A Whisper of Bones

by Ellen Hart

  13

  As the daylight faded over Cumberland Avenue, Jane stood at the single window in her bedroom looking down on the backyard. Police had set up emergency lights all around the garage to assist the forensic examiners. They’d cleared the backyard of gawkers, cordoning off the area with yellow crime scene tape, forcing onlookers to stand so far away from the activity that it was impossible to see what was going on. Jane felt she could monitor the scene best from her bedroom. She was glad now that she’d chosen the room that faced the back of the house.

  Still reeling from the knowledge that bones had been found in a pit inside the garage, Jane had come into the house through the back door to find Eleanor and the man she’d been standing arm in arm with earlier sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. The man stood up and introduced himself as Pastor Iver Dare, a minister and old friend of Eleanor’s. He was friendly and open, and was clearly at the house because he cared about Eleanor’s welfare. Eleanor said the police had informed them of the discovery made in the garage, but offered nothing beyond that. Both looked suitably concerned, if not outright worried. Jane asked a couple of questions, but it was clear neither was willing to talk about it.

  Passing into the dining room, Jane saw that the French doors to Lena’s bedroom were open partway. Lena was sitting in her wheelchair, staring into space, a look on her face that Jane could only describe as terror. Something seismic had just happened to the Skarsvold family.

  Once back in her bedroom, Jane watched the crime scene techs package up the contents of the hole. They appeared to be removing one plastic bag after another. Slipping out her cell phone, she called Cordelia. “Are you sitting down?” she asked when her friend answered.

  “Not exactly a serene way to begin a conversation,” said Cordelia. “And no, I am fully upright.”

  “You need to be sitting down before I tell you what I just learned.”

  “Cordelia M. Thorn is a warrior. Hit me. I can take it.”

  Jane paused. “Okay. Here goes. The arson investigator sent out to examine the Skarsvolds’ garage found bones. In a pit.” At the sound of loud crashing, Jane whipped the phone away from her ear to keep her eardrum from shattering. She waited a few seconds and then said, “Cordelia? Are you there? Are you all right?”

  More thudding. Then, “It wasn’t me. I dropped the tray of food I was carrying.”

  “I didn’t know you were carrying a tray of food.”

  “Now I have a heart failure and a mess to clean up. Oh, blither. Just a sec.”

  Jane noticed one of the police officers head toward the house.

  “I’m back,” said Cordelia. “Now, bones you say?”

  “The arson examiner found two. They’re small. Most likely human. And a piece of rusted metal. There’s a crime scene unit over here right now digging deeper into the pit.”

  “Small bones?”

  “There are lots of small bones in our bodies, Cordelia. Or, she said they could belong to a child.”

  “Heavens.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you called Britt?”

  “Not yet. I want to know more before I do. She’s supposed to give her presentation tomorrow morning.”

  “If I didn’t have something vitally important on my agenda tonight, I’d be right over. You are clearly in the middle of the action.”

  Jane moved over to her bedroom door and opened it. Voices floated up from the living room. One belonged to Eleanor. The other was a man. She assumed it was the police officer she’d seen walking toward the house. “You know,” she said, whispering now, “I think I better go. There’s a cop downstairs talking to the family.”

  “Suck up every piece of info you can,” said Cordelia. “We’ll debrief later.”

  Jane tiptoed out into the hall and stood at the top of the stairs. Lowering her head, she listened. Eleanor was speaking:

  “I’ve lived here most of my life, Sergeant Nesbitt. And yes, I knew about the root cellar in the garage. My great-grandfather built the house. For a time, it was a working farm. I have photos if you’d like to see them. The root cellar was a place to store vegetables and fruits over the winter months. My dad used it, too, for the same purpose.”

  “Have you or your sister ever stored anything down there?” asked the sergeant.

  “No. Never. When I moved back home with my son after my husband died, I asked my father to nail it shut. I didn’t want my son anywhere near it. He was a normal boy. If there was something dangerous to get into, he’d find it.”

