Charlaine Harris - A Bone To Pick

“I understand he’s seeing my new maybe-neighbor, Carey Osland,” I said casually.

“They are hot and heavy and have been,” Sally said, with a wise nod. “That Carey is really appealing to the opposite sex. She has had quite a dating-and marriage-history.”

I understood Sally exactly. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. First she was married to Bubba Sewell, back when he was nothing, just a little lawyer right out of school. Then that fell through, and she married Mike Osland, and by golly one night he goes out to get diapers and never comes home. Everyone felt so sorry for her when her husband left, and, having been in something of the same position, I did feel for her. But at the same time, I think he might have had some reason to take off.”

My attention sharpened. A number of instant scenarios ran through my head. Carey’s husband kills Carey’s lover, then flees. The lover could have been Mark Kaplan, the Rideouts’ vanished tenant, or some unknown. Or maybe Mike Osland could be the skull, reduced to that state by Carey’s lover or Carey.

“But she has a little girl at home,” I said in the interest of fairness.

“Wonder what she tells that little girl when she has overnight company?” Sally helped herself to more roast.

I disliked this turn of the conversation. “Well, she was very nice to me when she came over to welcome me to the neighborhood,” I stated, flatly enough to end that line of conversation. Sally shot me a look and asked if I wanted more roast.

“No thanks,” I said, giving a sigh of repletion. “That was so good.”

“Macon really has been more agreeable at the office since he began dating Carey,” Sally said abruptly. “He started seeing her after his son went away, and it just helped him deal with it a lot. Maybe Carey having somebody leave her, she was able to help Macon out.”

“What son?” I didn’t remember Mother mentioning any son during the time she’d dated Macon.

“He has a boy in his late teens or early twenties by now, I guess. Macon moved here after he got divorced, and the boy moved here with him, maybe seven years ago now. After a few months, the boy-his name was Edward, I think-anyway, he decided he was just going to take some savings his mother had given him and take off. He told Macon he was going to India or some such place, to contemplate or buy drugs or something. Some crazy thing. Of course, Macon was real depressed, but he couldn’t stop him. The boy wrote for a while, or called, once a month… but then he stopped. And Macon hasn’t seen hide nor hair of that child since then.”

“That’s terrible,” I said, horrified. “Wonder what happened to the boy?”

Sally shook her head pessimistically. “No telling what could happen to him wandering by himself in a country where he didn’t even speak the language.”

Poor Macon. “Did he go over there?”

“He talked about it for a while, but when he wrote the State Department they advised him against it. He didn’t even know where Edward had been when he disappeared…Edward could have wandered anywhere after he wrote the last letter Macon got. I remember someone from the embassy there went to the last place Edward wrote from and, according to what they told Macon, it was sort of a dive with lots of Europeans coming and going, and no one there remembered Edward, or at least that’s what they were saying.”

“That’s awful, Sally.”

“Sure is. I think Perry being in the mental hospital is better than that, I really do. At least I know where he is!”

Incontrovertible truth.

I stared into my beer bottle. Now I’d heard of one more missing person. Was a part of Edward Turner’s last remains in my mother’s pink blanket bag? Since Macon told everyone he’d heard from the boy since Edward had left, Macon would have to be the guilty one. That sounded like the end of a soap opera. “Tune in tomorrow for the next installment,” I murmured. “It is like a soap,” Sally agreed. “But tragic.” I began my going-away noises. The food had been great, the company at least interesting and sometimes actually fun. Sally and I parted this time fairly pleased with each other.

After I left Sally’s I remembered I had to check on Madeleine. I stopped at a grocery and got some cat food and another bag of cat litter. Then I realized this looked like permanency, rather than a two-week stay while the Engles vacationed in South Carolina.

I seemed to have a pet.

I was actually looking forward to seeing the animal.

I unlocked the kitchen door at Jane’s with my free hand, the other one being occupied in holding the bags from the grocery. “Madeleine?” I called. No golden purring dictator came to meet me. “Madeleine?” I said less certainly.

Could she have gotten out? The backyard door was locked, the windows still shut. I looked in the guest bedroom, since the break-in bad occurred there, but the new window was still intact.

“Kitty?” I said forlornly. And then it seemed to me I heard a noise. Dreading I don’t know what, I inched into Jane’s bedroom. I heard the strange mew again. Had someone hurt the cat? I began shaking, I was so sure I would find a horror. I’d left the door to Jane’s closet ajar, and I could tell the sound was coming from there. I pulled the door open wide, with my breath sucked in and my teeth clenched tight.

Madeleine, apparently intact, was curled up on Jane’s old bathrobe, which had fallen to the bottom of the closet when I was packing clothes. She was lying on her side, her muscles rippling as she strained.

Madeleine was having kittens.

“Oh hell,” I said. “Oh-hell hell hell.” I slumped on the bed despondently. Madeleine spared me a golden glare and went back to work. “Why me, Lord?” I asked self-pityingly. Though I had to concede it looked like Madeleine would be saying the same thing if she could. Actually, this was rather interesting. Would Madeleine mind if I watched? Apparently not, because she didn’t hiss or claw at me when I sat on the floor just outside the closet and kept her company.

Of course Parnell Engle had been fully aware of Madeleine’s impending motherhood, hence his merriment when I’d told him Madeleine could stay with me.

I pondered that for a few seconds, trying to decide if Parnell and I were even now. Maybe so, for Madeleine had had three kittens already, and there seemed to be more on the way.

I kept telling myself this was the miracle of birth. It sure was messy. Madeleine had my complete sympathy. She gave a final heave, and out popped another tiny, slimy kitten. I hoped two things: that this was the last kitten and that Madeleine didn’t run into any difficulties, because I was the last person in the world who could offer her any help. After a few minutes, I began to think both my hopes had been fulfilled. Madeleine cleaned the little things, and all four lay there, occasionally making tiny movements, eyes shut, about as defenseless as anything could be.

Madeleine looked at me with the weary superiority of someone who has bravely undergone a major milestone. I wondered if she were thirsty; I got her water bowl and put it near her, and her food bowl, too. She got up after a moment and took a drink but didn’t seem too interested in her food. She settled back down with her babies and looked perfectly all right, so I left her and went to sit in the living room. I stared at the bookshelves and wondered what in hell I would do with four kittens. On a shelf separate from those holding all the fictional and nonfictional murders, I saw several books about cats. Maybe that was what I should dip into next.

Right above the cat shelf was Jane’s collection of books about Madeleine Smith, the Scottish poisoner, Jane’s favorite. All of us former members of Real Murders had a favorite or two. My mother’s new husband was a Lizzie Borden expert. I tended to favor Jack the Ripper, though I had by no means attained the status of Ripperologist.