preventing her from seeing inside. On the other end of the house, Jane could make out Lena’s face in her bedroom window. She was about to wave when she heard the sound of breaking timber and then a loud thump.

  “What the—” came the investigator’s voice

  Jane swiveled around. “Oh my God,” she said. “Are you all right?” The woman had sunk down into a hole up to her waist.

  “My ankle,” she groaned, bending over.

  “What the hell just happened?”

  “Must have been standing on a trapdoor. Boy, I didn’t see that.”

  Movin
g closer, Jane said, “Can I help you out of there?”

  “Just give me a sec.” She seemed embarrassed. “I’m usually more careful than this. Hey, what’s that?” Pulling a small flashlight from her tool belt, she bent down, shining the light all around her feet. “There are plastic evidence bags in the toolbox. Get me a couple, would you? And while you’re at it, look for a trowel.”

  Jane dug through the box until she found what the investigator wanted, handing them over.

  With the flashlight clenched between her teeth, the woman bent over and dropped several small lumps of dirt into one of the bags. She dug around with the trowel. After a few seconds, she came up with something else, a metal object. She knocked some of the dirt off it and then placed it carefully in the second bag, making sure both were sealed before handing them to Jane. “Just set them next to the toolbox.”

  With her back to Jane, the woman hoisted herself up out of the hole. Jane took the opportunity to slip her cell phone into her hand, aim it at the bags and click off a few pictures. The piece of metal looked badly rusted. To come to any conclusions about what was in the other bag, Jane had to crouch down. “What are those?” she asked, bending closer.

  “Bones,” said the woman. After brushing off her pants, she sat down on the ground and pulled off her boot to examine her ankle.

  “You think someone buried a dog down there?”

  “I’m not one hundred percent positive, but I think they’re human.”

  Jane stared at them. “But they’re so small.”

  “Could be fingers, or bones from someone’s feet. Or they could belong to a kid.”

  Her head snapped up. “A kid?” Turning, she saw that Lena was still at her bedroom window.

  The investigator dug a cell phone out of her coat pocket. Punching in a number, she waited and then said, “It’s Pittman. I’m at the garage fire on Cumberland. I need crime scene techs dispatched. You better alert the SPPD.” She listened. “Yeah. I will.” Stuffing the phone back into her pocket, she returned her attention to the garage.

  “So, what’s it mean?” asked Jane.

  “I think,” said the woman, pulling off her gloves and dropping them next to her, “that we may have something a lot more serious here than a torched building.”