Bone White

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  How odd to look down and see age-speckled skin draped over bony fingers, an old lady hand attached to what increasingly feels like an old lady body.

  At least her mind is sharp as ever.

  Weighing the wisdom of continuing on her way, she glances at the purse perched beside her like an expectant passenger. Turquoise pleather with a crocodile pattern, it clashes with her red top, denim slacks, and white Keds. But none of her other handbags would hold the bulky protective case.

  She reaches over and takes it out.

  In the dim light from a sliver of waning moon, the skull seems to give off a preternatural glow.

  Ora typically doesn’t go carting around human remains. The skull, inherited from Great-Aunt Etta, is usually stashed with other private relics that never go on exhibit at the historical society, like the gimmal ring that had once belonged to James and Elizabeth Mundy, and the locket that—

  “Oh my!” she blurts as a truck speeds past, so ground-shudderingly close that Ora checks to make sure it didn’t tear off her side mirror.

  Watching its taillights disappear, she grasps the danger of lingering here, parked on the shoulder.

  Make up your mind. Are you going to proceed, or turn back?

  Home is tempting. This isn’t a dire rescue mission. The teenage Jane Doe whose skull was bashed nearly four centuries ago will be just as dead in the morning, and a daylight drive to Hadley won’t be nearly as harrowing.

  But what if Savannah Ivers isn’t available—or willing—to reschedule their appointment?

  “We need her,” she tells Jane Doe. “She’s the only one who can help us.”

  Hadley College is just another mile or two up the road.

  Jaw set, Ora drives on.

  Having worked the overnight shift and spent most of this beautiful day in bed, Sully woke up starved, as usual—and found her fridge empty, as usual. Problem solved: al fresco dining on the Dapplebrook Inn’s broad slate porch above the fragrant rose and honeysuckle border. Decadent lobster mac and cheese, an ice cold craft brew, a soothing Rachmaninoff piano concerto floating over speakers as a tangerine sun kissed the treetops and disappeared. It’s just too bad the dusky candlelight forced her to set aside the paperback she was reading.

  “Bring a book wherever you go,” her grandfather, Big Red Sullivan, used to say, “and you’ll never be alone.”

  A seasoned solo diner, she takes her grandfather’s advice. And she never chooses a seat facing others, preferring to avoid awkward eye contact, unwelcome conversation, or the occasional pickup attempt.

  When she got here, the dining terrace was crowded. Now, sneaking a peek over her shoulder, she notes just one couple, sharing dessert in the corner behind her.

  Maybe she should have skipped the dessert and tea she ordered. She’s in the mood for both, but not alone, in the dark.

  She takes out her cell phone, sees a new text message notification on the home screen, and raises an eyebrow.

  Detective Stockton Barnes? Really? Out of the blue, after all this time?

  It’s been almost a year since he grudgingly helped pack her belongings into a newly purchased SUV that was more spacious than the studio apartment she’d just vacated.

  “Who needs space? The more you have, the more you fill it with extra stuff you don’t need.” He gestured at the box he’d just dumped on the backseat.

  “You mean like all my dishes and glasses you just shattered when you ignored my Fragile label?”

  “Every box is marked Fragile.”

  “Because everything is fragile.”

  Including Sully herself, who might as well have scrawled the word in Sharpie across her own forehead.

  For someone who said, “I’ll miss you, Gingersnap,” Barnes sure as hell hasn’t been much of a correspondent.

  Once in a while, they text. They had lunch at Christmastime, when she visited her large extended family and old friends in Manhattan, and she invited him to come see her some weekend.

  “I will,” he said, but he didn’t.

  She hasn’t heard a word from him since the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend, when she snapped a photo of a steak on the grill and sent it with a text that read, Big enough for 2. Want some?

  His response was instantaneous: Not even big enough for 1, & too well done for me.

  I’ll get more. Bloody rare. Come on up.

  Now?

  Holiday weekend & I’m off.

  A row of flickering ellipses appeared in the text window, indicating that he was typing a reply.

  After a moment, they vanished.

