Bones and Roses (3 page)

She scoffs at this. “I have two words for you: rug burns.”

I roll my eyes. “Jesus. What is it with you?” The bedroom was an amusement park, in Ivy's view, and anything less than Six Flags-worthy was beneath consideration. “No, I don't get rug burns with Daniel, but—”

“Enough said.”

I sigh. It's no use arguing with Ivy. She has no idea what it is to be in a long-term relationship. She's seldom without a boyfriend, but she checks out as soon as he lets her know he wants more than sex and companionship. She always says she's perfectly content with her life as it is. She has me and her other friends, a career she loves, and the rambling Victorian a half mile from my house she calls home. Personally I think her problem with men is related to the abandonment issues she won't admit to. On the other hand, maybe she just hasn't met the right guy.

Not until after lunch, as we're headed back to work, do I remember what else is on my to-do list. The other day I heard from a man named Tom McGee, the manager of the White Oaks self-storage facility out on Old County Road, who informed me he'd been instructed to release the contents of one of the units to me. It was all very mysterious. He didn't have the name of the lessee, just the entity listed on the contract: Starfish Enterprises.

At first I couldn't think who my mystery benefactor might be, but I've since come to suspect it's a former neighbor of mine, old Mrs. Appleby, who died a couple of months ago. She used to say I was more of a daughter to her than her own daughter because I took her grocery shopping or to the drugstore to get her prescriptions filled, that kind of thing. Her own daughter rarely visited and only when she needed money. Probably this was Mrs. Appleby's way of ensuring Ms. Greedy Graspy didn't get it all. I can't imagine what she might have left me, though, since she was far from rich. Some old furnishings or a set of china? A painting she thought was valuable? I'll know soon enough. I'm scheduled to meet with Mr. McGee later this afternoon for the big “reveal.” I'm not optimistic.

“It's probably just a pile of junk,” I speculate aloud to Ivy.

We're strolling along the pedestrian mall at the heart of the business district, a street lined with stucco storefronts painted in beach-umbrella shades and adorned with decorative wrought-iron and terra-cotta planters from which bright blooms spill. We pass a homeless man begging outside the Hang Ten Surf Shop. He looks sporty if unkempt in banana-yellow board shorts and blue-tinted Oakleys. I toss a quarter in his cup and he glances up from the battered paperback he's reading to smile at me from his recumbent position on the sidewalk where he sits with his legs outstretched, reclining against his backpack. I only wish I were as content as he appears to be.

Ivy smiles and says, “You know what they say. One man's junk …”

“… is another man's treasure,” I finish for her. “We'll see. Just don't expect a lost Rembrandt.”

I spend the next hour at the Noels' vacation rental readying it for the paying guests due to arrive later in the day. One of my nicer properties, its desirable location overlooking one of the prettiest beaches in Cypress Bay, has it much in demand. So far I've been lucky with renters. No broken dishes, no towels or linens that “mysteriously” go missing. No overflowing toilet not reported in a timely fashion, or carpet stains resulting from someone having ignored the no-pet policy. (Believe me, I've seen it all in my line of work.)

I open windows to let in fresh air. I arrange the cut flowers I picked up at Trader Joe's in vases and distribute them throughout the house. Finally I see to the small details that escaped the cleaning lady's attention: I change a light bulb that was burned out, clean out the lint trap in the clothes dryer, and replace the used soap bars in the bathrooms. The house is as welcoming as a smile and a handshake by the time I leave. I pause to gaze out the picture window in the living room on my way out. The beach spread out below, dotted with sunbathers and their colorful accouterment, looks like a giant sheet cake from this distance. Gentle waves roll in to lick the shore.

I lock up and head back to my trusty green Ford Explorer, which I bought new with the commission from my first home sale. I climb in and start the engine. Two more stops before I have to be at the White Oaks self-storage facility. I can swing by the Trousdales' after I'm done there; it's on my way home.

