by Lora Roberts
I didn’t care for the way he looked at me when he said that. “Surely you don’t blame me. Or was I just supposed to ignore what the boys had done? After all, the work crews would have noticed the bones on Monday, or at least what was left after the boys stirred it all up, anyway.”
“No, no.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Of course, it’s worth investigating. It’ll just be so tedious to track down the ID at this late date, that’s all.”
“You call yourself a detective,” I scoffed, helping Sam down from the window seat. “You have records, don’t you? Who lived here, who was missing—”
“Liz.” Drake was patient. “Those records are useful if you have a date. The forensic guys aren’t going to say, ‘This man was killed in August of 1975.’ Without a benchmark in time of some kind, it’s going to be damned difficult, even with our databases.”
Moira woke just then, and by the time I’d tended her, Mick was awake. Drake ordered Chinese delivered, since he was expecting the archaeologists any time. I put The Little Mermaid in the VCR, reflecting that I’d allowed Bridget’s children to watch far more TV that day than I really approved of. It was easy to see how moms got into letting the kids veg out in front of the tube.
Richard Grolen and his crew showed up at the same time as the Chinese food. He and Drake held a brief discussion, standing by the sidewalk. They shook hands like prizefighting opponents.
I cut some potstickers into tiny bites and let Moira sit on the floor with the boys in front of the TV while eating. Barker, especially, thought this was a fine idea.
Drake and I took our chopsticks and mu shu onto the front porch. We sat on the steps with the front door open behind us. I could hear the kids shrieking with laughter as Louie the Crab conducted an undersea orchestra. In front of us, the students lifted away the barricades and tarp, following Richard’s directions.
“This better not be a mistake,” Drake said around a bite. He caught a noodle that slithered off. “It could cost me in the department. The captain really wanted to wait until the county team has time to deal with it, but that could be weeks. I want this cleaned up.”
“So do I.” I thought of Bridget coming back to a full-scale excavation of dubious bones in her front yard. It was enough to destroy the benefit of any vacation.
Drake knew what I was thinking about. “It may not be done in a week. Depends on how fast these people move, and they don’t usually move very fast. Grolen said they’d skimp a bit on the preliminaries, seeing that the layers have already been disturbed.”
We sat there until we were finished eating, watching the students impose a grid on the site, then take pictures, then finally begin to dig, or rather, to remove dirt with hand trowels and buckets. I checked occasionally on the kids. Moira ate quite a bit of potsticker and beef with broccoli; nobody admitted feeding Barker, but he had the look of a satisfied dog. Twilight came, and deepening dusk.
Finally Richard Grolen came over to the steps to fill Drake in on the progress so far, leaving his crew to pack up the bones they’d unearthed. I could see that I wasn’t wanted in the official consultation, so I wandered down to the sidewalk. It occurred to me that no one had offered the students anything to drink. “Say, if you guys are thirsty—”
“I wouldn’t say no to a Coke,” one of the men said. He was short, with a round face reddened by the work he’d been doing. His baseball cap was turned backwards, shading his neck, and his eyes were magnified by thick-lensed glasses.
“Geez, Nelson,” said the female member of the crew, pushing her hat farther back on her head. “You brought a cooler full of drinks. You already empty that?”
“I don’t have any Coke,” I said, hoping to cool the altercation. “But I could get you some ice water.”
“That’s nice,” the girl said, wiping her grimy hand on her jeans and extending it to me. “I’m Kathy Swenson, by the way.” Despite the hat, her nose was going to peel. Her pale blue eyes were ringed by pale blond lashes. “This is Hobart Pena, and that bottomless pit over there is Nelson Drabble. We’ll be going soon anyway. Thanks for your offer, though.”
Nelson looked like he wanted to argue with her, but Hobart gave me a languid nod and turned away. He was a handsome young fellow, with jet-black hair and bronzed skin. His brief T-shirt displayed muscles worth looking at.
Certainly Kathy looked at them, although with what appeared to be abstract appreciation. She was tall, skinny to the point of boniness, and her pale skin wasn’t taking the sun well.
