A Whisper of Bones

by Ellen Hart

  “I’ll … take it under advisement.” The cigarette dangling from Lena’s lips bounced as she spoke.

  Watching ash fall onto her sweater, Butch had the sick feeling that there might be another fire in her future.

  “Anyway,” said Novak, stretching his arms over his head. “I promised the wife I’d go pick up a pizza.”

  “Get one for us while you’re at it.” She dug around in her sweater pocket, coming up empty.

  The last thing Butch wanted was more Italian food, although he did want to talk. If pizza was the price he had to pay, so be it. “Here,” he said, taking some cash from his pocket and handing Novak a twenty.

  “What kind?” asked Novak.

  “Cheese is fine,” said Butch.

  “Pepperoni,” cried Lena. “But none of those damn anchovies.”

  “Your wish is my command, yo,” said Novak. “I shall return.”

  Once he’d gone, Lena picked up the liquor bottle and took a slug directly from the spout. “Wish I had some beer to offer you. Better put that on the list.”

  “What changed? You’re smoking inside the house. Drinking in full view of your sister.”

  “She’s not home. But, to answer your question, I changed. I finally grew a pair.”

  Which explained exactly nothing.

  “Hey, Butch. Tell me something. How come you left last Friday morning and I didn’t see hide nor hair of you until Sunday night?”

  He was surprised she’d noticed. He should have given her more credit. “Well, see, I’ve got a friend with a cabin.”

  “On a lake?”

  “Yeah, a nice one.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Um, Big Lake.”

  “What’s it near?”

  “It’s not really near any towns.”

  She dropped the nub of her cigarette, nearly missing the plate on the floor. “Huh. Sounds remote. What do you do at this cabin?”

  He shrugged. “Sleep. Play cards. Drink.”

  “Chase women?”

  “Nah.”

  “Right.” She snorted. “I know what young men like.”

  He doubted she knew what he liked. “But … back to the bones in the garage.”

  “Can’t talk about that.”

  “You have no idea who they belong to?”

  She jerked her head toward the piano. Staring hard, she whispered, “Do you see him?”

  “See who?” He looked around. “There’s nobody here but us.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “He’s come home.”

  “Who’s come home?”

  “There’s so much I never told him.” She felt along the floor, found the bottle and took another gulp.

  Butch doubted she’d still be awake when the pizza arrived. He decided to play along. “Tell him now.” He rose from the recliner, crouched down in front of her and took her hands in his.

  “Ignore the crazy old lady.”

  “You’re not crazy.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No.”

  “Wha … what would I say to him? He must hate me.” She flicked her eyes toward the piano. “He scares me,” she whispered. Her eyes swam inside her head until she finally focused on Butch’s face. “I’m a wretched excuse for a human being.” None of the words came out clearly.

  “Why is that?”

  “You know why. I was a terrible mother.”

  He felt suddenly sorry for her. “That’s not true.”

  She blinked, closed her eyes, and swayed. As her shoulders began to shake, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

  Butch moved closer, put his arms around her and held her. “It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” She was in no shape to talk coherently about anything. He’d have to wait for another time. He continued to try to reassure her, although nothing he said seemed to penetrate. “Come on, Lena. Let me get you to bed.”

  He wheeled her into her bedroom. It was a sad little room, with a twin bed, a small clock radio on the nightstand next to a lamp and a bunch of pill bottles, a recliner in one corner and the freestanding closet in the other. Everything in the room was old and worn, even the old rock posters on the walls. There were books, of course. She liked to read. He opened the closet door. Inside were a few dresses. A robe. A few shirts and sweaters. Two pairs of jeans. This was her life. She wasn’t starving. She lived in a warm house. She had family around her. And yet, if there was a God and he wanted to punish her, he’d done a good job.

  As he lifted her onto the bed, her wig fell off. Underneath, her hair was gray and baby fine. He couldn’t believe how light she was—like a sparrow, a tiny damaged little bird with a fierce heart. After patting the wig back into place, he covered her with a quilt, and then stood looking down at her. He was about to turn away when he stopped himself. Leaning over her, he kissed her forehead. “Goodnight,” he whispered. “Sweet dreams.”

  15

  The next morning, Wendy was standing at the stove making breakfast when Frank slogged his way to one of the wooden stools by the kitchen island.

  “Morning,” he mumbled, cringing at the sound of the wood creaking under his weight. He should have combed his long, scraggly hair and brushed his teeth before emerging from the bedroom, but the bacon’s siren song was too much. “That smells good.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and offered him a sly smile. It was the look she always gave him after a night of wild abandon. Unlike every other man on the planet, Frank had never been all that confident of his lovemaking skills. Even more suspicious was his general lack of a sex drive. He’d been a virgin on his wedding night, a fact he hid from his few buddies and, when it came down to it, even his first wife. Last night however, he’d channeled his inner Arnold Schwarzenegger and performed admirably.