By four o'clock I'm winding my way along Old County Road, in the wooded hills above Cypress Bay. The breeze blowing in my open window brings the sharp menthol scent of the tall, shaggy-barked eucalyptus trees that line the road on either side. I love the peace and quiet out here, away from the bustle of the more touristy areas: the beaches; the Boardwalk that dates back to the 1920s and municipal pier with its souvenir shops and fish shacks; the marine center with its aquarium; and popular surfing and sightseeing spots. During the cold-weather months Cypress Bay is home to a population of roughly thirty thousand, but from late spring through early fall that number triples with the tourists who flock to our fair shores. Traffic along the main thoroughfares slows to a crawl and you'll have an easier time scoring ganga from one of our local pot dealers than finding a parking space. At my favorite coffee shop, Higher Ground, that's normally grab and go, it's not unusual to have to wait in line for fifteen minutes. Normally I don't mind the inconvenience, because I never lose sight of the fact that tourism is the lifeblood of this town and small business owners like myself; it's the tourists themselves I find objectionable. The majority are law-abiding and respectful, but there are those who light fires on public lands in defiance of local ordinances, who don't clean up after their dogs, who use our garden hoses without permission to wash the sand from their bodies after a day at the beach, and who block our driveways with their illegally parked vehicles. And that's when they're behaving themselves.

I wonder again about my mysterious bequest and feel a flutter of anticipation. I could certainly use the extra cash if it's anything of value. The renovations on my Craftsman bungalow wiped out the bulk of my savings, and the last vet bill for my tom after he got torn up in a fight with another cat took most of what was left.

A few minutes later I'm turning through the gated entrance of the White Oaks self-storage facility—which consists of prefab metal units set in rows on a slope like risers on a staircase and a two-story gray cinderblock building that houses an office and what looks to be living quarters above—where I find Ivy waiting. I brake to a stop in front of the office, next to where her orange VW Bug, aka the Pumpkin—an ironic take on Cinderella's coach—is parked.

“It doesn't look too promising,” I remark, looking around me.

“Just remember. A lost Rembrandt wouldn't stay lost if it was somewhere obvious,” she says.

Inside we find a man tapping away at a desktop computer as ancient-looking as the office's sparse furnishings. “You're late,” he says in a gravelly voice without looking up. He speaks with a pronounced New York accent that matches the Yankees jersey he has on. Clearly he's not from around here. Nor does he appear to have a pressing appointment I'm keeping him from.

I glance at my watch. “Five minutes. But I didn't think it was a big—”

“Come with me.” He stands up and grabs a key from the wooden pegboard above the desk. We're out the door before he bothers to introduce himself. “Tom McGee.” A calloused hand wraps around mine, then he's plowing ahead of me. I have to practically run to catch up to him.

As he leads the way to my unit in the uppermost row, I find myself studying McGee surreptitiously. He reminds me of guys you see in AA meetings, scruffy and unshaven with puffy eyes, though from the odor of stale beer that wafts toward me it's obvious he's not in the program. He looks to be in his mid-forties, with a gaunt face and dark brown hair slicked back in a ponytail that more closely resembles a rat's tail. The only thing about him that isn't dull or worn-looking is his eyes: they're as black and sharp as a raptor's. A corner of his thin-lipped mouth hooks up in a half-smile as he hands me the key to the padlock when we finally arrive at my unit.

“Have at it. But don't blame me if there's a dead body in there.” He has a sense of humor at least.

My first thought as I peer into the darkened interior is that this has to be somebody's idea of a joke. Because at first glance the unit appears to be empty. Only when my eyes adjust do I spot the footlocker in the shadowy recesses at one end.

“Well, what do you know,” Ivy comments dryly. “I always wondered what happened to D. B. Cooper's loot.”

I move in to get a closer look. The footlocker is army-issue and coated with at least three inches of dust. I stare at it without moving. It's not padlocked, but it might as well be. For some reason I'm hesitant to open it. I begin to shiver, feeling chilled to the bone; I could be standing in a meat locker. I was so busy guarding against false hope, it didn't occur to me I might be in for a nasty surprise. I pissed off a lot of people during my drinking days, and I haven't gotten around to making amends to all of them. What if one of them is harboring a grudge and this is their way of getting back at me? When I finally turn the key that's in the lock and lift the lid with a haunted-house groan of rusted hinges, I'm relieved when a rattlesnake doesn't jump out at me. Instead I'm met with something bulky wrapped in a filthy, blue, plastic tarp bound with nylon rope. The unpleasant odor that wafts my way tells me it hasn't seen the light of day in some time. McGee assists me in pulling the bundle onto the concrete floor. He uses the box cutter he produced from his back pocket to cut the rope. I peel back the layers of tarp to reveal what it holds.

