Bone by Bone

by Carol O'Connell

  ‘Oh, I’ve always had lots of money, Oren, more than I can spend. What I do, I do for fun.’ The lawyer reached for the bottle and poured himself a triple shot of whiskey, the only sign of defeat. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘Millard Straub. Now there’s another man with a motive to kill a woman.’ Addison Winston volunteered this tidbit, this breach of client-attorney confidence, as he parked his Porsche in front of the judge ’s house.

  The bulb over the front door must have burned out. Hannah usually turned it on in the twilight hour.

  The lawyer was still talking nonstop and very fast. A sign of frayed nerves?a

  ‘Old Millard was fixated on the idea that Evelyn was cheating on him. But he never asked me to cut her out of his will. Maybe he didn’t want the paper trail of a poisoned relationship – a motive to kill his wife. He makes a fine suspect, but you seem skeptical, Oren. Quite understandable. It’s hard to picture that old codger dragging his oxygen tank into the woods. However, this theory works rather well with the latest gossip about Evelyn. It seems she was a bit indiscreet yesterday when you came calling. It’s all around town – the rumor of your old affair. What if the woman who died with Josh was the target of a hired assassin? Could be a case of mistaken identity. Suppose Millard Straub hired someone to kill his wife – because she was sleeping with you? Assuming Josh was an innocent witness – then you’d be responsible for your brother’s death.’

  Oren stepped out of the car, and the lawyer was laughing as he drove away.

  Behind him, he heard the squeaking hinges of the screen door.

  ‘Don’t let him poison you.’ Hannah stepped out on the porch. ‘It’s real convenient, blaming murder on a dead man. I could make the same case for Addison. His wife drinks a lot. I think she cries a lot.’ The housekeeper – eavesdropper – stood at the railing and raised her eyes to the Winston lodge. ‘Makes you wonder what goes on up there.’

  Oren climbed the porch steps and reached up to twist the dark bulb in its socket – and there was light. He sat down in the wooden armchair next to Hannah’s old rocker. ‘Tell me about Evelyn Straub’s husband. I don’t remember him very well.’

  ‘Millard? I’m not surprised.’ The housekeeper leaned back against the porch railing. ‘He hardly ever traveled farther than the verandah of his hotel. He was mean, but too old and too sick to lift a hand against Evelyn. He found other ways to be cruel.’

  ‘Why did she stay with him? Did he have something on her?’

  ‘You mean something besides an affair with an underage boy? If he’d known about that – never mind what Addison thinks – Millard would’ve divorced Evelyn and kicked her to the curb without a penny. He’d sooner do that than part with money to hire a killer. Cheap old bastard.’

  ‘You knew about the prenuptial agreement?’

  ‘Evelyn and me, we talk from time to time. In any case, you’re not to blame for your brother’s death, and you know that, Oren.’ The housekeeper sat down in her rocking chair. Josh had always called it Hannah’s lowrider because of the seat built close to the ground. It was the only piece of furniture that allowed both her feet to sit flat on the floorboards instead of dangling in the air.

  ‘Well, here comes my burglar alarm.’ She pointed toward a yellow dog of dubious pedigree, floppy ears and the big round eyes of a spaniel with a collie’s long coat. The animal approached the porch, and then hesitated, one paw resting on the bottom step. He had a sad, wounded look about him as he stared at the housekeeper.

  Oren noticed an empty bowl on the floorboards near the door. The dog was no longer eating his dinner of scraps down by the garden shed. ‘I guess you forgot to feed him.’

  ‘I fed him hours ago.’ She nodded to the dog, as if in answer to a question, and the yellow stray bounded up the stairs. With better manners than Horatio ever had, the animal politely sat down in front of her rocking chair and cocked his head to one side – waiting. ‘This time he came for love.’ She gently stroked the dog’s fur.

  ‘Does the judge like that mutt as much as you do?’

  ‘This afternoon, he was out here tossing sticks for the dog to fetch. It won’t be long now.’

