Excerpt-Old Bones

Below is an excerpt of my short
story, Old Bones. It was published in
the 2007 anthology MAP OF MURDER from
Red Coyote Press, which was the winner
of the 2007 Indie Excellence Award
in the Short Story Fiction Category.
The anthology travels around America through
a collection of twenty original mystery and
suspense short stories. Click the link
above to order your copy.

OLD BONES

by Connie Flynn

        "What?" Ivy Chandler shouted into the phone even though she knew better. The racket of the crane demolishing her Park Ridge tear-down was interfering with her hearing, not Todd's.
       "We gaga ta," Todd repeated.
     "Bones! Piles of old bones!" The construction worker's shout came through Ivy's window.
     Dead silence followed and Ivy's brain went into translation mode. The shout meant ‘no work was getting done.' At these rates? Todd meant ‘let's discuss our relationship.' Both statements required immediate action and Ivy sorted her priorities.
      "It's over between us, Todd. I'm sorry. And I can't talk right now. I have a crisis outside."
     "No, wait. We really have to—"
     "Not now. The men are yelling about some kind of bones."
She hung up the phone, dashed outside and found the foreman in all his bare-chested glory standing near the southeast pylon that had supported the crumbling house. "Steve!" She rushed toward him like an eager lover. "Why have your men stopped working?"
     "Have a look." He pointed to a hole behind the pylon, a spot that had been inaccessible when the house still stood. Dirty lengths of discarded and rotting lumber jutted from the earth. Steve moved aside to give her a better look, but she'd preferred her first one. Now that his tall body wasn't shadowing the hole, she saw the curves and knobs that suggested the lumber was really bone. Despite the lovely afternoon breeze, she felt sweat form on her forehead and neck. She heaved a sigh. "What does this mean to me?"
     Steve echoed her sigh. "Not good. Some of these Park Ridge properties have archaeological value. If so, your tear-down will be put on hold. Archeologists and anthropologists will snoop around, making all kinds of observations that could take forever." His grin turned devilish. "On the brighter side, if a killer once lived here and these are the remains of a victim, well, my crew will be up and running in no time. Police never linger, they just swoop in and leave a mess for us to clean up."
     Any delay was too long for Ivy. "Then I'd better burn incense and pray for a murder."
     "Not a bad idea." Steve shook his head and a lock of shiny brown hair fell onto his forehead. Ivy stared at it for a second, momentarily distracted. "Actually," he continued, "this could amount to nothing. The bones look like they came from animals. Regardless, babe, I've got to call some authorities."
     Babe? Maybe her fantasies about the sexy foreman weren't impossible after all.

