Murder Bone by Bone (19 page)

“Oh, yes. Melanie knew our house before we did.” Bridget laughed. “The first job I had when Emery and I moved out to California was for the same company Melanie worked for. It was in the City, and we used to have lunch every Friday in a different restaurant. That child-free life was great! Emery worked in Sunnyvale and we were living there, but we wanted to buy a house in Palo Alto because it had these big trees everywhere and reminded us both of Webster Groves.”

“Webster Groves?”

“Just outside of St. Louis.” Bridget sighed. “Of course, Palo Alto is really nothing like Webster. For one thing, all the houses were way too expensive. Melanie knew the people who were selling our house. Their daughter was a friend of hers or something. The house was a wreck. We spent weeks patching the plaster and painting. But it had good vibes, and we could afford it.” She paused. “We really should have saved our money for remodeling instead of spending it on this trip.”

“Well, Emery had to go anyway, right? You aren’t costing much.”

“That’s true.” She sounded more cheerful. “And the house will stand a few more years, I’m sure. If it could take what those friends of Melanie’s dished out, it should be able to take our kids.” She laughed. “For a few years after we moved in, people came by asking if so-and-so still lived there, or wanting to buy drugs from
us. Emery always said he wouldn’t be surprised to run across a few bodies when he was digging up the flower beds.”

Luckily for me, Sam figured out who I was talking to and demanded some chat time with Mom. I didn’t have to think up a harmless reply.

Instead I could concentrate on cutting the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into parallelograms and pondering Emery’s incredible prescience in the matter of bodies. Except the body wasn’t pushing up daisies. Just concrete.

Chapter 22

The karate class fascinated Mick. He wanted to sit in the front row of folding chairs set up for parents. Moira was not so fascinated, but she consented to look at the thick cardboard-paged books I found in the diaper bag. She pointed the characters out to me with one chubby forefinger. “Beebud,” she announced, mashing Big Bird’s goofy smile to the page. “Cookie Mon.” She studied a picture of Oscar the Grouch in his trash can. “Dirty,” she said with disapproval.

It was the most she’d talked to me since I’d become Temp Mommy. I felt bad because instead of giving her total attention, my mind was circling around the overload of information I’d gotten that day. Too much—about Palo Alto in years gone by, about Old Mackie’s cart and Carlotta Houseman’s antipathy, about Dinah Blakely’s ambitions and Nelson’s surprising accusations. And, of course, Melanie’s revelation. It was no wonder my head was spinning.

And somewhere in that unbalanced washing machine load of stuff was one important item, something that would help Drake get closer to finding out who was behind the recent rash of sidewalk bodies. If only I could put my finger on it as firmly and exactly as Moira put hers on Bert’s face, on his companion’s. “Uhnee,” she said proudly.

“Yes, that’s Ernie.” I gave her a little hug. Her solid weight in my lap, her baby warmth, was very nice. I looked at Mick’s rapt face as he watched his brothers, at Corky’s fierce concentration on the kick and Sam’s stolid movements.

“Let me hear you,” the instructor shouted.

“Eh-yuh!” The kids let out fierce grunts as they advanced, kicking, up the room. I shivered. It was wrong to live in a world where children needed to learn karate to defend themselves, where they were encouraged to yell and scream if a stranger spoke to them. But was the world worse now than fifteen years ago, when someone had stashed an adversary under the sidewalk?

“Mousie.” Moira held up another one of the thick books. On the cover was a little mouse dressed in calico, with a headscarf tied fetchingly around her ears. In her wee paws, the mousie held a tray of cheese and crackers and a cup of cocoa. I started reading it to Moira, but she insisted on reading it to me, babble interspersed with occasional words. “Inna beeeny tutu wordel, de beybato Mousie! Ana goobitra Housie!”

After a little bit of this my thoughts drifted to the perplexing problem of what to cook for dinner. We’d already had pizza, Chinese food, and noodles, which reduced our available choices considerably. I wasn’t yet ready to face the Burger King, and I didn’t think the kids were up for baked potatoes and a salad.

“Hey, Mick. What’s your favorite dinner that your mom cooks?”

He didn’t miss a beat, didn’t even take his attention away from the ghi-clad boys and girls in front of him, who were now wielding sticks. “Hot dogs.”