  “Can one of you describe the root cellar?”

  Lena spoke for the first time. “Well, it had a dirt floor with some straw over it. It was—I don’t know, it’s hard to remember exactly—maybe seven feet deep. Dad used a ladder to get down into it. The hole was maybe six feet long, five feet wide, with a heavy wooden trapdoor to cover it. Hinged, I think. I never went near it as a kid. Thought it was creepy.”

  “Can you tell us more about what you’ve discovered?” asked Eleanor.

  “I can’t comment,” said Nesbitt.

  “But you think you found human bones?” asked another male voice that Jane recognized as Pastor Dare’s.

  “The cellar was definitely used to dispose of a body.” He let his comment hang in the air before continuing, “Do you have any thoughts on who it might be?”

  “Certainly not,” said Eleanor, her voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

  “When do you think this … body … was put down there?” asked Pastor Dare.

  Eleanor broke in. “If you’re suggesting my father or my grandfather were somehow complicit, I reject that, too. They were both good, decent men.”

  Patiently, the sergeant replied, “To answer your question, Mr. Dare, it takes eight to twelve years for an unembalmed human body to decompose. That means this person went into the cellar anywhere between the time the pit was first dug until the early part of this century.”

  “You can’t be more specific?” asked Pastor Dare.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Will you ever be able to narrow down the time line?” asked Eleanor.

  “We hope so. We’ve recovered … certain items that may help with that. Now, moving on. Has anyone in your family gone missing over the years?”

  “Nobody,” said Eleanor.

  “Friends? Neighbors?”

  “Maybe someone fell in, hit their head, and died,” offered Lena.

  Jane found the comment not only ridiculous, but her tone jarringly cheerful.

  “If that’s the case,” said the sergeant, “are you’re suggesting that nobody in your family ever noticed a dead body in the root cellar?”

  “Lena was just trying to be helpful,” said Eleanor. “But … are you saying that this person, whoever he or she was…” She paused. “Didn’t die a natural death?”

  “At this point, we can’t rule anything out.”

  Silence followed the sergeant’s remark.

  “Will you let us know what you learn?” asked Pastor Dare.

  “As much as I can.”

  Jane heard the sound of wood floors creaking and assumed everyone was getting up.

  “Until further notice,” said Nesbitt, “the garage is off limits. It’s an active crime scene.”

  “How long will your team be out there?” demanded Lena.

  “Through the night at the very least. Probably into the day tomorrow.”

  “We’ll do anything we can to help,” said Eleanor. “We want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.”

  Eleanor seemed sincere. And yet, if the bones belonged to Timmy, surely she knew something about it. Jane heard the front door open and then close. She was about to head back to her bedroom when she heard Lena say:

  “We’re toast. All of us.”

  Jane stopped and turned around.

  “Keep your voice down,” came Eleanor’s terse reply.

  “Are you drinking again?” asked Pastor Dare.

  “What if I am? I�
�ll say it again. I think we should all come clean. Tell the truth. If that means they put the lot of us in jail, so be it.”

  “Stop it,” hissed Eleanor. “We have renters upstairs. This is no place for a discussion like this.”

  Jane bent her head and concentrated, trying hard to make out the words, but everyone appeared to be taking Eleanor’s counsel. They were whispering now. That is, until Eleanor said, “Iver, please, I’ve got to get out of here. Can’t we go somewhere?”

  “Right,” snarled Lena. “You two go off and have fun. Me? I’ll stay home and worry myself into an early grave.”

  “Perfect solution,” said Eleanor. The acid in her voice was unmistakable.

  “Come on, you two,” said the pastor. “That kind of talk won’t get us anywhere.”

  “Go ahead and find your no-tell motel room for the night,” said Lena, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Take that back,” demanded Eleanor.

  “Why should I? You don’t think I know? You’ve had the hots for Iver ever since you first met him.”

  “That’s it,” said Pastor Dare. “Eleanor, get your coat.”

  After the front door creaked open and then shut, Lena shouted, “FYI, I’m going to smoke in the house from here on out. Deal with it.”

