Speaking in Bones (19 page)

R
amsey’s directions guided me to the end of a blacktop lined with cuter-than-Heidi’s-bloomers log cabins, the type rented short-term by summer tourists and fall foliage devotees. All were shuttered and dark. Final approach was via a long gravel drive shooting from a cul-de-sac much too large for any purpose I could imagine for such a remote locale.

Addams Family on crack. That’s what flashed through my mind as I parked.

Martha Gulley’s home was a rambling two-story frame behemoth that hadn’t seen paint since the Babe signed with the Red Sox. Complete with dormers, weather vane–topped tower, wraparound porch, and greenhouse, the place looked like the bastard offspring of a Gothic-Victorian tryst.

I was taking in detail when Ramsey pulled up. I got out and waited for him to join me.

“Did you know about this beauty?”

“I’ve been by here, but never had cause to enter.” Ramsey was surveying the property, one hand shading his eyes. “Rumor has it that old Oscar was hoping to create an East Coast version of the Sarah Winchester house. Died ten years into the project.”

“Is that the mansion in San Jose?”

“It is. Back in the day, Sarah lost her child then her husband, spent the rest of her life adding on to an old farmhouse. By the time she passed the place had one hundred and sixty rooms and sprawled over six acres. Story is she did it to escape the ghosts of people killed by Winchester rifles.”

Ramsey certainly did like history.

“You think Fester’s still got his lab in the basement?” I asked.

“Who?” Swiveling to face me.

“Never mind.” History, not sitcom TV, was Ramsey’s thing. “Does Grandma know we’re coming?”

“She does. And she’s not thrilled.”

I tipped my head toward a black Chevy Tahoe parked beside the greenhouse. Which looked like it hadn’t nurtured flora in many decades. “She still drive?”

Ramsey shrugged. Who knows?

We crossed a brown, rutted patch of weeds, once a lawn, and climbed to the porch. Ramsey thumbed the bell. The action triggered no muffled bonging or chiming.

Ramsey knocked on the door. Which looked jarringly new. And cheap, maybe a Home Depot stock item.

A full minute. Then a bolt snicked, a chain rattled, and the door swung in. A whole eight inches.

Through the gap I could see a figure silhouetted against very inadequate lighting. A tall figure. Grandma Gulley’s height was such that I had to lift my chin to meet her eyes. Which were green and wary behind heavy black-framed glasses designed for a man. They landed on me a nanosecond, then hopped back to Ramsey.

“Don’t know what you’re wanting from me, Sheriff.”

“I’m just a deputy, ma’am.” Self-effacing grin.

“Who’s she?” Tip of the head in my direction.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“Don’t believe in doctors.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mrs. Gulley.” Friendly as apple pie at the fair. “You said late afternoon would be convenient?”

“Weren’t like you give me much choice. Is this about Mason?”

“May we come in?”

A dramatic straightening of the shoulders. Then Grandma stepped back and angled the door a few inches wider. Ramsey and I slipped through and she slammed and locked it behind us.

The entrance gave directly onto a parlor that, like the house, looked frozen in time. The drapes were drawn and only one lamp was lit. In the dimness I made out an old upright piano, a corner hutch, three groupings of wooden and upholstered furniture.

A stone fireplace occupied most of the wall to our left. In front of it, a pair of ancient sofas faced off across a table made of tree trunk sections covered by a slab of glass.

At one end of the far sofa sat Granger Hoke, Roman collar a little white square in the gloom. Palm-smoothing the greasy black hair, he rose to greet us.

I trailed Grandma across the room, impressed by the size of the woman’s frame. Though her neck was now scrawny and her jawline flaccid, it was clear she’d once carried substantial bulk.

“Deputy.” Hoke volleyed off a wide smile and a hand. “It’s so nice to see you again.” The high-beam welcome swung to me. “To see both of you.”

“Sir.” Ramsey shook with the priest. “This is a surprise.”

“Yes, yes. I hope my presence isn’t an intrusion. Martha is quite nervous. She’s never been interrogated by the police.”

“This is hardly an interrogation.”

“Of course not.” Conspiratorial chuckle. Old people. “But Martha is one of my parishioners. When she called, I couldn’t say no. We’ve prayed to Jesus to give her strength.” Hoke arced an arm, the same gesture he’d employed on the church stoop. No green bird now. In lieu of vestments, he wore a simple black suit. “Shall we?”

