The Bone Garden: A Novel

— Oh, yeah. She used to keep a box of dog biscuits just for him. — He laughed. — McCoy never forgets a free meal. —

She walked down the slope toward him. He no longer frightened her. She could not imagine a rapist or murderer owning such a friendly animal. The dog was practically dancing around at the end of the leash as she approached, eager to make her acquaintance.

— You're the new owner, I take it? — he said.

— Julia Hamill. —

— Tom Page. I live right down the road. — He started to shake her hand, then remembered the plastic bag he was holding and gave an embarrassed laugh. — Oops. Doggy doo. I was trying to pick up after him. —

So that's why he'd crouched momentarily in the grass, she thought. He was just cleaning up after his pet.

The dog gave an impatient bark and jumped up on his hind legs, begging for Julia's attention.

— McCoy! Down, boy! — Tom yanked on the leash, and the dog reluctantly obeyed.

— McCoy, as in real McCoy? — she asked.

— Um, no. As in Dr. McCoy. —

— Oh. Star Trek. —

He regarded her with a sheepish smile. — I guess that dates me. It's scary how many kids these days have never heard of Dr. McCoy. It makes me feel ancient. —

But he was certainly not ancient, she thought. Maybe in his early forties. Through her kitchen window, his hair had appeared black; now that she was closer, she could see threads of gray mingled there, and his dark eyes, squinting in the morning sunlight, were framed by well-used laugh lines.

— I'm glad somebody finally bought Hilda's place, — he said, glancing toward the house. — It was looking pretty lonely there for a while. —

— It's in rather bad shape. —

— She really couldn't keep it up. This yard was too much for her, but she was so damn territorial, she'd never let anyone else work in it. — He glanced toward the patch of bare earth, where the bones had been exhumed. — If she had, they might've found that skeleton a long time ago. —

— You've heard about it. —

— The whole neighborhood has. I came by a few weeks ago to watch them digging. You had a whole crew out here. —

— I didn't see you. —

— I didn't want you to think I was being too nosy. But I was curious. — He looked at her, his eyes so direct it made her feel uneasy, as though she could feel his gaze probing the contours of her brain. — How do you like the neighborhood? — he asked. — Aside from the skeletons? —

She hugged herself in the morning chill. — I don't know. —

— You haven't decided yet? —

— I mean, I love Weston, but I'm a little spooked by the bones. Knowing she was buried here all those years. It makes me feel? — She shrugged. — Lonely, I guess. — She stared toward the grave site. — I wish I knew who she was. —

— The university couldn't tell you? —

— They think the grave's early nineteenth century. Her skull was fractured in two places, and she was buried without much care. Just wrapped in an animal hide and dumped into the ground, without any ceremony. As if they were in a hurry to dispose of her. —

— A fractured skull and a quick burial? That sounds an awful lot like murder to me. —

She looked at him. — I think so, too. —

They said nothing for a moment. The mist had almost lifted now, and in the trees, birds chirped. Not crows this time, but songbirds, flitting gracefully from twig to twig. Odd, she thought, how the crows have simply vanished.

— Is that your phone ringing? — he asked.

Suddenly aware of the sound, she glanced toward the house. — I'd better get that. —

— It was nice meeting you! — he called out as she ran up the steps to her porch. By the time she made it into her kitchen, he was moving on, dragging the reluctant McCoy after him. Already she'd forgotten his last name. Had he or had he not been wearing a wedding band?

It was Vicky on the phone. — So what's the latest installment of Home Improvement? — she asked.

— I tiled the bathroom floor last night. — Julia's gaze was still on her garden, where Tom's brown sweater was now fading into the shadows beneath the trees. That old sweater must be a favorite of his, she thought. You didn't go out in public wearing something that ratty unless you had a sentimental attachment to it. Which somehow made him even more appealing. That and his dog.

— ?and I really think you should start dating again. —

Julia's attention snapped back to Vicky. — What? —

— I know how you feel about blind dates, but this guy's really nice. —

— No more lawyers, Vicky. —

— They're not all like Richard. Some of them do prefer a real woman to a blow-dried Tiffani. Who, I just found out, has a daddy who's a big wheel at Morgan Stanley. No wonder she's getting a big splashy wedding. —

— Vicky, I really don't need to hear the details. —

— I think someone should whisper in her daddy's ear and tell him just what kind of loser his baby girl's getting married to. —

— I have to go. I've been in the garden and my hands are all dirty. I'll call you later. — She hung up and immediately felt guilty for that little white lie. But just the mention of Richard had thrown a shadow over her day, and she didn't want to think about him. She'd rather shovel manure.

She grabbed a garden hat and gloves, went back out into the yard, and looked toward the streambed. Tom-in-the-brown-sweater was nowhere in sight, and she felt a twinge of disappointment. You just got dumped by one man. Are you so anxious to get your heart broken again? She collected the shovel and wheelbarrow and moved down the slope, toward the ancient flower bed she'd been rejuvenating. Rattling through the grass, she wondered how many times old Hilda Chamblett had made her way down this overgrown path. Whether she'd worn a hat like Julia's, whether she'd paused and looked up at the sound of songbirds, whether she'd noticed that crooked branch in the oak tree.

Did she know, on that July day, that it would be her last on earth?

That night, she was too exhausted to cook anything more elaborate than a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. She ate at the kitchen table with the photocopied news clippings about Hilda Chamblett spread out in front of her. The articles were brief, reporting only that the elderly woman had been found dead in her backyard and that foul play was not suspected. At ninety-two, you are already living on borrowed time. What better way to die, a neighbor was quoted as saying, than on a summer's day in your garden?

She read the obituary:

Hilda Chamblett, lifelong resident of Weston, Massachusetts, was found dead in her backyard on July 25. Her death has been ruled by the medical examiner's office as — most likely of natural causes. — Widowed for the past twenty years, she was a familiar figure in gardening circles, and was known as an enthusiastic plantswoman who favored irises and roses. She is survived by her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine, and her niece Rachel Surrey of Roanoke, Virginia, as well as two grandnieces and a grandnephew.

The ringing telephone made her splash tomato soup on the page. Vicky, no doubt, she thought, probably wondering why I haven't called her back yet. She didn't want to talk to Vicky; she didn't want to hear about the lavish plans for Richard's wedding. But if she didn't answer it now, Vicky would just call again later.

Julia picked up the phone. — Hello? —

A man's voice, gravelly with age, said: — Is this Julia Hamill? —

— Yes, it is. —

— So you're the woman who bought Hilda's house. —