Closet Full Of Bones

by A. J. Aalto

  “Invoice me for that, too, would ya?” she joked, her smile full of gratitude.

  Paul promised to do so, and together, they walked out of the hospital and into the parking lot under a lowering sky on dismal grey November afternoon. The bright morning had been swallowed by a dark, heavy bank of clouds moving in from the southwest. The air had a fragile quality to it, as if you spoke too loud, it might shatter into frigid shards of ice. They got to his Audi and Gillian set her tea in the cup holder. He made sure the radio wasn’t too loud, paid the parking fee at the kiosk, and headed out.

  He wasn’t thinking about Travis Freeman.

  He wasn’t thinking about Bobby McIntyre.

  He wasn’t thinking about that constable, Dean Jagger.

  He wasn’t thinking about anyone else in the world, if he was honest with himself.

  He was trying hard not to think about Gillian’s chestnut hair, the way it fell across the black cashmere of her sweater in a thick wave nearly as dark and rich as the fabric. He was trying to put the sight of her pale bra strap against soft skin out of his mind. Frustrated with his inability to do so, Paul did not notice that they were being watched all the way from the hospital doors, through the massive parking lot, to his car, and he did not notice that they were followed most of the way to the old house on Higgins Point.

  **

  Gillian was overjoyed to see that Henry’s SUV was still parked in front of Mrs. Blymhill’s house — your house, now, you goofball, she chided, still not able to believe that it was really hers — and that her nephews were running in circles on the front lawn which faced the lake. They were stuffed into puffy parkas and snow pants; though no snow had fallen yet, it felt imminent. Henry was standing in a too-thin khaki jacket with his shoulders hunched and arms crossed, rocking back on his heels, talking to Frankie; she was laughing at something he said, flailing her thin arms and gesturing wildly the way she did when she was keyed up about a new project or event. The wind snatched at the multiple layers of gauzy fabric that made up her blue striped skirt, pushing and pulling and stirring the hem. She wore a heavy, cream cowl-neck sweater pulled up around her chin but it wasn’t enough to keep her warm, and she was hugging herself when she wasn't waving her arms to and fro. The wind coming off the lake blew her hair back from her face. The two turned to watch Paul’s car pull in behind Henry’s, and Frankie gathered her boys with a sharp whistle and an energized point.

  “Uh oh, here come the hugs,” Gillian said, beaming. “Better brace myself.”

  She got out of the car and was promptly besieged by little boys crashing into her legs and twittering excitedly about their news and their games and what happened at the horse races when a pony fell down. She couldn’t hope to follow the conversation, not from knee level and still fairly high on the morphine they’d given her at the hospital. She looked back at Paul with a helpless laugh and said, “Help, help, munchkin overload!”

  “Hey, you rotten, no-good pile of bones,” Henry greeted Gillian fondly, strolling over, gravel crunching under his sneakers. They’d always maintained a playful sibling relationship, even while the divorce was contentious; Frankie and Henry’s troubles were money-based and Gillian tried to stay out of it as much as possible.

  “And hello to you, ya big rat fink,” Gillian said, offering a one-armed hug, keeping her right arm crooked up protectively close to her side. “So glad you could come see the place and visit a bit. Staying long?”

  His eyes flicked to Frankie and he stuck a hand out in Paul’s direction. “Hey, Henry Farmer, Frankie’s awesome ex.”

  Paul shook his hand. “Paul Langerbeins, Frankie’s awesome private investigator.”

  Henry shot a finger at him and wagged it. “Ah, see? This guy, I like this guy.”

  Frankie spoke up, “Gills, I was thinking… I mean, Henry offered me the guest room at his place. For a little while. Just to get a break from the craziness.”

  “Oh!” Gillian blinked, surprised; she wasn’t sure at first how she felt about that, and then realized there was likely no better place for her. “Great. Yes. That’s a fantastic idea. For how long?”

  “Couple of weeks?” Frankie said, as though she was asking permission. “You sure you don’t mind doing some clean up on your own?”