Then I start to scream.

CHAPTER TWO

The remains are clearly human: a grinning skull with matted hair, a skeleton curled in a fetal position. A half-crumbled bouquet of roses is the final grisly touch. The world goes black at the edges and my knees buckle. I'm distantly aware of arms catching me before the blackness closes over me.

When I regain consciousness, I'm lying on the ground looking up at blue sky. Two faces hover over me, one gaunt and whiskery, the other pale, framed with a riot of black curls. Ivy and McGee are peering down at me like a pair of concerned parents at a child who'd fallen down and bumped her head. I struggle into an upright position, dry-mouthed, head swimming. I'm sitting on the strip of stubbly grass that borders the row of units. Ivy helps me up. Every ounce of my being wants to run away. Instead I stagger back to my gruesome find. I need to know if it's what I think it is.

“Fuck me,” mutters McGee as I shine my phone's flashlight over what appears to have been an adult female, judging from what's left of her clothing.

“Tish, is that—?” Ivy's voice penetrates the buzzing in my ears.

“Yeah.” I nod, a sharp jerk of my head. The rotted fabric that forms her shroud, once-yellow, now a dull ochre, printed with poppies, confirms my suspicion: The woman whose remains I'm looking at are those of my mother. She was wearing that dress the last time I saw her. I gulp hard against my rising gorge. “I think I need to sit down,” I hear myself say in a shaky voice.

“Would one of you ladies mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” barks McGee after Ivy has phoned 911 and I'm once more seated on the grass, gulping in fresh air to combat my spinning head. I turn to look up at him, an action that seems to take place in slow motion underwater.

I can't speak. Ivy answers instead.

She didn't run out on us.
All this time she was dead. Moldering away.

Next thing I know, I'm tossing my cookies onto the grass. “Tish …” At the sound of Ivy's voice I look up to find her squatting beside me and holding out a handkerchief, from McGee's pocket. The faint odor of cigarettes invades my nostrils when I use it to wipe my mouth.

I'm feeling a little less shaky by the time the cops get there. Though it doesn't help matters that the first responders are none other than officers James and Ruiz. “Anything you want to tell us?” asks a narrow-eyed Jordan as he stands before me working a wad of gum.

“Like what? That someone with a sick sense of humor played a practical joke on me? I should think that would be pretty obvious,” I snap.

“It's just,” he pauses to give his jaws a rest, long enough for me to get a good look at the grayish wad protruding from his molars, “I gotta say, it doesn't look good. Two crime scenes in one day?” Either he's especially dense or he gets off on making other people suffer. My guess is the latter.

“Show some respect,” Ivy snarls. “That's her mom.” She gestures toward the yellow crime scene tape strung across the open door to the unit. The ME and CSI team have arrived and are busy photographing and combing the scene for forensic evidence.

It was clearly the wrong thing to say. Jordan shifts his gaze from Ivy to me, his eyes narrowing further until they're little more than slits in his pitted face. “And you know this because … ?”

Before I can reply, a deep male voice interrupts. “Tish. Got a minute?”

I turn around slowly to find myself face-to-face with another unwelcome blast from my past, in the form of one Spence Breedlove. My former nemesis, one-time crush, destroyer of my reputation in high school, and now, the lead detective on this case. “Sure,” I say as though to a stranger who'd stopped me on the sidewalk to ask directions. Defense mechanisms are a wonderful thing.

Too bad they have a short battery life. “Listen, I know how it must look, but it's not what you think,” I find myself babbling a minute later. “I didn't know she was in there. I didn't even know she was dead! Ask him. He'll tell you.” I gesture wildly toward McGee, who takes a step back and throws his hands up.

