about that,” he said. “Just got my orders, that’s all.” He glanced around. “Nowadays, this neighborhood doesn’t seem like it needs the police so much. People have sure fixed up the houses.”
“I believe a lot of remodeling has gone on.” I didn’t mention Bridget’s house, which was still in an unremodeled state.
The Public Works guy looked at it. I read the name patch on his shirt: STEWART. He was fortyish, stout around the middle but strong-looking. He took off his hard hat, giving me a look at his curly fringe of gray-black hair around a tanned, receding hairline.
“Now that house,” Stewart continued, nodding behind me to Bridget’s place. “I see nobody’s fixed it up. Looks just the same as it used to.”
“You know this house?”
“I’ve been in it before, back in my salad days. Grew up in Palo Alto. Not here,” he said, his lip curling just a little. “This was the tough part of town when I was a kid. I grew up in Evergreen Park.” He said it as if Evergreen Park was a separate community several miles away, but it was another Palo Alto neighborhood not a mile away as the crow flies. “We didn't come over here often, unless we was looking for a fight.”
“I heard there were a lot of hippies and people like that living around here.”
“That was later, about the time I knew this house.” He winked at me. “I didn’t go to Stanford, but I knew some of those students. We had us some parties. This was one big party house for a while.”
A dump truck rumbled up and parked in front of the driveway. The driver jumped out and shambled toward Stewart. He was tall, with movements that seemed lanky and uncoordinated. He, too, wore a shirt with a name patch; his said DOUG. Something about his face disturbed me. Although he appeared to be in his early forties, like Stewart, his face seemed to lack the carvings of experience’s knife. The expression he turned to Stewart was anxious, exaggeratedly so. Sam, watching his brother hog the Bobcat, had almost the same expression.
“Hey, Doug.” Stewart’s voice when he spoke to his coworker was gentle. “Just let this young man finish up, then we’ll get to work.”
Doug nodded several times. “We’ll get to work. I’ll drive the dump truck.”
“That’s right, buddy.”
Doug looked at the dirt, at the shapes of the bones sticking out. His eyes widened.
“Stewart, what’s that? That shouldn’t be there.”
I called Corky down from the Bobcat, and he came reluctantly. “You and Sam go back inside now,” I said. I didn’t want them focusing more on the bones. “Let me know if Moira’s still asleep.”
They went reluctantly, feet dragging, gazing over their shoulders at the object of their desire, the Bobcat.
“It’s nothing, Doug,” Stewart said, soothingly. “You get on back to the dump truck now.” He turned to me. “'Scuse me, ma’am. Gotta get started. We’re on overtime, and the city don’t want us to spend our time chatting.”
I looked at Doug, climbing into the truck, and Stewart seemed to know what I was thinking.
“He’s a very careful driver, ma’am. Just a little slow in taking stuff in sometimes.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.” I felt a little ashamed of my knee-jerk reaction to Doug’s disability. “But you really should check your orders again.” Drake would have apoplexy when he knew that his bones were in danger from the city workers. “The police wanted someone to come and secure the site, not dig it up.”
Stewart scratched his head. “Well—”
“I’ll call the officer in charge. Can you wait until he comes? It won’t be long.”
“I’ll talk to Doug about it.” He looked dubious. “We’re just doing what we’re told, ma’am.”
I trotted up the walk, meeting Corky and Sam on the front porch.
“Moira’s still sleeping.” Corky looked past me. “Can’t we stay out here and see what they do?”
“Don’t leave the porch, then. And tell me the minute they start
“I believe a lot of remodeling has gone on.” I didn’t mention Bridget’s house, which was still in an unremodeled state.
The Public Works guy looked at it. I read the name patch on his shirt: STEWART. He was fortyish, stout around the middle but strong-looking. He took off his hard hat, giving me a look at his curly fringe of gray-black hair around a tanned, receding hairline.
“Now that house,” Stewart continued, nodding behind me to Bridget’s place. “I see nobody’s fixed it up. Looks just the same as it used to.”
“You know this house?”
“I’ve been in it before, back in my salad days. Grew up in Palo Alto. Not here,” he said, his lip curling just a little. “This was the tough part of town when I was a kid. I grew up in Evergreen Park.” He said it as if Evergreen Park was a separate community several miles away, but it was another Palo Alto neighborhood not a mile away as the crow flies. “We didn't come over here often, unless we was looking for a fight.”
“I heard there were a lot of hippies and people like that living around here.”
“That was later, about the time I knew this house.” He winked at me. “I didn’t go to Stanford, but I knew some of those students. We had us some parties. This was one big party house for a while.”
A dump truck rumbled up and parked in front of the driveway. The driver jumped out and shambled toward Stewart. He was tall, with movements that seemed lanky and uncoordinated. He, too, wore a shirt with a name patch; his said DOUG. Something about his face disturbed me. Although he appeared to be in his early forties, like Stewart, his face seemed to lack the carvings of experience’s knife. The expression he turned to Stewart was anxious, exaggeratedly so. Sam, watching his brother hog the Bobcat, had almost the same expression.
“Hey, Doug.” Stewart’s voice when he spoke to his coworker was gentle. “Just let this young man finish up, then we’ll get to work.”
Doug nodded several times. “We’ll get to work. I’ll drive the dump truck.”
“That’s right, buddy.”
Doug looked at the dirt, at the shapes of the bones sticking out. His eyes widened.
“Stewart, what’s that? That shouldn’t be there.”
I called Corky down from the Bobcat, and he came reluctantly. “You and Sam go back inside now,” I said. I didn’t want them focusing more on the bones. “Let me know if Moira’s still asleep.”
They went reluctantly, feet dragging, gazing over their shoulders at the object of their desire, the Bobcat.
“It’s nothing, Doug,” Stewart said, soothingly. “You get on back to the dump truck now.” He turned to me. “'Scuse me, ma’am. Gotta get started. We’re on overtime, and the city don’t want us to spend our time chatting.”
I looked at Doug, climbing into the truck, and Stewart seemed to know what I was thinking.
“He’s a very careful driver, ma’am. Just a little slow in taking stuff in sometimes.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.” I felt a little ashamed of my knee-jerk reaction to Doug’s disability. “But you really should check your orders again.” Drake would have apoplexy when he knew that his bones were in danger from the city workers. “The police wanted someone to come and secure the site, not dig it up.”
Stewart scratched his head. “Well—”
“I’ll call the officer in charge. Can you wait until he comes? It won’t be long.”
“I’ll talk to Doug about it.” He looked dubious. “We’re just doing what we’re told, ma’am.”
I trotted up the walk, meeting Corky and Sam on the front porch.
“Moira’s still sleeping.” Corky looked past me. “Can’t we stay out here and see what they do?”
“Don’t leave the porch, then. And tell me the minute they start
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