A Whisper of Bones

by Ellen Hart

  “I own the restaurant.”

  “You own it?”

  “I’m good at more than one thing.”

  The comment elicited a smile. “Are you expensive? Not that it matters. If I hire you, I’m only concerned with what you can find out.”

  “We can talk about that later, when you’ve made a final decision.”

  They spent a few minutes talking about the restaurant, then moved on to places of interest in the Twin Cities. Britt seemed to be only half listening. Eventually, glancing at her watch, she slid out of the booth and said her goodbyes.

  As Jane watched her go, she had a strong sense that she’d be seeing Britt Ickles again, sooner rather than later.

  2

  Eleanor was setting out a bowl of peanuts in the living room that evening when she spotted the headlights of a car pull up to the curb outside the house. Sunday night was pot roast night at the Skarsvold house. It was a family tradition, something Eleanor tried to maintain, even when the cost of the main course should have dictated something less expensive. Her son, Frank, and his wife, Wendy, usually came by to share the meal, as did the renters living in one of the three bedrooms upstairs. Because the last of the renters had given notice two days ago and moved out yesterday morning, she had extra food. Perhaps she shouldn’t have invited her niece for dinner, and yet she felt ill at ease about Britt just showing up on their doorstep. She’d wanted a chance to talk to her again, just to feel out the situation.

  After Britt had left, Lena and Eleanor had gotten into an argument. Nothing new in that. Lena had expressed herself in her typically crude fashion. Why the hell did Eleanor have to invite Britt for dinner? In the face of everything that had happened, wasn’t it best to leave well enough alone? But no. Eleanor was too Minnesota Nice. Shouting for Eleanor to “grow a pair,” she’d rolled her wheelchair into the sunroom, which served as her bedroom, shut the French doors, and turned an old Queen album up loud enough to shatter glass. Not that Eleanor cared. She simply took out her hearing aids and got on with her day.

  In Eleanor’s opinion, a seventy-year-old woman wasn’t supposed to listen to rock music, use the vocabulary of a sailor, or state her opinions as if they’d been whispered into her ear by God himself. Age should’ve taught her something, given her some dignity, some humility. Lena seemed as clueless—and reckless—now as she had when she was twenty, leaving the chaos she created for Eleanor to clean up.

  It had been Lena’s poisoned view of Pauline, their younger sister, that had started and ultimately perpetuated the family rift. How Eleanor had ended up with Lena in her life, the sister she’d never liked, and not Pauline, the very best of them, was nothing short of tragic. And yet, as much as she might not want to admit it, she did understand Lena’s concern. Maybe she had made a mistake in inviting Britt for dinner.

  Before Eleanor opened the front door, she touched the pearls at her neck and smoothed the front of her dress, realizing with some embarrassment that she’d forgotten to take off her apron. She untied it quickly, held it behind her back, and then drew back the door. The sight of Britt standing on the porch created such a wave of déjà vu that it made her almost dizzy. She’s noticed the resemblance to Pauline earlier in the day, but tonight, in the dim porch light, it was more pronounced. For an upside-down moment, she thought it was Pauline.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Britt.

  “No, no, it’s … you look so much like your mother.” The shape of her face, the soft cleft in her chin, the full mouth, and wide amber-colored eyes.

  “I’ve been told that.”

  “Please. Come in.” She took Britt’s coat and hung it on one of the pegs behind the door. “You remember my son, Frank, right? He and his wife, Wendy, will be here any minute. Lena’s still getting ready in her room. Why don’t you follow me back to the kitchen? The roast is just about done.”

  “Smells wonderful in here,” said Britt.

  No hideous music blared from Lena’s lair. Eleanor was grateful for small mercies. Once back in the kitchen, she wasn’t sure what to do with her apron, so she put it back on. When she opened the oven door and removed the roasting pan, heat billowed out and caused steam to form on her rimless glasses. Removing them, she wiped the lenses with the tip of her apron. She didn’t want to dish up the food until everyone was present. “Will you hand me that platter?” she asked, nodding to the one on the counter.

