trying not to disturb its contents. But finally I had to pull it off al- together, and the thing that had been in the pillowcase rolled onto its side.
A skull grinned up at me.
“Oh my God,” I said, slamming the lid down and sitting on the seat, covering my face with both trem- bling hands. The next minute I was in frantic action, lowering those blinds and shutting them, checking to make sure the front door was locked, finding the light switch, and flipping on the overhead light in the sud- denly darkened room.
~ 61 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
I opened the window seat again, hoping its con- tents had miraculously changed.
The skull still lay there with its slack-jawed grin. Then the doorbell rang.
I jumped and squeaked. For a moment I stood inde- cisively. Then I tossed the tools into the seat with the thing, shut the lid, and yanked the loose carpet back up. It wouldn’t settle back into place very well, having been removed so inexpertly, but I did the best I could and then heaped the fancy pillows around the edges to conceal the damage. But the carpet still sagged out a little. I pushed it into place, weighted it down with my purse. It still pouched. I grabbed some books from the shelves and stacked them on the window seat, too. Much better. The carpet stayed in place. The doorbell rang again. I stood for a moment composing my face. Carey Osland, minus the dachshund, smiled at me in a friendly way when I finally opened the door. Her dark chestnut hair was lightly threaded with gray, but her round, pretty face was unlined. She was wearing a dress that was one step up from a bathrobe, and scuffed loafers.
“Hi, neighbor,” she said cheerfully. “Aurora Tea- garden, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, making a huge effort to sound casual and calm.
~ 62 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
“I’m Carey Osland, I live in the house with the roses, on the corner,” and she pointed. “I remember meeting you before, Carey, at a bridal shower, I think.”
“That’s right—a long time ago. Whose was it?” “Come in, come on in . . . Wasn’t it Amina’s shower, after she eloped?”
“Well, it must have been, ’cause that was when I was working at her mother’s dress shop, that’s why I got invited. I work at Marcus Hatfield now.” Marcus Hatfield was the Lord & Taylor of Lawrenceton.
“That’s why I’m such a slob now,” Carey went on smilingly. “I get so tired of being dressed up.” “Your nails look great,” I said admiringly. I am al- ways impressed by someone who can wear long nails and keep them polished. I was also trying very hard not to think about the window seat, not to even glance in that direction. I had waved Carey to the couch so she’d have her back partially to it when she half- turned to talk to me as I sat in the armchair. “Oh, honey, they’re not real,” Carey said warmly. “I never could keep my nails from chipping and get- ting broken . . . So, you and Jane must have been good friends?”
The unexpected change of subject and Carey’s very ~ 63 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
understandable curiosity took me by surprise. My neighbors were definitely not of the big city impersonal variety.
“She left me the house,” I stated, figuring that set- tled that.
And it did. Carey couldn’t think of a single way to get around that one to inquire as to our exact rela- tionship.
I was beginning to wonder about our relationship, myself. Considering the little problem Jane had left me to deal with.
“So, do you plan on living here?” Carey had rallied and was counterattacking with even more directness. “I don’t know.” And I didn’t add or explain. I liked Carey Osland, but I needed to be by myself with the thing in the window seat.
“Well”—Carey took a deep breath and released it—“I guess I’d better be getting ready for work.” “Thanks for coming by,” I said as warmly as I could. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again when I have things more settled here.”
“Like I said, I’m right next
A skull grinned up at me.
“Oh my God,” I said, slamming the lid down and sitting on the seat, covering my face with both trem- bling hands. The next minute I was in frantic action, lowering those blinds and shutting them, checking to make sure the front door was locked, finding the light switch, and flipping on the overhead light in the sud- denly darkened room.
~ 61 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
I opened the window seat again, hoping its con- tents had miraculously changed.
The skull still lay there with its slack-jawed grin. Then the doorbell rang.
I jumped and squeaked. For a moment I stood inde- cisively. Then I tossed the tools into the seat with the thing, shut the lid, and yanked the loose carpet back up. It wouldn’t settle back into place very well, having been removed so inexpertly, but I did the best I could and then heaped the fancy pillows around the edges to conceal the damage. But the carpet still sagged out a little. I pushed it into place, weighted it down with my purse. It still pouched. I grabbed some books from the shelves and stacked them on the window seat, too. Much better. The carpet stayed in place. The doorbell rang again. I stood for a moment composing my face. Carey Osland, minus the dachshund, smiled at me in a friendly way when I finally opened the door. Her dark chestnut hair was lightly threaded with gray, but her round, pretty face was unlined. She was wearing a dress that was one step up from a bathrobe, and scuffed loafers.
“Hi, neighbor,” she said cheerfully. “Aurora Tea- garden, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, making a huge effort to sound casual and calm.
~ 62 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
“I’m Carey Osland, I live in the house with the roses, on the corner,” and she pointed. “I remember meeting you before, Carey, at a bridal shower, I think.”
“That’s right—a long time ago. Whose was it?” “Come in, come on in . . . Wasn’t it Amina’s shower, after she eloped?”
“Well, it must have been, ’cause that was when I was working at her mother’s dress shop, that’s why I got invited. I work at Marcus Hatfield now.” Marcus Hatfield was the Lord & Taylor of Lawrenceton.
“That’s why I’m such a slob now,” Carey went on smilingly. “I get so tired of being dressed up.” “Your nails look great,” I said admiringly. I am al- ways impressed by someone who can wear long nails and keep them polished. I was also trying very hard not to think about the window seat, not to even glance in that direction. I had waved Carey to the couch so she’d have her back partially to it when she half- turned to talk to me as I sat in the armchair. “Oh, honey, they’re not real,” Carey said warmly. “I never could keep my nails from chipping and get- ting broken . . . So, you and Jane must have been good friends?”
The unexpected change of subject and Carey’s very ~ 63 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
understandable curiosity took me by surprise. My neighbors were definitely not of the big city impersonal variety.
“She left me the house,” I stated, figuring that set- tled that.
And it did. Carey couldn’t think of a single way to get around that one to inquire as to our exact rela- tionship.
I was beginning to wonder about our relationship, myself. Considering the little problem Jane had left me to deal with.
“So, do you plan on living here?” Carey had rallied and was counterattacking with even more directness. “I don’t know.” And I didn’t add or explain. I liked Carey Osland, but I needed to be by myself with the thing in the window seat.
“Well”—Carey took a deep breath and released it—“I guess I’d better be getting ready for work.” “Thanks for coming by,” I said as warmly as I could. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again when I have things more settled here.”
“Like I said, I’m right next
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