  A long pause, and they reappeared. He was typing again.

  Then he stopped.

  At last, the ellipses came back and this time, stayed there, pulsating for a long time. What could he possibly be writing?

  Anxiously awaiting what appeared to be a lengthy missive, Sully forgot all about her steak on the grill until the first-floor tenant poked his head out the door and asked if something was burning.

  Her well-done sirloin had gone up in flames.

  By the time she’d put out the fire and disposed of the charred remains, the ellipses had vanished again—that time, for good. She sent a row of question marks. Barnes never replied.

  Now, almost a month later, he’s materialized with a maddeningly casual: Hey, Gingersnap, what’s up?

  She starts typing. Hey, yourself. No. She deletes yourself and replaces it with stranger.

  “Here you go, Sully.” She looks up to see her favorite waiter here at the Dapplebrook Inn, a sandy-haired, bespectacled college kid named Trevor.

  His white shirtsleeve rides up his wrist as he pours the tea into a china cup. Her never-off-duty, detail-oriented Inner Detective notes with interest the blue-black edge of a tattoo poking from beneath the cuff. She’s glimpsed it before, intrigued by the hint of bad-boy edge behind the clean-cut, wholesome college student she’s gotten to know since becoming a regular at the Dapplebrook last fall.

  He’s not the skull and crossbones type, so she imagines that the ink depicts something innocuous or sweet—a heart and arrow, his mom’s initials, a meaningful date. Maybe she’ll ask him about it sometime. Or maybe it’s more interesting to just keep wondering what it is and why he got it.

  Tea . . . for two . . . two . . . for tea . . .

  The Dapplebrook Inn brews it from whole leaves, just like her grandmother Colly always did.

  But this is tea for one. Last month it was steak for one, big enough for two. It’s always table for one, though pre-set for two. Trevor whisked away the extra napkin and silverware, but the vacant chair opposite hers reverberates solitude.

  Most days, it’s a much needed balm after hectic New York. But on beautiful summer nights like tonight, she wouldn’t mind companionship. Not just male companionship, though a date once in a while would be nice. But her closest friend here, Rowan Mundy, is busy with work and family, and Sully has yet to find a circle of meet-for-margaritas pals like she’d had back in New York. Here, women in her own age group tend to be married, most with children. Men, too.

  Fellow cop and coworker Nick Colonomos is a notable exception, but he falls into the same category as Barnes: off-limits.

  Not to mention blatantly uninterested.

  “Be right back with your cherry pie, Sully.”

  “Thanks.” She thrusts her phone away, facedown on the table. “Maybe I’ll have another beer, too. That goes with pie, right?”

  “Goes with everything.”

  “Thanks. I promise I’ll drink it fast.”

  “No worries. Much as I’d like to see you chug, I’m on till eleven, and we had a late check-in. The boss said she’s coming down to eat, so I’m here anyway.” About to walk away, Trevor gestures at the phone. “Something happen to make you need something stronger than Irish tea?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “I hope it’s not bad news.”

  “It’s not. It’s . . . I don’t even know what it is.”

  �
�Sorry about that.” Trevor heads back inside, scooping up a couple of check folders on abandoned tables.

  Sully leans back in her chair, grabs her phone again, and shakes her head. Leave it to Barnes to intrude on her nice relaxing evening.

  Hey, Gingersnap . . .

  Hey, stranger . . .

  Stupid response. It doesn’t sound like her. She deletes and instead writes, Where the hell—

  That sounds more like her, yet . . . too extreme?

  Not in the old days, but now . . .

  Delete.

  She tries again: It’s about time—

  Delete.

  It’s not as if she’s been waiting around for him to reach out again. She’s barely thought about him.

  Barely?

  All right, she’s missed him, but not consistently. She’s been busy working her new job, settling into her new home, living her new life.

  The couple in the corner departs, holding hands.

  Sully stares at the blinking cursor, wondering what to say and why it feels like such a big deal. It’s only Barnes.

  But things are weird now. He made things weird when he didn’t reply to her invitation back in May.

