Do-It-Yourself - Spackled And Spooked Part 8

"Really?" Wayne looked at him.

Derek nodded. "I can't say for sure until I see the pelvis-the hip cradle is a dead giveaway-but it's either a woman or a very young man. The bones are less heavy than you'd find in a full-grown male skeleton, and they also look shorter. Judging from the length of the femur, the tibia, and fibula, you're looking at someone who was well under six feet in height. Because some people are long-waisted and short-legged, while others are the opposite, it's hard to determine without the entire skeleton, but from what you've got right now, I'd say you're looking at a person who was somewhere around five and a half feet tall at the time of death." He bit into the pizza again.

"Interesting," Wayne said. He pulled out his trusty notebook and pencil and made a notation.

Derek swallowed and added, "Also someone youngish. The bones are brittle now, but there's no evidence of any arthritis or other bone disease prior to death. Also no fractures in what we've found so far."

"So a young and healthy person, possibly a female, approximately five and a half feet tall. It's not much, but it's something. Anything else?"

Derek indicated Brandon, who cleared his throat. "We found a couple of little metal thingamajigs-grommets or something-that we think may have come from a pair of jeans."

"Thingamajigs," Wayne repeated, straight-faced, his pencil poised. "That's the technical term, is it? Not much help there, I'm afraid. Everybody in the world wears jeans these days."

Including the chief of police, when off duty. I've seen him. A quick look around the kitchen showed me that every one of us, except for the two policemen in their uniforms, were dressed in denim, from Derek's comfortably threadbare Levi's to Shannon's seemingly brand-new hip-huggers, which fit her like a second skin.

"Where's Ricky?" Josh said, and it wasn't until then that it occurred to me that Ricky Swanson hadn't been standing here with us, partaking of the pizza and gruesome conversation.

"The last time I saw him, he went into the master bedroom." I gestured down the hall. "That's a few minutes ago, though."

"I'll go," Paige said quickly as Josh made to push off from the counter where he was leaning. She gave him a pat on the arm on the way past, and he smiled at her. Shannon quirked a brow, and Josh shrugged.

"I went to the newspaper archives while I was out," I said, wondering what the byplay was all about.

"Yeah?" Wayne turned to me.

"I couldn't find anything about any missing persons any time in the past twenty years, though."

He shook his head. "Before Professor Wentworth disappeared this spring, we hadn't lost anybody for a long time. The few people who went missing always turned up within a couple of days. Some of them were dead, but we always found them."

I nodded, but before I could bring out my other booty-the prom photographs of Derek and Brandon-Paige came trotting into the kitchen again. "He's locked himself in the bathroom," she said, her soft, little-girlish voice even softer than usual. "I don't think he's feeling well. There were . . ." she hesitated delicately, "noises."

Wayne hid a grin. "We should probably get back to work. If you think you've had enough to eat?" He glanced pointedly at Brandon, who was still chewing, but who thought it best to nod.

"See you, Tink." Derek bent and gave me a quick peck on the lips before he followed the others toward the back door. I watched him walk away then flushed and started transferring slices of pizza into a single box when I caught Shannon's eye. She grinned.

No sooner had the back door closed and the crawls.p.a.ce door creaked open outside, than we heard a door close inside the house, as well. A moment later, Ricky shuffled around the corner and into the kitchen. And although it was difficult to see his face behind all the hair, he did seem a little pale. Shannon and Paige exclaimed when they saw him and started flitting around to see what they could do for him, which must have served to make poor Ricky feel even more uncomfortable and embarra.s.sed.

I turned to Josh. "I came across your prom photos in the Weekly when I was in town just now."

"My prom photos?" He reached for the pieces of copy paper I pulled out of my bag and unfolded them while he continued, "Why would you want to see my prom photos?"

"I wasn't really looking for them. Venetia Rudolph, our next-door neighbor, told us there were squatters in the crawls.p.a.ce two years ago. I was looking for information about that, and then I came across the article about the prom."

