Quiet in Her Bones

by Singh, Nalini

  “Hi,” I replied. “Here to mow the lawns?”

  “Yep. And do a bit of general tidy-­up.” She pointed to her colleague, a bearded male who already had the mower out.

  Fluro-­yellow ear protectors hung from around his neck.

  “I don’t suppose you know if the Fitzpatricks’ dog is on the property?” she asked. “Usually, they take him to the kennel the mornings we’re here, but I haven’t heard from them today.”

  “The dog passed away, I’m afraid.” I tried not to think about my dirty feet and midnight walk, that box of rat poison on top of the fridge.

  A small exhale she didn’t cover quite quickly enough. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He was vicious, wasn’t he?”

  Too well trained at dealing with wealthy people to lower her guard, the landscaper gave me a noncommittal glance. “I better get to work. Have a nice day.”

  “Wait. Do you know if they had any poisonous mushrooms on their property?”

  Lines furrowed her forehead. “None of which I’m aware, but this close to the Waitaks, there’s no knowing what might appear.”

  As she walked away to join her colleague, I thought of all the people who moved through the Cul-­de-­Sac on any given day. Not just the residents, but people like the landscapers and Adrian. He wasn’t the only personal trainer who came in here, either. Then there were the cleaners and maids and ­pool-­maintenance people. A cleaning company van was even now parked near my father’s place. Mary’s crew, I realized. They had to be inside, doing their work.

  A few of the residents also had live-­in staff, like Anastasia with her nanny, and Isaac with the caregiver who looked after his father.

  I’d forgotten old Phil in my earlier census of the neighborhood. Likely because no one ever saw ­him—­last I’d heard, he was bedridden after a major stroke. His caregiver lived ­full-­time with Isaac and ­Mellie … though come to think of it, I hadn’t seen the lanky male nurse recently, either.

  I shrugged off the irrelevant thought and ran my eye over the area again.

  31

  Paul and Margaret aside, Cul-­de-­Sac rich were the kind of people who didn’t like to be flashy, but who probably had millions more tucked away than the rich who more often appeared in the gossip columns and online ­social-­media pages. Of the people who lived here, I was probably the most recognizable to outsiders now that Paul had stopped touring.

  Which was why I wasn’t the least surprised when a television van pulled up in front of my father’s house just as I reached it. Instead of swearing, I smiled. This had taken longer than I’d ­thought—­I’d expected a media frenzy the day after the discovery of my mother’s car. Could be they’d been thrown by my relocation to the Cul-­de-­Sac.

  I couldn’t remember if I’d ever mentioned my childhood home in an interview.

  “Aarav!” It was a reporter who’d interviewed me after the Blood Sacrifice movie hit ­big—­Vivienne something. A tall brunette with shining hair and green eyes, she thrust a microphone in my face while her cameraman ran around to capture the footage. “The discovery of your mother’s remains must’ve come as a shock. How are you coping?”

  “Unless you know something I don’t,” I said, keeping my tone mild, “the remains haven’t been officially identified.” The information had leaked, of course, but the police hadn’t actually confirmed the supposition that the bones were all that remained of Nina Parvati Rai.

  She didn’t miss a beat. “The remains were found in her car. Do you have hopes it’s not your mother?”

  “Would you blame me if I did?” I gave her haunted eyes. It was hard; mostly, I was angry, but angry didn’t get the world on your side and didn’t get people to trust you and give you things. “I’m sad, Vivienne.”

  The slightest parting of her ­lips—­she hadn’t expected me to remember her name. Using the advantage, I continued. “But I did my grieving a long time ago. No matter what others believed, I knew my mother would never voluntarily leave me.”

  “The police didn’t find the quarter of a million dollars she was rumored to have taken. What does that suggest to you?”

  Vivienne had good sources.

  “Probably the same thing it does to you.” Wincing deliberately, I made a tight face. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to rest my leg. I’m sure you have my number.” A barefaced lie I spoke with a ­smile—­I’d changed the number after too many in the media managed to get hold of it. “Give me a call and we can set up a proper interview where I’m not standing on crutches in the street.”

