A Harvest of Bones

by Galenorn, Yasmine

  Joe shook his head. “Someone she left behind in Ireland, perhaps? Maybe she had to leave her boyfriend behind. Maybe he died.”

  There was no sign of a signature, and no way of telling who had copied out the famous ode to unrequited love. I felt the same wave of sadness I had out back. I quickly replaced the poem in the journal, setting it aside.

  “Tomorrow I’m calling Harlow,” I said. “If anybody can find out about the Brunswicks for us, she can.” My other best friend, Harl, was the doyenne of the social circles in Chiqetaw. “Until then . . . I just don’t know.”

  Jimbo glanced at the clock. “I need to get a move on. Anna will be off work in an hour and I want to have dinner waiting for her.”

  “Your special fried chicken?” I asked with a grin. The biker was an excellent cook, only one of his many surprises.

  He leaned down and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. “Just don’t let those critters out there get you, woman. Anna would never forgive me.” With a wave at Joe, he headed out the kitchen door and I watched through the window as he hightailed it around the side of the house to the driveway, where he hopped on his chopper and revved out onto the street.

  Joe and I locked up, armed the security system, and headed upstairs. I peeked in on Kip; he was sleeping like a baby, but when I opened Randa’s door, she was sitting by her window, staring out forlornly onto the roof. I slid down beside her on the floor.

  “What’s the matter, honey? Sad because it’s too cold to stargaze tonight?” She always grew irritable in the autumn and winter when the rains impeded her access to the skies.

  She bit her lip and hung her head. “No, not really.”

  I leaned closer. “Is it about Samantha?”

  She nodded briefly. “Yeah, and Gunner’s folks. I talked to him today. I called to tell him I’m sorry.”

  “How are they doing?” I encircled her shoulders with my arm and she rested her head against me.

  “They’re holding on—it’s too early to tell, but they haven’t gotten any worse. Gunner is really upset. Tomorrow I’d like to drop by his aunt’s after school. Is that okay? He won’t be back in class for a few days.”

  My selfish little girl was thinking about someone else for a change, and I was more than happy to see the compassionate side of her rear its pretty head. “I think that’s a great idea. Remind me to give you some money and you can take a bouquet with you.” I noticed the notebook in her lap. “Homework? I thought you finished it on Friday night.”

  Blushing brightly, she hugged the paper to her chest. “I did. This . . . is something else.”

  Though I knew I should keep my mouth shut—when I was a teen, I’d hated it when my parents intruded on my privacy—I made a tactical error. “So what is it?”

  Randa pulled away. “Muu-ther! Do you have to know everything going on in my head? You’re such a snoop sometimes!”

  Yep, the old Randa was still lingering behind the sweetheart. I gave her a long look. “It’s quite all right if you tell me something is personal. I’m willing to accept a reasonable request for privacy. But I am your mother and you will show me respect. You know the rules. That tone of voice and your snotty attitude are totally unacceptable, Miss.”

  She stared at me for a moment, then shrugged and hung her head. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, handing over the pages. “I’m just trying to write something.”

  I held the notebook in my hand, not looking at it. “Then that’s all you needed to say.”

  She forced a tiny smile. “Thanks, Mom. I’m just writing some poetry. I got inspired tonight and everything seems so out of place . . . it seemed like a good idea.”

  Poetry? Miranda? My Randa wouldn’t write a grocery list unless I forced the issue. I silently handed the notebook back to her without reading a word. “Go to bed now, baby. It’s been a long day for all of us. And be sure to remind me about the money for flowers before you leave for school.”

  As I made my way to the bedroom, everything felt like it was shifting and changing. As the signs in the mountain passes warned, Unstable Footing, Watch Out for Rolling Rocks. I couldn’t help but wonder where the next bend in the road would take us.

  MONDAY MORNING BROUGHT with it no sign of Samantha, but instead, a flurry of fog and forecasts for increased cloudiness and probable showers. Joe headed out to talk to his lawyer and, after giving Randa fifteen dollars for flowers, I shooed the kids off to school and called Murray, who promised to come over for lunch.

