Forgotten Bones

by Vivian Barz

  Susan filed the boy’s name in her memory. Like with the nurse, she didn’t dare write anything down just yet, lest Mary suddenly grow skittish.

  “Though Nora and Henry Lincoln—Lenny’s parents—were cordial to me, I sensed that they despised us. As a family, I mean. They were frightened of Gerald; a lot of people were—he was a big boy, even back then—but they downright hated Wayne. You could see it in their eyes. They weren’t the only ones in town who felt this way about my husband, so it was a look I had become familiar with.” Mary shook her head at the memory. “Lenny had been forbidden to come to our property—this I knew because I overheard Henry giving Lenny the business one day after he came home with some apples that I’d given him from the tree in our yard. In the country, sound can carry for miles, especially when someone’s shouting. And Henry had certainly been shouting at Lenny.”

  Susan frowned. “But he was on your property again?”

  Mary shrugged. “The Lincolns had two boys—Lenny’s older brother was the responsible sibling. He came from a different father, who’d been killed in a farming accident some years earlier, so maybe that had something to do with it. Lenny never listened. He was spoiled, all right, but just so precious. But I was worried that he would get into trouble with Henry for coming over, so I was going to tell him to go home as soon as I finished with the washing up. Gerald never had friends over at the house, and they seemed like they were having fun—they were racing caterpillars or some damn thing—so I didn’t see the harm in letting them be for a few minutes . . .”

  Mary toyed with the basket of yarn and needles at her side. “But then I saw something that didn’t sit right with me,” said the old woman, looking every one of her ninety-six years. “It was the way Gerald was looking at Lenny.”

  Susan suddenly felt cold all over. “Looking?”

  Mary met Susan’s eyes. There must have been something on Susan’s face that made Mary feel the need to clarify. A look of repugnance. “I want you to understand that I never saw Gerald touch Lenny—do you think I would have stood by while he fondled a little kid?”

  You let your husband do it to your own son.

  “But the look,” Mary said. “It was strange for a teenager. It was the way a young man of Gerald’s age should’ve been looking at a woman .”

  “I understand,” Susan said, focusing hard to keep her voice even. The whole thing made her feel violated, dirty.

  “I knew then that Wayne was starting to influence Gerald—that if I didn’t do something , Gerald would never have a chance at a normal life. So after I sent Lenny home, I went out into the field and picked those mushrooms. A couple days later, Wayne was dead.”

  Mary paused, adjusted her blanket. “But I can see now that I waited too long. Gerald had already been polluted by Wayne. Though maybe he was always polluted—maybe this sickness had been passed down in his genes.”

  The Nichols. What a group of utterly screwed-up individuals. And here Susan had been thinking that her own family had problems. The Nichols made them look like the Brady Bunch by comparison.

  Susan nodded solemnly. “You mean because of the way Gerald turned out anyway—him going to prison?”

  Mary gave Susan a funny look. “Yes, that, and because of what happened to Lenny.”

  Susan leaned forward on the sofa. “What do you mean? What happened to Lenny?”

  “Oh, I thought you knew,” Mary said with phony surprise, as if she didn’t really buy into Susan’s confusion. “He disappeared.”

  “When?”

  Mary shifted in her seat.

  “When , Mrs. Nichol?”

  “The day after I saw him playing with Gerald. The day before I killed Wayne.” Mary’s voice was nearly a whisper.

  “What are you saying, Mary? Are you telling me that Gerald had something to do with Lenny’s disappearance? Or Wayne? Both?” Susan couldn’t get the questions out quickly enough. “Is the body we found in your field Lenny Lincoln?”

  “I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you,” Mary snapped. Witnesses sometimes got that way, Susan had found. One minute, they were singing like canaries; the next, they lost their voices. Especially where their own children were concerned. “If you’re expecting me to tell you that Gerald killed Lenny, then you’re crazier than half the people here at the Meadows. He’s my son , so I won’t help you send him to the electric chair. All I know is that Lenny Lincoln disappeared while playing hide-and-seek with his brother.”

