Make Old Bones

Excerpt from

Make Old Bones

Prologue

May 21, 1953

            “Chicken!”

            “Scaredy-cat!”

            Connie darted her eyes from one to the other of her tormentors, swinging her head and nailing each person with her right eye.

            “Am not,” she said, tossing her black ponytail. She liked to flip it, curl its end around her index finger. She fingered it now but hastily dropped her hand, hearing her mother saying, Stop Playing With Your Hair, Constance! “What a silly game. What makes you think fear will keep me from the third floor? I don’t believe in ghosts.”

            “Prove it, then,” said Michael, his green cat eyes gleaming. “I double-dog-dare you.”

            Silence settled now except for the pounding surf about 100 yards away. Connie surveyed the faces of the rest of the group. There was Becky, with her little finger resting on her lower lip in that hesitant gesture. Typical. Then she looked to Donnie. No support there; he’d side with Michael; and finally Jen, with that superior smirk. That settled it; Connie had struggled with Michael for leadership of the group all summer. If she didn’t go up those stairs, by herself, in the dark, and bring back a piece of the roller map, she’d lose face.

            She squared her shoulders and tried to sound offhand. “OK,” she said, shrugging. Trapped. But if she prevented the rest from entering the house with her, she stood a chance of putting her plan into action.

            Connie cleared her throat. “Why don’t you gather driftwood for a fire while I’m gone?  We won’t have much time before the tide turns.”

      “Oh, Connie, how brave of you. Even Michael didn’t go into the house alone.” Becky shivered and hugged herself. The scudding clouds momentarily obscured the moon, but not Michael’s open scowl. Good. Served him right. Connie risked a secret smile. The group scattered, Jen sticking to Michael, as usual.

            Now Connie found herself truly alone. The moon broke into view long enough to highlight the house standing sentinel on the shell mound overlooking the tidal estuary. It seemed spooky, like that haunted house story in the old sixth grade reader--the one where the tree branches resembled fingers reaching, stretching. Kid stuff, Connie scoffed; she was fifteen now, older than the rest.

            The clouds racing through the sky gave the illusion of the house moving, like trains on side-by-side tracks, when you felt movement because you saw the other train move even though yours was standing still. Relative motion or something: her dad tried to explain it to her. Connie hadn’t paid much attention. Better look away before dizziness overcame her.

            Hurry! Get it over with. They’d need to watch, be careful of the incoming tide. They always waded out to the island on the sandbar when the tide ebbed, but when it turned. . . . The moon disappeared again. Maybe better not to see and let her imagination run wild.

            Connie mounted the steps made of tabby: oyster shells mixed with sand and something. They studied it in Florida history class. Miss Adler loved local history so much she actually took the class on a field trip to the house. Connie pictured Miss Adler’s face if she ever found out what happened in Belgrath House now.

            She paused before turning to the left along the verandah. She heard a noise, a thudding sound. Like thunder, only closer. She held her breath. The moon burst forth again, highlighting the tangelo tree growing close to the house. Unripe tangelos beat a tattoo on the verandah’s tin roof. She exhaled sharply. Gingerly she approached the window to the music room, the one with the broken shutter that Michael discovered one day, and maybe helped along a little. The broken shutter allowed secret access to their forbidden playground. Not forbidden exactly. No one ever told them not to play there; no one knew.

            Connie groped her way to the entrance hall. She wished she had a flashlight, but the rules forbade lights of any kind. She reached out a hand and felt for the banister. Her fingers curved over the newel post at the foot of the staircase. Her eyes, accustomed now to the dark, discerned a faint rosy glow on the landing: moonlight filtering through the stained glass window. Like church, she told herself. Shouldn’t be afraid in church.

            She reached into the pocket of her rain slicker, reassuring herself of the safety of that precious piece of oilcloth, that three-cornered tear of New Zealand from the schoolroom’s roller map. It was to act as her proof that she had braved those flights of stairs alone and at night, her ticket to leadership of the group. She’d torn it off the roller map of the third floor schoolroom on a furtive day excursion to the house. She had company that day. Someone else with no more right to be there than she. Someone who didn’t know of Connie’s presence and what she saw….

            Seating herself on the lowest step, Connie prepared to wait a reasonable interval before emerging triumphant. She fumbled in the other pocket and drew forth a crumpled pack of Luckies. Better remember to turn the pocket inside out before she went home to get rid of stray tobacco; Mother would turn the pockets inside out. Stupid. Who ever noticed the lint in your pockets? She struck a match, bent to light her cigarette, and tossed her head as she inhaled, mimicking Bacall in Key Largo, at least in her own mind. What would the children think if they saw her? She thought of the others that way: children. Why did she still bother with them? Not much longer, she thought. An idea sprouted in her brain. Why not scare them? Hide. Don’t come out. Let them think some Bogeyman found her. She knew just the spot, too. She found it the previous week, the same trip that secured for her the piece of map. She came to the house by herself--well, actually to meet someone. Someone who didn’t show up. But he would. Oh, yes! And that other she’d seen--Connie hugged herself as she thought of the power.