  “I’ll save you some,” Gillian assured her with a chuckle. “I’ll save you lots, I promise.”

  “And choosing the paint and all that?”

  “We’ll Skype about it. I’ll link you ideas on Pinterest. Seriously, Frankie, go. It’s only two weeks. This is the best thing for you and the kids right now.” She smiled up at her ex-brother-in-law gratefully. “Thank you, this is very generous. Trust me, I know how annoying she is to live with.”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d ditched her for good, totally scot-free,” Henry teased. “Now you’re saddling me with her again, Gills, Jesus Christ.”

  “I’m going to get my bag,” Frankie said, aiming an accusing eye at Gillian and then at Paul. “Don’t let them bad-mouth me too much while I’m gone.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she hurried back inside, skirt layers whipping in the wild wind.

  Henry’s smile dropped the minute she was inside and the kids had torn off to run in circles again. “Seriously, how’s she doing with all this?”

  “Her nerves are frayed,” Gillian said. “And I’m not exaggerating when I say she’s in danger. If you see any signs that someone’s snooping around your place, grab the kids and Frankie and head up north to your mom’s for a while.”

  “That bad, eh?” Henry said thoughtfully, looking to Paul for confirmation. When Paul nodded grimly, he exhaled hard. “Okay, good to know. Quebec is nice this time of year. I could go moose hunting, bring you some meat to serve your customers at the bed and breakfast. Got a big freezer?”

  “I don’t have a freezer yet,” she said, “and I’m not serving my customers spaghetti and mooseballs, goof.”

  “Hey, mooseloaf would be good,” Henry teased. “I’ll keep an eye out for trouble. Who exactly am I looking for?”

  Gillian and Paul exchanged looks, and Gillian wasn’t quite sure what to say. A man, a woman, maybe any number of men, based on her midnight kinky caller. The conflicted look on her face must have told enough of the story because Henry swore again.

  “Are you going to be all right here without her?” Henry asked. “Seriously, have you got a security system installed? This place is kind of quiet…”

  Gillian’s shoulders relaxed. “Leave me the dog for company.”

  “Who, Doogie? He’s practically deaf, and his big offensive strike is to lick you to death,” Henry said.

  “I’ll be fine,” she insisted.

  Henry looked at Paul speculatively. “Is she just talking tough, here? Is she going to be fine?”

  Gillian used her left fist to give Henry a gentle punch in the belly. “Hey, you don’t need his word for it. Besides, he’s on my payroll. He’ll say I’m fine if I tell him to say I’m fine.”

  Paul’s eyebrows quirked a bit at this but he didn’t argue. “I’ve got people. If need be, I can have someone shadow her sun-up to sun-down.”

  Frankie yelled from the front door, “I heard that! I vote bodyguard!”

  “Yeah, I vote bodyguard, too,” Henry said, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets for warmth. “Alarms! Guns! A cannon on the rooftop! Hey, boys? Two minute warning.”

  “A bodyguard ain’t cheap. Neither am I, yet here I stand,” Paul said.

  Frankie joined them, swinging her overnight bag and her big turquoise purse over one shoulder. She was still not wearing a coat over her sweater, but Gillian bit her tongue about it. Frankie balled her fists and started chanting, “Body. Guard. Body Guard.”

  Henry joined her and Gillian laughed.

  “I think we’ll wait and see, all right?” Gillian said. “Kids? Come give Auntie Gillian smooches before you go!”

  Matthew and Kirk ran squealing at the sight of Gillian crouching to receive love, and she grit her teeth an
d bore the pain in her shoulder so that she could grab and cuddle and kiss each rowdy child in turn. Matthew nearly toppled her off her feet but she used his sturdy body to hold herself upright. Kirk danced around chanting snippets from a cartoon theme song he loved, and wiggled to escape her last attempt at a smooch. She let him go with a chuckle. “All right, weirdos, be good for your mother,” she told them.

  “No, you’re a weirdo!” Kirk said, grinning.

  “You’re a weirdo!” Matthew told Kirk as they pushed and shoved on their way into the SUV.

  “No, you are!” Kirk said.

