by J. S. Marlo
“She poisoned her father with glass.” Tears trailed down the deep wrinkles marring her cheeks. “It was the drugs, Mr. S. Poor thing had no idea what she was doing. A week later, she swallowed the entire pharmacy. I found her on the bathroom floor.”
Her ability to forgive the teenager responsible for her misery struck a sensitive chord.
“Gail?” In the doorway, Rowan cupped the side of her head while staring at the table with hollow green eyes. “Would you mind bringing me breakfast in the living room, please?”
He hadn’t heard Rowan’s footsteps, and her sudden, disheveled appearance startled him.
“Sure.” Worries etched Gail’s face. “Just give me a few minutes.”
As Rowan retreated into the hallway, he glanced down. His plate was empty. He’d absent-mindedly eaten his entire breakfast while listening to Gail’s sad tale.
“Oh my!” Gail pulled a tray from the cupboard. “Miss Rowan doesn’t look too good this morning.”
His opinion of Chris Malcolm dropped another notch. For a doctor, he didn’t seem to care much about his date’s physical well-being. And for an intelligent woman, Rowan didn’t show much common sense or moderation.
Women. His infatuation for redheads had caused him enough heartbreak. He didn’t need to succumb to dazzling green eyes and a feisty temperament. “Give her a cup of black coffee and some Tylenol. She’ll be fine.”
***
The side wall of the living room was filled with bookcases of different widths. Rowan hadn’t had time to browse through Mattie’s book collection and, with a splitting headache, reading wasn’t on the list for the day, but she still enjoyed lounging on the overstuffed leather loveseat and eating breakfast here when there were no guests around. Stone doesn’t count. He’d arrived more than three weeks ago and showed no indication of leaving any time soon.
“Too much alcohol isn’t good for your health, Miss Rowan. Maybe you should go back to bed.”
Touched by the genuine concern emanating from the misinformed woman standing between the nearest bookcase and the coffee table, Rowan forced a smile.
“I didn’t drink, Gail. I fell when I went for a walk with Chris, and I hit my head.” She’d almost reached the entrance gate when she’d tripped over an exposed root and plunged headfirst into a support pole. Under the impact, the wooden stick had cracked, leaving a young tree shaken. “I’m fine.” Except for the pounding inside my skull.
Eyebrows raised, Gail clasped her hands over her apron. “Did the doctor take you to the hospital?”
“It’s just a bump.” Chris had rushed to her side. Dizzy from the blow, she’d let him carry her to his car and drive her home. “I wasn’t going to let him waste his time.”
Muscles twitched around Gail’s eyes, baring her disapproval. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Some,” she lied. Restful sleep, along with the reason why she couldn’t bear Chris’s touch, had eluded her all night. “I promise I’ll take a nap after I call the police station.” No point going to town if the accident report wasn’t ready.
“Make sure you do,” Gail insisted. “And if you need anything else, give me a shout. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
The sweet aroma of bacon wafted from the plate. It smelled delicious.
As Rowan took her first bite, an engine coughed, sputtered, then roared, and wheels screeched. Ready to strangle the inconsiderate perpetrator acerbating her headache, she got up and peeked through the window. Avery’s vehicle sped down the hill. With him gone for a while, she didn’t have to worry about a chance encounter of the awkward type.
“Why do I have to remind you of Rachel?” For the same reason he reminds me of Bjorn.
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
Minutes later, Gail dashed back inside the living room. “Miss Rowan, we have a problem. Buster, old Fred’s dog, is trapped under the gazebo.”
***
Avery strolled among the rows of gravestones decorated with flowers and bouquets. The scent of freshly cut grass tickled his nose. He inhaled a deep breath and slowly let it out. Around him, dead people rested in peace, free from the trials and sorrows of human existence. Guilt had lessened its grip since he’d arrived at Buccaneer, and he no longer contemplated a one-way boat ride, but forgiveness still eluded him.
A lawn mower screamed in agony. The popping, spitting, discordant noise originated from behind a utility shed set at the upper edge of the cemetery. Hoping to meet with a groundskeeper, Avery proceeded toward the shed.
