Emily Littlejohn - Inherit the Bones

I touched Nicky’s headstone and whispered a vow. No one was there to hear my words, except for the grass, and the wind, and the sun, and that was fitting, somehow. Bull used to say that ethics are determined by what you do when no one is watching, and I thought that was about right.

I repeated my vow and left the cemetery, tired of all the death around me.

We agreed to gather at O’Toole’s, a pub on Fifth Street just a few doors down from Mac Neal’s auto shop. Sam Birdshead drove us over in his smoke-gray-colored Audi.

I sat in the front seat and caressed the soft leather under me. “This is a nice ride, Sam.”

He grinned. “It was a graduation present from my grandfather. My sisters call me the Little Prince; I seem to get the brunt of his generosity. Youngest child, only boy, you know how it goes.”

I didn’t, but nodded anyway.

In the backseat, the chief yanked off his tie. “Christ, I’m glad that’s over. It was not as bad as the first time, but God-awful in its own way. Listen, Gemma, how’s it going with Finn? You guys working out together okay?”

“Sure. When he’s not hitting on young women or making fun of the Bird Lady. Or calling me fat.”

“Bird Lady?” Sam said. “Who’s the Bird Lady?”

He took the next corner a tad fast and I gripped the door handle but the Audi’s tires took it like a demon. In the backseat, Chavez cursed and strapped on his seat belt.

I said, “You know the Bird Lady, that woman who stalks around town, with the orange hair and the dead parrot on her shoulder. That’s Tilly, the librarian.”

Chavez said, “Matilda Jane Krinkle.”

“You know her?”

“Of course I know her, I’m the goddamn chief of police. Sam, slow it down a bit.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said as he downshifted, and the Audi purred in response. Ahead of us, Finn’s Porsche pulled into a spot by the front door. Behind us, Ravi Hussen’s Honda kept a conservative distance. We had run into her at the reception and invited her to join us at the tavern. Actually, I’d invited her while Finn and Sam had stared and drooled. Only Ravi could get away with short sapphire-blue silk at a funeral.

O’Toole’s was mostly empty. The bar was cool and dark and felt apropos after the solemnity of Nicky’s service. A couple of old men sat at the bar, the cool condensation on their beer long since wiped away by the warmth of their hands. They gave Ravi the once-over, completely ignored me, and then returned their focus to each other, and their Coors, and the bowl of peanuts that sat between them.

Their conversation, like their hair, was sparse and thin; they seemed to grunt more than carry on actual sentences.

We took a table in the back, near the dartboard. Sam grabbed our orders and headed to the bar. I sat down next to Ravi, across from Chavez and Finn, whose cell phone buzzed against the grain of the table. He glanced at it.

“Moriarty’s on his way.”

I pulled off my scarf and draped it on the chair then undid the top button on my blouse and fanned myself with an old copy of the local newspaper that I’d grabbed on the way in. I was still warm from the ride over.

“Why’s Moriarty coming?”

Finn gave me a look. “Because he’s one of us, and this is our place. No one wants to be alone today.”

I pushed back. “Was he at the funeral? I didn’t see him.”

“Gemma, just because you don’t see something, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. He was there, he snuck in late and left early,” Finn said. “You’re not this all-seeing, all-powerful being.”

“I know I’m not. I never claimed to be,” I said.

I turned to Ravi. “Do I act like that? Like I know everything?”

She looked from Finn to me and then back again to Finn and exhaled noisily. “Honey, this is one cat fight I’m sitting out. Honestly, you two should screw or call it a day.”

I think both of us turned pale at that. Finn may have gagged a bit.

Sam returned with a waitress, drinks, and promises of potato skins, nachos, and hot wings. The waitress set bottles of beer in front of Finn and Chavez, and a martini before Ravi, and a cranberry juice seltzer next to my hand.

A glass of merlot remained on her tray, and this she set down in front of Sam Birdshead. He looked at it and with a deep breath, picked it up and took a sip. We watched as he swallowed with a wince and then gently set the glass back down.

“Didn’t take you for a wine guy, Sam,” Finn said with a snicker.

Poor Sam. It was so obvious you almost felt sorry for the guy, trying to impress an older woman by requesting what he thought would be a more mature drink.

He blushed and tried not to look at Ravi. “I… I like wine.”

I caught Ravi’s eye and gave a head tilt toward Sam. She smiled gently.

“I like wine, too, Sam. You know they say that beer drinkers are fun, but wine drinkers last longer?”

The grins faded from Finn and Chavez’s faces.

“I’ve never heard that,” the chief scowled.

“Oh yes, it’s very true. Wine drinkers are proven to have a longer lifespan than beer drinkers. All those antioxidants, you know,” Ravi said, and sipped her martini. “What did you think I meant?”

At the front of the pub, the door opened and Moriarty came through. He looked at me and I thought I saw him grimace, but the room was dim. By the time he reached our table, he was all smiles and handshakes.

The waitress brought our food, and a beer for Moriarty, and we talked shop.

“Anything new with the reports, Ravi?” Chavez asked between a potato skin and a sip of pale ale.

“Unfortunately, no. The tests all came back negative. We don’t have fibers, hairs, prints, anything,” she said.

Moriarty signaled the waitress and asked for another round for everyone. “So we got jack shit.”

It was going to be one of those nights, then. My mouth was open and the words out before I could help myself. “I wouldn’t say we have nothing. In fact, I think someone’s worried that we’re getting too close.”

Chavez asked, “What are you talking about?”

He double-dipped a celery stick into the small pot of ranch dressing and Finn muttered something under his breath.

“Well,” I began, “well, my tires were slashed last night. At Chevy’s.”

“And?” Moriarty said.

“And I don’t think it was the football star feeling up his girlfriend in the car next to mine.”

Chavez held up a hand. “Whoa. Whoa. Just hold on a damn second. Your tires got slashed and you’re only just now telling me?”

“Did you want me to tell you before, at the funeral? I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

Chavez said, “Anything else going on that I should be aware of?”

If I didn’t tell him now about the message on my mirror, he’d probably find out anyway, and then be pissed I hadn’t told him. I gave them an abbreviated version of Thursday night’s events and ended with “So, I’ll forward you the pictures, and we can start a file, but honestly, I don’t think there’s much else we can do. Maybe it’s all a prank, someone playing a sick joke at the expense of a murder case.”

Chavez slammed his hand down on the table and we all jumped. Sam was sipping from his wine and he jumped so hard he spilled the rest of it all over the front of his shirt.

Chavez said, “Goddamn it, Gemma. Why am I always the last to find out about these things? We should have had a squad car parked at your house for the last day. We could have dusted for prints.”

I found a lone chip with cheese and no beans and scooped it from the platter. I ate it and waited for Chavez to calm down.

“Chief, the last thing we need is a cop sitting in my driveway twiddling his thumbs. We can’t spare that kind of manpower,” I said. “Besides, I hardly think the Woodsman is going around slashing tires and sneaking around houses. I’d have heard him. And I didn’t hear anything. So, like I said, I think it’s just some local kid fooling around. The tires and the message on my mirror probably aren’t even related.”