  A slight flush colored the flawless ivory of her skin as she looked down at my leg while waving her cameraman to move away. “I’m sorry. How is your recovery progressing?”

  Did she really think I was stupid enough to fall for a gentle look and a soft voice? The camera hadn’t stopped recording and the mike was still close enough to catch everything I said. “See for yourself.” Then I turned and walked up our drive to the front door.

  With some people, you needed to leaven the honey with a sharp bite.

  When my phone rang as I entered the house, I let it go to voice mail. I needed a Coke. But on reaching the kitchen, I saw that Shanti had left me a plate of sandwiches with a side of cookies. I wasn’t hungry after the fudge and cake with Diana but I knew I’d need a proper meal soon.

  And I still craved that Coke. Grabbing it out of the fridge, I put it ­beside the food.

  I wanted to get upstairs and go over my ­notes—­running into the landscaper had made me rethink possibilities. Who else had been in the ­Cul-­de-­Sac that night? Who else could’ve put a knife to my mother’s throat and carjacked her? Staff heard all kinds of ­things—­including maybe whispers about a lot of money being moved. All it would’ve taken was for one of them to overhear my ­mother—­possibly talking on the phone to her lover.

  I didn’t want to sit in the kitchen and I didn’t want to have to be sociable with anyone.

  But how the hell was I going to get the food upstairs?

  The sound of a vacuum starting up in another area of the house gave me the answer.

  I was making my way to that sound when I passed one of the downstairs bathrooms and saw a maid bent over, cleaning. Jeans, checked shirt, socks but no ­shoes—­Shanti didn’t permit outside shoes in the house, though I currently had special dispensation since it was such a major ­operation to get myself in and out of my one shoe.

  I coughed to alert the woman to my presence. Jumping with a squeal, she pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh God, you gave me a fright.” Her eyes were huge, her pale brown skin freckled across the nose, and her pink hair in two pigtails.

  Petite to boot, she looked like a startled cartoon character.

  Though I couldn’t remember her name, I’d seen her before. She’d replaced an older maid who’d moved away.

  “Sorry,” I said with a genuine smile. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  Expression cooling, she took a small step back. I didn’t blame her. I was sure there were men in other houses who thought they could hit on women just going about their workday hoping not to be harassed.

  Before she could reply, I said, “Or your colleague might be able to do it? Are you working with Mary or Lovey today?” I knew the remaining member of the team was on vacation hiking in Japan. “I want to take some food up to my suite ­but …” I moved my elbows slightly away from my body to indicate the crutches.

  A sudden warm smile. “Oh, sure, that’s not a problem.”

  I was surprised when she just came with me. She should’ve alerted her partner. If I ever intended to do anything nefarious, I really would have to work crutches into the plan. “Where’s Shanti?” My father’s wife never left the cleaners alone in the house.

  I got a blank look in response, followed by a click of her fingers. “Oh, do you mean Mrs. Rai?”

  Mrs. Rai.

  Yes, that was Shanti’s name. But she’d never be Mrs. Rai in my mind. That
position was permanently occupied by a woman called Nina. “Yes.”

  “She had to leave to pick up her daughter from school. She wasn’t feeling well, poor thing.”

  I frowned. It was rare for Pari to miss school. The last time around, it had taken a case of bronchitis. I hoped it wasn’t that serious this time.

  “Is this it?” ­Pink-­haired pixie pointed at the plate and the bottle of Coke. Condensation ran down its sides.

  “Yes, thanks.” I led her out and to the stairs.

  She politely kept to my pace instead of racing upstairs.

  “You can leave it on the coffee table in the living area.” I wasn’t about to invite her into my bedroom, and I made sure to stay out in the hallway while she was in the living area.

  Once she was out, I thanked her again.

  “No problem.” She lifted a little on her socked feet before heading back to the stairs. As she made her way down them, pigtails bouncing, I thought of Lily. She’d been around the same age when she’d come into this house, but she’d never been ­this … unbruised. Life had already left a mark on Lily long before she met the Rai ­family—­but we hadn’t exactly helped her.