  “Can I help? I’m a pretty good cook.”

  It was hard not to like such a well-spoken, lovely young woman. But liking was a far cry from trusting. At eighty, Eleanor’s focus wasn’t what it used to be, so she had to be especially careful to think through her actions, something Lena never did. “I believe I’ve got everything under control. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.” Britt glanced around the kitchen. “I remember this room, everything but the red gingham curtains.”

  “I made those a good fifteen years ago. I love red gingham.”

  “I remember helping you make cookies. You brought a kitchen chair over to the counter so I could stand with you.”

  “Did I?”

  “Oatmeal chocolate chip. You let me eat part of the dough.”

  Eleanor needed to steer the conversation away from that long-ago visit. “I forgot to ask. Are you married? Do you have children?”

  “I’m divorced. No children. Friends say I’m married to my job.”

  “And what is it again?”

  “I’m a professor of genomics at Penn State. I teach and I also do fieldwork. My postdoc was in human genetics and epigenetics.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.”

  Britt smiled. “It’s difficult to put into a few words. I’m in town because I’m giving a talk at a conference of the American Society for the Study of Evolutionary Genomics. It’s their annual meeting.”

  “I’m very impressed.” Hearing the back door open, Eleanor turned to find her son, Frank, lumbering up the steps into the kitchen. She kissed his cheek, silently wishing that he’d shave more closely, then introduced him to Britt.

  Britt smiled and shook his hand. “Nice to see you again. Last time we were together, I believe you were wearing shorts, a Twins T-shirt, and a baseball cap pulled over some rather long brown hair.”

  He ran a hand over his receding hairline. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” He said the words grimly, barely moving his lips.

  “Where’s Wendy?” asked Eleanor.

  “Um, she couldn’t make it. Sorry.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Just a schedule mix-up.”

  “Well,” said Eleanor, returning to the pan on the stove. “Honey, why don’t you take Britt into the dining room and find her a seat at the table. Then come back. You can help me put out the food.”

  Eleanor began to dish up the roast and vegetables—potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and onions. As she was preparing the pan gravy, Frank returned.

  Standing next to her, he lowered his voice and said, “Listen, Mom. The fact is, Wendy and me, we’re having some problems. Until we get things settled, can I stay here?”

  She turned to face him. “Of course you can. You know I always keep your room in the basement clean and ready for you, if you need it. But … what’s going on?” The fact was, she’d never liked Wendy and had urged Frank not to marry her. Not that she wanted to see him unhappy.

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “You’re all right though, aren’t you? Can I do anything to help?”

  “No worries. I’ll handle it.”

  Telling a mother not to worry was like telling a cat not to meow. She hesitated, touched his arm. She knew better than to pry, and yet she couldn’t help herself. “Won’t you at least give me some idea of what’s going on?”

  “Maybe. But not now.”

  “What do I tell Lena?”

  “Don’t tell her anything. It’s none of her damn business.”

  Eleanor took a moment to warn Frank away from several not-to
-be-discussed subjects, things she didn’t want him to talk about over dinner. In response, he offered her an exasperated sigh as he picked up the platter and carried it out to the table.

  Frank and Lena were like feral cats around each other, always ready to pounce at any sign of disapproval, which, as it happened, was the normal state of affairs between them.

  After Eleanor dished up the homemade Victoria sauce, a raisin and rhubarb chutney, in her favorite cut-glass bowl, she crossed into the dining room just as the French doors opened and Lena rolled herself out. She seemed exceedingly dour tonight, not looking at anyone as she maneuvered her wheelchair to the opposite end of the table. Unlike Eleanor, who took after their father and liked to think of herself as “a plump, cheerful optimist,” Lena was more like their mother—thin and pessimistic. In Eleanor’s never-stated opinion, Lena looked ravaged these days. Ninety if she was a day.

  Sitting down at the table, Eleanor asked Frank to say grace.

