The present
— THANK YOU for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Isles. — Julia took a seat in the medical examiner's office. She'd come straight from the summer heat into the frigid building, and now she looked across the desk at a woman who seemed perfectly at home in this chilly environment. Except for the framed floral prints on the wall, Maura Isles's office was all business: files and textbooks, a microscope, and a desk that looked ruthlessly organized. Julia shifted uneasily in the chair, feeling as if she were the one now under the microscope lens. — You probably don't get many requests like mine, but I really need to know. For my own peace of mind. —
— Dr. Petrie's the one you should be talking to, — said Isles. — The skeleton is a forensic anthropology case. —
— I'm not here about that skeleton. I've already spoken to Dr. Petrie, and she had nothing new to tell me. —
— Then how can I help you? —
— When I bought the house, the real estate agent told me that the previous owner was an elderly woman who'd died on the property. Everyone assumed it was a natural death. But a few days ago, my next-door neighbor mentioned there'd been several burglaries in the area. And last year, a man was seen driving up and down the road, as if he was casing the houses. Now I'm starting to wonder if —
— If it wasn't a natural death? — said Isles bluntly. — That's what you're asking, isn't it? —
Julia met the medical examiner's gaze. — Yes. —
— I'm afraid I didn't perform that particular autopsy. —
— But there's a report somewhere, isn't there? It would give a cause of death, wouldn't it? —
— I'd have to know the name of the deceased. —
— I have it right here. — Julia reached into her purse and took out a bundle of photocopies, which she handed to Isles. — It's her obituary, from the local paper. Her name was Hilda Chamblett. And these are all the news clippings I could find about her. —
— So you've already been digging into this. —
— It's been on my mind. — Julia gave an embarrassed laugh. — Plus, there's that old skeleton in my backyard. I'm feeling a little uneasy that two different women have died there. —
— At least a hundred years apart. —
— It's the one last year that really bothers me. Especially after what my neighbor said, about the burglaries. —
Isles nodded. — I suppose it would bother me, too. Let me find the report. — She left the office and returned moments later with the file. — The autopsy was done by Dr. Costas, — she said as she sat down at her desk. She opened the file. — Chamblett, Hilda, age ninety-two, found in the backyard of her Weston residence. Remains were found by a family member who had been away and had not checked on her for three weeks. Time of death is therefore uncertain.' — Isles flipped to a new page and paused. — The photos aren't particularly pleasant, — she said. — You don't need to see these. —
Julia swallowed. — No, I don't. Maybe you could just read me the conclusions? —
Isles turned to the summary and glanced up. — You're sure you want to hear this? — At Julia's nod, Isles once again began to read aloud. — Body was found in a supine position, surrounded by tall grass and weeds, which concealed it from view beyond only a few feet ' —
The same weeds I've been battling, thought Julia. I've been pulling up the same grass that hid Hilda Chamblett's body.
— No skin or soft tissue is found intact on any exposed surfaces. Shreds of clothing, consisting of what appears to be a sleeveless cotton dress, still adhere to parts of the torso. In the neck, cervical vertebrae are clearly visible and soft tissues are lacking. Large and small bowel are largely missing, and remaining lungs, liver, and spleen have defects with serrated margins. Of interest are fluffy, shredded strands, presumed to be nerve and muscle fibers, found in all limb joints. Periosteum, including skull, ribs, and limb bones, also have similar fluffy strands. Noted around the corpse are numerous bird droppings.' — Isles looked up. — Assumed to be from crows.' —
Julia stared at her. — You're saying crows did that? —
— These findings are classical for crow scavenging. Birds in general have been known to cause postmortem damage. Even cute little songbirds will peck and pull at a corpse's skin. Crows are considerably larger and carnivorous, so they can skeletonize a corpse quickly. They devour all soft tissues, but they can't quite pull off nerve fibers or tendons. Those strands remain attached to the joints, where they get frayed by repeated pecking. That's why Dr. Costas described the strands as fluffy because they'd been so thoroughly shredded by the crows' beaks. — Isles closed the folder. — That's the report. —
— You haven't told me the cause of death. —
— Because it was indeterminable. After three weeks, there's too much scavenger damage and decay. —
— Then you have no idea? —
— She was ninety-two. It was a hot summer, and she was out alone in her garden. It's reasonable to assume she had a cardiac event. —
— But you can't be sure. —
— No, we can't. —
— So it could have been —
— Murder? — Isles's gaze was direct.
— She lived alone. She was vulnerable. —
— There's no mention here of any disturbance in the house. No signs of a burglary. —
— Maybe the killer didn't care about robbery. Maybe he was just interested in her. In what he could do to her. —
Isles said quietly: — Believe me, I do understand what you're thinking. What you're afraid of. In my profession, I've seen what people can do to other people. Terrible things that make you question what it is to be human, whether we're any better than animals. But this particular death just doesn't ring any alarm bells for me. Common things are common, and in the case of a ninety-two-year-old woman found dead in her own backyard, murder isn't the first thing that comes to mind. — Isles regarded Julia for a moment. — I can see you're not satisfied. —
Julia sighed. — I don't know what to think. I'm sorry I ever bought the house. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I moved in. —
— You haven't been living there very long. It's stressful, moving into a new place. Give yourself some time to get used to it. There's always an adjustment period. —
— I've been having dreams, — Julia said.