  “But you’ve got to admit, given Gerald’s other crimes—”

  Mary stared directly into Susan’s face, her gaze cold. “If you want somebody to blame, blame Wayne . No matter who did what, he’s the one responsible. He’s the one at the root of all this evil.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve said all that I have to say.” Mary seized the needles and yarn from the basket.

  “What I don’t understand, Mary, is why come clean now, after all these years? Are you looking for some kind of absolution?”

  “If you want to arrest me for the murder of Wayne, fine—you go ahead,” Mary said, her needles clicking as she worked. “If not, I’d like you to leave. Please. ”

  Susan knew when badgering a witness was futile, when it was time to pack it in. She wouldn’t be able to pull anything more from Mary. She toyed with the handcuffs at her hip as she watched the old woman work, her needles moving so speedily that their movement was almost blurred.

  With a long sigh, Susan got to her feet. She thanked Mary for her time, and the old woman refused to look up even as she left.

  Out in the cruiser, Susan sat staring out the window, grappling with indecision. Mary had just admitted to murder, a crime that had no statute of limitations . . . to arrest or not to arrest? She might be able to book her on obstruction of justice, if nothing else.

  Susan found that she really didn’t want to arrest Mary, and not only because the notion of hauling a frail-boned ninety-six-year-old woman down to the station in handcuffs was beyond distressing. And never mind the public relations uproar it would likely create: in today’s climate of social media witch hunts where those targeted are guilty until proven innocent, police officers operate under unrelenting public scrutiny that slants toward hostility more often than not.

  But still, that wasn’t the crux of it. Though she’d never admit such a thing out loud—especially not in front of those who were familiar with her affiliation to law enforcement—the real reason she didn’t want to bring Mary in was because, deep in her heart, she felt that Wayne Nichol had had it coming. While Susan had no children herself, she didn’t have to strain too hard to imagine that she might murder anyone who’d violated any son of hers the way Wayne had Gerald. To hurt a powerless child in such a manner—in any manner—well, that was an extra-special kind of evil.

  And maybe it had been Wayne who’d killed the boy next door and not Gerald, if the body was, in fact, Lenny Lincoln’s. Though if it was, Susan was leaning more toward it being Gerald who’d done the deed, given the way he’d skipped town after the discovery of the body. Regardless, couldn’t it be argued that the world had become a better place without Wayne Nichol in it—that the children of Perrick were just a little bit safer?

  But that wasn’t her argument to make. Such judgments weren’t even in the dominion of her job—if anything, she was duty bound to treat suspects in a way that was impartial. Arguments and death sentences were reserved for lawyers and judges.

  Thus far, Susan had managed to keep her nose clean on the job, but one of her biggest anxieties about being a cop (other than being killed in uniform) remained the perpetual risk of becoming dirty. If she let Mary slide, she wondered, where would she draw the line? Would she then become the sort of officer who’d let friends slide—a forgiven DUI here, a covered-up assault there?

  Susan reached for the tumbler in her cupholder, remembered that it was empty, and sighed. It wasn’t even noon, and she was already sleepy again, an exhaustion headache clouding over
her brain. Maybe she was being dramatic, getting ahead of herself. Big decisions, she decided, could wait.

  Mary had murdered Wayne over fifty years ago. A few more hours wouldn’t hurt.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bodega Bay was even better than Eric had hoped, and he felt that the positive reviews he’d found online about the quaint (to use Maggie’s word) little coastal settlement were well deserved.

  After beachcombing the rocky coastline at Goat Rock Beach, he indulged in a hearty lunch of fish and chips at Currents Seafood—served the proper old-fashioned way, in newsprint (or at least in tissue paper that was meant to look like newsprint)—washing it down with a local draft called Seasick Sally’s Ale. He took pictures of seagulls and met a polite shop owner named Bert while browsing kites at the aptly named Bert’s Kites. He bought a five-pound bag of saltwater taffy at Lulu’s Gifts, inhaling about half a pound of it before he even left the parking lot. From a quirky little roadside stand he bought a half dozen fresh oysters and a tuna steak to cook up later for dinner.

