walked me to my back door.
“Maybe we can go out again?”
“Give me a call,” I said with a smile.
“Thanks for this evening.”
“Thank you .”
We parted with mutual goodwill, and as I scrubbed my face and pulled on my nightgown the next day didn’t seem so daunting. I wasn’t scheduled to work at the library, so I could work at Jane’s house. My house. I couldn’t get used to the ownership. But thinking of the house led to worrying about the break-in, about the holes in the backyard I hadn’t yet seen, about the object of this strange search. It must be an object too big to be in the safe deposit box Bubba Sewell had mentioned; besides, he had told me there was nothing much in the box, implying he had seen the contents already.
I drifted off to sleep thinking, Something that ~ 58 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
couldn’t be divided, something that couldn’t be flat- tened . . .
When I woke up in the morning I knew where that something must be hidden.
Ifelt like I was on a secret mission. After I scrambled into some jeans and a T-shirt and ate some toast, I checked the sketchy contents of my tool drawer. I wasn’t sure what I would need. Probably Jane had these same basic things, but I didn’t feel like rummag- ing around until I found them. I ended up with a claw hammer and two screwdrivers, and after a little thought I added a broad-bladed putty knife. I managed to stuff all these in my purse except the hammer, and finally I managed that; but the haft stuck up from the draw- stringed gather. That wouldn’t be too obvious, I told myself. I brushed my teeth hastily but didn’t bother with makeup, so before eight o’clock I was pulling into the driveway on Honor.
I brought the car right up into the carport and en- tered through the kitchen door. The house was silent and stuffy. I found the thermostat in the little hall and pushed the switch to “cool.” The central air hummed into life. I glanced through the rooms hastily; nothing ~ 59 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
seemed to have been disturbed during the night. I was sweating a little, and my hair kept sticking to my face, so I did track down a rubber band and pull it all back on my neck. I blew out a deep breath, braced my shoulders, and marched into the living room. I raised the blinds around the window seat to get as much light as possible, took out my tools, and began. Whatever it was, it was in the window seat. Jane had had it carpeted over, so no one would think of it as a container, but only as a feature of the room, a nice place to put a plant or some pretty pil- lows or a flower arrangement. The installer had done a good job, and I had a hell of a time prizing up the carpet. I saw Torrance Rideout pull out of his drive- way, glance at the house, and drive away to work. A pretty, plump woman walked a fat dachshund down to the end of the street and back, letting the dog per- form on my yard, I noticed indignantly. I recognized her, after I thought of it awhile, as I pried and pulled at the rose-colored carpet with its little blue figure. She was Carey Osland, once married to Bubba Sewell, once married to Mike Osland, the man who had de- camped in such a spectacularly callous way. Carey Osland must live in the corner house with the big climbing roses by the front porch.
I plugged away, trying not to speculate about ~ 60 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
what was in the window seat, and finally I loosened enough carpet to grab an edge with both hands and yank.
The bay window really did contain a window seat with a hinged lid. I had been right. So why didn’t I feel triumphant?
Whatever was in the house was my problem, Bubba Sewell had said.
Taking a deep breath, I raised the lid and peered into the window seat. The sun streamed down into the seat, bathing its contents with a gentle morning glow. There was a rather yellow pillowcase inside, a pillowcase with something round in it.
I reached in and pulled at the corner of the pillow- case, gingerly working it back and forth,
“Maybe we can go out again?”
“Give me a call,” I said with a smile.
“Thanks for this evening.”
“Thank you .”
We parted with mutual goodwill, and as I scrubbed my face and pulled on my nightgown the next day didn’t seem so daunting. I wasn’t scheduled to work at the library, so I could work at Jane’s house. My house. I couldn’t get used to the ownership. But thinking of the house led to worrying about the break-in, about the holes in the backyard I hadn’t yet seen, about the object of this strange search. It must be an object too big to be in the safe deposit box Bubba Sewell had mentioned; besides, he had told me there was nothing much in the box, implying he had seen the contents already.
I drifted off to sleep thinking, Something that ~ 58 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
couldn’t be divided, something that couldn’t be flat- tened . . .
When I woke up in the morning I knew where that something must be hidden.
Ifelt like I was on a secret mission. After I scrambled into some jeans and a T-shirt and ate some toast, I checked the sketchy contents of my tool drawer. I wasn’t sure what I would need. Probably Jane had these same basic things, but I didn’t feel like rummag- ing around until I found them. I ended up with a claw hammer and two screwdrivers, and after a little thought I added a broad-bladed putty knife. I managed to stuff all these in my purse except the hammer, and finally I managed that; but the haft stuck up from the draw- stringed gather. That wouldn’t be too obvious, I told myself. I brushed my teeth hastily but didn’t bother with makeup, so before eight o’clock I was pulling into the driveway on Honor.
I brought the car right up into the carport and en- tered through the kitchen door. The house was silent and stuffy. I found the thermostat in the little hall and pushed the switch to “cool.” The central air hummed into life. I glanced through the rooms hastily; nothing ~ 59 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
seemed to have been disturbed during the night. I was sweating a little, and my hair kept sticking to my face, so I did track down a rubber band and pull it all back on my neck. I blew out a deep breath, braced my shoulders, and marched into the living room. I raised the blinds around the window seat to get as much light as possible, took out my tools, and began. Whatever it was, it was in the window seat. Jane had had it carpeted over, so no one would think of it as a container, but only as a feature of the room, a nice place to put a plant or some pretty pil- lows or a flower arrangement. The installer had done a good job, and I had a hell of a time prizing up the carpet. I saw Torrance Rideout pull out of his drive- way, glance at the house, and drive away to work. A pretty, plump woman walked a fat dachshund down to the end of the street and back, letting the dog per- form on my yard, I noticed indignantly. I recognized her, after I thought of it awhile, as I pried and pulled at the rose-colored carpet with its little blue figure. She was Carey Osland, once married to Bubba Sewell, once married to Mike Osland, the man who had de- camped in such a spectacularly callous way. Carey Osland must live in the corner house with the big climbing roses by the front porch.
I plugged away, trying not to speculate about ~ 60 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
what was in the window seat, and finally I loosened enough carpet to grab an edge with both hands and yank.
The bay window really did contain a window seat with a hinged lid. I had been right. So why didn’t I feel triumphant?
Whatever was in the house was my problem, Bubba Sewell had said.
Taking a deep breath, I raised the lid and peered into the window seat. The sun streamed down into the seat, bathing its contents with a gentle morning glow. There was a rather yellow pillowcase inside, a pillowcase with something round in it.
I reached in and pulled at the corner of the pillow- case, gingerly working it back and forth,
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