“Well, let me know if you need a drink. And you’re welcome to take your breaks on the front porch where it’s shady, as long as you’re quiet at naptime.” I smiled at Kathy, sure that she at least would understand this.
“That’s very nice. We don’t usually get any perks on the dig,” Kathy said frankly, glancing at the front porch where Drake and Richard Grolen still conferred. Grolen looked over at the same time, and she got back to work.
I went back to the porch. Grolen gave me a smile, but without the extra charm he’d turned on for Melanie, and walked down the steps toward the crew. They heaved the last couple of tools into their van and drove away.
“So far they’ve found just a few bones,” Drake said with gloomy satisfaction. “Our guys would have gotten all the bones by now.”
“Did they find any bullets or anything?”
He showed me the little cardboard box Richard had given him. In it were some rusty Matchbox cars and a few bits of broken glass. “That’s it,” he said. “Doesn’t look too lethal.” He carried the box down to his car anyway. “Is there any more of that mu shu?”
After we cleared away the dinner, Drake read to the boys while I got Moira cleaned up. She asked for Mommy a couple of times, but at least she didn’t cry when I told her Mommy was visiting and would be home later. Despite her long nap, she was asleep soon after I started rocking her.
Feeling like a manipulator, I told the boys we were going to call their parents. “It’s expensive,” I said. “We can’t talk long. What should we tell them?”
“About the Bobcat!” Corky was firm.
“And the dump truck,” Sam added.
“Okay, we can talk about the road construction. What about your trip to the Peninsula Creamery?”
“Yes, we had beer!” Sam licked his lips, remembering.
We made the call, and between the boys both talking at once on separate extensions and Bridget getting so excited to hear from them, the bones weren’t mentioned. Emery did ask about the dump truck, and Sam told him, with great disappointment, that the men hadn’t dumped the bones in it. But Corky was off on a tangent immediately, and Emery didn’t follow up on it.
When we hung up, I was limp with relief.
Drake tucked the boys in, then came out to the living room. “That was fun,” he said. “Haven’t read Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel in several decades.”
I dropped into a chair. “I’m exhausted.”
“No wonder.” He stood behind me and rubbed my neck and shoulders. It felt good. “You’ve had a very hard day.”
“Tomorrow has to be better, though.” I let my head fall forward. “Unless the kids discover a toxic waste site or something. And Monday they go to school all day.”
“Poor Liz.” His hands rotating over my shoulders did amazing things to my insides. “At least I’ll be around tomorrow.”
“I may not.” He stopped rubbing, and I sat up. “I was thinking about taking the kids somewhere. Then you and Richard could dig to your hearts’ content.”
“Might be a good idea.”
“But only if you’re going to be here. I can’t abandon Biddy’s house to those archaeologists.”
“I’ll be here.” He began to smile. “So you’re going to take four kids on an excursion single-handed? That’s brave.”
“Claudia might go with me.” I stood up. “And I’ll need my rest.”
Drake took the hint. I walked him to the door, and he kissed me before he left. He’d been d
oing that for a little while now. It was getting harder and harder to pretend these were just California kisses between friends.
Nevertheless, after he’d gone, I did pretend that. I phoned Claudia, who agreed to go with us on an expedition the next day. Then I walked around the house, accompanied by Barker, locking all the doors and turning out lights.
I was keyed up, not ready to sleep. Bridget and Emery had bookcases everywhere, bulging with books. Emery’s books on solid-state-this and algorithm-that didn’t interest me. But Bridget’s books were like a smorgasbord to a dieter. I chose Villette to take into bed with me, and only for a minute or two did I think about a different choice I could have made.
Chapter 8
I got up early to pack everything I could find to eat into a knapsack, along with Bridget’s family membership card for the California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park, thoughtfully included with her pages of instructions.
I made pancakes for breakfast, not quite up to Bridget’s standards, but the boys didn’t seem to notice. Halfway through the second batch, Barker left his post under the kitchen table and raced to the front door, ears alert. Corky ran into the living room and climbed on the window seat. “Those arkenologists are back!”
