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before they could ask me. “But I’ll be in and out the next week or two getting things straightened out.” Could I ever possibly straighten this out? Lynn sighed. I looked up at her, really seeing her for the first time. Lynn’s short brown hair looked life- less, and, far from glowing with pregnancy, as I’d heard women did, Lynn’s skin looked blotchy. But when she turned and looked back at the house, she looked very happy.
“How are you feeling, Lynn?” I asked politely. “Pretty good. The ultrasound showed the baby is a lot further along than we thought, maybe by seven weeks, so we kind of rushed through buying the house to be sure we got in here and got everything set- tled before the baby comes.”
Just then, thank goodness, a car pulled up behind the van and some men piled out. I recognized them as police pals of Arthur’s and Lynn’s; they’d come to help unload the van.
Then I realized the man driving the car, the burly man about ten years older than Arthur, was Jack Burns, a detective sergeant, and one of the few people in the world I truly feared.
Here were at least seven policemen, including Jack Burns, and here I was with . . . I was scared to even think it with Jack Burns around. His zeal for dealing ~ 71 ~
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out punishment to wrongdoers was so sharp, his inner rage burned with such a flame, I felt he could smell concealment and falsehood. My legs began shaking. I was afraid someone would notice. How on earth did his two teenagers manage a private life? “Good to have seen you,” I said abruptly. “I hope your moving day goes as well as they ever do.” They were relieved the encounter was over, too. Arthur gave me a casual wave as a shout from one of his buddies who had opened the back of the van sum- moned him to work.
“Come see us when we get settled in,” Lynn told me insincerely as I said good-bye and turned to leave. “Take it easy, Lynn,” I called over my shoulder, as I crossed the street to my car on rubbery legs. I put the bags carefully in the front seat and slid in myself. I wanted to sit and shake for a while, but I also wanted to get the hell out of there, so I turned the key in the ignition, turned on the air-conditioning full blast, and occupied a few moments buckling my seat belt, patting my face (which was streaming with sweat) with my handkerchief, anything to give me a little time to calm down before I had to drive. I backed out with great care, the unfamiliar driveway, the moving van parked right across the street, and the people milling around it making the process even more hazardous. ~ 72 ~
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I managed to throw a casual wave in the direction of the moving crew, and some of them waved back. Jack Burns just stared; I wondered again about his wife and children, living with that burning stare that seemed to see all your secrets. Maybe he could switch it off at home? Sometimes even the men under his command seemed leery of him, I’d learned while I was dating Arthur.
I drove around aimlessly for a while, wondering what to do with the skull. I hated to take it to my own home; there was no good hiding place. I couldn’t throw it away until I’d decided what to do with it. My safe deposit box at the bank wasn’t big enough, and probably Jane’s wasn’t either: otherwise, surely she would have put the skull there originally. Anyway, the thought of carrying the paper bag into the bank was enough to make me giggle hysterically. I sure couldn’t keep it in the trunk of my car. I checked with a glance to make sure my inspection sticker was up-to-date; yes, thank God. But I could be stopped for some traf- fic violation at any time; I never had been before, but, the way things were going today, it seemed likely. I had a key to my mother’s house, and she was gone.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I turned at the next corner to head there. I wasn’t ~ 73 ~
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happy about using Mother’s house for such a pur- pose, but it seemed the best thing to do at the time. The air was dead and hot inside Mother’s big home on Plantation Drive. I dashed up the stairs to my old room without thinking, then stood panting in the doorway trying to think of a good hiding place. I kept almost nothing here anymore, and this was really an- other guest bedroom now, but there might be some- thing up in the closet.
There was: a zippered, pink plastic blanket bag in which Mother always stored the blue blankets for the twin beds in this room. No one would need to get blankets down in this weather. I pulled over the stool from the vanity table, climbed up on it, and unzipped the plastic bag. I took my Kroger bag, with its grue- some contents, and inserted it between the blankets. The bag would no longer zip with the extra bulk. This was getting grotesque. Well, more grotesque. I took out one of the blankets and doubled up the other one in half the blanket bag, leaving the other half for the skull. The bag zipped, and it didn’t look too lumpy, I decided. I pushed it to the back of the shelf.
