by Lora Roberts
“Hmm? Oh, I think I’ll let this Stanford archaeologist I know take a look first. But—” He shook his head slowly. “The bones have been in the ground for a while. See, they’re stained with dirt and they’re not waxy anymore, plus there’s no trace of gut or sinew.”
Speaking of guts, my own twisted. “Great.”
“Yeah, makes it harder,” he agreed, not exactly getting my point. “But even though they’re not particularly fresh, I don’t believe they’re Costanoan. Indian, you know.”
“I know. I’ve read about Ishi.”
“There’s more to it than Ishi,” he began, then cut himself off. “That’s beside the point. I need to use the phone, and then I want to talk to the boys.”
The front door opened. “Moira’s crying,” Corky shouted. He saw Barker and Drake and tumbled out the door, closely followed by Sam and Mick.
Moira was standing in her crib, sobbing. Bridget had told me that she mostly woke up like that, but it was unnerving anyway. She held out her arms to me, then noticed that I wasn’t her mom and turned away, increasing the volume.
I patted her back awkwardly, trying to soothe her. My patting hand slipped lower and encountered dampness. Sighing, I hauled Moira out of the crib and over to the changing table. She fixed an apprehensive gaze on my face while I changed her. This time I used a plastic diaper. Even that I couldn’t get right; turns out those things have a front and a back. I had to do it a couple of times before it was securely applied.
The menfolk were in the kitchen. Drake listened intently while the boys described their find in shrill, excited voices. I carried Moira on through to the living room, where the TV, abandoned, still blared “Sesame Street.” Moira cheered up right away; I sat her on the floor, and she watched intently while Muppets sang and danced about Letter B.
I joined the guys. Corky had talked down Sam and Mick and was finishing the story dramatically. “Then she—” he pointed at me—“said they weren’t dinosaur bones. So what are they?”
The three boys watched Drake, their eyes big.
“I’m not sure,” he said diplomatically. “I’m going to get an expert to look at them. But it’s very important that you boys stay away from the sidewalk now. Okay?”
Their faces fell. “I’ll need your help in other ways,” Drake finished up lamely. He stood, and they stood too. All of them looked a little downcast.
“How about some cookies?” I felt I should play the traditional role. And Bridget had left a fresh batch of her famous oatmeal-raisin-chocolate chip cookies. It seemed like the right moment to bring them out.
The boys had grape juice with theirs, growing purple mustaches in the process. I made Drake a cup of tea, which he drank because he knew my coffee is hopeless. I keep a jar of instant—a very small jar—for people who feel that they need coffee. I prefer tea, and good tea, too. Bridget had gotten a supply of very expensive Assam; a Post-it note on the little golden bag from the tea store downtown exhorted me to drink up, so I did.
In some telepathic way, the boys decided all at once to play basketball, and ran into the backyard, where their dad had put up a hoop somewhere between Corky’s abilities and Mick’s. Drake and I stood at the kitchen door, watching them bounce up and down the patio.
“They’re good kids,” he said, pulling me closer with an arm around my shoulder. I heard a hidden meaning in his words. I have no desire for the domestic-goddess role; the closest I ever come is making muffins out of leftover oatmeal, a skill that doesn’t exactly ring the bell on the homemaker scale. Just getting to the point of wanting a man in my bed, after years of keeping them—keeping everyone—at arm’s length, was major for me. At the rate I was going, I’d be menopausal before I could commit to a relationship. And that would be fine with me. I sensed it wouldn’t be fine with Drake, though. Not only was he stepping up the intimate little touches and kisses, he had made more than one comment that seemed to hint at a desire for children. This was a problem for me. I’m not interested in that scene. And I had tried to let Drake know it.
“They fight a lot, but they don’t really hurt each other.” I moved away from him, on the pretext of checking Moira, who was still glued to “Sesame Street,” watching Big Bird sing a soulful tune about being friends. “Looking after them is very tiring, though. I feel like I’ve been doing it for weeks instead of just a few hours.”
