~ A Bone to Pick ~
Lynn was being carried out on a stretcher now. I presumed that the afterbirth had been delivered and disposed of. I hoped I wouldn’t find it on the bath- room floor or something.
“This man,” I told Jack Burns, as I pointed to Tor- rance, “broke into my house tonight.”
“Are you hurt?” asked Sergeant Burns, with reluc- tant professional solicitude.
I turned to look in Torrance Rideout’s eyes. “No,” I said clearly. “Not at all. And I have no idea why he broke in here or what he was looking for.” Torrance’s eyes showed a slow recognition. And, to my amazement, he winked at me when Jack Burns turned away to call his cohorts over.
After an eternity, every single person was gone from Jane’s house but me, its owner. What do you do after a night you’ve had a burglary, been battered, de- livered a baby, and nearly been mown down by the entire detective force of Lawrenceton, Georgia? Also, I continued enumerating as I hauled the remains of the nightgown over my head, heard a confession of double murder and had your scarcely covered bosom ogled by the same detectives who had been about to mow you down minutes earlier?
Well. I was going to take a hot, hot bath to soak my bruises and strains. I was going to calm a nearly ~ 253 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
berserk Madeleine, who was crouching in a corner of the bedroom closet hoping she was concealed under- neath a blanket I’d thrown in there. Madeleine, as it happened, did not react well to home invasion. Then, possibly, I could put my tired carcass back between the cool sheets and sleep a little.
There’d be hell to pay in the morning.
My mother would call.
But I only slept four hours. When I woke it was eight o’clock, and I lay in bed and thought for a moment.
Then I was up and brushing my teeth, pulling back on my shorts set from the night before. I managed to get a brush through my hair, which had been damp from the tub when I’d fallen asleep the night before. I let Madeleine out and back in—she seemed calm again—and then it was time to get to Wal-Mart. I walked in as the doors were unlocked and found what I was looking for after a talk with a salesperson. I stopped in at the town house and got out my box of gift wrap.
At Mother’s house both cars were gone. I’d finally gotten a break. I used my key one last time; I never would again now that John lived here, too. I sped up ~ 254 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
the stairs and got the old blanket bag out of the closet and left the gift-wrapped blanket bag on the kitchen table on my way out. I left my key by it. Quickly out to my car then, and speeding back to the house on Honor.
Another stroke of luck; no police cars at the Ride- outs’ yet.
I went out the back kitchen door and looked around as carefully as Torrance Rideout must have the night he buried Mark Kaplan, the night he buried Mike Osland. But this was daylight, far more dangerous. I’d counted cars as I pulled into my own driveway: Lynn’s car was at the house across the street, Arthur’s was gone. That figured; he was at the hospital with his wife and his baby.
I did falter then. But I reached up and slapped my- self on the cheek. This was no time to get weepy. The elderly Inces were not a consideration. I peered over to Carey Osland’s house. Her car was home. She must have been told of the confession by Marcia Ride- out that Mike Osland was in the Rideouts’ backyard. I could only hope that Carey didn’t decide to come look personally.
As I started across my backyard, I had to smother an impulse to crouch and run, or slither on my belly. The pink blanket bag seemed so conspicuous. But I ~ 255 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
just couldn’t bring myself to open it and carry the bare skull in my hands. Besides, I’d already rubbed my prints off. I got to the sun deck with no one shout- ing, “Hey! What are you doing?” and took a few deep breaths. Now hurry, I told myself, and unzipped the bag, grabbed the thing inside by hooking a finger through the jaw, and, trying not to look at it, I rolled it as far as I could under the deck. I was tempted to climb the steps to the deck, look between the boards, and see if the skull showed from on top. But instead I turned and walked quickly back to my own yard, praying that no one had noticed my strange behavior. I was still clutching the zip bag. Once inside, I glanced in the bag to check that no traces were left of the skull’s presence, and folded one of Jane’s blankets, zipped it inside, and shoved the bag to the back of the shelf in one of the guest bedroom closets. Then I sat at the little table in the kitchen, and out the window to- ward the Rideouts’ I saw men starting to take apart the sun deck.
I had just made it.
I shook all over. I put my head in my hands and cried.
After a while, that seemed to dry up, and I felt limp and tired. I made a pot of coffee and sat at the table and drank it while I watched the men demolish ~ 256 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
the deck and find the skull. After the hubbub that caused was over and after the skull had been placed carefully in a special bag of some kind (which actu- ally made me smile a little), the men began digging. It was hot, and they all sweated, and I saw Sergeant Burns glance over to my house as though he’d like to come ask me a few questions, but I’d answered them all the night before. All I was ever going to answer. Then one of the men gave a shout, and the others gathered round, and I decided maybe I wouldn’t watch anymore. At noon the phone rang, and it was my mother, thanking me crisply for the lovely new blanket storage bag and reminding me that we were going to eat dinner together and have a long talk. “Sure, Mom,” I said, and sighed. I was sore and stiff; maybe she would cut it short. “Mom, tomorrow I’m going to come in and list this house.” Well, that was business. That was different. Or maybe not. “I’ll list it myself,” she promised mean- ingfully, and hung up.
