A Bone to Pick (Teagarden Mysteries,2)

by Charlaine Harris

  ~ A Bone to Pick ~

  having fun, he wanted to be home in his own bed. He was quite stubborn about it. But, up until that time, we really had a great honeymoon.” Mother’s face looked almost soft as she said that, and it was borne in on me for the first time that my mother was in love, maybe not in as gooey a way as Amina, but she was definitely feeling the big rush.

  It occurred to me that John had come back to Lawrenceton and gotten in Mother’s bed, not his own. “Has John sold his house yet?” I asked. “One of his sons wanted it,” Mother said in as noncommittal a voice as she could manage. “Avery, the one that’s expecting the baby. It’s a big old house, as you know.”

  “How did John David feel about that? Not that it’s any of my business.” John David was John’s second son.

  “I wouldn’t have presumed to advise John about his family business,” Mother began answering indi- rectly, “because John and I signed a prenuptial agree- ment about our financial affairs.”

  This was news to me, and I felt a distinct wave of relief. I’d never considered it before, but all the com- plications that could arise when both parties had grown children suddenly occurred to me. I’d only thought of what Mother might leave when she died, ~ 195 ~

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  this very day. I should have known, as property con- scious as she was, she would have taken care of every- thing.

  “So I didn’t advise him,” Mother was continuing, “but he thought out loud when he was trying to figure out what was fair to do.”

  “You’re the obvious person for input when it comes to real estate questions.”

  “Well, he did ask me the value of the house on the current market.”

  “And?”

  “I had it appraised, and I think—now I don’t know, but I think—he gave John David the cash value of the house, and deeded over the house to Avery.” “So John David didn’t want the house at all?” “No, his work requires that he transfer every few years, and it didn’t make sense for him to own a house in Lawrenceton.”

  “That worked out well.”

  “Now I’m going to tell you what I did about my house.”

  “Oh, Mom!” I protested.

  “No,” she said firmly. “You need to know this.” “Okay,” I said reluctantly.

  “I think a man needs to know he has a home that’s his,” she said. “And since John gave up his house, I ~ 196 ~

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  have left him mine for his lifetime. So if I die before John, he gets to stay in the house until he dies. I thought that was only right. But, after John passes away, it’s yours to do with as you will, of course.” This was just my season for having things willed to me. Suddenly I realized that Mother would leave me her business and her money, as well as the house; with Jane’s money, and her little house, too, I need never work another day in my life.

  What a startling prospect.

  “Whatever you do is fine with me,” I said hastily, aware that Mother was looking at me in a funny way. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We’ll have to sometime,” Mother warned. What was with her today? Had getting remarried somehow awakened or reinforced her feelings of her own mortality? Was it signing the prenuptial agreement with all these arrangements for what would happen af- ter her death? She was just back from her honeymoon. She should be feeling pretty frisky.

  “Why are you talking about all this now?” I asked bluntly.

  She considered this. “I don’t know,” she said in a puzzled way. “I certainly didn’t come here expecting to talk about it. I was going to tell you about the hotel and the beach and the tour we took, but somehow I ~ 197 ~

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  got sidetracked. Maybe when we talked about what Jane Engle left you, I started thinking about what I was going to leave you. Though, of course, now you won’t need it as badly. It does seem strange to me that Jane left all her money and property to someone who isn’t even a member of the family, someone who wasn’t even that close a friend.”

  “It seems strange to me, too, Mom,” I admitted. I didn’t want to tell my mother that Jane had left every- thing to me because she saw me starting out like her, single and bookish, and maybe Jane had seen some- thing else in me that struck a chord with her; we were both fascinated by death between the pages of a book. “And it’s going to seem strange to a lot of other peo- ple.”

  She thought about that for a little. She waited deli- cately to see if I would enlighten her about Jane’s mo- tives.