  I decided to settle in the lounge.

  First I had a hit of Coke. Then I began to jot down notes.

  Where’s the money?

  I circled that question multiple times. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was a lot. And while I now had an idea of how Lily might’ve financed the purchase of the café, I didn’t have confirmation. There was also Adrian, with his sudden acquisition of a gym. Where did a personal trainer of bored rich women get that kind of money? I hadn’t forgotten the Henare family’s miraculous reversal in fortunes, either.

  There might be no paper trail that proved financial problems, but there wouldn’t be, would there? Not if they’d fortuitously come into a quarter of a million dollars.

  Paul and Margaret didn’t need money, but hadn’t I heard whispers of some kind of problem with Isaac’s property? It had been because of his second ­divorce—­that wife, I was fairly sure, had taken him to the cleaners.

  Check Isaac’s financial situation at the time.

  I flipped back to the previous day’s notes.

  Ask Mia and Beau if they saw anything that night.

  The note was in my handwriting. The thing was, I couldn’t remember writing it.

  My temple throbbed.

  Putting the notebook aside, I just sat there and tried to breathe. What medication had I taken yesterday? Anything that might screw with my head? Yeah, probably. I had to be more careful there. But for now, I had to take the migraine stuff. I could feel the black waves of pain hovering in the distance, just out of sight.

  I got up, grabbed the notebook, and managed to get to my room and onto my bed.

  After finding the migraine pills, I let them melt on my tongue, allowing my brain to wander at the same time. I didn’t remember closing my eyes and surrendering to the darkness. I dreamed of a motorcycle skidding on a wet road, of rain hitting the visor of a helmet, of cold hands gripping tight to the handlebars as the roar of the engine was swallowed up by the storm.

  My throat was raw from shouting and my entire body so wet it was as if my bones were swimming. The light from the motorcycle reflected off a parked car, and I saw the round headlights of an oncoming one through the thick sheets of rain. The motorcycle threatened to ­skid … and then it was skidding, right into the path of the oncoming car.

  32

  My eyes snapped open, my heart pounding as hard as the rain on tarmac.

  Sweat pasted my shirt to my back.

  Sitting up, I grabbed the bottle of water on my bedside table and chugged it down.

  Fucking pills.

  I almost dropped the water bottle as I went to put it back down, my hand was shaking so hard. Managing the act at last, I sat there and stared at the painting on the opposite wall. It was one of those abstract pieces with lots of angles and lines. My mother had given it to me as a birthday present.

  “You can’t carry wealth in diamonds, so I’ll give it to you in art. This is worth ten thousand dollars.”

  I hadn’t been impressed by the present, not when what I’d actually wanted was a top-­of-­the-­line computer system, but I’d put up the painting among the posters that had then adorned my walls. Later, I’d spent hours staring at it, trying to figure out why it was worth ten grand.

  Grabbing my phone with the intention of calling Constable Neri, I saw the call I’d missed had been from my agent. Gigi was based in New York, a consummate Manhattanite, complete with the ­all-­black wardrobe and fast talk.

  I checked what time it was in her home city. Far too late to call most people, but Gigi was a night owl.

  “Aarav, how’re you doing?” Gigi asked in her throaty ­chain-­smoker’s ­voice—­except that she was a health freak and the voice was genetic. “The news just ­hit—­it’s all over not only the ­publishing-­related media, but general entertainment sites, too.”

  “I figured.” Vivienne wouldn’t have held off on her exclusive. “How bad taste is it?” With Blood Sacrifice my marquee ­title—­my only ­title—­I could guess at some of the headlines blazing across the gossip sites.

  “You don’t want to know, kiddo. Look, we need to talk about your next book.”

  “Thanks for the sympathy, Gigi.”

  A pause. “You want some?”

  The tension snapped, a laugh breaking out of me. “No, it wouldn’t seem right coming from you.” Gigi was a shark; she dug in her heels and negotiated the hell out of contracts for her clients. But she wasn’t exactly a people person. We got along great.