  After I brewed my quad-shot espresso mocha, I put in a call to Harlow. We hadn’t spent much time together since she’d had her baby. James arrived home from a long job overseas in late August, just in time to greet his new daughter, Eileen Eugenia Rainmark. Harlow had her hands full with reunions and learning to be a mother and figuring out how she was going to handle the shifts her life had taken. Until this summer, she had been focused on physical fitness, charity work, and using her status as an ex-supermodel to further her causes.

  Luckily, they had enough money to hire a nanny, so she was getting enough sleep and wasn’t run ragged, but it was still a confusing time and I knew she needed to spend most of it in the comfort of her own home. We tried to get together every couple of weeks for coffee or lunch, but those times were short, and I could tell the entire experience had left her drained. Happy, but dazed and weary.

  She picked up on the second ring and I smiled at her voice—Harl was a natural-born bottle of fizzy water, a sparkling drink on a hot day. “Hey babe, how’s life treating you?”

  “Em! I’m so glad you called,” she said, and I could tell she meant it. We chatted for a few moments about Eileen and my kids and Joe and James. I finally sighed and got to the point of my call.

  “Listen Harl, I have an ulterior motive, though I did want to talk to you.”

  She laughed. “What do you need me to find out?” Harl had proved the most marvelous research hound, able to ferret out information that nobody else could seem to dig up. I filled her in on all the happenings and she drew a sharp breath.

  “Freaky!” Her usual response to me and my exploits. “So you need to find out who this Brigit O’Reilly was, and how she was connected to the Brunswicks? I can probably dig up something, but it may be a day or so. Can you wait that long?”

  I snorted. “Well, she doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. I just wish those damned corpse candles would leave us alone.” We gossiped a few more minutes and then I hung up when the baby cried in the background. Even with the nanny, Harlow insisted on taking over as much of the rocking and feeding as she could. She wasn’t producing enough breast milk, probably due to the years of anorexia she’d undergone while still a model, so after a long discussion with the doctor and several unsuccessful attempts to spur on lactation, they’d switched to a formula to supplement what she could offer.

  A quick call to the shop confirmed that everything was fine. Cinnamon said business was picking up and that the annual holiday gift buying had commenced. Satisfied, I set to making thick roast beef sandwiches for lunch. I’d barely finished when Murray’s truck pulled up outside. A light drizzle had started and she shook off her coat before tromping in the kitchen door.

  “Man, I’m beat,” she said, looking exhausted. “This past week has been a nightmare. But there’s one piece of good news. We found out who sent that scummy E-mail to Chief Bonner.”

  “Who?” I poured her a hot cup of lemon tea and pointed toward the food. “Eat. You look tired.”

  She slid into a chair and, with a long sigh, picked up one of the sandwiches, chewing thoughtfully before she answered. “Did I ever mention a guy by the name of Rusty Jones?”

  I thought back, then shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Seems good old Rusty, who’s a clerk in the office, has developed a major crush on me and I never knew it. He certainly isn’t my type—very prim . . . owlish glasses, pocket pen protector. He also happens to be horrendously nitpicky and an annoying asshole.” />
  “And Rusty sent the note?” My mouth watered and I bit into my sandwich, hungrier than I’d been in a while.

  “Yeah, he got mad because I never paid any attention to him. Well, no more than I pay to the other employees that I don’t know very well. I’m always polite and I always say good morning and so forth, but I guess that just didn’t cut it with him. So he’s been trying to sabotage me.”

  Jeez, leave it to some nutcase to cause trouble. “How’d you find out it was him?”

  “The Chief dropped into my office to ask a question and found Rusty there, on my computer, trying to hack in. He was trying to break my new password while I was in the bathroom. Bonner fired his ass right there and I came back to a very messy scene with Rusty screaming at Tad.”

  “Not too bright, screaming at the chief of police.”