  Or maybe she accomplished that—the weirdness—when she moved away.

  Trevor returns, showing a tall, attractive woman to a nearby table, removing the second place setting. She’s wearing white denim capris, a black cardigan, and black leather flats. Sully—similarly attired, though her capris are khaki, her sweater navy, flats brown—somehow feels underdressed.

  The newcomer chooses the chair facing away from Sully. Clearly, this isn’t her first solo dining experience.

  Sully admires the brunette waves rippling down her back. She herself has always been plagued with wiry titian ringlets that frizz in the slightest humidity unless you tackle them with a brush and blow dryer and plenty of product. Who has time for all that? Most days—today included—she sports a ponytail.

  Eavesdropping as the woman orders her meal, Inner Detective Sully notes that her accent sounds West Coast, and her health-conscious order screams California. No lobster mac and cheese for her; she’s having chardonnay cut with club soda and a grilled chicken avocado salad, no cheese, dressing on the side.

  If she went out for margaritas, Sully decides, she probably wouldn’t want tortilla chips and guacamole. And she’d probably order hers frozen instead of straight up, no salt, hold the tequila.

  Sully sips her tea, missing her old friends, tequila, New York . . .

  Barnes?

  Him too.

  Departing for the kitchen with his order pad, Trevor aims an index finger at Sully. “I didn’t forget your pie and beer.”

  “No rush.”

  “Pie and beer?” The woman turns to flash a smile at Sully. “There’s a dessert combo I’ve never tried.”

  “Goes together like tea and crumpets, coffee and donuts . . .”

  “Cookies and milk?”

  “Yes. But I’ll take a beer over milk any day.”

  The woman laughs. “That goes without saying. So are you staying here, too?”

  “Me? No, I live around the corner. I’m Sullivan Leary.”

  “Emerson Mundy. Nice to meet you.”

  “Mundy? You’re . . . ?”

  “One of those Mundys?” She nods. “My dad’s great-uncle built this place.”

  “So this is your hometown.”

  “Not exactly. I’ve never been here before. I’m from California.”

  Bingo. Sully fist-bumps Inner Detective Sully.

  “How about you? Is this your hometown?”

  “No, I’m from New York City.”

  “How did you find your way here?”

  This is the part where Sully either admits she’s law enforcement, or keeps that tidbit to herself for the time being. It’s not that she’s hiding anything, but when she meets new people, she prefers to be perceived based on who, and not what, she is.

  “I was in the area on business about a year and a half ago,” she says, “and I decided it would be a nice place to live. I moved last August.”

  “Do you miss New York?”

  She hesitates. “Sometimes. Ever been there?”

  “Today, as a matter of fact—I was at a teachers’ conference in D.C. this week, so I flew into JFK from Dulles this afternoon and drove up here in a rental car.”

  “I bet your flight was delayed for thunderstorms and air traffic, and when it finally took off it was turbulent, after you landed you had to wait forever for a gate, there was a huge line at the rental car location, and when you got on the road you crawled along for hours in rush hour traffic.”

  Wide-eyed, Emerson digests that. “Either those are a lot of lucky guesses, or you’re some kind of psychic detective.”

  Half right, Sully thinks.

  “Nah. I just know how things are in New York.”

  “I guess life is better here, huh?”

  “Yes. More affordable, too.” Sully explains that she swapped her tiny studio with its sky-high rent and view of another sky-high brick wall for a much cheaper, much larger floor-through with a real view. Tucked behind the tall mansard roof of a Victorian home here in The Heights, her new place overlooks a charming cobblestone stretch of State Street.

  “It sounds perfect. Wish I could do that.”

  “It was a long time coming. Are you here to visit family?”

  “Hoping to find them. I never knew much about our roots and I’ve been doing some genealogical research that led me here.”

  “One of my closest friends is a Mundy, but it’s her married name—her husband, Jake, is descended from the first settlers.”

  “So am I.”

  “Then I guess you’re related. I can introduce you to Rowan tomorrow morning, if you’d like. I’m meeting her for coffee. It’s her last day of school.”