Gross. I tried to visualize the contents of the refrigerator, which was full, but appeared to contain nothing anyone wanted.

“Dinny gubba wunna bye-bye.” Moira read with a great deal of vehemence, more than the bland pictures seemed to warrant. I was reminded of Melanie’s face that afternoon as she’d spoken of Richard Grolen, the passionate vibration in her normally tight and self-contained voice. It was a good thing Hugh was out of town for a week. He might have taken a dim view of Melanie’s response to her first spouse.

“Ana brntyger vadir demma,” Moira said decisively, finally. She shut the mouse book, clapping the two halves together with gusto and trapping my thumb inside. She found my resultant squeal delightful, and repeated the action several times before I was able to get my thumb out. I didn’t really mind. It was worth the discomfort to hear her laugh.

The class came to an end, and I still couldn’t remember that tantalizing bit of knowledge that hovered just out of reach in my mind. Also, I hadn’t yet figured out dinner. I had just about decided on spaghetti when we pulled up to the house to find Claudia’s old Toyota parked in front, right behind the caution tape. Claudia sat on the front porch, correcting galley proofs. A couple of big bags from the Florentine restaurant sat beside her on the plastic bench.

“There you are.” She put the galleys away and held out her arms for Moira, who went willingly. “I thought you might need some help with dinner, so I brought takeout from the Florentine—that huge tub of ravioli they have, and salad, and garlic bread and everything.”

“You’re a miracle worker.” I took the bags gratefully and led the way into the house. “This is much better than what I’d planned.”

Corky and Sam, still in their ghis, jumped around Claudia, trying to demonstrate what they’d learned in class. When she sat down, Mick promptly climbed into her lap, sharing the ample space with Moira. Claudia lifted an eyebrow. “What makes me so popular all of a sudden?”

“You’re familiar.” I smiled at her. “Everyone’s doing okay, but of course they miss their parents, even if they don’t say so all the time. I’ll just get things on the table.”

I pottered around the kitchen, putting out plates, mixing the restaurant salad with some of my greens and substituting my tomatoes for their prefab ones. I set a plate for Drake, wondering if he’d had a breakthrough and made an arrest. I had a shrewd idea that Claudia wondered, too, and that’s why she’d brought dinner over.

She admitted as much when I called them all in. “So what’s the excitement around here today? I saw some kind of powwow when I went by this morning.”

“The jackals of the press, that’s all.” I glanced at the boys. Corky and Sam were arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Mick tucked into his ravioli, which I’d cut up for him into quarters. Moira’s pieces were even smaller; she picked up a morsel, subjected it to a sober scrutiny, then popped it in her mouth. None of them were paying attention, but I still didn’t like talking about it in front of them.

Claudia evidently didn’t share my feelings. “Did they ever identify those bones?”

At this Corky and Sam broke off their conversation and looked from Claudia to me.

“More ravioli? Have some garlic bread.” I hurried to heap their plates, and shook my head ever so slightly at Claudia "These little pitchers, Claudia. Lots of them.”

Corky looked up and down the table. “I don’t see any little pitchers.” He took a huge bite of garlic bread and spoke through it. “What happened to our bones? Does Aunt Claudia know?”

“No, she doesn’t, sweetie.” Claudia looked just a little abashed.

“Our dinosaur bones?” Sam reached for the garlic bread.

“Not dinosaur bones, dummy.” Corky was scornful. "They were caveman bones.”

“Oh, right.” Sam lost interest in the bones. “Can I have some more?”

“Eat some salad.” I put a spoonful on his plate.

“You’re getting very good at this,” Claudia said. “Do you fancy the role?”

“Temp Mom?” I grabbed Mick’s milk cup before it turned all the way over. “I’m going to need a full week of solitude after Bridget and Emery get back. No way could I be a full-time nanny.”

Claudia just looked amused. “I wasn’t thinking so much of being a nanny.”

I knew what she was thinking of. It was sweet of my friends to want me to have their version of happiness. I wasn’t used to benevolent interest in my welfare, and it touched me deeply. However, we aren’t all capable of the same kinds of happiness. Sometimes it’s just out of our reach, plain and simple.

Barker barked, the front door banged, and Drake came in, following his nose. “You started without me!”