Josh nodded, grinning at the photographs. "The Weekly does an article about the prom every year. Hey, Shannon, do you ever hear from Alan Whitaker? What's he up to these days?"

"The University of Kentucky," Shannon said over her shoulder, still busy ministering to Ricky. "Baseball scholars.h.i.+p."

"Ri-i-i-ght." Josh drew the word out, sarcastically. I could tell he didn't really like Alan Whitaker. Josh, while adorable in his lanky, bespectacled, brainy way, didn't quite have the golden-boy appeal of the blonde and athletic pseudo-Norse G.o.d in the photograph. Shannon rolled her eyes but didn't answer. Josh flipped through the stack of other articles while he was at it.

"More prom photos? Who's this? Oh, wait; that's Brandon, isn't it? And she's quite a knockout, isn't she? Wow!"

If he had hoped that Shannon would take an interest and come over to see who he thought was hot, Josh must have been disappointed when she just shook her head sadly, like a mother over the antics of her little boy. Josh's cheeks flushed, but he continued gamely. "And is this Derek? Whoa! How long ago was this?"

"Seventeen years, give or take," I said as Shannon abandoned Ricky to lean on Josh's shoulder. He handed the page to her. Paige looked worried, and she kept her hand under Ricky's elbow as they came closer. Just in case he toppled, I guess. Although I don't know what she'd be able to do if he did; he was approximately twice her size.

"Who's this?" Josh asked. I looked back to him and what he was looking at.

"Oh, that's Brian Murphy. The man who used to live in this house. The one who killed his family. That's his wife Peggy, in the bonnet. The Murphys had a son, as well. . . ."

I broke off to watch Ricky turn away with a muttered apology. He blundered toward the front door and almost fell over a big can of s.p.a.ckling paste on the way. The kid really needed a haircut, bad. Paige started after him, her elfin face worried. We heard the front door open and then close behind them both before anyone spoke.

"What's wrong with him?" Josh asked. Shannon shrugged, a tiny wrinkle between her brows.

"I guess maybe he got too close to the pizza?"

We looked at the pizza, a few feet away on the counter. Could be.

"I guess we'd better go, too." Josh folded the papers again and handed them back to me. "I'll go tell Dad we're outta here. You'd better try to catch up with them, see what's wrong."

Shannon nodded, and with a polite good-bye to me, left.

She went out the front door, while Josh undoubtedly sneaked a peek at the excavations in the crawls.p.a.ce while he told his father that the four of them were leaving. I folded the papers back into my bag and finished cleaning up the pizza before I headed out the back door and down to the crawls.p.a.ce, too.

8.

"What now?!"

Wayne turned with a bark when he heard me come through the door, and then he calmed down when he saw me. "Oh, it's you."

"Sorry," I said, straightening up. Unlike the tall chief of police, who had to stand hunched over, with his shoulders curled and his head retracted like a turtle's, I had plenty of headroom downstairs. "Your son left and took his friends with him."

Wayne nodded. "He told me."

"There's still a crowd outside the crime scene tape, and if it gets any bigger, you'll probably have to call in reinforcements."

"I'll go out there and keep the peace in a minute. I just hope the newspapers don't get wind of this."

"I didn't say anything to them," I said, trying hard not to peer past him to the excavation. It drew me, even as I didn't want to look at it.

"You want to see?" Wayne asked. "From a safe distance?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so."

"You sure?" Derek asked. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching, as Brandon labored on his hands and knees in the dirt. "They're just bones. And it'll probably be the only chance you'll ever have to see a human skeleton in situ."

"Let's hope." But I minced closer and glanced into the shallow pit Brandon had excavated, catching a glimpse of the discolored bones of an arm and a leg, before turning away. "Lovely."

And then I stopped and turned back. "Is that a b.u.t.ton or something?"

"Something," Derek agreed, watching Brandon brush at the small, round object with what looked like a big paintbrush.