  “School? How old is she?”

  Sully laughs. “Rowan’s a teacher.”

  “So am I.” Emerson raises her eyebrows as if that’s an astonishing coincidence.

  It’s not like you’re both astronauts, Sully wants to say, but she swallows the sarcasm.

  Sure you can take the girl out of New York and take the New York out of the girl. It just takes time, practice . . .

  And distance from Barnes. He always brought out her inner wiseass, which doesn’t go over so well here.

  Embracing her kinder, gentler small-town self, Sully says, “I guess you and Rowan have more in common than just a last name. Come by Valley Roasters tomorrow at eleven. It’s on the Commons—37 Market Street.”

  “You don’t think she’d mind?”

  “Not at all. She’s—” Sully breaks off as her phone vibrates with a call. Seeing the number, she stands and hastily tucks three twenties beneath her teacup. “Sorry, I have to take this. Tell Trevor that’ll cover my check. You can have the pie and beer. See you tomorrow?”

  “Don’t you want to check with your friend first?”

  Sully waves away the suggestion, already striding toward the steps with her ringing phone. “She’ll love it. Good night.”

  Ora is forty minutes late for her appointment when she finally spots the white-painted sign that reads Hadley College: Founded in 1825.

  Leaving the highway, she drives between enormous stone pillars and follows a winding lane framed by ancient trees. She’s no longer white-knuckled now that hers are the only headlights, illuminating lush foliage and a pair of deer grazing in a stand of trees.

  During the school year, the campus is alive with traffic and young people. They stroll with backpacks, jog past, roll along on skateboards and bikes, or cruise around with windows down, music blasting. They wear shorts in inclement weather, foolish creatures, and no one seems to own galoshes anymore, much less an umbrella. On nice days, the men are shirtless and the scantily dressed women might as well be, all of them sprawled across the broad quad like a living room, staring at their screens, sleeping, reading, cuddling . . .

  Imagine
what Papa and Great-Aunt Etta would say about what goes on nowadays.

  Ah, well. Tonight, with the vast majority of the three thousand students home for the summer, the campus is virtually deserted.

  “We’re nearly there, Jane. I do hope this young woman will be able to help us.”

  The question is, can Savannah Ivers be entrusted with a secret?

  Perhaps. For a price.

  According to the Tribune article, Savannah attended Hadley on a full, need-based scholarship, and will begin graduate studies in September.

  Reading between the lines, Ora translated: Savannah needs money.

  Ora isn’t a wealthy woman, but she lives modestly and has more than enough to get by for another twenty years, God willing. She can afford to splurge on something as important as this, and it’s time.

  Until last summer, Jane was overshadowed by the Sleeping Beauties. The trio of 1916 murder victims were the focus of Mundypalooza; the reason people came from around the world to attempt cracking the case.

  Now the Beauties are identified, their remains exhumed, tested, matched with descendants. All have been reburied; one transferred—with considerable controversy—to the family plot in Holy Angels cemetery. Case closed.

  “Your turn now, Jane. I’ll do for you what I did for the Beauties. I’ll find out who you were, and what happened to you.”

  Steering around a bend, she sees massive Pritchard Hall perched atop a rise up ahead. A little over a century ago, the entire college was housed beneath its squared turrets, gothic gargoyles, and flying buttresses. Now only admissions and administration offices are located there.

  For Ora, the spotlit granite castle is a beacon home.

  If history is the family business, as the Abramses have always enjoyed telling people, then this campus is where it all began. Her father, Dr. Theodore Abrams, was a member of the one hundredth graduating class and later joined the faculty as a history professor. Hadley was Ora’s alma mater, too, and was even Great-Aunt Etta’s.

  Past Pritchard, the buildings along the academic quad are either ivy-covered redbrick or unadorned rectangular concrete, representing opposing eras in twentieth-century architecture. Constructed in the 1980s, Muller Hall is a tall cube with sparse, narrow columns of windows on its white stucco face. Ora isn’t fond of its contemporary style, but it, too, holds cherished memories.