  “Well, Rusty isn’t the brightest bulb in the socket. When he saw me, he went ballistic.” She shuddered. “He seemed so nice but it’s like I always say—don’t trust anybody at face value. You never know what’s going to be behind that smile.” She finished off her sandwich and started in on the fruit salad she’d brought for dessert.

  A thought struck me. One I didn’t want to think, but that I felt obligated to mention. “Do you think he might be dangerous?”

  Mur looked at me closely. “Why? Do you?”

  I closed my eyes. There was a precarious undercurrent flowing through the situation, I could see it—like rapids on a stream that was supposed to be smooth. “Yeah, you need a good smudging and you need to ward your place in case he opts for revenge.”

  She grimaced. “You know, I thought I felt him latching on to me. I already called White Deer and she’ll be here tonight. She’s blended a new banishing incense that should help get him off my back. Rusty isn’t allowed back in the building, and the front desk is keeping watch for him. Of course, now that it’s all come out, Bonner’s being really nice to me and he even apologized for his cracks about Jimmy.”

  The fact that her boss had backed off on the relationship issue was just gravy on the potatoes, but what made me even more relieved was the knowledge that White Deer was headed our way. Murray’s aunt lived on the Quinault reservation. White Deer was a medicine woman, one of the most eclectic and practical people I knew. Her elders weren’t always happy with the way she mixed traditions, but she kept telling them, “Times are changing. We either change with them, or we die out.” She kept alive the best of her ancestors’ training and mixed it with what she’d learned from other traditions.

  “Does Rusty know where you live?”

  She shrugged. “Probably. He was in charge of all the files. No doubt he’s been through my records with a fine-tooth comb. Makes me feel violated, but there’s not much I can do about it right now. I’ll be careful, Em, I promise. I won’t write him off. He’s . . . peculiar.” She paused, then shook her head. “So finish your salad and let’s go see this room of yours.”

  I pushed back my plate. “I’m not that hungry. Let’s head over there now. It’s daytime. Maybe those damned Will o’ the Wisps won’t bother us.” I led her out onto the back porch where we bundled up and grabbed flashlights before heading over to the basement room.

  As we passed through what once was the gate and picked our way through the debris that still littered the ground, Mur glanced around nervously.

  “I don’t like it. Something’s hanging around and it doesn’t feel very friendly.”

  “Several somethings,” I said. “The lights and Brigit and who knows what else.” We started down the stairwell. As we approached the mulch, I inhaled deeply. Stepping back into it seemed to invite trouble, like walking into a wave that was riding high on the shores, but I needed to know what we were dealing with. My foot sank up to my ankle and I tried to follow the trail we’d left the day before, but the path seemed to have filled in.

  Murray coughed. “There are a lot of fungus spores down here. You don’t have an allergy to those too, do you? Last time you played in the forest, we had to haul you out on a stretcher.”

  “That’s because I crawled through a patch of stinging nettle,” I said, turning back to stick my tongue out at her. Actually, I was grateful for the diversion. I found it hard to quit thinking about the lot and my ghostly visitors. It was as if they were hiding there, in the back of my mind.

  We propped open the door to the bedroom and light streamed in. In the pale autumn sun, the artwork stood out, vivid and brilliant. Even after all this time, even after the inevitable weathering that had made its way through cracks in the walls, the work was still stunning.

  Mur took it all in, shaking her head. “This is something else, all right.” She closed her eyes. “Can you feel it? There’s someone here. What’s that?” She pointed toward the door and I turned just in time to see Samantha rush past. We rushed out into the basement. Samantha was sitting on the steps. My heart leapt as I broke into a wide smile.

  “Sammy! Baby? Kitty? Kitty?”

  She paused, waiting for us, but as we drew near she gave me a fleeting look and I realized that it wasn’t Samantha. Her paws weren’t white in the right places. Then I noticed that I could see through the cat.

  “Kitty?” I slowed. “Mur, that’s not Samantha. That’s a ghost!”

  She looked at the calico, cautious not to make any sudden moves. “You’re right. But they look so much alike. I can see how you’d mix them up if you didn’t have a clear glimpse.”

