Murder Bone by Bone Read Online Free PDF Page B

fifty years, roughly the age of the Wedgewood stove. The cabinets and woodwork were from the same era as those in my place, a time when cabinets were made from solid wood, painted with thick white enamel, and placed scantily around wainscoting-clad walls. It was charming, if run-down, and at least Bridget had a walk-in pantry for actual storage. Despite its age and inconvenience, her kitchen was homey and welcoming.
    Bridget had mentioned once that she and Emery had painted over a lot of Day-Glo colors before they moved in. I could imagine the marijuana brownie-baking sisters from the seventies in the kitchen, along with their long-haired, draft-dodger boyfriends, before cynicism and life brushed the bloom off them, listening to Hendrix and toking up. My sister, eight years older, had worn platform shoes and skirts as short as she could get away with; the arguments about her skirt length had made an impression on an eight-year-old. By the time I was old enough to rebel, the initial parental shock over bell bottoms and torn jeans had dissipated; impassioned discussion of the principles of peace and love had given way to uninterested acceptance of bizarre dress and provocative pronouncements.
    I still held those times up in my mind as purer, less sullied than the era of greed that followed. However, my feelings probably had more to do with my own wide-eyed youth than with historical truth. And it’s been a long time since abstract virtues have had any impact on my life.
    Moira contributed some Cheerios and an apple slice to the dirt I was sweeping, so I took her down from the high chair, washing her face again. We settled in the living room with a basket of bristle blocks. It was nearly lunchtime; I wondered if the boys would still be hungry after milkshakes. I also wondered if Claudia would survive. I should have taken Moira in the stroller and gone with her, but the notion of having just one child to tend for a while had been too enticing. I stuck some bristle blocks together to form a frame and prayed to survive the week.
    Barker roused from the blissed-out sleep of a well-exercised dog and began living up to his name. Startled, Moira turned a worried face to me. I picked her up and went to the door, expecting the mail carrier.
    A battered white van with the Stanford emblem on the side panel had pulled up in the driveway. Several people were milling around, directed by a tall, slim man whose long, graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
    Moira and I went out on the porch. I let Barker out, too, but I kept a hand in his collar.
    “Excuse me,” I said politely. “What are you doing?”
    No one paid any attention. Besides the ponytailed man in charge, three other jeans-clad people hauled shovels and other equipment out of the van. All of them wore baseball caps. One was a woman in her early twenties, I judged. The other two were men about the same age.
    I raised my voice. “Hey!”
    The older man looked at me and held up his hand in a laconic wave. Barker began growling. He doesn’t like men much until he gets to know them. Sometimes not then.
    “Hey! What are you doing!”
    The older man came over, stopping at the front of the porch steps when he heard Barker’s growl. His three companions quit working and watched.
    “Hi. You the home owner?” The ponytailed man smiled. His face was lean, with leathery skin and pale, almost silvery blue eyes. The charming smile revealed a flash of gold tooth back among his molars. His sleeveless T-shirt emphasized a limber, attractively muscled build, showing a bit of curling grayish chest hair. A red bandanna was tied jauntily around his neck.
    “I’m living here. Who are you?”
    His grin widened. “You get to the point, don’t you. Will your dog bite?”
    “Probably.” I kept my finger in Barker’s collar. He still had his fur raised, though it wouldn’t take much friendliness from the man to make Barker his buddy for life. He’s a good watchdog for five minutes, then