Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

She hugged herself in the morning chill. — I don't know. —

— You haven't decided yet? —

— I mean, I love Weston, but I'm a little spooked by the bones. Knowing she was buried here all those years. It makes me feel… — She shrugged. — Lonely, I guess. — She stared toward the grave site. — I wish I knew who she was. —

— The university couldn't tell you? —

— They think the grave's early nineteenth century. Her skull was fractured in two places, and she was buried without much care. Just wrapped in an animal hide and dumped into the ground, without any ceremony. As if they were in a hurry to dispose of her. —

— A fractured skull and a quick burial? That sounds an awful lot like murder to me. —

She looked at him. — I think so, too. —

They said nothing for a moment. The mist had almost lifted now, and in the trees, birds chirped. Not crows this time, but songbirds, flitting gracefully from twig to twig. Odd, she thought, how the crows have simply vanished.

— Is that your phone ringing? — he asked.

Suddenly aware of the sound, she glanced toward the house. — I'd better get that. —

— It was nice meeting you! — he called out as she ran up the steps to her porch. By the time she made it into her kitchen, he was moving on, dragging the reluctant McCoy after him. Already she'd forgotten his last name. Had he or had he not been wearing a wedding band?

It was Vicky on the phone. — So what's the latest installment of Home Improvement ? — she asked.

— I tiled the bathroom floor last night. — Julia's gaze was still on her garden, where Tom's brown sweater was now fading into the shadows beneath the trees. That old sweater must be a favorite of his, she thought. You didn't go out in public wearing something that ratty unless you had a sentimental attachment to it. Which somehow made him even more appealing. That and his dog.

— …and I really think you should start dating again. —

Julia's attention snapped back to Vicky. — What? —

— I know how you feel about blind dates, but this guy's really nice. —

— No more lawyers, Vicky. —

— They're not all like Richard. Some of them do prefer a real woman to a blow-dried Tiffani. Who, I just found out, has a daddy who's a big wheel at Morgan Stanley. No wonder she's getting a big splashy wedding. —

— Vicky, I really don't need to hear the details. —

— I think someone should whisper in her daddy's ear and tell him just what kind of loser his baby girl's getting married to. —

— I have to go. I've been in the garden and my hands are all dirty. I'll call you later. — She hung up and immediately felt guilty for that little white lie. But just the mention of Richard had thrown a shadow over her day, and she didn't want to think about him. She'd rather shovel manure.

She grabbed a garden hat and gloves, went back out into the yard, and looked toward the streambed. Tom-in-the-brown-sweater was nowhere in sight, and she felt a twinge of disappointment. You just got dumped by one man. Are you so anxious to get your heart broken again? She collected the shovel and wheelbarrow and moved down the slope, toward the ancient flower bed she'd been rejuvenating. Rattling through the grass, she wondered how many times old Hilda Chamblett had made her way down this overgrown path. Whether she'd worn a hat like Julia's, whether she'd paused and looked up at the sound of songbirds, whether she'd noticed that crooked branch in the oak tree.

Did she know, on that July day, that it would be her last on earth?

That night, she was too exhausted to cook anything more elaborate than a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. She ate at the kitchen table with the photocopied news clippings about Hilda Chamblett spread out in front of her. The articles were brief, reporting only that the elderly woman had been found dead in her backyard and that foul play was not suspected. At ninety-two, you are already living on borrowed time. What better way to die, a neighbor was quoted as saying, than on a summer's day in your garden?

She read the obituary:

Hilda Chamblett, lifelong resident of Weston, Massachusetts, was found dead in her backyard on July 25. Her death has been ruled by the medical examiner's office as — most likely of natural causes. — Widowed for the past twenty years, she was a familiar figure in gardening circles, and was known as an enthusiastic plantswoman who favored irises and roses. She is survived by her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine, and her niece Rachel Surrey of Roanoke, Virginia, as well as two grandnieces and a grandnephew.

The ringing telephone made her splash tomato soup on the page. Vicky, no doubt, she thought, probably wondering why I haven't called her back yet. She didn't want to talk to Vicky; she didn't want to hear about the lavish plans for Richard's wedding. But if she didn't answer it now, Vicky would just call again later.

Julia picked up the phone. — Hello? —

A man's voice, gravelly with age, said: — Is this Julia Hamill? —

— Yes, it is. —

— So you're the woman who bought Hilda's house. —

Julia frowned. — Who is this? —

— Henry Page. I'm Hilda's cousin. I hear you found some old bones in her garden. —

Julia turned back to the kitchen table and quickly scanned the obituary. A splash of soup had landed right on the paragraph listing Hilda's survivors. She dabbed it away and spotted the name.

…her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine…

— I'm quite interested in those bones, — he said. — I'm considered the family historian, you see. — He added, with a snort, — Because no one else gives a bloody damn. —

— What can you tell me about the bones? — she asked.

— Not a thing. —

Then why are you calling me ?

— I've been looking into it, — he said. — When Hilda died, she left about thirty boxes of old papers and books. No one else wanted them, so they came to me. I admit, I just shoved them aside and haven't looked at them for the past year. But then I heard about your mysterious bones, and I wondered if there might be something about them in these boxes. — He paused. — Is this at all interesting to you, or should I just shut up and say goodbye? —

— I'm listening. —

— That's more than most of my family does. No one cares about history anymore. It's always hurry, hurry, hurry on to the hot new thing. —

— About those boxes, Mr. Page. —

— Oh, yes. I've come across some interesting documents with historical significance. I'm wondering if I've found the clue to who those bones belong to. —

— What's in these documents? —

— There are letters and newspapers. I have them all right here in my house. You can look at them, anytime you want to come up to Maine. —

— That's an awfully long drive, isn't it? —

— Not if you're really interested. It doesn't matter to me one way or the other whether you are. But since this is about your house, about people who once lived there, I thought you might find the history fascinating. Certainly I do. The tale sounds bizarre, but there's a news article here to substantiate it. —

— What news article? —

— About the brutal murder of a woman. —

— Where? When? —

— In Boston. It happened in the autumn of 1830. If you come up to Maine, Miss Hamill, you can read the documents for yourself. About the strange affair of Oliver Wendell Holmes and the West End Reaper. —

1830

ROSE DRAPED HER SHAWL over her head, wrapped it tight against the November chill, and stepped outside. She had left baby Meggie nursing greedily at the breast of another new mother in the lying-in ward, and tonight was the first time in two days she'd left the hospital. Though the night air was damp with mist, she inhaled it with a sense of relief, grateful to be away, if only for a short time, from the odors of the sickroom, the whimpers of pain. She paused outside on the street, breathing in deeply to wash the miasma of illness from her lungs, and smelled the river and the sea, heard the rumble of a carriage passing in the fog. I've been locked away so long among the dying, she thought, I've forgotten what it is to walk among the living.