  Oren smiled. He approved of her plan to end old Horatio’s days as a stuffed decoration of the parlor. He reached out to cover her hand with his. ‘You were going to tell me about the séances in the woods.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘You and the judge go out to Evelyn’s old cabin and—’

  ‘No,’ said Hannah. ‘We used to go to the séances, but not anymore, not for years and years. But sometimes we watch the videotapes.’ Rising from the rocker, she kept hold of his hand and pulled him toward the porch steps. ‘We should go now while there ’s still some light.’

  The tiny woman peered over the steering wheel, sometimes rising off the seat to get a better view of the hairpin turns on this mountain road. It was scary and dangerous and great fun. Oren sensed that a legal driver’s license might take some of the joy out of Hannah’s rides.

  They were the first to arrive at the old cabin. Though parking spaces out front were plentiful, she drove down and around to the back and stopped by the door to the crawl space. Hannah cut the ignition and searched the ring of keys until she found the one she wanted. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘How do you happen to have a key?’

  ‘This one belongs to the judge.’ She fitted it into the lock and opened the door to the sound of an exhaust fan.

  ‘Do people know they’re being videotaped?’

  ‘Of course. Evelyn sells copies to hotel guests, the ones who come for the séances.’

  ‘And what about the local people?’

  Hannah hesitated too long. ‘Oh, I’m sure they know.’ She reached into the darkness and flipped a wall switch to flood the small room with light. From a nest of cables, lines trailed upward and disappeared into the low ceiling. He recognized the wicker armchairs as worn castoffs from the verandah of the Straub Hotel. Outdated recording equipment sat on a table alongside a pair of old television sets that would only accept videocassettes.

  ‘It’s a little old-fashioned. Evelyn wants to change over to DVDs and computer monitors, but you know your father. He doesn’t take well to change.’ Hannah slipped a cassette into a slot at the base of one of the TV sets.

  ‘Never mind the tourists,’ said Oren. ‘Are you sure the locals know they’re being filmed?’

  ‘Once a cop, always a cop.’ She plucked a sheet of paper from a stack on the table. ‘This is the consent form. Everybody signs one. You can’t say they don’t get a sporting chance. It starts out by holding Evelyn harmless for heart attacks and hauntings, strokes and madness, hair turning white from fright. Lots of nonsense like that. And then, toward the bottom of the page, the consent for the taping is buried somewhere in all that legalese. But that comes long after people get tired of reading the damn thing. Usually, they just sign it.’ She fed another cassette into the second television. ‘There ’s two cameras. One shows the whole room, but this one ’s my favorite view.’

  Oren stared at the screen with the overhead camera angle. It looked down at the card table and the tops of the players’ heads all leaning toward the Ouija board.

  ‘That’s a homemade witchboard,’ said Hannah. ‘Nothing like the one you and Josh used to play with. As I recall, that one glowed in the dark.’

  ‘And you burned it.’

  On the videotape, the players’ fingers were touching the small wooden heart as it moved in wide circles around the board, faster and faster. Then it stopped. Alice Friday led the chant as they all looked through the hole in the heart and called out the letter S. The planchette moved again to settle over another letter.

  ‘They’re always talking to your brother – the spirit guide, always asking him how he died. It was like that from the beginning. No one ever asked if he ran away.’ Hannah pointed to shelves of cassettes lining the back wall of the crawl space. ‘There’s lots of tapes wit
h nothing but gibberish. Some nights the board spells out real words and whole sentences. Depends on who’s playing.’

  Oren focused on one of the players. All he could see from this camera angle was the pale crown of blond hair. He turned to the second screen and identified her in this ground-level shot of the table. ‘Is Mrs Winston a regular?’

  Hannah nodded. ‘She’s on quite a few tapes.’

  The wall of shelves held a daunting array of cassettes. How long would it take to view all of them? ‘Just tell me the highlights. Give me the—’

  ‘Maybe this was a mistake,’ she said. ‘My interference always comes to a bad end, and I should know that by now.’

  He could hear the muffled sound of engines and car doors closing outside. And now, overhead, feet were walking on the cabin floor. ‘We stayed too long.’