  14

  Butch waved at the bottle-blond waitress, holding up his bill and a credit card. She smiled and nodded, mouthing “One second” as she turned back to the table of six—all men. It felt as if she’d been taking their orders for an hour, chatting them up, undoubtedly hoping for a massive tip.

  Finally, striding across to Butch’s booth, she grabbed his ticket and the credit card.

  “I’d like more coffee.”

  “Sure thing.” She removed his dinner plate and dirty silverware. “Be back in a sec.”

  Butch didn’t much like Italian food, though his target sitting at a table next to the window obviously did. He’d ordered himself spaghetti and garlic bread. When it arrived, he found the red sauce watery, bland, and way too sweet. The wine list was equally pathetic. He’d nursed a glass of the house Cabernet, frowning at the flat, sour taste, until all the garlic bread was gone. Right now he was nursing his coffee, waiting until the target paid her bill. She’d come to Luigi’s directly from work to have a meal with a friend. Her name, as usual, was Jenny. All of them had been named Jenny. And none of them had taken him where he wanted to go.

  His newest Jenny eventually said goodbye to her friend, giving her a hug. They continued their conversation on their way out the door. Butch knew where she lived, so he didn’t have to race to his car and follow her home. Even so, he took the same route she did, staying far enough behind her Nissan to not attract attention. As she pulled into her driveway, he eased to a stop a few houses away on the opposite side of the street and switched off his lights. There was a second car in her drive, an older model Dodge Charger, which intrigued him.

  After she’d gone inside and he could see her through the picture window, he picked up his camera from the passenger seat, spending a few seconds digging through the camera bag for his telephoto lens. He wanted to get up close and personal without actually being up close and personal. That would come later. Clipping the lens on, he slid out of the front seat and jogged over to an elm tree large enough to obscure his presence. Holding the viewfinder to his eye, he scanned the living room until he saw her. He clicked off a few photos. She stood by a chair, talking to a woman who’d just come through a rear doorway into what looked like the living room. He clicked off several more photos, getting a good one of Jenny looking up at the woman, then giving her a lingering kiss.

  Adjusting the focus on the zoom, he took a picture of the Charger’s license plate, then dashed across the street and crouched down next to the rear bumper. He hesitated another few seconds, looking both ways down the quiet street. When he was as sure as he could be that nobody was watching him, he straightened up and moved quickly to the passenger’s door, cupping his hands around his eyes and scanning the interior. What he found was a rolling garbage bin full of crumpled McDonald’s bags and discarded soda cans. Crossing over to Jenny’s Nissan, he glanced inside long enough to learn that the interior was immaculate. The two cars were owned by two very different people. The Charger likely belonged to the girlfriend.

  Hurrying back to his own car, he slid in and started the engine, turning up the heat. He had such high hopes for this particular Jenny, but unless the photos caused him to rethink his conclusion, he’d wasted another evening with nothing to show for it but a slight case of indigestion.

  “Bye-bye,” he whispered as he put the car in gear and drove off. “Wish you had better taste in restaurants.”

  * * *

  After stopping at a drugstore to buy a couple Snickers bars and a sack of Fritos, Butch pulled up in front of his house, ready for another night of renovations. He’d fallen behind on the work he promised to do in order to lower his rent. Earlier in the day, the owner had dropped off a cheap toilet, one he expected Butch to use to replace the even cheaper toilet in the bathroom. Butch figured it would be easy enough, unless he ran into something unexpected.

  Tonight would also be another opportunity to make progress on the kitchen cabinets. In his opinion, no matter what he did, he was merely putting lipstick on a pig. Compared to the Skarsvold house next door, which might be in terrible shape but remained impressive in size and design, the puke-tan rambler he’d rented was a small, boring box.

  Even before Butch got out of his car, he saw the bright lights illuminating what was left of the Skarsvolds’ garage. Crime scene tape had gone up, establishing a perimeter around the backyard, which appeared to be a hive of activity. He couldn’t imagine why an arson investigation would take so much manpower.