“We saved you some.” I fixed his plate while he said hello to Claudia and greeted the boys and Moira. The meal proceeded at its usual high decibel level. Claudia was discernibly impatient to introduce the topic of interest to her, but I managed to keep the conversation away from anything that might upset the children.

We dismissed the kids to watch the end of “Square One” while the grownups did the dishes. Claudia started pumping Drake before the table was cleared.

“Yes, we did get a fix on the bones. We’re not saying one hundred percent, but we think it was one of the people who used to live here, and dropped out of sight in early 1978.”

“Dropped out of sight. Good way to put it." Claudia brought a stack of plates to the sink. “So did someone kill him and plant him under the sidewalk, or was it an overdose followed by panic?”

“Who knows?” Drake shrugged. “We’re going to have to go through the evidence with a fine-tooth comb. So many of the bones are missing, including the rib bones that might have shown bullet or knife damage.” He glanced at me, smiling. “Just by chance, a couple of the ribs the boys were using for cutlasses have either rodent chew or knife scratches on them, according to the county forensic pathologist. She’s getting some bone guy from the California Academy of Sciences to look at it.”

“We were just there.” Claudia picked up a dish towel. “We could have dropped them off for you, or something.”

I knew what Drake would think of this, so I asked my own question. “Is it true Richard is out of the coma?”

Drake shook his head. “He’s in and out at this point. He did come around and even spoke, but he slipped under again. The docs say he’ll probably do this for a couple more days. And also that it’s highly unlikely he’ll remember anything about the attack or what led up to it. His brain scans are better, though, so he might pull through with all his marbles.”

“That’s good.” Claudia sounded relieved. “A nice-looking young man like that—”

“Hardly young,” Drake snorted, clattering the dishes into the drainer. “Middle-aged, if that.”

“Younger than me,” Claudia said firmly. “Why aren’t we using the dishwasher, by the way? Just asking.”

We all turned to look at the portable dishwasher, which lurked near the sink. I shrugged. “I don’t know how to use it. And this works.”

“Oh.” Claudia patted me on the shoulder. “Technologically challenged again.”

“I’m not challenged by it.” I handed Drake the last plate. “I just ignore it.”

“Speaking of the latest technology, I didn’t see Babe in the drive when I went home,” Drake said.

“I parked down the street from here—no time to go home. But I should move it now.”

“I’ll stay with the kids while you do.” Claudia brought the high chair tray over to the sink. “Would Moira have a bath here in the kitchen? I would love to bathe her, but my knees aren’t up to kneeling by the tub.”

“She probably wouldn’t mind. This is a big sink.” I wondered about the attraction of bathing a year-old child. During my recent experience of baths I had learned that such children were slippery, making it hard to get a grip on them when they were obstreperous, which was often. And water went everywhere. And they either hated the bath, crying the whole time, or loved it too much to get out, and screamed while you put on the sleeper. The whole experience was overrated, in my opinion.

Drake walked down the block with me—for protection, he said. I didn’t argue when he took my hand. We sauntered toward Babe in the tender dusk, our feet whispering and crunching through the magnolia leaves. I almost hated to get into the bus. We didn’t say much as I headed around a couple of corners toward my driveway.

I pulled in, and immediately stood on the brakes, causing Drake to brace himself against the dashboard. Illuminated in the headlights were Old Mackie, who’d probably come to retrieve his cart, and an unlikely companion for him.

Nelson, the archaeologist.

Chapter 23

“Stay in the car,” Drake hissed at me. He leaped down from the bus, his right hand headed for his left armpit. He doesn’t always wear a gun, but I knew he usually did during an active investigation.

I hate guns. I know how using one can make you feel that you’re in control of things for the moment. But it can’t keep you in control. And when, eventually, you have to put the gun down, you generally have a much bigger mess to deal with than you did before you picked it up.

I turned off the engine, and the headlights went off, too. “Damn it—” came Drake’s voice. I turned the key back on to get the illumination back. Nothing had changed in that brief second. Old Mackie still gaped toward me, his every wrinkle and bit of stubble vividly shadowed. Nelson’s expression mirrored his, but for a moment the young man had seemed vested with an odd kind of authority over his elderly companion.