Sam abandoned his pancakes to climb up beside his brother. “They’re digging up our bones again!”
I stood behind them, looking at the battered white van. “They’re down to the sidewalk level already. Probably removing what you guys did was the easy part.” Drake’s car pulled up. He hopped out, gave Richard a curt nod, and headed up the front walk.
“I don’t wanna go to the museum,” Corky whined with his nose plastered to the window. “I wanna stay and help them dig.”
Drake walked in in time to hear this. “That’s all I need,” he said.
“Relax. We’re leaving.” I crammed a bottle of juice and a stack of little paper cups into the knapsack. “But Barker’s staying. Can you keep an eye on him? He likes to dig, too.”
“I’m in charge of an investigation here,” Drake said, “not dog-sitting.”
“Okay, I’ll stop by my place and lock him up for the day.”
Drake sighed. “Leave him here. I don’t want to be responsible for more phone calls about his howling.”
“He doesn’t howl much anymore.”
“If that’s what you think, it’s lucky for you I’m in a position to squash the neighbors’ complaints.”
I hefted the knapsack. “Okay, does anyone need to go to the bathroom before we leave?”
The boys ignored me. Moira, I already knew, was dry.
It took four trips back and forth before all the kids and equipment were loaded into Bridget’s rusty old Suburban. I would have driven my own equally rusty VW bus, but it didn’t have enough space for all the equipment.
The Suburban was a whole new driving experience for me. I lumbered it carefully down the driveway, managing not to hit any of the digging students. The Public Works crew was putting in overtime down the block, crunching through some more asphalt. I waved at Stewart, and he and Doug waved back.
We threaded through cool, leafy streets. Palo Alto wore Sunday morning quiet; the sidewalks downtown were only crowded around the coffee and bagel shops. On an impulse I stopped at the Bagel Works. The kids fell on the warm cinnamon-raisin bagels with enthusiasm.
Claudia, too, appreciated the cup of coffee I’d brought her in a to-go cup with a lid. She settled herself in the passenger seat and accepted responsibility for tending Moira and Mick, strapped into car seats on the middle bench. The older boys occupied the back bench, along with an indestructible-looking tape recorder, a pile of cassette tapes and Tintin books, a box of coloring books and crayons, and enough Legos to build a whole city.
That Suburban was like a yacht. There was room behind the third bench seat for the rest of it: stroller, bulging diaper bag for Moira, change of clothes for both Mick and Moira in case of accident, everyone’s warm jacket in case it was cold in San Francisco, the knapsack of food, and the Suburban’s toolbox, which I desperately hoped not to need. I can keep my old bus running because I know it so well. I didn’t have a clue about Bridget’s car.
Claudia sipped noisily at her coffee and took a bagel from the bag on the front seat. “This is a great idea,” she said, glancing behind her. “Keep the little mouths full, and they’re much quieter.”
“It won’t last.” I headed for 280, the more scenic route to San Francisco. “Thanks for agreeing to come, Claudia I’m just not up to handling four kids in a museum by myself.”
“Who is?” Claudia turned toward me. “I didn’t come because I’m so nice, Liz, so don’t waste your thanks on me. I came to hash over the bones.”
I checked the rearview mirror to see the kids’ reaction to this. None of them appeared to be able to hear what we said in the front seat. Corky and Sam were barely visible way in back, their heads together over the tape recorder. Faint strains of Ray Stevens drifted up to us. In the middle seat, Mick munched steadily through his bagel. Moira wasn’t eating the piece of bagel clutched in her chubby fist; she had already succumbed to road hypnosis.
“Okay, what about the bones?”
Claudia wriggled herself more comfortably into the seat. She enjoyed second-guessing Drake about any of his cases, but especially the occasional suspicious death. In her opinion, he didn’t apply the scholarly method. “What have you learned from Drake?”