“Don't look at me,” he says with his Brooklyn accent that makes him sound like Joe Pesci in
My Cousin Vinny
. “I don't know nothing about it.” He explains how it all went down, in clear, concise language that tells me there's more to this guy than meets the eye. Then it's my turn to speak.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don't know. You tell me,” Spence answers mildly, his eyes boring into me.

Spence Breedlove towers over me at six foot four, which I know to be his height because, when he was star linebacker for the Harbor High Sea Lions, his stats were well documented. The school paper,
The Harbor Mouth
, reported his every triumph in minute detail (it speaks volumes that I have a better recollection of the winning touchdown he scored in the season playoff than I do of the drunken encounter that led to my deflowering that same year) complete with photo coverage. He was our very own Tom Brady. I see that same face, a bit older but no less handsome, looking at me now: square jaw, cleft chin, hair worn shorter than in high school, so thick it's like blond turf. Only his eye color is different, a blue not found in nature or his yearbook photo—he's wearing tinted contacts. Ugh. I wonder if the personal vehicle he drives has vanity plates.

This, I reflect, is the downside to living your whole life in the same community: Former classmates, whom you would go out of your way to avoid if you were sharing a jail cell with them, have a way of resurfacing like turds in a toilet bowl. The jerky boyfriend you dumped is today's bank manager with the paperwork for your home loan on his desk. The mean girl who took pleasure in humiliating you for four years straight is the maid of honor at your coworker's wedding. And the campus stud who lured you upstairs with him while you were drunk at Stacey Schwabacher's sweet sixteen? He's the detective in charge of investigating your mother's murder.

“I have nothing to hide,” I declare, tilting my chin up at him.

“Good. Then how about we continue this conversation down at the station,” he suggests in a voice that tells me I have little choice in the matter. I take a jab at him even so.

“Gee, I don't know. My dance card is kind of full at the moment.”

He looks taken aback by my sarcasm, then he smiles and spreads his hands in a conciliatory gesture. Hands as big and manly as the rest of him, sporting a sprinkling of hairs the gold of the wedding band on his ring finger. I feel my cheeks warm, thinking about the places they went on my body twenty years ago. “I'm asking nicely.” He speaks in a low voice. “Let's not make this personal.”

“Too late,” I retort sharply. A few minutes ago, he arrived on the scene without so much as acknowledging my presence. He walked right by me, not saying a word. What was up with
that
?

His eyebrows draw together in a frown. “Look, I'm not the enemy. I'm just doing my job.”

“Really? Do you always show such compassion to bereaved family members or is it just me?”

“Tish. Come on now.” I detect a vein of iron ore running through his reasoning tone. “I understand this has been a shock, but I'm sure you're just as eager to get to the bottom of this as I am.”

We stare at each other for a beat or two. I'm the first to break eye contact. This is silly. We're not in high school anymore. And yes, I do want to get to the bottom of this. I blow out a breath, relaxing my stance. “Fine.”

Ivy steps up alongside me, intervening. “Can't it wait? She's in shock.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He studies me, and I feel myself grow self-conscious under his gaze. I must look much the same as I did after the regrettable experience of that night I wish I could forget: pale and clammy, my dirty-blond hair hanging in strings around my face, the front of my shirt stained with vomit. “But it'd be best if we went over it while it's still fresh in your mind,” he says to me.

“You call that fresh?” I gesticulate wildly in the direction of the two crime scene guys who're carrying out the body-bagged grisly cargo on a stretcher.

His voice is the calm eye of the hurricane howling inside me. “If this was foul play, any information you could provide would be useful.”

“
If
it was foul play?” I stare at him in disbelief. “Is there any doubt?”

“He's a cop,” McGee supplies with a shrug.

I give a nod of acquiescence, blinking back tears. Spence and I head downhill toward our respective vehicles, Ivy and McGee trailing behind. The years have not been unkind to Spence Breedlove, I observe dispassionately as I trudge alongside him. If anything, he's gotten better looking with age. He's still buff with a set of guns more impressive than what's in his holster. His blond hair, which he used to wear chin-length, is cut short but not too short, and any remnants of baby fat he had as a teenager have been stripped away, leaving a face that's all hard planes and angles. The one discordant note is the tinted contacts. There are a lot of not-nice things I could say about Spence, but I wouldn't have labeled him vain. In high school he wore his mantle of glory with the easy grace of a prince born to the throne. Speaking of which, those unnaturally blue eyes are also an uncomfortable reminder of the many nights I'd spent hugging the porcelain throne, staring into toilet water tinted the same chemical shade, before I cleaned up my act.