  The ghost cat was sitting on the bottom step. She stared at us, then mewed so loud we both jumped. I had the distinct feeling that she wanted us to come over to her and so began walking toward the little spirit. Orange and black and white, the calico eyed me with gleaming topaz eyes—again, different from my own Sammy’s green. As I reached her side and leaned down, I heard the echo of a purr and then she vanished before I could say a word.

  Murray was almost by my side. I took a deep breath and shook my head. “Well, that was interesting,” I started to say but stopped when a strange look crossed her face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She pointed to the steps. “Em, what’s that brownish stuff?”

  I took a closer look where she was pointing. Sure enough, reddish brown stains splattered the stairs. We hadn’t seen them before—perhaps foliage had been covering them, or maybe we’d just been too busy watching the Will o’ the Wisps to notice them, but now they were plainly visible.

  “I don’t know . . . it almost looks like . . .” I didn’t want to say it, but Murray finished my thought for me.

  “Blood. Em, I’ll bet you ten to one that’s dried blood.” She pulled out a knife from her pocket and flipped open the blade.

  “Do you have anything I could scrape some of this into?”

  I felt through my pockets and came up with an old grocery list. She folded it into a small envelope and scraped quite a few shavings of the material off the steps. “I think I’ll have this analyzed.”

  A thought occurred to me. “I bet you’re going to find it’s human blood. And I’ll bet it belonged to Brigit O’Reilly.”

  “Why?”

  “The cat was the one she was holding in the photograph. I’ve been chasing a ghost, thinking it was Samantha. I’ll bet you anything, the kitty is trying to tell us something.”

  Mur folded her blade and shoved it back in her pocket. “You could be right, Em. You know,” she glanced around, taking in the basement and foundation. “Whatever happened here wasn’t good. I won’t even venture a guess at this point, but . . . whatever it was caused a whole lot of hurt.”

  As we climbed out of the basement, I thought to myself that we’d better find out soon, because I didn’t want these critters hanging out in my backyard any longer than it took to send them on their way.

  Seven

  From Brigit’s Journal:

  One thing I’ll say about my home and my village: Blood binds. If I was hurting, my parents gave me solace. If I was hungry, they fed me. Even if they didn’t agree with all of my
choices, not once did my father ever turn on me and browbeat me with shame. My mother would never have stood for such a thing. How can parents act like that? How can they treat their children as pawns in a war of social niceties?

  Oh, I suppose it happened at home, too, but we were never rich, and so never saw such a thing among our friends. Some days, I think I should just pack and leave without a word. Go home, make what life I can for myself there. And then I think . . . what’s left for me? William is gone, as are my Ma and Da . . . but still . . . the village was so lovely, and I miss it so much.

  BY THE TIME Joe got home from the lawyer’s office, I’d packed a load of clothes into the washer, picked up enough of the clutter from the living room so I could vacuum, baked two batches of frozen chocolate chip cookies, and scrubbed the counters and all the other small appliances. I was sitting at the table, my second triple-shot mocha close at hand, reading through Brigit’s diary when Joe popped through the kitchen door. He didn’t look happy.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, setting aside the journal.

  He leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek, then slipped into the opposite chair and sighed. “What’s wrong? I no longer have any claim to the lot next door, that’s what’s wrong. This sucks. I can’t believe that her lawyer made such a stupid mistake.”

  “What are you talking about?” I leaned my elbows on the table.

  “Okay, here’s the deal. Apparently Irena Finch misunderstood which parcel I was talking about. I gather she owns several houses and lots around town. Her lawyer said that she can’t proceed with the sale since she and her brother jointly own the lot next door.”

  “And he has a problem with selling the land?”

  “Apparently so. He lives in Europe, so I can’t just run over to talk to him about it, either.”

  Great. Joint ownership could cause massive headaches when the two parties didn’t agree. I’d forced Roy to buy me out of the house that we’d owned together since I didn’t want to keep it and he didn’t want to sell.