  “I’m glad for you,” Mother said after a minute, seeing I wasn’t going to offer any more information about my relationship with Jane. “And I don’t expect we have to worry about what people say.” “Thanks.”

  “I’d better get back to my sick husband,” Mother said fondly.

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  without thinking about it. “I’m glad for you, too,” I told her honestly.

  “I know that.” She gathered her purse and keys, and I rose to walk her to her car.

  She was discussing a dinner party an old friend was planning to give for her and John, and I was wonder- ing if I should ask to bring Aubrey, when Marcia Rideout came out of her front door. She was wearing another matched and beautifully ironed shorts set, and her hair was a little blonder, it seemed to me. “Is that your momma I see with you?” she called when she was halfway down her drive. “Do you just have a minute?”

  We both waited with polite, expectant smiles. “Aida, you may not remember me,” Marcia said, with her head tilted coyly to one side, “but you and I were on the Fallfest committee together a couple of years ago.”

  “Oh, of course,” Mother said, professional warmth in her voice. “The festival turned out very well that year, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it was sure a lot of work, more than I ever bargained for! Listen, we’re all just so thrilled Roe is moving on our street. I don’t know if she told you yet or not, I understand you’ve been away on your honeymoon, but Torrance and I are giving Aurora and ~ 199 ~

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  our other new neighbors”—and Marcia nodded her smooth head at the little yellow-shuttered house across the street—“a little get-together tomorrow night. We would just love it if you and your new husband could come.”

  Nothing nonpluses Mother. “We’d love to, but I’m afraid John came back from the Bahamas with just a touch of flu,” she explained. “I tell you what, I may just drop in by myself for a few minutes, just to meet Aurora’s new neighbors. If my husband is feeling bet- ter, maybe he’ll come, too. Can I leave it that indefi- nite?”

  “Oh, of course, that poor man, the flu in this pretty weather! And on his honeymoon! Bless his heart!” “Who are the other new people on the street?” Mother inquired, to stem Marcia’s pity. “A police detective and his brand-new wife, who is also a police detective! And she’s going to have a baby just any time now. Isn’t that exciting? I don’t think I’d ever met a real detective until they moved in, and now we have two of them on the street. We should all be real safe now! We’ve had a lot of break- ins on this street the past few years—but I’m sure your daughter is as safe as can be, now,” Marcia tacked on hastily.

  “Would that detective be Arthur Smith?” Mother ~ 200 ~

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  asked. I heard the permafrost under her words. I could feel my face begin to tighten. I had never known how much Mother knew or guessed about my relationship with Arthur, but I had a feeling she’d gotten a pretty accurate picture. I turned my face away a little under pretext of pushing up my glasses. “Yes. He’s such a solemn young man, and hand- some, too. Of course, not as handsome as the man Roe is dating.” Marcia actually winked. “You don’t think so?” my mother said agreeably. I bit my upper lip.

  “Oh, no. That minister is so tall and dark. You can tell from my marrying Torrance, I like tall, dark men. And that mustache!
It may not be nice to say this about a man in the ministry, but it’s just plain sexy.” My mother had been totting up this description. “Well, I’ll sure try to come, thanks so much for invit- ing me,” she said in a perfectly polite but unmistak- ably conclusive way.

  “I’ll just go back to cleaning the house,” Marcia said brightly, and, after a chorus of good-byes, off she trotted.

  “Dating Father Scott?” Mother asked when she was sure Marcia was out of earshot. “And you’re over that lousy policeman?”

  “Yes to both.”

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  Mother looked quite unsettled for a minute. “You turned down a date with Bubba Sewell, you’re over that Arthur Smith, and you’re dating a minister,” she said wonderingly. “There’s hope for your love life af- ter all.”

  As I waved to her as she drove down the street, it was a positive satisfaction for me to think of the skull in her blanket bag.