  Lena groaned at the suggestion, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  As the food was passed around, Frank heaped his plate. Eleanor tried hard not to stare.

  “So,” said Lena, tapping her fingers on the table and looking straight at Britt. “Who did you vote for for president?”

  “No politics at the table,” said Eleanor. “You know the rule.”

  “Just give me a name.”

  “Clinton,” said Britt. “Though Sanders would have been fine with me, too.”

  “Figures.”

  “Can’t you be polite for five minutes?” asked Frank.

  “The food is delicious,” said Britt, smiling at Eleanor.

  Lena hadn’t taken much, and so far, she’d made no attempt to eat. “You’re a scientist, Britt? That right?”

  “I am. I look for new paradigms in evolution.”

  “That sounds like a laugh a minute.”

  “Actually, it’s fascinating.”

  “You believe in evolution?” asked Frank.

  “Well, I guess I don’t think it requires belief.” Looking across at him, Britt asked, “What do you do?”

  “Tax preparation.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s a job.” Before he could continue, the sound of the front doorbell interrupted him.

  “Honey, would you get that?” asked Eleanor.

  Frank tossed his napkin on the table, rose from his chair, and left the room. A few seconds later, he called, “Butch is here.”

  Lena brightened as the two men came into the dining room.

  “Butch lives next door,” said Eleanor, introducing him to Britt. “Our new neighbor.”

  Butch nodded, removing his baseball cap and holding it in his hands.

  “Britt’s our niece. She’s in town for a conference at the university.”

  “Are you staying here?” asked Butch.

  “At the Marriott Courtyard on the West Bank.”

  “Well,” he said, “nice to meet you. Look, I’m sorry to bother you during dinner, but when I came home a few minutes ago, I saw a couple of kids spray painting something on the side of your house.”

  “Those little punks,” said Frank. “Mom, you should call the police.”

  “I chased them off,” said Butch. “You do know that some of the kids in the neighborhood think your house is haunted.”

  Eleanor wiped her mouth on a napkin. “So I’ve heard.”

  “It is haunted,” said Lena.

  Eleanor raised her eyes to her sister and gave her head a tight shake. “Butch, you’re welcome to get a plate in the kitchen and join us.”

  “No thanks. I’ve already eaten.” He was a sturdy, athletic-looking man with broad shoulders, dark-blond hair, and a beard. Eleanor thought he was terribly nice.

  “Well, I better get going,” said Butch.

  “I’ll roll him to the door,” said Lena with a barely concealed smirk. She gestured for him to walk in front of her.

  “Nice young fellow, don’t you think?” asked Eleanor.

  “Seems to be,” said Britt.

  “He’s an electrician. Good money in that.” She took a spoonful of the Victoria sauce, then passed the glass bowl to her son. “He and Lena seem to have struck up a friendship.”

  By seven thirty, everyone had finished eating and Eleanor began to remove the dishes.

  “Why don’t you let me do that?” said Britt, rising from her chair.

  “No, you’re company. Frank will help me.” Once all the leftovers had been stored in plastic containers and refrigerated, she asked her son to make the coffee while she went in search of Britt. She found her in the family room. Britt was crouched next to the wall, but stood up as soon as Eleanor entered. “Something wrong?”

  “I dropped one of my earrings.” Britt touched her ear. “It was a gift from my mother.”

  “Should I get the flashlight?”

  “It’s okay. I found it.”

  “Oh, good. Good. Now, would you like a piece of apple pie or lemon meringue? Pies are my specialty. They go pretty fast around here.”

  Britt pressed a hand to her stomach. “Not sure I have room for either, but apple sounds great.”

  “Wonderful.” It was only then that Eleanor noticed how pale her niece’s face had grown. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Me? Fine. Never better.”

  She hesitated. “Where’s Lena?”

  “In her room, I think.”

  Eleanor groaned internally at her sister’s lack of manners. “Make yourself comfortable in the living room. Frank and I will be right in.” One of these days, she thought, clamping her lips shut to stop herself from saying the words out loud, that sister of hers was going to be the death of her.