I'm also reminded that he's not my friend. He betrayed me once before. How do I know he won't do so again?

The police station is located in the large and unlovely municipal building on Center Street that also houses the courthouse, county jail, and DA's offices. A gray concrete cube of a structure that stands three stories high, it has all the curb appeal of a Soviet-bloc government building from the Cold War era. I'm escorted to a cramped and windowless space with walls painted a shade of green reminiscent of a sputum sample. Its only furnishings are a metal table and two chairs, bolted to the floor. I sit down in one of the chairs. Spence sits down opposite me. I gesture toward the tape recorder on the table. “Is that really necessary?”

“Standard procedure,” he explains. “Nothing to worry about.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “How do I know you won't use it against me?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'll ask the questions, you answer, and we'll see where we're at.”

I settle back in my chair. “How do I know you won't make me look bad?”

“Why would I do that?”

“It wouldn't be the first time.”

His expression hardens. “I thought we weren't going to make this personal.”

“You started it.” I cringe inwardly at my childish tone.
Grow up
, I tell myself. The trouble is, I'm not feeling very mature right now.

He stares at me unflinchingly. “Do you really want to go there, Tish?”

“You should ask yourself the same question.”

“Fine. Let's talk about it, then,” he says, a note of anger creeping in his voice. “Tell me what the hell you're so pissed about.
I'm
the one who should be pissed.”

“Aha!” I jab my index finger in his direction. “I knew it. You're still mad that I torched your car.” I speak of the 1972 maroon Camaro that was his pride and joy in high school and that I set fire to in retaliation for his having trashed my reputation. Not my finest hour, I admit.

He folds his arms over his chest in a gesture that has his bulging arm muscles straining the shoulder seams of his navy sports coat. He stares at me stonily, his Tidy-Bowl blue eyes flashing. “I
was
mad, yes. At the time. But I'm over it,” he says in a tone of voice that suggests otherwise. “Though you
do
owe me an apology. Isn't that one of the steps in AA? Making amends.”

I feel a rush of heat to my face. It's a wonder my hair doesn't catch fire, it's so intense. My voice is pure ice, in contrast. “I'm not going to ask how you know I'm in AA, because I'd have to kill whoever told you and then you really would have something on me.”

“So that's how it is, huh? You're playing the injured party?”

“It's not an act.” I haven't given much thought to this stuff in years, but my gruesome discovery, it seems, has caused it to resurface like the gunk I fished from a clogged drain earlier in the day.

“I'm sorry you feel that way. My memory of our … whatever you want to call it … is different. I remember it as consensual. So if that's what you're pissed about, I still don't get it.”

I snort. “You think I'm mad about
that
? I hate to break it to you, but it wasn't all that memorable. ”

Red stripes form along the ridges of his cheekbones. “Then what is it, huh? What did I ever do to you?”

“Like you don't know.” The last semester of my junior year had been a living hell. Everywhere I went I'd had classmates whispering and snickering. School was a Roman amphitheater into which I'd been tossed, only it wasn't just one lion out to maul me, it was dozens. There the lies and taunts; the nasty things written about me on blackboards and bathroom walls; the condoms stuffed in my locker. It was rumored I'd had sex with half the players on the football team, not just its star linebacker. All because of Spence. “You trashed my reputation!”

“Seemed to me you were doing a pretty good job of that all by yourself.”

Fury boils up inside me. “Right. Like I went around telling everyone I was a slut. Fuck you.”

He looks confused. No doubt it's genuine—after all, I'd been only one of his many conquests; how could he be expected to keep them all straight much less recall his every callow act? “I meant that everyone knew about your drinking. What did you think I meant?” Before I can answer, the door opens and the pretty, dark-haired Officer Ruiz enters carrying a steaming Styrofoam cup. She places it on the table in front of me and I inhale the fragrance of hot coffee.