Kneeling on the grass beside a sputtering lawn mower, an employee in blue overalls fiddled with the motor. To avoid startling the unsuspecting fellow, Avery moved into his peripheral vision before addressing him. “Hello, there.”
The man pulled on a wire, killing the motor before lifting his head. “What can I do for you?”
His back to the shed, Avery studied the employee. “Terry Jordan?”
“The one and only.” About the same age as Bill, the groundskeeper was missing one of his front teeth.
“Do you know a Bill Smith?”
“Sure do. He comes every Wednesday afternoon. Sometimes more often.” As he stood, Jordan ran greasy fingers into thinning gray hair. “You missed him. He was here fifteen minutes ago.”
Bill’s most recent visit wasn’t the one Avery was interested in. “What about Mattie O’Reilly? Do you remember her?”
“Of course I do. Charming lady.” Sharp blue eyes held Avery’s gaze. “Poplar casket. High-gloss cherry finish. Brass handles. Morning Rose granite headstone. Black sandblasted letters. Celtic inscription.”
Never in his life had Avery heard someone describe a dead person in such unique fashion, and that was not the way he ever wanted to be remembered. “I see.”
“Third row. Seventh plot.” Jordan pointed toward an area that Avery had yet to roam. “Bill just put fresh purple orchids on her grave.”
“That’s very nice of him.” And very peculiar. Avery wished he had the authority to ask direct questions instead of walking on eggshells. “To your knowledge, were Bill and Mattie close?”
The groundskeeper’s nostrils flared. “Bill worked for Mattie. If there was anything else, it wasn’t anybody’s business.”
The polite warning didn’t deter Avery. “I heard he was here the afternoon of Mattie’s death.”
“He was visiting Thelma’s grave.” Deep lines creased the man’s forehead. “Why the interest?”
“I’m a writer.” When lying, Avery had been taught to keep close to the truth. “Local history fascinates me. Who’s Thelma?”
“Thelma O’Reilly. Mattie’s mother.” The groundskeeper’s gaze wandered over Avery’s shoulders. “She’s buried with her husband. Fifth row, eleventh plot. One headstone. Silver—”
“Thank you,” he interrupted to spare himself another uncanny description.
A short stroll later, Avery found row five, plot eleven. Pain seared through his leg as he knelt on the grass in front of the headstone.
THELMA AND WILMOT O’REILLY
LOST AT SEA ON AUGUST 5—
Someone had also put fresh yellow orchids on the grave of Wilmot and Thelma O’Reilly, concealing the rest of the epitaph. Avery parted the flowers and read the date.
The O’Reillys had perished twenty summers ago.
Chapter Nineteen
Sporadic growling and barking alerted Rowan to the dog’s presence under the gazebo long before she arrived within view of the structure. Once there, she shined her flashlight through the gaps of the lattice and spotted the black-and-white dog digging into the ground.
“Smelly geysers, Buster. How did you get in there?” In search of an entry point, she circled the gazebo and found the earth disturbed near a post on the opposite side. “Did you crawl under the lath?”
Seemingly unmindful of her presence or the dancing shadows created by the light, Buster vocalized his discontent or glee at the hole widening under his front paws.
“What are you digging up
?”
The excavation stopped. Lying on his belly, the puppy-sized dog buried his head in the hole. His fur ruffled as he growled and pulled on some hidden treasure.
“You’re making a mess. Time to go home.” The flashlight stuck between her gritted teeth, Rowan grabbed the lattice with both hands and tugged. The wood creaked. The nails popped out. And as she fell backward, the flashlight flew out of her mouth. She’d bruised her pride and her tushy. “Why didn’t I get a hammer?” Bill wouldn’t be pleased with the damage. “Come on, Buster. Out!”
The dog jerked his head. A bone protruded from his jaws, exposing smooth white canines.
“Come show me what you got.”
To her annoyance, Buster retreated into the shadows.
“You’re not going to make me fetch you, are you?” Last thing she needed was to be bitten by the dim-witted animal because he was afraid she’d snatch his prize.