  ~ 202 ~

  Chapter Eleven

  A

  In a burst of morning energy, I was singing in the shower when the telephone rang. Blessing answer- ing machines, I barely paused in my rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The shower is probably the only place our national anthem should be sung, especially by people with a limited vocal range, a cat- egory that definitely includes me. As I rinsed the sham- poo out of my hair, I did a medley of my favorite ads. For my finale, as I toweled I warbled “Three Little Ducks.”

  There is something to be said for living by oneself when one wants to sing unheard.

  It would be hard to say why I was in such a festive mood. I had to go in to work for five hours, then come back to the town house to prepare for the party. ~ 203 ~

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  I was pleased at the prospect of seeing Aubrey, but not goo-goo eyed. I was more or less getting used to being rich by now (though the word still gave me a thrill up my spine), and I was on standby regarding action on the skull. I squinted into my makeup mirror as I put on a little eye shadow.

  “I’m going to quit my job,” I told my reflection, smiling.

  The pleasure of being able to say that! To decide, just like that! Money was wonderful.

  I remembered the phone message and pressed the play button, beaming at my reflection in the mirror like an idiot, my drying hair beginning to fly around my head in a dark, wavy nimbus.

  “Roe?” began the voice, faint and uncertain. “This is Robin Crusoe, calling from Italy. I called in and got your message from Phil . . . the guy subletting my apartment. Are you all right? He said Arthur married someone else. Can I come see you when I get back from Europe? If that’s not a good idea, send a note to my old address. Well, write me either way, and I’ll get it when I get back. That should be in a few weeks, probably late next month. Or earlier. I’m running out of money. Good-bye.”

  I had frozen when I first heard the voice begin. Now I sat breathing shallowly for a few seconds, my ~ 204 ~

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  brush in my hand, my teeth biting my lower lip gen- tly. My heart was beating fast, I’ll admit. Robin had been my tenant and my friend and almost my lover. I really wanted to see him again. Now I would have the pleasure of composing a note that would say very del- icately that I definitely wanted him to come calling when he got back. I didn’t want him to get the im- pression I was sitting in Lawrenceton with my tongue hanging out while I panted, but I did want him to come, if he was of the same mind in a few weeks. And if I was. I could take my time composing that note. I brushed my hair, which began to crackle and fly around even more wildly. I gathered it all together and put a band on it about halfway down its length, not as stodgy as a “real” ponytail. And I tied a frivolous bow around the band. However, I did wear one of my old “librarian” outfits that so disgusted Amina: a solid navy skirt of neutral length with a navy-and- white-striped blouse, plain support hose, and unat- tractive but very comfortable shoes. I cleaned my glasses, pushed them up on my nose, nodded at my reflection in the full-length mirror, and went down- stairs.

  If I’d known how to cha-cha, I think I would have done it going up the ramp from the employees’ park- ing lot into the library.

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  “Aren’t we happy today?” Lillian said sourly, sip- ping from her cup of coffee at the worktable in the book-mending room.

  “Yes, ma’am, we are,” I said, depositing my purse in my little locker and snapping the padlock shut. My only claim to fame in my history as a librarian in Lawrenceton was that I had never once lost my pad- lock key. I kept it on a safety pin and pinned it to my skirt or my slip or my blouse. Today I pinned it to my collar and marched off to Mr. Clerrick’s office, humming a military tune. Or what I imagined was a military tune.

  I tapped on the half-open door and stuck my head in. Mr. Clerrick was already at work on a heap of pa- pers, a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow and a smoldering cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Good morning, Roe,” he said, looking up from his desk. Sam Clerrick was married with four daugh- ters, and, since he worked in a library, that meant he was surrounded by women from the moment he got up to the moment he went to bed. You would think he would have learned how to treat them. But his great- est and most conspicuous failure was in people man- agement. No one would ever accuse Sam Clerrick of coddling anyone, or of favoritism; he didn’t care for any of us, had no idea what our home lives were like, ~ 206 ~

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  and made no allowances for any individual’s person- ality or work preferences. No one would ever like him; he would never be accused of being unfair. I had always been a little nervous around someone who played his emotional cards as close to his chest as Sam Clerrick. Suddenly leaving did not seem so simple.