  ‘The hell you say. We’re going to the séance tonight.’

  ‘I don’t think Mrs Straub would like that.’

  ‘No one’s ever turned away – except Cable Babitt. Evelyn never minded when he ’d send a deputy out here now and then – so long as it wasn’t somebody in uniform. But then, Cable started driving his jeep up the fire road every damn night. Well, that road only leads to this cabin.’

  And, farther on, a hole full of bones.

  ‘So Evelyn figured he was spying on her full-time. These days he can’t legally come within two hundred yards of this place.’ Hannah rose from her chair. ‘Stay here if you like. I’m going to the séance.’

  He followed her outside and up the back stairs to the kitchen door. ‘I’ll just watch.’

  ‘You should play,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s only scary for true believers.’ She looked up at him and smiled – a clear invitation to a dare.

  They passed through the kitchen and walked into the small front room. The chairs around the card table were filled, and other people waited their turn in the dark. Hannah spoke in whispers. ‘You remember why I took that old witchboard away from you and Josh? I bet you still remember your nightmares.’

  He did. And he also remembered Josh’s bad dreams, the screaming in the night that had always followed visits from their good-deed lady, the old woman who once lived on Paulson Lane. The dead Mrs Underwood had spelled out vile curses on a witchboard that two small boys had purchased at the dry-goods store.

  ‘Will Mrs Winston be here tonight?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s catch as catch can with her. Addison likes to think that he knows where his wife is every minute of the day and night. He also thinks Sarah stopped driving when she lost her license. But, I’ll tell you, the lady gets around.’

  ‘You think Josh could’ve photographed a secret of hers?’

  ‘I don’t see her killing the boy, if that’s what you’re asking.’ She lightly poked him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Watch the game. Listen.’

  The small piece of wood moved around the board, making a slow circle over the characters of the alphabet, and then it picked up speed. Each time it stopped, the players called out the letter framed in the planchette’s circle.

  Hannah whispered, ‘I tried to explain this when you were a boy, but I don’t think you were listening – not then. The players don’t decide to make the planchette stop and start. There’s no decisions being made. The hands have brains of their own. And the mind of a true believer calls it magic.’

  ‘Or somebody’s cheating.’

  ‘No one cheats,’ she said. ‘And it’s not magical.’

  Ferris Monty, who believed in nothing, sat with his back to the shadow side of the room. Oh, the things he did for his art.

  He drank in the details of candlelight and a magic act, making mental notes about the abundance of spiderwebs and a tree limb growing through a broken window. This was his first séance, and he had been unprepared for the movement of the planchette. Though it was in contact with so many hands, he would swear the small wooden heart moved around the board of its own volition. This was no manipulation by the psychic. Her hands never touched it. According to his research among the citizens of Coventry, Alice Friday was the only constant presence; the others were replaced with new players for every session. And so he could also rule out a confederate in this mix of townspeople and tourists.

  The planchette circled the Ouija board, moving faster and faster, and he felt inexplicable exhilaration. He looked up at the psychic. Her eyes were closed, and she trembled – and so did the heart-shaped piece of wood beneath the tips of his fingers.

  A player asked, ‘Does it ever go in a straight line?’

  And then it did – back and forth across the board.

  A voice to his right complained, ‘When will it ever stop?’

  It stopped over the letter Y that stood for yes. Yes, the dead boy was among them tonight. A man on the other side of the table asked the next question. ‘Do bears shit in the woods?’

  Alice Friday’s eyes snapped open. ‘Goddamn tourists!’ With a dramatic wave of her hand in the direction of the door, the offended psychic dismissed the man from the table.

  She was backed up by another woman, probably the wife, who yelled, ‘Harry, you idiot! Go wait outside in the hotel van!’ And he did.

  And now they were five.

  Ferris leaned toward Alice Friday. ‘Could you ask if the boy has a message for one of us?’

  She nodded and closed her eyes once more as she posed this question for her spirit guide, Joshua Hobbs.