  Frankie rolled her eyes and hugged her tight, smelling of citrus. “Thanks for that. I’m going to hear about who’s really a weirdo all the way to Henry’s.”

  “A serious issue for our times, but I can think of no finer minds to put the question to rest once and for all,” Gillian said into her sister’s hair. “Look on the bright side: they probably have no idea that you’re the weirdo.”

  “Ha!” Frankie said, and her body jostled in Gillian’s arms.

  Gillian rested her temple against her sister’s. “Be safe. Watch for both of them. Watch for anyone.”

  “You watch out here,” Frankie said. “Mrs. Blymhill put a damn curse on this house. You know that, right? The weird drawing on the floor. The jars of rats and urine. It’s a spell. This place is cursed.”

  “Please.” Gillian rolled her eyes. “Don’t get complacent. It’s only a twenty minute drive.”

  Frankie dropped her voice. “Live a little, eh?” When she drew back, she dropped Gillian a wink and then her eyes widened slightly, knowingly.

  Gillian knew she was hinting about lascivious dealings with Paul and shot her a you-be-quiet look. But she couldn’t help answering, “Life’s short.”

  The Hearth sisters’ motto. Gillian only hoped it wouldn’t be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  Paul said his good-bye, off to a meeting with another client. The Audi pulled out, then the SUV containing the four Farmers followed, and Gillian watched alone but for her trepidation as the sky darkened quickly toward evening. She puttered around on the front porch, straightening a couple of the wicker chairs that had been blown around. She picked up the metal snow shovel that had fallen. Gathering some extra wood for the fireplace, she found her right shoulder throbbed fiercely. She was glad she hadn’t had to tell Frankie about her injury or the brick through her window, and that Paul had thought to keep it to himself.

  Locking up, she called Bruce to ask if he wouldn’t mind taking her to Red Maple Drive so she could get her Jeep, and if he could help her clean up after the broken window and wall damage from the brick event. He said he’d be there in a jiffy.

  She took a minute to wander across the tidy lawn toward the lake, a line of boulders demarcating the difference between yard and shore. The grey, weathered remains of a dock moved rhythmically, mostly lost under the water, broken and slick with dying green and brown algae. She didn’t get too close. The mist from the water was chilly on her cheeks and stung her lips, chapped because Frankie kept stealing her lip balms from her purse.

  She allowed herself to think about Greg, and specifically about his ashes, cast from that boat cruise just as he’d wanted, and set adrift on the current that would no doubt take him here, to Higgins Point. She knew his remains had dissipated, that he wasn’t actually here, but she felt him close, and she knew she’d done right in buying this place. It would be a lot of work, and the costs to modernize and restore would be huge, but in her belly, she felt close to Greg, even closer now than she felt in their bed at Red Maple Drive.

  She was ready, at last, to say good-bye to the house in which she had been Mrs. Ellis, and make Mrs. Blymhill’s place her permanent home.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sunday, November 2. 4:30 P.M.

  That afternoon, the first breath of winter dusted Derby Harbor with a light, slick layer of snow, filling the air outside the precinct windows with flurries. Dean Jagger had the best desk in the station, in his opinion, from which he could see Lake Ontario past the Queen Elizabeth Highway when he stood up to stretch or when he was returning, as he was now, from fetching coffee. He sat, leaning into his chair to give his back a stretch, then got back to his files, alternatively scanning the computer and the paperwork.

  “Hey, Jag,” a voice said behind him, and Dean didn’t immediately look up, just nodded to acknowledge the speaker. Officer Thomas “Tombstone” Jones shuffled up to his shoulder, manila folder in hand. Despite his reputation as a loose cannon when he'd worked the beat – in addition to carrying a non-standard-issue hand cannon of his own, having gone meticulously through the paperwork to use his personal Ruger Super Redhawk revolver – Jones excelled when it came to spotting finicky details in writing that other people might miss. Tombstone’s quirks hadn’t endeared him with most of his colleagues, but Dean Jagger hadn’t been one of those who shunned the man.