The phone was on the wall by the letter rack and the calendar, a sensible and convenient arrangement. I stood staring blankly at the letter rack for a few sec- onds, finally taking down a charity appeal, pulling out the begging letter, looking it over, throwing it away. I took out another letter, which should have ~ 257 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
been a bill from the bug-spray people by the enve- lope . . . why didn’t Bubba Sewell have it? He should have all the bills. But the stamp had been canceled months before.
Suddenly I knew what this was, knew even as I shook the paper out of the slit that it was not going to be a bill from Orkin.
Of course: “The Purloined Letter.” Jane liked
clas-
sics
.
“On a Wednesday night in the summer, four years ago,” the letter began abruptly,
I, Jane Engle, was sitting in my backyard. It was
very late because I had insomnia, and I often sit in
the garden in the dark when I have insomnia. It
was about midnight, when I saw Mark Kaplan,
the Rideouts’ boarder, go to Marcia’s back door
and knock. I could see him clearly in the floodlight
the Rideouts have at their back door. Marcia al-
ways leaves it on all night when Torrance is out of
town. Marcia came to the door, and Mark Kap-
lan, right away, attacked her. I believe he had been
drinking, that he had a bottle in his hand, but I
am not sure. Before I could go to her help, she
somehow knocked him down, and I saw her grab
something from her kitchen counter and hit Mark
~ 258 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
Kaplan on the back of the head with it. I am not
sure what she picked up, but I think it was a ham-
mer. Then I became aware another car had pulled
up into the Rideouts’ carport, and I realized that
Torrance had come home.
I went inside, thinking that soon I would hear
police cars and I would have to talk to the police
about what I’d seen. So I changed into my regular
clothes—I’d had my nightgown on—and sat in the
kitchen and waited in the dark for something to
happen.
Instead of police cars, sirens, and whatnot, I
saw Torrance come out in a few minutes with a
tablecloth. Clearly something body size was
wrapped in it, and I was sure it was Mark Kaplan.
Torrance proceeded over to their old garden plot,
and began to dig. I stayed awake the rest of the
night, watching him. I didn’t call the police,
though I gave it some thought. I knew what testi-
fying in court would do to Marcia Rideout, who
has never been any too stable. Also, Mark Kaplan
did attack her, and I knew it.
So I said nothing.
But a little over a year and a half later, I got into
a dispute with Torrance over my tree, from which
he arrogantly trimmed some branches. Every time I
~ 259 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
looked out my kitchen window, the tree looked
worse. So I did something I’m not proud of. I
waited till the Rideouts were both out of town, and
I went over in the night and dug where I’d seen Tor-
rance dig many months before. It took me three
nights, since I am an old woman, but I reached the
skull. I removed it and brought it home with me.
And I left the hole open, to be sure Torrance knew
someone had the head, someone knew.
I am truly not proud of this. Now I am too sick
to put the skull back, and I am too afraid of Tor-
rance to just give it to him. And I have been think-
ing of Mike Osland; he disappeared before Mark
Kaplan was killed, and I remember seeing him
look at Marcia at parties. I think now that Mar-
cia, just a little eccentric on the surface, is actually
quite disturbed, and I think Torrance knows this;
and yet he goes on with his life as though by deny-
ing she needs special care, she will get better.
I am too close to my own death to worry about
this anymore. If my lawyer finds this, he must do as
he thinks best; I don’t care what people say about
me when I am gone. If Roe finds this, she must do
as pleases her. The skull is in the window seat.
Jane Engle
~ 260 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
I looked down at the paper in my hands, then re- folded it. Without really considering it, I began shred- ding the letter, first in halves, then quarters, then thirds, until finally I had a little pile of confetti on the counter. I gathered it all up and dropped it down the sink, running the water and starting the disposal. Af- ter it had rumbled for a moment, I turned off the wa- ter and carefully checked all the other letters in the rack. They were exactly what they seemed. I looked at Jane’s calendar, still turned to two months before. I took it down and flipped it to the right page and hung it back up. It was perfectly blank. The strangest thing about not having a job was that it made the whole week so shapeless. I wasn’t even taking a day off from anything. Suddenly emptiness spread out in front of me like a slippery ramp. Surely there was some- thing I had to do?
Sure there was. I shook my head in horror. I’d al- most forgotten that today was the day I was supposed to pick up my altered bridesmaid’s dress. Miss Joe Nell would have had a fit if I’d forgotten. And then I knew what I’d do tomorrow.
I’d start looking for my own house.
I detoured by the cemetery on my way to Great Day. I walked up the little hill to Jane’s headstone, al- ready in place. If Bubba Sewell could get things done ~ 261 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
that fast, perhaps he was worth voting for. Feeling stupid and sentimental, I stared at the headstone for a few seconds. This had been a dumb idea. Finally, I said, “Okay, I’m going to enjoy it.”
I hadn’t needed to come out to the cemetery to do this. I could’ve talked to Jane from anywhere. A trickle of sweat tickled my spine. “Thanks a lot,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound sarcastic. “But don’t do me any more favors,” I told the stone, and began laughing.
I got back in my car and went to pick up the brides- maid’s dress.
~ 262 ~
Document Outline
Table of Contents