Now all I had to dispose of was a blanket. The chest of drawers was only partially full of odds and ends; Mother kept two drawers empty for guests. I ~ 74 ~
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stuffed the blanket in one, slammed it shut, then pulled it right back open. She might need the drawer. John was moving all his stuff in when they got back from their honeymoon. I felt like sitting on the floor and bursting into tears. I stood holding the damn blanket indecisively, thinking wildly of burning it or taking it home with me. I’d rather have the blanket than the skull.
The bed, of course. The best place to hide a blan- ket is on a bed.
I stripped the bedspread off, pitched the pillow on the floor, and fitted the blanket smoothly on the mat- tress. In a few more minutes, the bed looked exactly like it had before.
I dragged myself out of Mother’s house and drove over to my own place. It seemed as though I’d gone two days without sleep, when in fact it was only now getting close to lunchtime. At least I didn’t have to go to work this afternoon.
I poured myself a glass of iced tea and for once loaded it with sugar. I sat in my favorite chair and sipped it slowly. It was time to think.
Fact One
. Jane Engle had left a skull concealed in
her house. She might not have told Bubba Sewell what she’d done, but she’d hinted to him that all was not well—but that I would handle it.
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Question: How had the skull gotten in Jane’s house? Had she murdered its—owner? occupant? Question: Where was the rest of the skeleton? Question: How long ago had the head been placed in the window seat?
Fact Two
. Someone else knew or suspected that the
skull was in Jane’s house. I could infer that this some- one else was basically law-abiding since the searcher hadn’t taken the chance to steal anything or vandalize the house to any degree. The broken window was small potatoes compared with what could have been wreaked on Jane’s unoccupied house. So the skull was almost certainly the sole object of the search. Unless Jane had—horrible thought—something else hidden in her house?
Question: Would the searcher try again, or was he perhaps persuaded that the skull was no longer there? The yard had been searched, too, according to Tor- rance Rideout. I reminded myself to go in the back- yard the next time I went to the house and see what had been done there.
Fact Three
. I was in a jam. I could keep silent for-
ever, throw the skull in a river, and try to forget I ever saw it; that approach had lots of appeal right now. Or I could take it to the police and tell them what I’d done. I could already feel myself shiver at the thought ~ 76 ~
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of Jack Burns’s face, to say nothing of the incredulity on Arthur’s. I heard myself stammer, “Well, I hid it at my mother’s house.” What kind of excuse could I offer for my strange actions? Even I could not under- stand exactly why I’d done what I’d done, except that I’d acted out of some kind of loyalty to Jane, influ- enced to some extent by all the money she’d left me. Then and there, I pretty much ruled out going to the police unless something else turned up. I had no idea what my legal position was, but I couldn’t imagine what I’d done so far was so very bad legally. Morally was another question.
But I definitely had a problem on my hands. At this inopportune moment the doorbell rang. It was a day of unwelcome interruptions. I sighed and went to answer it, hoping it was someone I wanted to see. Aubrey?
But the day continued its apparently inexorable downhill slide. Parnell Engle and his wife, Leah, were at my front door, the door no one ever uses because they’d have to park in the back—ten feet from my back door—and then walk all the way around the whole row of town houses to the front to ring the bell. Of course, that was what Parnell and Leah had done. “Mr. Engle, Mrs. Engle,” I said. “Please come in.” Parnell opened fire immediately. “What did we do ~ 77 ~
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to Jane, Miss Teagarden? Did she tell you what we did to her that offended her so much she left everything to you?”
I didn’t need this.
“Don’t you start, Mr. Engle,” I said sharply. “Just don’t you start. This is
not a good day
. You got a car, you got some money, you got Madeleine the cat. Just be glad of it and leave me alone.”
“We were Jane’s own blood kin—”
“Don’t start that with me,” I snapped. I was sim- ply beyond trying to be polite. “I don’t know why she left everything to me, but it doesn’t make me feel very lucky right now, believe me.”
“We realize,” he said with less whine and more dignity, “that Jane did express her true wishes in her will. We know that she was in her good senses up un- til the end and that she made her choice knowing what she was doing. We’re not going to contest the will. We just don’t understand it.”