  After dishing up the food, Wendy set a plate in front of him and then stood at the counter pouring them each a glass of orange juice. She pushed his cell phone toward him with her index finger, saying, “Your mother called.”

  “I know.” The bacon tasted better than usual, which he put down to last night’s hard labor.

  “Six times. And she left you a bunch of messages.”

  After Wendy said he could come back home, he’d completely spaced on his promise to be with his mom when she talked to the insurance agent about the garage fire. Of course, she’d called twice during dinner, though devouring an extra large meat-lover’s pizza with two sides of wings at the local Pizza Hut with his forgiving wife seemed far more important than listening to Mom berate him for blowing her off. The phone had been set to vibrate, so Wendy had no idea he’d been in such high demand. And then later—well, he was busy.

  “You gonna call her back?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Six phone calls seems like a lot, even for her.”

  “I suppose.” He closed his eyes as he stuffed the second piece of bacon into his mouth. “This is so good.”

  “I’m a fabulous cook.”

  He grinned, not quite able to look her in the eyes.

  “What are you up to today?”

  “I’ve got an appointment this morning with Walter Mann.”

  “A tax client?”

  “Nope.” He wiped the grease off his lips with a paper napkin.

  “You’re being awfully mysterious.”

  “It’s probably nothing.” He did admit to a certain curiosity and maybe even a tiny irrational hope that the meeting would turn out to be something more than a few compliments as he was shoved out the door.

  “All right,” she said, between bites. “I like a man with a secret.”

  He stopped chewing.

  “I’m kidding,” she said, laughing and covering his hand with hers. “You know, sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

  “Count your blessings.”

  She finished her eggs. “Anyway, be a dear and put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I’ve got to get going or I’ll be late for school.�
�

  “Can’t disappoint a roomful of nine-year-olds.”

  She came around the island and gave him a long, slow kiss. “Duty calls.”

  “Mmm.”

  “See you tonight?”

  He nodded. As she left the room, he swallowed the mass of pulverized toast in his mouth. When he heard her call, “Bye,” he pushed his plate away, rose from the stool, and returned to the bedroom to get dressed. Next stop, the Rupert A. Wilson Publishing House.

  * * *

  Oh, joy, thought Frank, sitting down in another waiting room next to another fish tank. One tiny guppylike critter swam over to scope him out. He pressed his thumbs to his ears, stuck out his tongue, and wiggled his fingers.

  The fish darted away.

  “Damn straight,” he whispered. “Nobody messes with Frank Devine.”

  Before he knew it, he was shaking hands with Walter Mann, a suave, well-dressed, older man, a dude who exuded confidence. Frank hated him on principle.

  Mann motioned him to the chair in front of his desk. “Let me get right to the point,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I think you’ve got immense talent.”

  “Seriously? I mean … thank you.”

  “Pastor Dare told me you’ve done a number of public murals.”

  “Well, only two. Although, if you count the ones I did at my parents’ house, it’s dozens.”

  “I like your style. Everything is so … so round and fat and fanciful.”

  “And wicked and playful,” added Frank.

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

  “It’s the world I’ve always wanted to live in.” The only world where he’d ever felt safe.

  Mann sat back and folded his hands. “Here’s my question. Would you consider illustrating a children’s book?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We publish children’s books. Picture books. I’m always looking for something fresh and new. For someone with an engaging visual imagination. I’ve got a particular book in mind, but beyond that, I believe I could keep you gainfully employed for many years if you’d come work for us.”

  “You’re offering me a job?”

  “I am,” said Mann. “Will you think about it?”

  “Hell no,” said Frank, noticing that there was a food stain on his tie. Covering it with his thumb, he said, “I can give you an answer right now. I’d love to illustrate a book. As many books as you want.”

  “Well, that’s just marvelous,” said Mann, fixing Frank with an angelic smile. “I’ll have my secretary set up a meeting for you with our art director.”

  Frank was so stunned he almost couldn’t speak. “I … I can’t thank you enough.”

  “We can talk money if you want, or we can wait until you’ve spoken with my art director and you know more about our process, what it will require from you.”

  “Give me a ballpark number,” said Frank, forcing his voice into a lower register.

  Mann launched into a discussion of advances against royalties, career-earning potential, and finished by saying, “This will be a big book. The author won the Newbery Medal, so it will be a high-profile rollout. Lots of press and interviews.”

  “Um, I mean, wow.”

  “You could be looking at a very good living down the line.” Glancing at his watch again, Mann added, “Let’s talk soon.”

  “Great.”

  “Can you find your way out of our maze of offices?”

  “I left breadcrumbs,” said Frank, rising from his chair.

  Mann grinned. “Wonderful. It’s going to be a pleasure working with you.”

  Frank walked out to his car in a daze, wondering if he was dreaming. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. It was like winning the lottery, except that he’d have to work hard for the money. But drawing his inner world, the place he loved most, had never felt like work to him.

  Feeling strong for the first time in … well, ever, he whipped out his phone and stood next to his open car door, listening to the sixth message his mother had left him yesterday.