Hoping he’d come out on his own if she gave him enough room to escape, she took a few steps back. “The coast is clear, Bus—” The fur ball zipped by her before she finished uttering his name, then disappeared into the bushes.
Hands on her hips, she heaved a long sigh. “Fred better not complain if Buster chokes on the bone.” Her old neighbor who lived down the hill, second road on the left, refused to keep the dog on a leash.
The broken lattice mocked her, but there was no point fixing it until she ascertained that no other treasures were buried under the gazebo, or else Buster would be back for it.
“Crawling with the critters is so not what I’d planned for today.”
In need of some gardening tools, leather gloves, and kneepads in case some shards of glass remained, she headed for the shed.
***
Teenagers smoking cigarettes hung out in the parking lot of the grocery store. Having no jurisdiction over the future delinquents, Avery resisted the temptation to lecture them before entering the premises. The automated door whooshed behind him, blocking their hushed comments and pitiful glares. Bloody kids.
Colorful signs suspended from the ceiling listed the contents of each aisle. He headed toward the juice section. After depleting Gail’s reserves of tomato juice, he felt obligated to replenish the pantry. The store brand cost a third less than the brand name. Since both tasted the same, he opted for the cheap stuff. Three large cans tucked under one arm, he made his way toward the cashier on duty.
“Hello—” The white plastic nametag on the middle-aged woman’s shirt had yellowed at the corner, and the letters had faded to a light shade of beige over months or years of employment. “Ju—Julie?”
“Julia.” A kind smile added wrinkles to a round face framed by curly black hair. “That’s a lot of juice. What are you doing with it?”
Pleased to run into a chatty cashier, he placed the cans on the moving belt. “I drink it, which is why Gail at Buccaneer sent me for more.” Nothing like a little white lie while attempting to gather information.
She scanned the three identical cans separately before placing them in a plastic bag. “Are you a guest?”
The question raised Avery’s hope he’d entered the right store. “Yes. With all the food Gail cooks in a week, she must be here all the time.”
“Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon like clockwork.”
“Has she ever missed a day?”
“Not during tourist season.” She lifted the bag by the handles and lowered it into a second bag. “Sometimes she comes even more often. That will be eight dollars and thirty-seven cents, please.”
The cashier had provided Gail with a strong alibi and, with no motive to kill Mattie, the wonderful cook didn’t make much of a suspect. Another wild goose chase.
His mind reeling, he handed the helpful lady a ten-dollar bill, took his purchase, and pocketed the change. “Thank you.”
Mattie’s murder had occurred a Wednesday afternoon. Someone could have taken advantage of Gail’s and Bill’s absences to visit Buccaneer and surprise Mattie.
***
Armed with a hand cultivator, a small bucket, and a portable lantern, Rowan slithered under the gazebo. In high school, she’d considered archeology as a field of study before switching to geology, a decision she’d never regretted.
She set the light on the mound of dirt displaced by Buster and the bucket near her left knee. The empty hole gaped open, as if challenging her to find more bones. With the cultivator, she poked and raked to loosen the packed earth. Chunks of red dirt fell into the hole. She scooped a handful and crumbled it with her gloved hand. Dirt slipped between her fingers, leaving behind a short, narrow bone in her palm.
“Let’s see—” She lifted the bone toward the light to examine it. Smoothly rounded at both ends, it measured roughly two and a half inches and didn’t resemble any human bones she’d ever seen. “Sorry, Buster, but you’re not getting this one.”
The red-stained bone landed with a clunk at the bottom of the empty aluminum bucket. Heartened by her discovery, she extended her search, unearthing additional bones everywhere she dug. Short bones. Long bones. Curvy bones. Flat bones. Round bones. They came in all shapes and sizes.
A grave robber trespassing in a cemetery at night wouldn’t have harvested a more worthy collection. The bucket was full, and more bones were stacked beside it. “I have enough bones for a skeleton. All I’m missing is a skull.” Not that she truly wanted to find the skull of the poor animal buried with the worms. “If only Aunt Mattie had moved the gazebo.” It’d be so much easier and less creepy to dig for remains in an open excavation. If not for the new roof that Bill had installed, she’d consider tearing it down.