“Well, Mr. Engle, neither do I.” Parnell would have had that skull at the police station in less time than it takes to talk about it. But it was good news that they weren’t small-minded enough to contest the will and thereby cause me endless trouble and heartache. I knew Lawrenceton. Pretty soon people would start saying, ~ 78 ~
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Well, why
did
Jane Engle leave everything to a young woman she didn’t even know very well? And specula- tion would run rampant; I couldn’t even imagine the things people would make up to explain Jane’s inexpli- cable legacy. People were going to talk anyway, but any dispute about the will would put a nasty twist on that speculation.
Looking at Parnell Engle and his silent wife, with their dowdy clothes and grievances, I suddenly won- dered if I’d gotten the money to pay me for the inconve- nience of the skull. What Jane had told Bubba Sewell might have been just a smoke screen. She may have read my character thoroughly, almost supernaturally thoroughly, and known I would keep her secret. “Good-bye,” I said to them gently, and closed my front door slowly, so they couldn’t say I’d slammed it on them. I locked it carefully, and marched to my telephone. I looked up Bubba Sewell’s number and di- aled. He was in and available, to my surprise. “How’s things going, Miss Teagarden?” he drawled. “Kind of bumpy, Mr. Sewell.”
“Sorry to hear that. How can I be of assistance?” “Did Jane leave me a letter?”
“What?”
“A letter, Mr. Sewell. Did she leave me a letter, ~ 79 ~
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something I’m supposed to get after I’ve had the house a month, or something?”
“No, Miss Teagarden.”
“Not a cassette? No tape of any kind?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did you see anything like that in the safe deposit box?”
“No, no, can’t say as I did. Actually, I just rented that box after Jane became so ill, to put her good jewelry in.” “And she didn’t tell you what was in the house?” I asked carefully.
“Miss Teagarden, I have no idea what’s in Miss Engle’s house,” he said definitely. Very definitely. I stopped, baffled. Bubba Sewell didn’t want to know. If I told him, he might have to do something about it, and I hadn’t yet decided what should be done. “Thanks,” I said hopelessly. “Oh, by the way . . .” And I told him about Parnell and Leah’s visit. “He said for sure they weren’t going to contest?” “He said they knew that Jane was in her right mind when she made her will, that they just wanted to know why she left everything the way she did.” “But he didn’t talk about going to court or getting his own lawyer?”
“No.”
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Jane was in her right mind when she made her will.” On that happy note we told each other good-bye. I returned to my chair and tried to pick up the thread of my reasoning. Soon I realized I’d gone as far as I could go.
It seemed to me that if I could find out who the skull had belonged to, I’d have a clearer course to fol- low. I could start by finding out how long the skull had been in the window seat. If Jane had kept the bill from the carpet layers, that would give me a definite date, because the skull had for sure been in the win- dow seat when the carpet was installed over it. And it hadn’t been disturbed since.
That meant I had to go back to Jane’s house. I sighed deeply.
I might as well have some lunch, collect some boxes, and go to work at the house this afternoon as I’d planned originally.
This time yesterday I’d been a woman with a happy future; now I was a woman with a secret, and it was such a strange, macabre secret that I felt I had guilty knowledge written on my forehead. The unloading across the street was still going on. I saw a large carton labeled with a picture of a ~ 81 ~
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baby crib being carried in, and almost wept. But I had other things to do today than beat myself over the head with losing Arthur. That grief had a stale, preoc- cupied feel to it.
The disorder in Jane’s bedroom had to be cleared away before I could think about finding her papers. I carried in my boxes, found the coffeepot, and started the coffee (which I’d brought back, since I had car- ried it away in the morning) to perking. The house was so cool and so quiet that it almost made me drowsy. I turned on Jane’s bedside radio; yuck, it was on the easy listening station. I found the public radio station after a second’s search, and began to pack clothes to Beethoven. I searched each garment as I packed, just on the off chance I would find something that would explain the hidden skull. I just could not believe Jane would leave me this problem with no ex- planation.
Maybe she’d thought I’d never find it?
No, Jane had thought I’d find it sooner or later. Maybe not this soon. But sometime. Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for the break-in and the holes in the backyard (and here I reminded myself again to check them), I wouldn’t have worried about a thing, no mat- ter how mysterious some of Bubba Sewell’s state- ments had been.
~ 82 ~