The priest resumed his seat. Grandma settled down-sofa from him. Ramsey and I sat facing them, at separate ends of a scratchy, overstuffed horror.

“Your home is lovely,” I said to put Grandma at ease.

“The Lord Jesus don’t condone waste. Most of it’s closed off. No sense heating unneeded space.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Is that important?”

“No, ma’am. I understand your husband worked many years constructing the house.”

“A fool’s venture.”

Having dazzled at warm-up, I yielded the floor to Ramsey as planned. While my ears took in the conversation, my eyes roved the room.

Bronze sconces jutted from walls papered with green and beige stripes and trimmed with dark-stained baseboards and crown molding. A chandelier hung from the ceiling above us, encircled by an ornate bronze medallion.

Beyond the parlor, through double wooden doors, I could see a wallpapered hallway shooting left. Roses, not stripes. Across the hall was what appeared to be a very large kitchen. Nothing else was visible from where I sat.

Over Hoke’s shoulder, the corner hutch was a shrine to all things Catholic. A large crucifix stood at center stage, thorns, stakes, and corpus carved and painted in vivid, though inaccurate, detail.

A cast of supporting players was also present, some in sculpture, others framed and under glass. Our Lady of Something, palms spread, heart pumping red. Francis of Assisi, feet hidden by bunnies and lambs. Thérèse of Lisieux, head veiled, arms laden with roses. The rest, though vaguely familiar, I couldn’t ID.

Jesus stared down from a patch of stripes between the hutch and the fireplace, eyes saying he had no qualms about reading my mind. And that he smelled trouble.

The various tables and shelves held not a single personal photo. No baby in a silly hat. No kid in cap and gown. No dog asleep in a patch of sun.

I refocused on the interview. Ramsey was ignoring Hoke, directing his comments solely to Grandma. The priest was maintaining a poker face. But I could tell his mind was working and he was listening carefully.

The old woman’s hair, a dull yellow-white, was pulled back and secured in a complex arrangement of braids. The hem of her dress skimmed the tops of black oxfords planted firmly and close together.

“It’s a pity we haven’t met prior to this, ma’am.” Ramsey was still laying thick the country boy charm.

“I don’t go out much.”

“That’s Avery County’s loss.”

Hoke raised a brow and feigned amusement. “Martha is eighty-two, Deputy. Still, she never misses a Wednesday or Sunday.”

“Does your granddaughter drive you? Susan Grace I believe is her name?” Affable, but letting both know he’d done his homework.

“She does.”

“She still lives with you, then?”

“Is this about my grandson? If so you’re wasting your time. I can tell you right up. Mason’s gone and there’s no two ways about it. Stole my money and run off with a woman.”

“Cora Teague.”

“Yes, sir.”

Though her answers were firm, it was clear the old woman was terrified. All clenched fingers and jittery eyes.

“Where did Mason attend school?” Ramsey used an old interview trick. Switch topics to keep your subject off-balance.

“I homeschooled the boy.”

“Why?”

“Mason’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Different enough so’s I couldn’t send him to public school.”

“Meaning?”

“Unnatural.”

“Do you know where Mason and Cora have gone?” Another sharp-angle turn.

“I do not. Nor do I wish to.”

“He’s your grandson.”

“He’s evil made flesh.” Spit with such bile it startled me.

“Ma’am?”

“Mason’s soul belongs to the devil.”

“What makes you say that?”

The man-glasses whipped to Hoke. The priest dipped his chin without turning his head. The dim lighting shadowed his face, making it impossible to read his eyes.

“Mason’s never looked right, never acted like a boy’s supposed to act.”

“What does that mean?” I couldn’t help blurting.

“He carries the mark of Satan.” A blue-veined hand made the sign of the cross, forehead, sternum, then shoulder to shoulder.

Because he’s gay, you ignorant old bat? I felt a rush of anger, twisted and jumbled with feelings from now and from long ago. Ramsey intervened before I could fire off another question.

“Do you have a picture of your grandson?”

“I do not.”

“Not one little old snapshot?” With a sweet-talking grin.

“Burned every one.”

“And why is that?”

“Father G said I should.”