  Seeing the neighbor he’d met last night, the old guy in his bathrobe, Butch jogged over to him. “Hey,” he said. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Not entirely sure,” said the old guy, folding his arms. “But I’ve heard a few whispers.” He winked.

  “About what?”

  “Well, if you can believe it, the arson investigator they sent out found some bones buried under the garage floor.”

  “Bones?”

  “Human bones.”

  Butch’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Hard to believe those two old ladies are capable of murder. Still, the more bones I see them bag, the more I think we’ve got ourselves a homegrown case of Arsenic and Old Lace.” He wiped a hand across his mouth. “The house is supposed to be haunted you know.”

  “Yeah, well, I have a hard time believing that.”

  He shrugged.

  “Looks like they’ve dug down pretty far,” said Butch

  “The pit was already there. I’m told.”

  “Another whisper?”

  He looked over and smiled. “I’m retired. I got a lot of free time on my hands and I like to monitor the local gossip.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “You know the sisters?”

  “I’ve met them.”

  He nodded, and kept on nodding. “Yup. Just a matter of time before all is revealed.”

  “What do you mean, all?”

  In response, the man gave another wink.

  Butch was repelled by how much the guy seemed to be enjoying someone else’s tragedy. Love thy neighbor didn’t seem to be operative along Cumberland Avenue.

  Instead of returning to his house, Butch made a beeline for Lena’s front door, where he knocked loudly. He was more than a little startled when Novak opened it.

  “Evening,” said the block captain.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No skin off my nose.” He walked away, leaving the door ajar.

  Butch removed his baseball cap and stepped inside. Lena sat in her wheelchair in front of the cold fireplace, smoking one of her menthols and tapping ash onto a plate next to her on the floor. Novak had dropped down on the couch, his legs spread wide. He was s
moking, too, although it wasn’t tobacco.

  “Welcome to our den of iniquity,” said Lena, taking a deep drag. “You know Rich, right? My mad stoner buddy?”

  “I thought Eleanor wouldn’t let you smoke inside the house.”

  “There’s been a rule change around this joint,” said Lena. “I’m now allowed to do whatever I want.” She pulled a flask from her sweater pocket, unscrewed the cap and took several swallows. “This thing’s empty. Richie, be a good boy. Go into my room. You’ll see a wardrobe to your right. In the bottom, you’ll find my stash. Might as well bring the entire bottle. Or what’s left of it.” She eyed Butch. “That reminds me. I’ll need more of that sooner rather than later.”

  Novak jumped up and left the room.

  “Okay,” said Butch. “But go easy, okay?”

  “Easy isn’t in my nature.”

  He could tell that she was already pretty hammered.

  Novak returned with the bottle and handed it to her.

  “Who wants some?” She held it up triumphantly.

  Butch shook his head.

  “Nope,” said Novak. “I’ll stick with my blunt.”

  “Your loss.” She set it down on the floor next to her makeshift ashtray.

  “I ran into one of your neighbors outside,” said Butch.

  “Sit down, boy. You’re making me nervous.”

  He looked around, settling on a tufted chair. “The neighbor said that the arson investigator—”

  “Discovered human remains in our garage. Yeah, yeah. I heard all about it.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And?”

  “And what? Do I know who they belong to?” She pinched two fingers together and made a twisting motion next to her mouth.

  “Not to change the subject,” said Novak, easing lower on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, “but I’ll say it again. You oughta sell this dump. Move on. I know, I know. Eleanor doesn’t want to. But I’ll bet you could get a good price for it. Plenty of money for you and your sister to go your separate ways. I mean, somebody just burned your garage to the ground. That means you’ll get a nice fat insurance settlement. It was me, I’d use it to repair the house, get it ready to be put on the market. I’ll do my best as block captain to get to the bottom of the arson, to make sure it don’t happen nowhere else along Cumberland. But, you know … maybe it’s time to talk to your sis again. Raise the question one more time.”