            Stubbing out the cigarette in the stone urn on the post, Connie groped her way to the kitchen in the rear of the house. Gleefully, she opened the door of one of the pantries. She ran her hand along the wall until she found the knob. She remembered that it looked just like one of the other cabinets. She wedged herself inside the tiny space: a miniature elevator. Perfect. They’d never look for her here. Best of all, she needn’t go near the third floor.

            The jolt jarred her, tipping her over so that her head rested on the doorframe. A hollow noise reverberated down the shaft. Slowly her crawlspace moved…upward.

* * * *

            “Why doesn’t she come out?” said Becky, her voice rising on a note of panic.

             “We’ve gathered wood and played two rounds of Kick the Can since she left,” said Donnie.

            “Aww, she’s just showing off. If we go in there, she’ll jump out at us. Let’s not give her the satisfaction.” This from Michael.

            “I think she’s gone home. Too afraid,” said Jen.

            “Shouldn’t we start back?” asked Becky. “The tide . . .”

            “And your Mommy will worry,” said Jen. “Go home, then.”

            “But…shouldn’t we--”

            “Look, either she’s gone home because she can’t face us, or she wants to make us look stupid.”

            “What should we do?” asked Donnie.

            “Go home. She’ll get tired after awhile and give up.”

            “But the tide….” began Becky.

            “Oh, stop sounding like a broken record,” said Michael. “I’m for home.”

            The rest followed reluctantly. Becky cast a final fleeting glance at the house before clouds obscured it.

Chapter One

1992

            When my husband Otis discovered the skeleton in the dumbwaiter, few doubted its identity, what with its being the body of a young girl and all. Local memory lingers. Sometimes I wish Otis had never suggested restoring the inoperable dumbwaiter. Better to never know, never initiate a chain of events, never expose emotions still raw, still festering under a patina of civilized behavior.

            Many lives changed that fateful day in March when Sally McMurtree, president of the local historical society, bulldozed her way into Belgrath House and suggested, tantamount to a royal decree, that Otis and I add extra duties.

            “Perfect for a bed and breakfast, Clarice. All of those extra bedrooms on the second floor are just going to waste. We have restored the dining room already. You and Otis can handle the additional work.” She grimaced, her version of a smile, over the rim of her coffee cup.

            What did she think we did all day? Did she think live-in caretakers lolled on the verandah and sipped daiquiris? Otis, as handyman, struggles to keep a ninety-year-old house in repair. And I, as tour guide and glorified housekeeper, must keep the house in immaculate shape, reminding me of when our house on the Space Coast went up for sale. Always prepared in case a prospective buyer came to view.

            She sat, legs spaced apart so that her navy skirt became a receptacle for crumbs, and awaited my rebuttal. She craved an argument.

            “Of course, if Otis’s health....” She paused, for effect, I knew.

            Touché. We had downplayed the seriousness of Otis’s silent coronary and early retirement from the Space Center when we applied for this job. Otis needed a respite from the stress of aerospace work, we said, not physical work. There could be no hiding behind Otis’s health now.

            “What about Miss Letty? She might object to the noise, the disruption,” I said.

            Miss Letty, our permanent guest and the last owner of Belgrath House, deeded the vacant, vandalized house to the Volusia Historical Society and Belgrath Restoration Committee five years previously with the proviso that she maintain a room there for her lifetime. At eighty-five how many years did she have, they reasoned. Knowing Miss Letty, I figured she aimed for one hundred just to be contrary.

            “I talked to the attorney for the restoration committee. Nothing in the clause states we can’t lodge guests or serve meals.”

            So she already laid the groundwork. I felt resistance slipping away from me much like the sand under your feet when you stand ankle deep in the surf. Undercut. I refused to give her the satisfaction of protest.

            “I’ll speak to Otis,” I said, rising. He hates it when I hide behind him. ‘Don’t use me as an excuse,’ he’d say. I ushered Sally out of the house before she wanted to leave. It gave me some satisfaction to see her gaze longingly at the last piece of orange slush cake on the plate.

            From the bottom of the verandah steps, I watched her waddle down the sandy path edged with ornamental kohlrabi. Her white GEO waited to whisk her away to her next bullying stop. I pretended not to see when she wagged her fingers playfully as she drove away, and hoped for a long wait at the ferry landing.