  3

  That night, the wind picked up and the temperature dropped into the low thirties. Jane was glad she’d thought to grab her peacoat before leaving the restaurant. Early December in Minnesota was generally much colder, with several inches of snow on the ground. This year, however, the only things covering the grass were dry leaves. Unusual weather for Minnesota. As she was about to open the door of her Mini, a car pulled up next to her and stopped, its engine idling.

  Cordelia Thorn, Jane’s oldest and best friend, opened the passenger’s door window and called, “Leaving kind of early, aren’t we?”

  “You checking up on me?”

  “Get in.”

  Jane made herself comfortable in the front seat, glad for the warmth of Cordelia’s new black Subaru.

  “I still can’t get used to your hair,” said Cordelia. “Can’t believe that, after all these years, you cut it so short.”

  “I needed a change.”

  “The Rachel Maddow look.”

  “No, the Jane Lawless look.” If she’d realized how much attention she’d get because of a simple haircut, she never would have done it.

  “I stand corrected,” said Cordelia, looking amused.

  Cordelia’s entire life was a costume drama, a period piece, past or future. At the moment, she was sporting a rose-colored wig. Wigs were her new thing after finding a basket filled with them in her sister’s rarely used office at the theater.

  “Next,” said Cordelia, throwing the car in park, “we need to work on your old sweaters and jeans.”

  “You mean get rid of my clothes?”

  “I’m merely suggesting a wee upgrade. I’m not talking Abercrombie & Fitch or Nordstrom, just something other than Old Navy.”

  Glancing over at her giant friend wearing a heavy, bright red faux fur coat, Jane changed the subject, if only marginally. “Kind of early in the season to bring out the big guns.”

  “Without snow, it’s hard to get in the mood for Christmas. One does what one can.”

  “How come you’re not at the theater?” Along with her younger sister, the Broadway and B-movie star, Octavia Thorn Lester, Cordelia was the owner of the Thorn Lester Playhouse, downtown Minneapolis’s newest antique gem. She was also the artistic director, the resident mother
superior, and, when necessary, brought the force of a five-star Marine general to whatever situation might need attention.

  “I have to pick up Hattie from a friend’s house. Neither of them have school tomorrow, so I’m letting Hatts stay out late. Together, she and Juan are discovering the wonders of Juan’s chemistry set.”

  Cordelia had been granted legal custody of her ten-year-old niece many years ago. They’d lived together ever since. “Lucky Hattie,” said Jane.

  Touching the tip of her finger to her darkly rouged lips, Cordelia continued, “I was at a party last night. I think I may have drummed up a new client for you.” She explained about the woman she’d met—Britt something or other—who’d been asking around about local private investigators. “I wondered if she was gay, but I didn’t get any vibes.”

  “So that’s where she got my card,” said Jane.

  “You’ve already talked to her?”

  “This morning. You must have done a good sales job.”

  “I always do. But back to my original question. How come you’re leaving so early? I thought we might share a quick nosh together. One of your pub burgers sounds just about perfect.”

  “Sorry. Already eaten.”

  “Then join me for a beer.”

  “Can’t. Not tonight.”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time at home lately, Janey. One cannot help but wonder why.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Look, no beating around the mulberry bush this time. I’m worried. That woman somehow conned her way into your home. You need to look around for the coffin she sleeps in during the day. If you can’t find it, call me. I’m there for you, Janey. If nothing else, we can burn your house down with her in it.”

  Jane took a deep breath. “There are times when I find your penchant for exaggeration funny. This isn’t one of them.”

  “I’m not exaggerating.”

  “Julia’s my friend. End of story.”

  “Is it?”

  “What else do you need to know?”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be so coy.”

  “You want to know if I’m sleeping with her.”

  “Give the woman a cigar.”

  “Look, Cordelia, I care about her. I don’t love her, not in any romantic way. Our relationship ended many years ago.”