  “Bobby McIntyre…” Tombstone said, and that got Dean’s attention. His head came up. “Wasn’t she one of the people you questioned in the Deacon case?”

  Jagger made an affirmative noise and took the file Tombstone passed him. “When did this come in?”

  “Thirty-first,” Tombstone said. “Think there’s anything to it?”

  Jagger sat back in his chair to run it through his mind. Poison, he mused. Antifreeze. He drummed one thumb on his kneecap, deep in thought. So how does it go? Bobby loves Frankie, Frankie gets engaged to Mike Deacon, therefore Bobby hates Deacon. Poisons Deacon to get Frankie for herself. But that isn’t how it ended, because Frankie didn’t turn to Bobby next, she went on to a different guy… Dean shuffled through his papers to find the name of the man Frankie Farmer started dating three months after Mike Deacon’s disappearance and couldn’t immediately lay his hands on it.

  “Dunno,” Jagger admitted. “Who’s looking into the allegation?”

  “Uh, Broderick.”

  “Cheryl?” Jagger said, “Or that new guy?”

  “Cheryl.” Tombstone’s tone spoke volumes; he approved.

  Jagger nodded with equal approval. Cheryl Broderick had been on the job as long as Dean had; they’d been to school and the academy together. He couldn’t think of a better person to work with, if their cases crossed paths.

  He flipped through the paperwork and noted that Cheryl had taken a statement from Barb McIntyre, sister of Bobby McIntyre, from a hospital bed in St. Catharines, and that her blood work had come back with enough indication of antifreeze poisoning to put her on medication and treat her with hemodialysis.

  Barb had given permission for police to search her home in Sugarloaf, where antifreeze had been found in various drinks in the tall fridge, and in a plastic bottle under the sink. Residue had been found on most of the dirty dishes around the sick room, where a very unwell Barb McIntyre had spent the last few months. Constable Broderick had ascertained that most of Barb’s meals and beverages had been made by her younger sister, since Bobby moved into the residence.

  Bobby McIntyre had not yet been located.

  Dean Jagger slapped the file folder closed and picked up his phone.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sunday, November 2. 5:10 P.M.

  Gillian Hearth nodded at the news, though she knew Constable Jagger couldn’t see her through the phone, and she said, “Thank you. I’ll let you know if I see her. What a mess. Do you know if Barb is going to make a full recovery?”

  She glanced behind her at Bruce, who checked the plywood on the shattered kitchen window before starting to pick large pieces of glass out of the sink and put them in a rubber bin so he could carry it to the construction dumpster outside the new place. Bruce was minding his own business, and she trusted he wouldn’t listen-in on purpose, but even still, she left the kitchen and started to put space between them.

  “I’m sorry,” the cop told her. “I don’t have any information on her condition at this time. There’s a note in the file that the anonymous caller who alerted dispa
tch to the abuse indicated that Bobby McIntyre may be responsible for poisoning other people, including her mother Olivia. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I wish I had information that could help you,” Gillian said honestly, moving through the dark hallway, weaving through boxes. “If I think of anything, is it you I should call, or do you have a number for the officer in charge if the investigation?”

  Dean rattled off a name and number; Gillian told him to hold on a second, and went into her bedroom to grab the closest piece of paper, a page out of the back of one of Greg’s old Super Challenger crossword puzzle books, still resting on his night table as though he’d return to it any evening now. When she turned on the lamp to go into his night table drawer for a pen, she froze.

  The drawer was open. Wide open. And it was completely empty.

  “Hold on,” she barely breathed into the phone. “Hold on… I just…” She stared at it, not surprised but feeling deeply violated. Her heart gave a funny palpitation and she remembered to breathe, sucking air deeply, feeling light-headed. In this drawer, she’d kept most her private things, including personal lubricant, sex toys she’d enjoyed, both with her husband and on her own, and in a plain brown envelope, a very old naked Polaroid photograph of her husband’s nude body in a playful pose, and one of her that she’d taken at his request. Her mind began a deafening litany of oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god which drowned out any coherent thought or logic. Humiliation avalanched through her.