            Pausing before re-entering the house, I stood back and gazed at this home that was not my home. Not really. Many pairs of hands expended loving care on it, but the house still slept, dreaming of its past glory days and owners: the lumber magnate who built it; the sea captain who furnished it exotically; and Miss Letty, who bought it as a retreat, abandoned it, and finally returned to it for her last years.

            The typical three-story Cracker house with its wrap-around verandah and tin roof the house displayed atypical features: a basement and the rich variety of woods used in construction, the lumberman displaying his trade with ostentation. Built atop a shell mound on an island in the tidal estuary, the house overlooked Halifax River to the west and, in the distance, Daytona Beach and the Atlantic Ocean to the east.

            Even placing the house on the National Register of Historic Places had generated a pitched battle with the restorationists on one side and the archaeologists on the other. The archaeologists claimed the oyster shell mound as a relic of Timucuan Indians, rated preservation, not the house.

            “Desecration!” they argued.

            “It’s their garbage dump, not a burying ground!” the restorationists replied.

            Finally Otis resolved the situation by citing the Thursby House at Blue Spring State Park in Orange City, the area where he grew up. It, too, stands atop a shell mound.

            Why hadn’t I thought to remind Sally of what the historical society and restoration committee owed Otis? And now they expected him to do what? Wait tables? Strip beds? While I returned to short-order cook. I thought I’d rid myself of that when our twins, a son and daughter, left for the University of Florida. Except for weekends when they and any number of their starving college friends camped out in the as-yet-unrestored ballroom on the third floor. Otis tried to ensure that didn’t happen with any regularity by enlisting the aid of several freshmen in restoring the dock and rickety stairs leading down to the tidal flat. Unfortunately, free room and board still outweighed the rigors of manual labor. Worse, it increased their appetites to gargantuan proportions.

            I re-entered the house, gathering the remnants of our coffee klatch on the way. Miss Letty deserved a fresh slice of slush cake, but it gave me infinite satisfaction to feed this leftover slice Sally coveted to Pell Mell, our pet pelican. Otis had rescued Pell Mell, tangled in fishing line and with a fishhook in his web, one evening at low tide. He can no longer dive for his own food, so every day at high tide, Otis wades into the tidal pool and casts the fish net, catching fingerling mullet while Pell Mell patiently watches. I feed him Gouda cheese on the sly, so he contentedly roosts in the tangelo tree, with occasional laborious flapping of his wings up to the Widow’s Walk.

            Armed with a piece of cake, I tapped lightly on Miss Letty’s door, formerly the Music Room. Sally had balked at Miss Letty’s takeover of this room, but the wily old lady wrote into the deed that she pick her own room. She didn’t make her selection known until the committee completed restoration, either. No flies on her!

            I entered on her “Come!” She bent, intent on composition, over the keyboard of her Tandy 1000. “Damn machine,” she muttered. At the age of ninety, Miss Letty finally decided to write her memoirs; she wasn’t getting any younger. Not many ninety-year-olds take up the computer. Of course, she relied on the engineer, if necessary. Poor Otis!

            She turned from the computer screen, still frowning, her face clearing when she spied the cake. “Dear child.”

            Letty makes me feel young. “You missed Sally McMurtree,” I said, perching on the ottoman in front of her wing chair.

            “Then I didn’t miss anything, did I? What did that nosy parker want?” Ever since Sally suggested that Miss Letty should select a room on the third floor and Miss Letty asked in honeyed tones whether she wanted bars on the windows, their relationship deteriorated. Next, Sally made a tactical error by asking Miss Letty to make herself scarce when I conducted tours. All the inducement Letty needed to drift through the lower rooms either playing Lady of the Manor or herself: retired star of the Silent Screen, reprising her role in The Sunshine Girls Go West. Since a critic described Miss Letty as a cross between Mary Pickford and Theda Bara, the result startled the tourists.  

            “She wants Belgrath House to become a B&B.”

            Letty raised the back of her hand to her fevered brow. “Not only have I sold my ancestral home --”   

            “Save it for the Oscar ceremony! You didn’t acquire your ‘ancestral’ home until 1940 and you abandoned it ten years later. You live here now because you excited the other residents of the retirement home too much.”

            “What have I in common with a bunch of old people?”

            I smiled at her. “Nothing.”

            She smiled back. She adjusted the huge shawl, more like a piano cover really, about her thin shoulders. With her hair piled on top of her head, the shawl, and wire-rimmed glasses, she passed as someone’s grandmother--as long as you ignored the startling shade of hennaed hair, the false eyelashes an inch long batting against her glasses, and the bright orange rouge and lipstick she affected to match her hair. Other than that, just your everyday nonagenarian.

