Now every week brought increasing fatigue, everything she’d taken for granted was an ordeal. She stood there, catching her breath. Okay, time for an alternative plan: Inserting the spade along every inch of the box’s edges, she let loose a series of tiny, sharp tugs, working methodically, careful not to strain.
After two go-rounds, she began again, had barely pushed down on the spade when the box’s left side popped up and it flew out of the hole and Holly staggered back, caught off-balance.
The spade fell from her hands as she used both arms to fight for stability.
She felt herself going down, willed herself not to, managed to stay on her feet.
Close call. She was wheezing like an asthmatic couch potato. Finally, she recovered enough to drag the blue box onto the dirt.
No lock on the latch, just a hasp and loop, rusted through. But the rest of the box had turned green from oxidation, and a patch worn through the blue paint explained that: bronze. From the weight, solid. That had to be worth something by itself.
Sucking in a lungful of air, Holly jiggled with the hasp until she freed it.
“Presto-gizmo,” she said, lifting the lid.
The bottom and sides of the box were lined with browned newspaper. Resting in the nest of clippings was something wrapped in fuzzy cloth-a satin-edged blanket, once blue, now faded mostly to tan and pale green. Purplish splotches on the satin borders.
Something worth wrapping. Burying. Excited, Holly lifted the blanket out of the box.
Feeling disappointed immediately because whatever was inside had no serious weight to it, scratch doubloons or gold bars or rose-cut diamonds.
Laying the blanket on the ground, Holly took hold of a seam and unfurled.
The thing that had been inside the blanket grinned up at her.
Then it shape-shifted, oh God, and she cried out and it fell apart in front of her eyes because all that had held it together was the tension of the blanket-wrap.
Tiny skeleton, now a scatter of loose bones.
The skull had landed right in front of her. Smiling. Black eyeholes insanely
Two minuscule tooth-thingies on the bottom jaw looked ready to bite.
Holly sat there, unable to move or breathe or think.
A bird peeped.
Silence bore down on Holly.
A leg bone rolled to one side as if by its own power and she let out a wordless retch of fear and revulsion.
That did nothing to discourage the skull. It kept
Holly mustered all of her strength and screamed.
Kept screaming.
CHAPTER 2
The woman was blond, pretty, white-faced, pregnant.
Her name was Holly Ruche and she sat hunched atop a tree stump, one of a dozen or so massive, chain- sawed segments taking up a good portion of the run-down backyard. Breathing hard and clutching her belly, she clenched her eyes shut. One of Milo’s cards rested between her right thumb and forefinger, crumpled beyond recognition. For the second time since I’d arrived, she waved off help from the paramedics.
They hung around anyway, paying scant attention to the uniforms and the coroner’s crew. Everyone standing around looking superfluous; it would take an anthropologist to make sense of this.
Milo had phoned the EMTs first. “Priorities. It’s not like there’s any emergency to the rest of it.”
Open sutures in the skull and a couple of dental eruptions in the mandible made my guess four to six months, but my Ph.D.’s in the wrong science for that kind of prophecy. The smallest bones-fingers, toes-weren’t much thicker than toothpicks.
Looking at the poor little thing made my eyes hurt. I shifted my attention to details.
Beneath the blanket was a wad of newspaper clippings from 1951 lining a blue metal box around two feet long. The paper was the L.A.
The homely, squat Tudor house fronting the yard looked to be older than that, probably from the twenties when so much of L.A. had taken shape.
Holly Ruche began crying.
A paramedic approached again. “Ma’am?”
“I’m fine …” Swollen-eyed, hair cut in an off-kilter bob mussed by nervous hands, she focused on Milo, as if for the first time, shifted to me, shook her head, stood.
Folding her arms across her occupied abdomen, she said, “When can I have my house back, Detective?”
“Soon as we finish processing, Ms. Ruche.”
She regarded me again.
Milo said, “This is Dr. Delaware, our consulting psychologist-”
“Psychologist? Is someone worried about my mental health?”
“No, ma’am. We sometimes call Dr. Delaware in when-”
“Thanks but I’m fine.” Shuddering, she glanced back to where she’d found the bones. “So horrible.”
Milo said, “How deeply was the box buried?”
“I don’t know-not deep, I was able to pull it up, wasn’t I? You don’t really think this is a real crime, do you? I mean a new one. It’s historical, not for the police, right? The house was constructed in 1927 but it could’ve even been there way before, the land used to be bean fields and grapevines, if you dug up the neighborhood-any neighborhood-who knows what you’d find.”
She placed a hand on her chest. Seemed to be fighting for oxygen.
Milo said, “Maybe you should sit down, ma’am.”
“Don’t worry, I promise I’m okay.”
“How about we let the paramedics take a look at you-”
“I’ve already been looked at,” she said. “By a real doctor, yesterday, my ob-gyn, everything’s perfect.”
“How far along are you?”
“Five months.” Her smile was frigid. “What could possibly not be okay? I own a gorgeous house. Even though you’re
“The previous owners?”
“The Hannahs, Mark and Brenda, it was their mother’s, she died, they couldn’t wait to cash out … hey, here’s something for you, Detective … I’m sorry, what’d you say your name was?”
“Lieutenant Sturgis.”
“Here’s something, Lieutenant Sturgis: The old woman was ninety-three when she died, she lived here for a long time, the house still smells of her. So she could easily have … done that.”
“We’ll look into it, Ms. Ruche.”
“What exactly does
“Depends on what else we find.”