“Nothing, really. He just wants to get them dug up and hopes to figure out who it is.”
My peripheral vision glimpsed Claudia’s huge, Chessy-cat smile. “I know who it is.”
“Claudia!” The Suburban bumped over a couple of lane markers before I wrenched it back into line. “How on earth—”
“I don’t know his name, of course.” Claudia shrugged off this minor detail. “But I thought about it all evening, and when I talked to Melanie, I knew.”
“Melanie? What does she have to do with it?”
“Oh, nothing with the crime, I’m sure.” Claudia waved one massive arm with half-eaten bagel attached. I ducked. “But she was there, you know, for a couple of years. She lived in that house. That’s where I first met her. In fact, she baby-sat for Carlie and Jack a couple of times, after our first sitter proved so unreliable. I knew her folks, of course, or I would never have trusted another hippie.”
“Melanie was a hippie!” It seemed so unlikely that perfect Melanie could ever have worn torn jeans and love beads.
“Oh, maybe she was more of a wanna-be, but she was there.” Claudia considered for a minute, munching. “Actually, she’s had trouble with drugs. Didn’t you know?”
I shook my head. Gossiping makes me uncomfortable. It seems so unfair, somehow. Claudia loves to gossip, excusing it on the grounds that it’s not gossip unless you’re judgmental; otherwise it’s just research into the vagaries of human behavior.
And I did have a rank little need to hear anything shady about Melanie, who wanted everyone to do good the way she thought was best. Every time I refused to volunteer in one of those society-type charities that target the homeless population, she let me feel her disapproval. I do what I can on a one-to-one basis with characters like Old Mackie, who often drops by for a meal and was just then the proud possessor of my favorite pair of thick wool socks. But I don’t want to stand there and flaunt my good luck in having a house over people who used to be my neighbors on the street.*
*Murder in a Nice Neighborhood
So I didn’t stop Claudia from telling me about Melanie’s checkered past.
“Yes, awhile ago—it would be about the time Biddy got pregnant with Moira—Melanie was mixed up in a murder case. She ended up in Betty Ford kicking a nasty cocaine habit, and since then she’s been so holier-than-thou. Wants to pretend she was never a hell-raiser, never used an illegal substance.” Claudia made a noise between a sniff and a snort. “I wasn’t taking any of that, you can believe. Asked her who she bought her drugs from back in the old days.”
I checked the rearview mirror again. Mick had joined Moira in bye-bye land. Sam and Corky were having a delightful time with Ray Stevens. Already, after little more than twenty-four hours in their company, I knew they would move on to Weird Al Yankovic soon.
“What did she say?”
Claudia laughed. “You mean after she denied using drugs? That was funny. I had to remind her that I had been in that house in the seventies, I knew what all those kids were doing. That Richard Grolen, for instance. Soon as I laid eyes on him, I remembered him. He was older than the rest of them, but no better. Alfred and I came home once and found Melanie entertaining him in the living room.”
“You mean—”
“Necking.” She said the word with zest. “In fact, petting. Yes! Heavy petting. Of course, the kids were asleep, and no harm done. But when I reminded Melanie of that, she stopped weaseling. She said she didn’t remember the real name of that fellow who was the dealer. They called him Nado, because he came from Kansas and he kept talking about tornadoes all the time. He just vanished the year she graduated. Nobody really paid much attention, but she remembers because she wanted some dope or something for a party and couldn’t find this guy anywhere, and that’s when people started wondering what happened to him. They figured he was in jail somewhere.”
“Maybe he was.”
“He was never seen again.” Claudia’s voice was low and portentous. “Now, considering that most of those people have turned up, off and on, over the years, don’t you think that’s suspicious? I mean, take Richard Grolen. He’s been gone for a while, but here he is, back again. Melanie, some of the others—they’re still around town. I see them every now and again. Saw that ex-baby-sitter of mine at a Red Ribbon Week rally, urging her kids to say no to drugs.” Claudia laughed again. “That tickled me. I almost went up and asked her if she was drawing from her own experience.”