“I’ll help,” Drake volunteered. Right then and there, I decided that if he thought getting all domestic with me was going to make me want children of my own, he would find out differently. I’m not going to be saddled with motherhood. I feel barely able to take care of myself, let alone a small, helpless person whose years of dependency give a parent lots of chances to totally screw up.
“You have bones to deal with,” I pointed out. “But if you want to help, fine. Maybe you could take us all out to Burger King for dinner.”
Drake winced. He loves his meals.
“We’ll see.” He checked his watch. “I’d better start calling, see if I can locate some people to take a look at these bones.” He shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about them.”
“So you think they were put there on purpose.” I shivered a little. “When could someone do that? Last time the sidewalk was torn up?”
“That would be the best possibility,” he said. “Maybe even longer ago, depending on how deep the sidewalk crew went last tune. If the boys hadn’t dug him up, he probably wouldn’t have been found this time around either.”
I hadn’t really thought of the bones as a person before, a person who wouldn’t have chosen to be interred under a sidewalk. “They were digging with garden trowels and plastic shovels, for heaven’s sake. How far down could they have gotten?” I tried to picture the scenario, telling myself to approach it as a story and forget about the person who used to inhabit those bones. “And wouldn’t it be hard to dig a hole deep enough to bury someone? After all, there’s not a lot of time between the crew tearing up the old pavement and coming back to put on the new. Maybe you’d have a few hours late at night to work. Right out there in the open where any insomniac could see you.” I warmed to my theme. “And you’d displace a lot of dirt, too. What would you do with that?”
Drake blew thoughtfully on his tea. “Sometimes it takes days for them to come back. When it rains, for instance.” He took another cookie, pointing it at me in an admonishing way. “And if you bought yourself a pair of official-looking coveralls, you could dig as deep a hole as you wanted in broad daylight, and just come back at night to put the body in and fill in with dirt. Or if you lived here, I bet no one would notice you digging out front if you said you were taking soil samples or something. Then tip your body in at night, cover up, and you’re done.”
It didn’t sound very likely to me. “Probably you’ll want to talk to the Public Works people, if you can get hold of someone there. I called and got a recording—several recordings.”
He grinned. “I know the magic number. I do want to talk to the crew from yesterday, see how deep they went, what they noticed. I can go back home and call, or you can let me use this phone.”
“Makes no difference to me.” I didn’t really mean that, of course. In the past Drake has disliked having me involved in his investigations, although my bad karma had dragged me in anyway. This one looked like something I could totally duck, but I was interested in knowing more about who’d left their bones under the sidewalk enough years ago to remove all traces of the person that had inhabited them.
I busied myself cleaning up the juice glasses and sweeping the floor. Kids make for a lot of debris, and Bridget’s kitchen is big enough to be quite a chore to sweep. Drake made several phone calls, but I couldn’t always hear what he was saying. I did notice that when he had to leave a message, he left his own phone number, not Bridget’s. From that I deduced that he wouldn’t be staying long.
I was right. After the last call he turned away from the phone and smiled at me. “It will be a novel experience to have you ava
ilable by telephone instead of holed up in your house with no modern conveniences.”
“Maybe I’m not planning to answer the phone.” I actually don’t like Mr. Bell’s device much, which is why I don’t have one. Drake lets me receive messages on his phone, during the times when I’m actively seeking temp work or when I need to talk with the editors who buy my freelance magazine articles.
He just gave me that annoying know-it-all male smile.
“You’ll answer it,” he said, coming to hug me, “because it might be Bridget checking up on her kids, and you wouldn’t want to worry her.”
He was right. I relaxed into the warm embrace, wishing that I hadn’t agreed to be burdened with four young children, wishing that I could let myself go with Drake’s flow and forget my anxiety. The physical desire he aroused in me was nearly smothered in anxieties, chief among them the fear of failing again at love and commitment and all that grownup stuff. Although it wouldn’t be as physically catastrophic as my marriage had been, to try and then fail with Drake would certainly be devastating.
“Okay,” I said, pulling away finally. “I’ll answer the phone. But you’ll have to let me hang around when the archaeologist comes.”