Hoke leaned sideways and asked the old lady in a whispery voice, “Have I permission to share a confidence, my dear?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Thoughts of Mason are very disturbing for Martha. She was having nightmares, not sleeping. I thought the exercise might prove beneficial. A sort of purging.”

Ramsey’s eyes stayed on Grandma, but he said nothing. Another interview trick. Allow silence, hoping the interviewee will feel compelled to fill it.

We’ll never know if the ploy would have worked. Before Grandma had time to succumb, wood juddered softly. We all turned.

A girl stood by one of the hall doors. She was tall, with a linebacker’s build, but a softness to her body that suggested future weight issues. Thick black bangs covered the upper halves of her eyes. I guessed her age at around sixteen.

“Susan Grace.” Hoke did his sunny priest bit. “How nice. Please join us.”

The girl held her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapping her ribs. A frozen moment, then, “Why are they here, Grandma?”

“Do you have homework?” Ignoring her granddaughter’s question.

“Are they asking about Mason?” Susan Grace’s voice was deep and low, almost masculine.

“Homework.”

“Will they find him?”

“Susan Grace. You know you mustn’t meddle in grown-up matters.”

“Does anyone even try?”

“Young lady!” Loud and sharp. “Do not allow yourself to be hostage to Satan.”

Susan Grace blinked, and her bangs did a round-trip on her lashes. “I have ballet class tonight.”

“I don’t like you out driving alone in the dark.”

“Pray to the Lord Jesus for my safe delivery.” Flat.

Hoke and Grandma twitched in tandem, like puppets whose shoulder strings had been lightly jerked.

Susan Grace regarded us a very long moment, half eyes utterly devoid of expression. Then she turned and disappeared down the hall.

The atmosphere in the room was suddenly ice.

“My, my, my.” Hoke’s chuckle was casual, but edged with something not previously there. “Kids.”

“I’m sorry, Father.” Grandma kept her gaze on the gnarled old hands tightly clenched in her lap. “She knows better.”

Ramsey gave me a sideways flick of a glance. His chin lifted ever so slightly. I nodded understanding, ignoring a melancholy pang. Ryan and I had used the same signal dozens of times.

The deputy and I rose. So did Hoke. Grandma stayed where she was, eyes meeting no others.

Seconds later Ramsey and I were outside in the late afternoon sun. Inexplicably, I was hearing that warning ping in my head. Not a full-throttle signal of danger, but a subliminal dispatch suggesting alertness.

“Was the kid being sarcastic?” I asked.

“A subtle zinger for Grandma? Maybe the priest?”

I raised my brows.

Ramsey raised his.

“Think something’s off?” I asked.

“Maybe.” Ramsey was again staring at the house.

“Can’t you get a search warrant? Two. One for here and one for the Teague place?”

“Based on what?”

I was about to comment on the inconvenience of the Fourth Amendment. Stopped, realizing how much I’d sound like Slidell.

—

I got to Heatherhill just in time for dinner. The menu was loin of lamb, green beans with slivered almonds, parsleyed spring potatoes, pistachio mousse. The food was good on the plate, not just in print.

Not so for Mama. She was listless and ate practically nothing. I tried to draw her into conversation, got mostly shoulders for my efforts. Even those responses were lame—limp little lifts, more hitches than shrugs.

Still, Mama’s hair and makeup were flawless, her cashmere jogging suit perfectly matched to her tan Coach sneakers. I vowed to buy a small gift for Goose, already gone when I’d arrived.

Mama didn’t ask about my work, about the overlooks and the remains that had excited her just a few days earlier. Except for one comment on the state of my nails, she didn’t criticize or critique. Mostly, she spent the time shut away in her own private world of thought.

Desperate to engage her, I introduced the topic I’d been dodging so diligently. A topic I’d yet to share with her.

“I have some news, Mama.”

She gave a curious flick of one perfectly plucked brow.

“Andrew Ryan has asked me to marry him.”

That got her full attention. “Your French detective?”

“French Canadian.”

“How delightful. When is the wedding?”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“Do you love this man?” Asked after a long, scrutinizing look.

“Yes.”

“Then why on earth not?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“You can’t keep brooding over Pete’s infidelity.”

“My hesitation has nothing to do with that.” Deep down knowing that Pete’s betrayal had yet to grant me permission to leave the building. That now and then the pain still came knocking at the door. “Ryan is complicated.”