Jennie Bentley - Spackled and Spooked

“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 basement to make sure there are no more skeletons buried down here.”

“What are you expecting?” Derek asked, “A mass 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 crawlspace 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 basement, 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 grass 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 crawlspace; 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 assumed 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 spacious 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-glass, 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 crawlspace, 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 succumbed 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 button 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.

“Gee,” I said, leaning back and worrying a fingernail, “that could be bad.”