  “Frank,” came her voice over the tinny speaker. “I’m worried about you. I don’t understand why you won’t return my calls. This is urgent. The arson investigator discovered bones in the garage this afternoon. In the root cellar. You know what that means. They’ve surrounded the entire backyard with that crime scene tape. Please come home. We need to talk.”

  He clicked the phone off and let it drop to the pavement, watching it shatter. Words could be made of concrete, too. His life had just shattered against one. He’d always known it would never end, that a single frightful night would follow him to his grave and beyond.

  Steadying himself against the door, Frank closed his eyes, the word he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud swirling bright and dangerous inside his mind.

  Bones.

  16

  Jane arranged to meet Britt for a late lunch at a restaurant near the Skarsvold house. The temperature had plummeted in the last couple of hours. A storm was moving through, bringing snow, wind, and colder temperatures. Seven inches were predicted before morning.

  Jane relaxed as she waited for Britt, sipping from a cup of tea while enjoying the sight of the fluffy white flakes burying her car across the street. Friends in other parts of the country often offered her humorous condolences for living in Minnesota. All that cold and snow, they’d say. How can you stand it? The fact was, Jane loved winter. She hated the heat and humidity of summer. Winter sun was beautiful, warming. Welcome. Summer sun oppressed her. Autumn was her favorite season, but winter wasn’t far behind. She liked early darkness, the shorter days. All her DNA came alive in winter.

  She was on her second cup of tea when Britt came in the door, shaking snow out of her hair. Jane waved her over.

  “Boy, it’s really coming down out there,” said Britt, shrugging out of her coat as she sat down. She rubbed her hands together. “I forgot to pack gloves.”

  “Here,” said Jane, pulling a pair of mittens out of her coat pocket. “Take these. I’ve got another pair in my car.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She smiled. “How did your presentation go?”

  “Good,” she said, shifting in her chair. “A lot of people came up afterward and wanted to talk. I think I raised more questions than I answered. It was kind of hard to get away.” She looked up as a waitress appeared with the menus. “Can I get a cup of coffee?” she asked. “Black.”

  Jane glanced at the menu, scanning the sandwiches.

  “So tell me what you’ve learned,” said Britt.

  “Would you like to eat first?” She wasn’t sure how Britt would respond to her news.

  “Why? Is it bad?”

  Jane waited a beat. “The arson investigator discovered human bones in the garage. Specifically, two small bones.”

  Britt’s eyes widened.

  “There was apparently a root cellar toward the back of the garage. That’s where the body was buried.”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “The police came by to talk to Eleanor and Lena last night. They consider the site a crime scene, and not just because they suspect arson.”

  “Wait, wait,” said Britt. “You said, small bones? Like a child’s bones?”

  “I asked the arson investigator about that. She said there are lots of small bones in a human body. Could be from a hand or a foot. Or, she did say it was possible the bones belonged to a child.”

  The words appeared to hit Britt with the force of an express train. “You’re saying it could be Timmy?”

  “It’s possible.”

  The waitress set a cup of coffee in front of Britt. “Would you two ladies like to order?”

  “Not yet,” said Jane. “Give us a couple more minutes.”

  “You said the police talked to my aunts. What did they say? How did Eleanor and Lena explain it?”

  “They couldn’t.”

  “Or they wouldn’t.” She looked down, a scowl forming. “T
hey’re lying, Jane. Just like they lied to me.”

  “There was a crime scene unit working in the garage through the night.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  “As far as I could tell from my upstairs window, they were bagging up a fair amount.”

  “I knew it,” she said under her breath. “They did something to him.” She shoved her chair back from the table.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think? I don’t care if my aunts don’t want to see me again. I have to talk to them.”

  “Britt, wait. We don’t have any proof that the bones belonged to your cousin. Let me do a little more digging before you approach them.”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  Jane stood, clutching her napkin. “Please, let’s talk about this first.”

  Britt yanked her coat off the back of the chair and headed for the door.

  Jane looked around for the waitress. Unable to locate her, she sat down and waited for her to come out from the kitchen. Growing impatient, she tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table and left. If Britt intended to accuse her aunts of murder, Jane wanted to be there. She figured the situation required a referee to prevent an explosion.

  * * *

  Eleanor was dusting the piano in the living room when the front doorbell chimed. “Britt,” she said, opening the door, a startled look on her face. “What a … nice surprise.”

  Britt pushed past her. “Where’s Lena?”

  “I’m right here,” said her aunt, rolling into the room. “I thought we made it clear that we have nothing more to say to you.”

  Eleanor shot her sister a cautionary look. Be nice, she pleaded with her eyes.

  “Why don’t you sit down, dear. I think the coffeepot is still on.”

  “I don’t want any coffee. And I don’t want to sit.”

  Eleanor was taken aback by her abrupt tone. “Is something wrong?”

  “You tell me. I heard the arson investigator found bones in your garage. Human bones. A child’s bones.”