            “I suppose,” Letty said, “that Sally has bullied the rest of the committee into agreeing?”

            “Let’s just say she discussed the legalities with the attorney.”

            Letty snorted. “Don’t tell me she hasn’t ‘discussed’ it with Harve Preston. Wouldn’t he love to furnish the bedrooms out of his antique shop? Michael Roberts, salivating at the chance of more contractor work. Not to mention the extra publicity as the contractor who did the original restoration. And Don Campbell would smell a deal to supply shellfish to the house quicker than sniffing the catch in the hold of his boat.”

            “We can’t serve seafood for breakfast.”

            “You really think Sally will stop there? Before you know it you’ll find yourself cooking elaborate lunches for the Garden Club. And Abigail Kittredge will demand afternoon tea for her society.”

            The Jeanette MacDonald/Nelson Eddy Appreciation Society. Abigail Kittredge had founded the Society, appointing herself its permanent president and prime mover. I held a sneaking sympathy for Mrs. Kittredge in spite of her maddening ways; I knew she’d had a tragedy in her life so many years ago.

            “You know she wanted to put net bows on all the potty handles in this house?” I said.

            “Doesn’t surprise me. A bed and breakfast? Mark my words, Clarice. This is just the beginning!”

* * * *

            Her words proved prophetic, of course. Three months later to the day, I opened the swinging kitchen door with my backside and deposited a laden tray on the counter. I heard muffled cursing coming from the butler’s pantry. Warily I approached and poked my head in.

            Otis sat cross-legged on the floor. He wore the blue coveralls he usually reserved for yard work because they show the grass stains so well. He looked as though he had just arrived at NASA for the next shuttle flight, except for the fact that he sucked blood from a cut finger. I suppressed a smile; I love him dearly, but he is a klutz.

            “Whatcha doing?”

            He glanced up quickly; his startling blue eyes that remind you either of Paul Newman or Frank Sinatra, depending on your generation, looked slightly sheepish at the moment. He brushed a cobweb from his salt and pepper hair.

            “Checking out the old dumbwaiter. Thought it would be convenient for you, what with the dining room located on the second floor.”

            Right. Of course I’d still have to walk up a flight of stairs to unload the dumbwaiter. But at least I’d walk up empty-handed.

            He knelt over the shaft. “Rope’s rotted. Or gnawed through.”

            I didn’t ask by what.

            “There’s a lot of rubble thrown down there.”

            “Vandals,” I said. “Miss Adler told me in addition to hippies crashing here in the Sixties, local children played in it.” 

            “I’ll check the basement end,” Otis said, not hearing me as he straightened, conking his head on the opening to the shaft. He absently rubbed the spot and disappeared downstairs.

            I sighed and turned to the sink. Better attack the breakfast dishes while the guests remained in their rooms, either packing or planning their day. I’d make up their beds later. After the dishes, I’d split and devein the rock shrimp for the Junior Women’s luncheon. Leave the avocado salad until the last minute to prevent the avocado blackening.

            We had opened the B&B rooms after Easter, thank God. At least that spared us Spring Breakers. That reprieve gave us time to work out the bugs before the summer season kicked off. We missed the Race Week and Bike Week crowds, too. Not that we expected Bikers to frequent an historic B&B.

            Dishes done, I set the colander under the running faucet and dumped in a load of fresh shrimp, agitating the colander to rinse them. As I split and deveined, I mentally reviewed our eclectic household, current and projected.

            Besides Miss Letty, Mr. Jamieson resided on the second floor, rear. A funny duck, but seemingly harmless. He claimed to be doing historical research, spent a lot of time at the Historical Society and library, but he never talked about any year except 1939. Oh, well, researchers can become so caught up in their work. Fat Cat liked him, a good sign.

            In the second floor front, overlooking the verandah, stayed a couple, not married, I thought. But what do you do? Ask for a marriage license? They both acted jumpy. Secret liaison, perhaps?

             The large second floor bedroom overlooking the side verandah I reserved for Mayor Joseph Tyson and his wife Rebecca. His Honor (he preferred that form of address) booked dinner for a few select, and successful, members of the Class of ’57, who would hold their 35th Reunion next weekend. He wanted to be “on the spot” his wife, wringing her hands, told me. An anxious woman, always expecting a kick in the pants, she needed a sign reading, “Please walk all over me!”

            That comprised our household and situation the June day when Otis, looking uncommonly grim, mounted the steps from the basement and said, “Call the sheriff. We have a skeleton in the dumbwaiter. Human.”