"Can I see it?" I glanced at Wayne, who hesitated for a few seconds before he nodded.

Brandon, who was not only digging, but also working on a schematic drawing of the excavation, complete with numbered and labeled grids, marked the location of the b.u.t.ton before grabbing it with a pair of tweezers, putting it into a small plastic box, and handing that to me. "Don't touch."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, peering into the box. "Thought so."

"Thought what?"

"Cherokee."

"Indian?" Wayne asked, his eyes big.

I shook my head. "Cherokee is a brand name for a line of ready-made clothing-pants and blouses and such-sold at Target stores."

"No kidding?" Wayne was scribbling in his notebook again. "There's a Target in Topsham, and one in South Portland, too. If we can't get an identification any other way, I guess we can go back through the sales receipts."

"Unless she paid cash," I said. Wayne grimaced.

"There's that. Still, good catch, Avery. Thank you." He took the box back. "I guess it's becoming more and more certain that we're looking at a female. Seeing as the b.u.t.ton is pink and all."

I nodded. "There's a Target store in Brooklyn. I went there once to look at the Isaac Mizrahi line."

"Did he do this Cherokee thing, too?"

I shook my head. "That's someone else. I don't know who. I actually came down here to ask what I should do now. You don't want me to do any work upstairs, right? That's what you said?"

"I'd prefer it," Wayne agreed. "At least for the rest of the day."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we may still be digging. We'll have to dig up every square inch of this bas.e.m.e.nt to make sure there are no more skeletons buried down here."

"What are you expecting?" Derek asked, "A ma.s.s grave?"

"I'm not expecting anything," Wayne answered. "It's just something that has to be done. I'll be very surprised if we find any more bones after today. I don't think anyone has used your crawls.p.a.ce as a dumping ground for murder victims, if that's what you're concerned about. We haven't lost that many people, for one thing. And if someone kept showing up, dragging things into the bas.e.m.e.nt, sooner or later the neighbors would notice. Miss Rudolph has been living next door for over twenty years, and not much gets past her. She noticed the squatters and the kids coming to make out. She called us about them. She'd have noticed someone else hanging around, too."

"Unless it was someone who belonged," I suggested. "Like the handyman, who came by to clean the gutters on a regular basis. Or the heat-and-air guy, to service the system. Or the lawn guy."

"David Todd," Derek said. "But I don't think he had anything to do with this. He doesn't strike me as the type who'd kill women and bury them under houses."

"I wasn't suggesting that he had," I said. "But how about someone else? Maybe an employee? Does he have a crew?"

"I think he hires some seasonal help for the couple of months during the summer when the gra.s.s grows the fastest. The rest of the time it's just him and his wife."

"I'll talk to him," Wayne said, making a note. "Not because I think he had anything to do with this-I know Carrie Todd, and she wouldn't stand for it-but just in case he has noticed anyone hanging around. I should track down the handyman, too. And the heat-and-air guy."

"Before you do any of that," Derek said, "it might be a good idea to figure out just how long she," he gestured over his shoulder at the bones, "has been here."

"I intend to. As soon as you," he turned to Brandon, "get me a head, so I can begin to think about matching dental records."

Brandon nodded.

"I'd like to stay," Derek said to Wayne. "It's my crawls.p.a.ce; plus, I'm curious. Avery-" He turned to me.

I nodded. "I'm outta here. Bones are bad enough, a skull is worse. I don't want to see it."

"Just keep the truck. Wayne and Brandon will make sure I get home safe when we're done here. Unless you think you'll be here all night?" He glanced at Wayne, who shook his head.

"We'll just get the skeleton out, give us something to work with, and then we can all go home and try again tomorrow."

"Sounds good to me," Derek said. "See ya, Tink."

"You, too."

I headed for the steps up into the sunlight while he turned back to watch the grisly excavation.