  Ferris was grinning, hoping that this would be a good quote for his book – a dead child speaking from beyond the grave. The wooden planchette shot across the board to stop over the first letter, and then the second, shooting, stopping, and all around him players chanted the letters in unison.

  ‘D-O-Y—’

  He sensed that the wooden heart had come alive to emanate its own energy, a palpable beat.

  No, that’s insane.

  ‘O-U-S-T-I—’

  The planchette jumped like a spider from letter to letter.

  ‘L-L-L-O—’

  Logic and sanity flew out the window. Ferris was a passenger on a runaway train, helpless, waiting for the rest, hanging on each letter, and only hanging by fingertips to the speeding piece of wood.

  ‘V-E-M-E—’

  He drew back his hands, as if the planchette had wounded him. He sat very still – still as death, no blinking. He held his breath – digesting the message from a murdered boy.

  Alice Friday opened her eyes and looked beyond him to the people gathered at the back of the room. ‘Won’t you join us? There’s an empty chair.’ Heads were turning all around the table in the manner of a celebrity sighting.

  Ferris looked back to see Oren Hobbs walk out of the shadows and into the circle of candlelight. An adrenaline chill filled his veins as he imagined that the older brother was accusing him with Joshua’s eyes – the same blue eyes.

  But no, Hobbs only showed interest in the retired pharmacist, who sat in the next chair. He and the elderly Mr McCaully exchanged ‘Sir, you’re looking well’ for ‘About time you came home, young man.’ After a few more pleasantries, the old man invited the younger one to his house for a nightcap after the séance.

  Hobbs sat down and joined the others in placing his fingertips on the planchette.

  Alice Friday closed her eyes, and her head rolled back. ‘Does anyone have a question for Joshua?’

  A voice from the back of the room called out, ‘Why did Oren leave you all alone in the woods to die?’

  The planchette flew off the table and shot across the room, lost in the shadows. The cabin door had closed on Oren Hobbs before one of the players found the small wooden heart in the darkest corner of the room. And the question was never answered, though other people posed it again and again.

  NINETEEN

  The final days of Joshua Hobbs were shaping up on the glowing screen of a computer monitor. Ferris Monty left it to his future readers to ponder how he came by this information. He had done it the old-fashioned way, on foot –
stalking a child. And an exhibitionist quality led him to parade his fixation across the pages of his book.

  He lovingly described Joshua’s face washed in bright sunlight as the boy stood by the safety rail across the street from the Straub Hotel.

  Even with his camera hanging by a strap around his neck, Joshua did not blend in with out-of-towners, tourists taking pictures of one another against the backdrop of the sea. The posers changed. Their poses did not. All the smiles and compositions were identical. These amateurs only amused the boy for a few minutes. He turned his own long lens on the hotel. Evelyn Straub stood on the verandah. She hardly looked her age, fortyish in those days. She was so much more than just another pretty woman. The former showgirl went everywhere wrapped in a full-metal jacket of steely personality, invulnerable – and maybe inhuman.

  He would not mention here that she had always intimidated him.

  The tourists identified Joshua as an alien in their midst because he was facing the wrong direction, away from the boring vista of sea and sky. A few of them moved close to the boy, taking an interest in the complexity of his manual camera, a standout among their own idiot-proof equipment. Once they recognized him as a source of expertise, Joshua graciously answered questions about film speeds, and then he explained the concept of F-stops, useless data for people with point-and-shoot cameras. This child had exquisite good manners and great patience.

  If this scene had been illustrated with pictures instead of words, Ferris Monty would have been detected near the boy. Hiding behind dark glasses and the wide brim of a straw hat, he had stood within touching distance of Joshua Hobbs. He remembered his hand reaching out to touch the boy’s hair, hesitating in the air, then quickly drawing back.

  When the young photographer parted company with the tourists, he had walked away at a rapid pace, his camera focused on the street ahead. Had the boy been following someone that day? Ferris would never know, for his own surveillance had come to an end when the boy suddenly turned around and snapped a picture of his stalker.