He pushed his granny glasses up. “You have a deal.”
Chapter 3
Drake left, mumbling about meeting someone from Public Works. He didn’t take Barker with him. Boys and dog tangled in the backyard, along with several tennis balls and a large stick.
I put away the dishes and tried not to feel outnumbered. At least I knew Drake would be back—after all, I had custody of the bones. Still, it seemed hard to be left with four children, all stirred up by dirt and sugar. Even Moira tired of “Sesame Street” and lurched into the kitchen. I smiled at her, and she smiled back before she realized her mother wasn’t there. Tears welled up in her big blue eyes.
I picked her up and tried to comfort her. She twisted her little body away from me and increased the volume. To distract her, I pulled a glossy eggplant from the basket of fruit and veggies on the counter and waved it. She cried harder. I tried a crook-neck squash and a pear with no success. Finally she accepted a banana, hiccupping out little leftover sobs while she examined it.
“Do you want me to peel it?” I broke the banana stem and started to pull off the skin. It wasn’t a good idea. Moira howled, a primitive, heartbroken sound that shook me. I handed the banana back, but she threw it on the floor. Her nose began to run. I realized her hands were dirty when she used them to wipe her eyes and left smears on her flushed cheeks.
Before I could get a washcloth, the doorbell rang. I picked up the banana with my free hand and carried the howling baby over to the door.
An attractive young woman stood on the porch, her shoulder-length, sun-streaked hair blowing in the breeze. She wore khaki slacks and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up on slender, tanned arms. She pulled her attention away from the cardboard box that held the bones long enough to look at me and my noisy comrade.
“Are you—” she pulled a little notebook out of her leather knapsack and looked at it—“Liz Sullivan?”
“Yes,” I said. Moira reached steam-whistle decibels, then stopped abruptly to gaze at the woman.
“I’m Dinah Blakely.” She held out her hand. I reached automatically to shake it, forgetting for a moment that I held a partially-peeled, dirt-encrusted banana. Her wide, white smile faded; she dropped her hand. “Paul Drake sent me, Mrs. Sullivan. He said you’d found some interesting bones, and I see he was right.” Her gaze strayed back to the box.
I gave Moira the banana, which she clasped while still staring at Dinah Blakely. “The boys found them, actually. And I’m not a Mrs. Just Liz is fine.”
Dinah glanced from me to Moira. “Boys? You have—more children?”
“I don’t have any children.” I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and wiped Moira’s nose. She howled again, briefly. “I’m house-sitting and child-sitting. The boys are in the back. Shall I get them?”
Dinah cocked her head. The boys were audible, now that Moira had fallen silent. Their shouts, and Barker’s shrill namesake noises, wafted out of the backyard. “That’s okay.” she said hastily. “I’ll just wait here for Paul. He said he’d meet me.”
“Feel free to look over the bones,” I offered. Moira struggled a little, and I put her down. She made a beeline for Dinah Blakely.
“What a darling little girl,” Dinah cooed apprehensively. Moira was very cute, with her feathery red curls and rosy cheeks. But Dinah was looking at her hands, aimed right at the perfectly creased twill trousers.
“Amazing how dirty kids get, isn’t it?” I swooped Moira up just before she touched the trousers. “Of course, I guess you know about dirt—you’re an archaeologist, right?”
“Anthropologist, actually.” Dinah crossed over to the box and squatted beside it, picking up the piece of cranium. “Yes. I’ve gotten dirty before.” Her voice sounded absent. She turned the piece of bone over in her hands. “That’s why we wear khaki, you know. It’s not just some Indiana Jones thing.”
Moira reached for the cranium, and Dinah held it away. “Mustn’t touch,” she said in the fake voice that childless people keep for children. Talking to kids is hard when you don’t have any of your own. I assumed she didn’t have any. There was no ring on her finger, either.
“How long have you been doing this?” I gestured to the bones, but it was a minute before Dinah answered. She put down the piece of cranium and picked up one of the long bones.
