(2T) A Bone to Pick Page 18

  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 ~

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  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

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  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

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  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

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  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

  Cover Page

  Praise

  Ace Books by Charlaine Harris

 
Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Table of Contents