A solid thud reverberated through her right hand when the cultivator banged against a hard object. Plowing around it in a circular motion, she gradually unearthed an oval shaped bone. A small skull. “Are you Mattie’s long-dead kitten?”
“Little Shamrock? Are you in there?”
***
Back at Buccaneer after killing a rodent that hadn’t looked both ways before crossing the road, Avery parked in front of the garage between Bill’s truck and a blue Malibu that didn’t belong there.
He grabbed his groceries from the passenger-side floor before exiting his Chevy Blazer. The Malibu was affixed with a rental sticker from AVIS. Suspicious of the newcomer, he circled the car as he glanced inside. The driver-side window was down, the bucket seat was pushed back, a map was open on the passenger seat, an empty bottle of water was in the cup holder, and a pair of sunglasses had been discarded on the dash. Avery didn’t see any baby seat in the back, but that didn’t rule out the presence of older brats.
“Mr. Stone?” Bill walked toward his truck carrying a full bucket. “Did you have a nice ride to town?”
It occurred to Avery that Bill might have spotted him at the cemetery. If the handyman were fishing for an explanation, he’d be disappointed. “Uneventful, except for a dead squirrel on the road. What’s in the bucket?”
“Bones.” After lowering the tailgate, he dumped the contents of the bucket into a box in the bed of the truck. “Miss Rowan dug them out from under the gazebo after Fred’s mutt took off with one.”
A dog stealing a bone had prompted Rowan to search for more? The woman needed new hobbies. “Human?”
“Nope.” Among the scattered remains, Bill scooped up a skull. “I’m guessing a cat.”
The elongated skull jolted Avery’s memory. “It’s a rabbit.” Hunting and skinning rabbits were skills he’d learned a long time ago from his grandpa.
“Cat, rabbit, same thing.” With a shrug of indifference, Bill tossed the rabbit’s cranium back into the box.
“Wait.” Avery lunged over the side of the truck. The grocery bag slipped from his fingers, but he managed to catch the skull before it shattered on impact. To his relief, the cans of tomato juice had missed his toes and rolled against the rear tire. “Would you mind if I keep the bones?”
The handyman removed his cap and scratched his smooth head. “Why?
”
In order to pique his readers’ curiosity, he’d read that he needed to give his characters peculiar occupations or hobbies. “In the novel I’m writing, the antagonist is a bone collector.” As he added the trait to his villain, his story developed a new thread. “Reconstructing the rabbit skeleton will help me step into his mind.”
“It sounds fascinating.” Wrinkles formed around the older man’s eyes. “We don’t use the garage in the summer. Why don’t I set up a table for you in there? If you keep the door locked, no one will bother you.”
The prospect of a quiet nook appealed to him. “Do you know if Miss Rowan recovered all the bones?”
“The arrival of her stepfather interrupted her excavation.”
The presence of the stepdad explained the rental car but not the edge in Bill’s voice. “And?”
“The girl wants to keep digging. She’s afraid more scavengers will venture under the gazebo if she doesn’t clear the entire area.”
Bill had never called Rowan the girl, at least not in Avery’s presence, and it was clear that he was upset over her decision. “Are scavengers a problem?”
“Fred’s mutt is the problem, Mr. Stone, not the coyotes or foxes. Those guys like prey with meat on them, not dry bones. I caught a coyote eating his kill under the gazebo once.” He slipped his baseball cap on. “I’m guessing the poor kitty wasn’t his first victim. Anyway, bones or not, sealing the damned thing would solve the problem.”
Predators sometimes buried food remains for later use. The presence of the old bones made sense, but not the shards of glass. If he were in Rowan’s shoes, he’d be intrigued by what else might be hidden under the gazebo.
“Is the structure sound? Is she safe under the gazebo?” As long as she wasn’t in any imminent danger, Bill was in no position to question her decision.