Isles didn't look impressed, and why would she? This was a woman who routinely sliced open the dead, a woman who'd chosen a career that would give most people nightmares. — What sort of dreams? —
— It's been three weeks now, and I've had them almost every night. I keep hoping they'll go away, that it's just from the shock of finding those bones in my garden. —
— That could give anyone nightmares. —
— I don't believe in ghosts. Really, I don't. But I feel as if she's trying to talk to me. Asking me to do something. —
— The deceased owner? Or the skeleton? —
— I don't know. Someone. —
Isles's expression remained utterly neutral. If she believed Julia was unhinged, her face didn't reveal it. But her words left no doubt where she stood on the matter. — I'm not sure I can help you with that. I'm just a pathologist, and I've told you my professional opinion. —
— And in your professional opinion, murder is still a possibility, isn't it? — insisted Julia. — You can't rule it out. —
Isles hesitated. — No, — she finally conceded. — I can't. —
That night, Julia dreamed of crows. Hundreds of them were perched in a dead tree, staring down at her with yellow eyes. Waiting.
She startled awake to the noise of raucous caws and opened her eyes to see the light of early morning through her uncurtained window. A pair of black wings glided past like a scythe wheeling through the sky. Then another. She climbed out of bed and went to the window.
The oak tree they occupied was not dead, as in her dream, but was fully leafed out in the lush growth of summer. At least two dozen crows had gathered there for some sort of corvid convention, and they perched like strange black fruit among the branches, cackling and rattling their glossy feathers. She had seen them in this tree before, and she had no doubt that these were the same birds who had feasted on Hilda Chamblett's corpse last summer, the same birds who had pecked and pulled with sharp beaks, leaving behind leathery shreds of nerve and tendon. Here they were again, looking for another taste of flesh. They knew she was watching them, and they stared back with eerie intelligence, as if they knew it was only a matter of time.
She turned away and thought: I have to hang some curtains on this window.
In the kitchen, she made coffee and spread butter and jam on toast. Outside, the morning mist was starting to lift, and it would be a sunny day. A good day to spread another bag of compost and dig in another bale of peat moss in the flower bed by the stream. Though her back still ached from laying bathroom tiles the night before, she did not want to waste a single day of good weather. You are allotted only a limited number of planting seasons in your lifetime, she thought, and once a summer is gone, you'll never get it back. She'd wasted too many summers already. This one is for me.
Outdoors, there was a noisy eruption of cawing and flapping wings. She looked out the window to see the crows suddenly lift simultaneously into the air and fly away, scattering to the four winds. Then she focused on the far corner of her yard, down near the stream, and she understood why the crows had fled so abruptly.
A man stood on the edge of her property. He was staring at her house.
She jerked away so he couldn't see her. Slowly, she eased back toward the window and peeked out. He was lean and dark-haired, dressed against the morning chill in blue jeans and a brown pullover sweater. Mist rose from the grass in feathery wisps, weaving sinuously about his legs. Trespass any farther on my property, she thought, and I'll call the police.
He took two steps toward her house.
She ran across the kitchen and snatched up the cordless phone. Darting back to the window, she looked out to see where he was, but could no longer glimpse him. Then something scratched at the kitchen door, and she was so startled, she almost dropped the phone. It's locked, right? I locked the door last night, didn't I? She dialed 911.
— McCoy! — a voice called out. — Come on, boy, get away from there! —
Glancing out the window again, she saw the man suddenly pop up from behind tall weeds. Something tapped across her porch, and then a yellow Labrador trotted into view and crossed the yard toward the man.
— Emergency operator. —
Julia looked down at the phone. Oh, God, what an idiot she was. — I'm sorry, — she said. — I called you by mistake. —
— Is everything all right, ma'am? Are you certain? —
— Yes, I'm perfectly fine. I hit speed dial by accident. Thank you. — She disconnected and looked outside again. The man was bending down to clip a leash onto the dog's collar. As he straightened, his gaze met Julia's through the window, and he gave a wave.
She opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the yard.
— Sorry about that! — he called out. — I didn't mean to trespass, but he got away from me. He thinks Hilda still lives there. —
— He's been here before? —
— 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. —
Julia frowned. — Who is this? —
— Henry Page. I'm Hilda's cousin. I hear you found some old bones in her garden. —
Julia turned back to the kitchen table and quickly scanned the obituary. A splash of soup had landed right on the paragraph listing Hilda's survivors. She dabbed it away and spotted the name.
her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine
— I'm quite interested in those bones, — he said. — I'm considered the family historian, you see. — He added, with a snort, — Because no one else gives a bloody damn. —
— What can you tell me about the bones? — she asked.
— Not a thing. —
Then why are you calling me?
— I've been looking into it, — he said. — When Hilda died, she left about thirty boxes of old papers and books. No one else wanted them, so they came to me. I admit, I just shoved them aside and haven't looked at them for the past year. But then I heard about your mysterious bones, and I wondered if there might be something about them in these boxes. — He paused. — Is this at all interesting to you, or should I just shut up and say goodbye? —
— I'm listening. —
— That's more than most of my family does. No one cares about history anymore. It's always hurry, hurry, hurry on to the hot new thing. —
— About those boxes, Mr. Page. —
— Oh, yes. I've come across some interesting documents with historical significance. I'm wondering if I've found the clue to who those bones belong to. —
— What's in these documents? —
— There are letters and newspapers. I have them all right here in my house. You can look at them, anytime you want to come up to Maine. —
— That's an awfully long drive, isn't it? —
— Not if you're really interested. It doesn't matter to me one way or the other whether you are. But since this is about your house, about people who once lived there, I thought you might find the history fascinating. Certainly I do. The tale sounds bizarre, but there's a news article here to substantiate it. —
— What news article? —
— About the brutal murder of a woman. —
— Where? When? —
— In Boston. It happened in the autumn of 1830. If you come up to Maine, Miss Hamill, you can read the documents for yourself. About the strange affair of Oliver Wendell Holmes and the West End Reaper. —