The crowd outside the crime scene tape was, if anything, even bigger when I got back up into the yard. Lionel Kenefick was still there, looking upset, huddled in a group with what I a.s.sumed were other neighbors. They were a motley crew: some old, some young, some dressed for business in suits and ties, one lady in a faded pink bathrobe with rollers in her hair. A few children were hanging around, too, gawking at the house and police cars. They were probably on their way home from school, with heavy backpacks pulling their narrow shoulders down.

Venetia Rudolph wasn't present, but I could see the lace curtains twitch in the house next door, where she was sitting at the window, peering out. After a moment's hesitation, I headed in that direction.

The door opened before I reached it, a dead giveaway-if I needed one-that she'd been watching. "Come in, Miss Baker." She stepped back and ushered me into her living room. I stopped just inside the door and stared.

At first glance, the layout was very much the same as in our house, which explained how Venetia had known where the bedrooms and bathrooms were next door. After that, the similarities pretty much ended, and not only because Venetia's house was spotlessly clean and obviously in perfect working order, while ours was a bit of an unfinished mess at the moment.

Next door, we were going for as much s.p.a.cious openness as possible. We were planning to sand the floors and paint the walls in light, fresh colors, and when we staged the house for prospective buyers, we'd try to buy or borrow minimalistic furniture-gla.s.s, chrome, and light wood. Danish Modern. Venetia had gone to the other extreme. The floors were covered with plush, rose-colored, wall-to-wall carpet. The walls in the L-shaped living room and dining room had striped wallpaper and a border running along the top, underneath the ceiling. It had pictures of what I thought were magnolia blossoms. The furniture was overstuffed: a couch, a matching loveseat, and a big chair, all upholstered in shades of green, ranged around a large coffee table in dark wood. The top of the table was so highly polished I could have seen my reflection in it. The dining room was in similar straits: striped walls and rose pink floor, with an oversized sideboard up against the back wall and an oval table with heavy, carved legs, surrounded by six large chairs upholstered with rose-colored damask, in the middle of the floor. On the table sat an enormous, fake arrangement of waxy magnolias and glossy leaves in a large, green vase, and the framed painting above the sideboard was of Vivien Leigh in Scarlett O'Hara's green dress, the one she made from the curtains at Tara. Venetia was one of those people who keep their dining room table always set, and the settings-arranged on rosy damask placemats-had plates showing scenes from the same movie.

"Nice place," I said politely-and untruthfully. I'd go crazy living in Venetia's house, and although I agree that Gone with the Wind is a masterpiece and that Clark Gable was Rhett Butler, I don't think he's hot enough that I'd want to eat my dinner off him.

Venetia smiled tightly. "Thank you, Miss Baker. Have a seat. Tell me, what's going on next door?"

"Nothing that wasn't going on three hours ago," I said, sitting down in the overstuffed armchair. "The police are down in the crawls.p.a.ce, digging. Derek is watching. And the crowd outside is growing bigger. Wayne is concerned about the media."

Venetia waved a dismissive hand. "The newspapers have already come and gone. And I guess the news can't have reached Portland yet, as we don't have anyone from WMTW hanging around."

WMTW, channel eight, is the local ABC affiliate. Aunt Inga hadn't owned a television set, but I'd succ.u.mbed over the summer and bought one, and I was becoming familiar with the various Waterfield stations.

"Do you think the national news will be interested in this?" I asked nervously.

"That depends on what this turns out to be," Venetia answered tartly, which I would have figured out for myself, too, had I thought about it. "If it turns out to be a dead squatter, probably not. Unless it's an illegal alien. The immigration issue is a political hot b.u.t.ton these days. But if it's a murder victim-someone that Brian Murphy killed and buried under the house before he killed himself and the rest of the family-then yes, the national media will have a field day. The whole story about the Murphy murders will be dragged out again and splashed across the front page of every newspaper in the country, and news vans from every major network will be camped outside your house. And mine." She sent me a disgruntled look.