“Hmm? Oh, for a few years. I’ve just been at Stanford for about nine months, though. Paul and I met when someone else found bones in the creek bed. But those were from a dog.”
Her words sent a chill down my back. “And these aren’t?”
“Oh, no.” She waved the leg bone at me. “Definitely human.” Drake’s rusty Saab pulled into the driveway, and Dinah smiled. “There’s Paul.” She waved again with the leg bone, this time at Drake. He smiled and waved in return.
“So you beat me, Dinah.” He bounded up the steps, pausing to pinch Moira’s grubby cheek. “Hello, cutie.” He winked at me, and I wasn’t certain who the salutation was aimed at. Probably Moira—she’s much cuter than I. I am short and nondescript-looking, the kind of woman you see everywhere.
Dinah tossed back her blond hair and rose easily from her crouching position, earning my respect. It’s not that I’m old and creaky. I’m only thirty-five. But my knees seem to be aging ahead of the rest of me.
“Hi, Paul.” She gave Drake a big smile, and he responded in kind. “These bones are something.”
“Dinah.” He shook her hand briskly, the hand that wasn’t holding a bone, and gestured at me. “They’re Liz’s bones, really.”
“Bridget’s.” I spoke firmly, not wanting to claim the bones in any way.
“So what do we have?” Drake bent over the box with Dinah beside him.
“Human. Probably male, though I can’t say for certain at this point. But the length of the leg bones and this piece of pelvis here indicate a man. Probably in his twenties, early thirties.” She pointed to the end of the leg bone. “See, the growth plates are completely fused, but there are no signs of age-related wear.” She looked more closely. “Actually, he might have had a bum knee. See?” She pointed to some minuscule bump on the end of the bone, and Drake nodded wisely.
“Boy, you can tell a lot just from the bones, huh?” I came closer. Moira was eating the banana now, smearing that into the existing matrix of her face. I should have taken her in for a bath, or at least a face wash, but couldn’t pull myself away.
Dinah smiled. “Oh, yes. The bones can speak, if you can hear them. If I had a bit of jawbone, now—” She rummaged for a minute in the box and came up empty-handed. “That’s the way to make a firm identification. Dental records, you know, although—see?” She picked up a flat, dished piece of bone and examined it. “These have been in the ground for a while. You’ve got some rodent chew here. Probably go
pher or something like that. If you’re involved, Paul, maybe it’s not rodent chew but sharp-force trauma.” She cast a flirtatious smile at Drake.
He smiled back, but I couldn’t tell if he was aware of Dinah’s skittish little invitation. At any rate, she turned back to the bones.
“This piece of pelvis is good for telling us stuff. You can see the broad articulation here where it connects to the spine. And no lipping—that indicates a person probably in their early-or mid-twenties.” She brought the fragment to her nose and sniffed thoroughly. “And the smell. That candle-wax smell is faint. I’d guess ten, twelve or more years in the ground.” She frowned. “That could make an ID harder, even if we find the jawbone. Dentists don’t always keep their records that long.”
Drake was fascinated. I was, too, reluctantly. Despite Dinah’s wholesome appearance, I didn’t like the way she looked at Drake. She would give him strong, healthy children who would only be dirty at the proper times. She would help him in his work. She would be better for him than I would, mass of insecurities that I was. If I were a good person, I would quietly fade back into the house and mind my own business while they got on with it.
Not being particularly good, I hung around while Moira scraped the inside of the banana skin with her pearly little teeth. We followed Drake and Dinah down to the sidewalk, listening to their discussion of the best way to deal with the mess the boys had made. Dinah wanted to bring over an archaeology lab class and let them gain experience. Drake wanted to bring in the crime scene team and haul everything away for exhaustive analysis.
Their argument was spirited, between colleagues. I got the banana peel away from Moira and buried it around the dripline of the ratty-looking rosebush, having read in a gardening book that banana peels are good for roses. I made Moira a hollyhock doll to take its place.
“Now, Paul,” Dinah said, putting one hand on his arm. “This is an ideal situation. And you don’t know it’s a crime scene, after all.”