  “Where are you with the book?” she demanded. “Finch is calling me saying you’ve gone AWOL. Have you even checked your emails?”

  “I had a car accident, Gigi. My fucking leg is in a moon boot.”

  “Why the hell do you Kiwis call it a goddamn moon boot? Anyway, your brain still works, right? Your hands still work. And the remains weren’t found until a few days ago? What’ve you been doing since you got out of the hospital?”

  Right. Gigi didn’t do sympathy. “I’ll email Finch the first few chapters.”

  “When?” Gigi didn’t back down. “I know you got a shitty advance for that initial ­two-­book contract, but right now, you’re a golden pretty boy with talent who doesn’t mind ­publicity—­you couldn’t get any better. Just satisfy the terms of the contract by turning in another book that isn’t total bull crap and I’ll get you an ­eight-­figure deal for your next book.”

  I shoved a hand through my hair. “I’ll do it right now.”

  “Cc me.” Gigi was no rookie. “Here’s the deal, ­Aarav—­you’re the big new thing for about five more seconds. You can either ride that wave into a massive career, or you can crash and burn and be that ­has-­been ­one-­hit wonder. Don’t think the latter looks good on you.” Then she hung up.

  Gigi knew me. I was too arrogant to accept being labeled a ­one-­hit wonder.

  Hauling myself out of bed, I tested my foot by putting a little weight on it. It still hurt, but not as bad as yesterday. I went to the bathroom first, then to my laptop. Pulling up the file for my next book, I saw I had about eighty pages. I was about to email my editor when I had a moment of clarity and realized I might be assassinating my own career.

  Instead, I emailed the partial to Gigi, writing:

  Read this and tell me if it’s shit.

  Then I picked up the notebook again and, after skimming over my final notes, put through a call to Constable Neri.

  She answered after three rings. “Aarav.”

  “Constable Neri, I’ve been thinking about the money.” There was some information I just couldn’t get without official help. Sure, I could ask my father to flex his business muscles and contacts, but I hadn’t forgotten that scream. Of all the people who could’ve hurt my mother, my father remained at the top of the list.

  “Yes?” she said, when I paused.


  “Two new local businesses started up in the year after my mother’s disappearance.”

  “Flex Gym and the Corner Café.”

  “Touché. Do you know where they got the money?”

  “I can’t divulge that information.”

  I ignored the hint that was her curt tone. “How much luck are you having with the residents of the Cul-­de-­Sac?”

  “We have our methods. I suggest you don’t attempt an investigation of your own. You may have done some research, but you’re no professional.”

  Oh, ouch. “I might be a hack writer,” I drawled, “but I’m also Nina’s son. She never gave up and neither will I.”

  “You realize you could be contaminating the investigation?”

  “I’ll do my best not to tread on any toes.” I didn’t care about a court ­case—­I cared about justice. An eye for an eye. A death for a death. Whoever had turned my mother into bones in the quiet green deserved the same fate.

  “You do that, Aarav. We’d also like to have a chat with you.”

  “Do you need me to come into the station?” That’d give the media plenty to salivate over.

  “No, we can come to you. Are you available tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure.” I considered my options. “But not here.” I couldn’t be certain who might be in the house at the time. “I’ll meet you at my apartment in the city.”

  “Ten o’clock?”

  Not missing that she hadn’t asked me for the address, I said, “Sure. See you then.” After hanging up, I wondered if they’d already spoken to my father and what he’d told them. Had he spun the same story he’d been trying to sell me, about me being the reason the silk carpet had disappeared that night?

  Rain hit the windows with a clatter that had me jumping.

  Getting up, I walked over to the balcony and opened up the doors. As I stood there, propped up by my crutches, watching the sky darken, I heard the rumble of a motorcycle engine. The bike appeared out of the rain seconds later, a sleek black thing with red accents. The rider in the front was wearing black leather, his helmet pure black. Someone smaller sat at the back.