  “I’m going to quit my job,” I said quietly, while I still had some nerve. As he stared, that little bit of nerve began to trickle away. “I’m on part-time any- way, I don’t feel like you really need me anymore.” He kept peering at me over his half-glasses. “Are you giving me notice, or quitting, no more work as of today?” he asked finally.

  “I don’t know,” I said foolishly. After I considered a moment, I said, “Since you have at least three sub- stitute librarians on your call list, and I know at least two of them would love to go regular part-time, I’m quitting, no more work as of five hours from now.” “Is there something wrong that we can talk about?” I came all the way into the room. “Working here is okay,” I told him. “I just don’t have to anymore, fi- nancially, and I feel like a change.”

  “You don’t need the money,” he said in amaze- ment.

  He was probably the only person working at the ~ 207 ~

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  library, or perhaps the only person in Lawrenceton, who didn’t know by now about the money. “I inherited.”

  “My goodness, your mother didn’t die, I hope?” He actually put his pencil down, so great was his con- cern.

  “No, no relative.”

  “Oh—good. Well. I’m sorry to see you go, even though you were certainly our most notorious em- ployee for a while last year. Well, it’s been longer than that now, I suppose.”

  “Did you think about firing me then?”

  “Actually, I was holding off until you killed Lillian.” I stared at him blankly until I accepted the amaz- ing fact that Sam Clerrick had made a joke. I began laughing, and he began laughing, and suddenly he looked like a human being.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” I said, meaning it for the first time, and turned and left his office. “Your insurance will last for thirty days,” he called after me, running a little truer to form. As luck would have it, that morning at the library business was excruciatingly slow. I didn’t want to tell anyone I’d quit until I was actually leaving, so I hid among the books all morning, reading the shelves, dusting, and piddling along. I didn’t get a lunch ~ 208 ~

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  break, since
I was just working five hours; I was sup- posed to bring it with me or get one of the librarians going out to bring back something from a fast-food place, and eat it very quickly. But that would mean eat- ing in the break room, and there was sure to be some- one else in there, and having a conversation without revealing my intention would be seen as fraudulent, in a way. So I dodged from here to there, making myself scarce, and by two o’clock I was very hungry. Then I had to go through the ritual of saying good-bye, I en- joyed working with you, I’ll be in often to get books so we’ll be seeing each other.

  It made me sadder than I thought it would. Even saying good-bye to Lillian was not the unmitigated pleasure I had expected. I would miss having her around because she made me feel so virtuous and smart by contrast, I realized with shame. (I didn’t moan and groan about every little change in work routine, I didn’t bore people to tears with detailed accounts of boring events, I knew who Benvenuto Cellini was.) And I remembered Lillian finally standing by me when things had been so bad during the murders months before.

  “Maybe you can hunt for a husband full-time now,” Lillian said in parting, and my shame vanished completely. Then I read in Lillian’s face the knowl- ~ 209 ~

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  edge that the only thing she had that I could possibly want was a husband.

  “We’ll see,” I told her, and held my hands behind my back so I wouldn’t choke her.

  I retrieved my purse and turned in my locker key, and I walked out the back door for the last time. I went straight to the grocery store. I wanted something for lunch, I wanted something to put in the refrigerator at the house on Honor for snacks while I was there. I zoomed through the grocery store tossing boxes and produce bags in my cart with abandon. I celebrated quitting my job by get- ting one of the really expensive microwave meals, the kind with a neat reusable plate. This was getting fancy for me, for lunch anyway. Maybe now I would have time to cook. Did I want to learn to cook in any more detail? I could make spaghetti, and I could make pecan pie. Did I need to know anything else? I debated it as I stood in front of the microwave at the town house.