  His heart was light and his belly full. All in all, it had been a damn fine day.

  Eric didn’t think his day could go any better until he spotted a splintery homemade sign along the highway a few miles outside of town. It read:

  ANTIQUE SALE

  SATURDAY 8AM–8PM

  RAIN OR SHINE!

  CASH ONLY

  Eric nearly dismissed the sign because it was getting late, but then he allowed himself a smile as he remembered that he had nobody at home to answer to. Maggie had routinely hassled him about his antique fixer-uppers, as he had the tendency to start working on them eagerly—a bit of sanding here, a coat of paint there—but then lose interest about halfway through. Into the garage they would then go before oftentimes retiring to the dumpster. She’d call them his half projects , always with a snort.

  What Maggie, like others who were baffled by the “picker” calling, didn’t understand was that Eric had a connection to antiques that was practically otherworldly. The mere touch of an old piece of furniture could transport him back in time decades, centuries; he could smell the air of the forest where the tree had been cultivated, feel the power of the woodworker’s hands within the carvings, connect with those who had owned and loved it. With a certainty he could never prove to anyone, not even himself, he could occasionally even determine whether the piece had been in a happy home or one that had been filled with turmoil.

  Maggie would, of course, say that he was full of it.

  Eric’s foot eased off the gas pedal. It had been a while since he’d taken on a project. And if he wanted to fix up an antique or two (or ten), so what? A little distraction might even do him some good. Give him something to tinker with, keep him from dwelling.

  Eric clicked on his blinker and then made a quick left turn down a scraggy gravel driveway that ended at a large barn—that was something he hadn’t seen much of in Philly, barns. Gravel driveways, too, which these parts made up for aplenty. There weren’t too many cars parked at the foot of the driveway, but there were enough to give Eric a panicked What treasures have they beaten me to? jolt that those who covet antiques are so often prone to. Since it was already past six o’clock, he wasn’t too optimistic. Whatever was left was most likely junk.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look.

  The inside of the barn was well lit but dingy and full of cobwebs, with probably an owl or two using the rafters as a permanent dwelling. Eric knew that surroundings like this typically meant that the sale was either going to be really good or really bad. That either a land developer with lots of money but no interest in antiques had acquired the property and simply wanted to clear everything out before bulldozing the lot (really good), or a backwoods tweaker was hocking garbage to make a few quick bucks for his next score (really bad).

  In the case of this barn, Eric discovered that it was neither.

  The concrete floor had been swept semiclean, and tarps had been laid every few feet, with various items resting on top. Eric had been mostly correct in his assumption about the junk; much of what was left was ugly wood furniture from the 1970s, heavy desks and dressers, the occasional avocado-green pleather chair thrown in. There were also a lot of rusted car parts, most of which Eric was unable to identify. He supposed some of the other items were worth a decent amount of money, like the decorated dish sets, antique brooches, and unsettlingly lifelike porcelain dolls made with what looked like real human hair. But these were things he didn’t want or need.

  He’d already decided to leave when he saw the steamer trunk. It was sitting off in a corner, a little worn, looking about as sad and lonesome as any antique could be. Ah , Eric thought, a kindred spirit . Moving closer now, he saw that the trunk still had some life left in it.

  He wanted it immediately.

  Actually, Eric had always wanted a steamer trunk, but he’d never gotten around to buying one. This was mainly due to price,

  (and Maggie)

  as a decent trunk could set a buyer back hundreds or thousands of dollars—even tens of thousands of dollars, if a prominent designer had made it. This trunk, Eric imagined, would be in the couple-hundred range, which he probably shouldn’t spend until after he started receiving steady paychecks again.

  But he really, really wanted it. He had plenty of room for it inside his pathetically empty home, and it was calling to him the way no antique ever had. (Though Maggie might have argued against this claim.) He closed his eyes and ran his hands along its top, feeling connected to its history, bumpy ridges of wood pressing against skin. He could already see it at the foot of his bed, filled with records and old horror movies on VHS.

  Eric figured that, like looking, it wouldn’t hurt to ask about price. He had an honest face, and you could always count on people to trust a teacher. Maybe whoever was running the sale would take pity on a broke educator and allow him to pay it off in installments.

  Outside, Eric located the person in question, a stooped old hippie with a long white ponytail and beard to match, whom everyone at the sale had been calling Rustler. He was sucking on a hand-rolled cigarette, flicking ashes dangerously close to the patch of dried yellow grass that clung to the earth near the barn’s entrance. He didn’t seem too concerned about the possibility of the whole place going up in flames. Maybe it was what he was hoping for.

  “The trunk over in the corner,” Eric said, bracing himself for the inescapable back-and-forth that was sure to follow. If these old junk geezers loved anything, it was dickering. “I’m just wondering how much you’d want for it.”

  Rustler shrugged. “How about twenty?”

  Eric wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Twenty . . . dollars?”

  “I don’t want twenty cat turds for it,” Rustler said and then barked out the sort of raspy laugh that must have taken decades of smoking unfiltered cigarettes to achieve. “Yeah, twenty bucks, and we’ll call it a day. Cash only. I’m ready to go home. Back’s killing me.”

  Heart thumping, Eric gave the inside of the barn a quick glance. They were now the last two people there. He’d pocketed a few pieces of sea glass at the beach, and they came flying out now as he scrounged for the two tens inside his jeans. And to think that he’d almost skipped going to the sale!

  Sighing, Eric pushed the bills back into his pocket. He didn’t believe in karma or hell, but he knew he’d feel guilty every time he looked at the damn thing if he didn’t speak up. Curse of the Good Guy.

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” Eric began. “But you should know that the trunk is worth more than twenty bucks. A lot more.” It was times like this that he wished he could be more like Jim. He’d have no qualms hustling the elderly.

  Rustler shook his head, wrinkled turkey neck wobbling as he cleared his throat. “I appreciate you being honest, son, but I’m afraid not.” With a wave of a knobby hand, he led Eric to the trunk. “Now it’s my turn to be honest. You didn’t look inside, did you?”

  Eric smiled, sheepish. �
��No, I didn’t.”

  “You might wanna stand back for this,” Rustler warned, and then he wrestled the trunk open.

  Eric clamped a hand down over his nose and mouth—holy shit !

  “Stinks to high heaven, don’t it? I can’t imagine what was stored in here, but it sure as shit wasn’t no roses.” The old man’s cackle ended in a few dry coughs. “When I started the sale this morning, I had it open with some of my wife’s potpourri sprinkled in the bottom. She keeps a bag of it in the car ’cause she says my feet smell, though I think it’s hers she’s trying to cover up—Tuscan Breeze, I think, whatever the hell that’s supposed to smell like. But then I started noticing the stink was driving people away, so I shut the lid.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “Anyway, I figured I should set you straight about its inside before you bought it. I like to run an honest business.”

  “I appreciate that,” Eric said, fairly confident that Rustler would have taken his twenty bucks and let him leave without telling him about the stench had he not first spoken up about the trunk’s worth. No honor among thieves, eh, old man?

  “Also, there’s a hole in the corner. It’s real small, though. The wood’s kind of warped around it, see?”

  “So there is,” Eric said, peering down into the trunk. “Mice?” He’d been holding his breath, so it came out sounding like moose , but Rustler caught his drift.

  “Beats me, though there were no pellets inside when I got it.” Rustler plucked a flake of tobacco off his lip and then snubbed his cigarette nub under a boot. “But I figure somebody could use the trunk as decoration, if nothing else. Add to a room’s fang she or fig shoe or however you say it.” He rolled his eyes to show just how much he did not subscribe to new age baloney like feng shui. “It’ll be fine, so long as it’s kept closed.”