     Later, back in the converted and drafty garage she temporarily called home, she forgot about Steve and the construction work that wasn't going on and concentrated on developing her presentation for the morning. Hopefully she'd win over the director of a prestigious mental health clinic and give her fledgling family counseling practice a boost.
     The next day was nonstop, leaving no time to check voicemail until that evening. Todd left some half-threatening messages, which she chose to ignore. Besides, she was more intrigued by the other messages. The first was from Melanie Powell of the Field Museum of Natural History. "We have a situation," she said. "The bones submitted by Steve Carruthers were stolen from the museum in the late eighties—the main thing is it's urgent we talk. Please call as soon as you're able." Melanie left a number, which Ivy dialed, getting a greeting that said the museum closed at five p.m. sharp and Miss Powell would be available in the morning.
     Apparently urgency didn't extend to after-hours. Ivy left a return message, then moved on to her next, a disappointing response from the clinic director's assistant, who wanted to let Ivy know they'd decided her wellness model wouldn't work for them when they had their hands full with ill clients.
     Lastly, Steve Carruthers' resonant voice briefly lifted her spirits. His message dashed them. "Sorry, Ivy. The bones count. Your tear-down's on hold until a team has scoured the grounds." What a hell of a day! As if building her practice wasn't already straining her finances, now she had stolen bones on her property and might even have to hire a lawyer. Oh, God, those archeology guys were going to be harder to get rid of than an old boyfriend.
     Ivy shook her head, sent the bad news messages to the message archives, and went off to practice what she preached to her clients. Namely, get her mind off the pissy day and onto more pleasant things, like watching her favorite television show. The diversion didn't work, so after wolfing down dinner, she headed for the back yard. Which was technically her front yard until the new house was built. And, God as her witness, the house would be built. She would not endure a winter in that cramped, poorly insulated garage while a pack of stuffy archeologists took over her property.
     She stepped into a night heavy with humidity. Insectoid critters—she thought they might be cicadas—hummed so loudly she barely heard the traffic on Touhey. Porch lights dotted the neighborhood. Close by, a dog barked and the owner commanded it to hush. Otherwise, all was quiet, as befitted a suburban Chicago neighborhood populated with the upwardly mobile.
     Flashlight in one hand, a small garden spade in the other, Ivy illuminated the hole where Steve had discovered the bones, uncomfortably aware she was tampering with some kind of crime scene, but determined to use the old "I didn't know" defense if someone complained. Kneeling, she stretched her short frame as far inside the hole as she could go without falling and probed softly with the spade.
     She had no idea what she was looking for. Oh, hell, when would she ever get over her denial mechanism? She did know. Morbid or not, she hoped to find evidence of a murder scene. So she kept on digging and was about to call it a night when she saw the dusty gray surface. Ignoring a trip-hammering heart that warned about the dangers of tumbling head-first into a deep hole, she twisted and stretched her body until she finally brushed the object with her fingers.
     Smooth. Hard. Ridged.
     It had to be bone. Maybe a skull.
The hammering in her chest now came from excitement.
     She bounced up and went for a shovel and a hoe. Crossing her fingers that this marvelous find didn't turn into a petrified soccer ball, she prodded gently until the domed curve came into full view.
     It was a skull! She lifted it out, shuddering when she felt movement. The places that once held sinuses and brains now undulated with worms and the occasional scurrying beetle. She shuddered as she shook dirt and vermin—hopefully all, but definitely most—back into the hole, then held the head away from her body as she carried it to the unfinished section of the garage. Inside, she placed the skull on a battered workbench, found some soft brushes among the tools the previous owner had abandoned and started brushing away the grime, only vaguely aware that she wasn't much creeped out about handling the remains of a dead person. The residual bugs actually bothered her more. A short time later, she examined what might prove to be evidence of a crime. A long crack bisected the frontal ridge above the left eye and the eye socket itself had several missing chunks. It looked like the person had died from several violent blows to the face. Yeah, as if she was an expert, but this was what she'd hoped for and she wanted to believe it was true.
     She had to talk to Steve. Although it was late, she phoned anyway, surprised when he answered, considering how early construction people got up.
     "Tell you what," he said, after she explained her call. "I'll get hold of my contact at the Field Museum and meet you there tomorrow. You might have talked with her. Melanie Powell."
     "Not in live conversation, but our machines are becoming buddies."
     Steve chuckled, then gave her the address and room number. "Melanie's on the first sub-level. Come after four. We'll catch her near closing time when she's not busy."

     Ivy traveled Lake Shore Drive nearly a dozen times, wistfully eyeing the inviting park filled with bronzed horsemen and stone fountains in hopes of finding an empty space to park near the Field Museum. Finally, someone eased away from a metered spot and Ivy pulled in, jumped out, fed the meter, then raced toward the museum. It was well after four o'clock when she reached the ticket office. "Sorry," the young guy behind the glass said. "No admittance after four."
     "I have an appointment with Miss Powell." Ivy gave her name and lifted the large tote that only hours before had housed her patient files. "About a possible artifact."
     "Yeah?" The guy checked a book on his desk, looked up. "Go on through."
     She entered on the ground floor. Steve had said Melanie's office was one floor down, so she looked for a stairwell sign. This was her first time in a natural history museum, a place she always thought would be as boring as Wonder Bread, but as she walked past the exhibits she realized this was pretty fascinating stuff. SUE UPSTAIRS — STANLEY HALL — said bright posters that hung on the wall. According to the fine print, Sue was the largest, most complete and best preserved T-Rex fossil ever discovered. The visiting exhibit, Tutankhamun and the Golden Age of the Pharaoh, also had its fair share of hype.
     On this floor was Ancient Egypt with its emphasis on mummies. A giant earthworm that so resembled the crawly things she'd brushed from the skull last night pointed the way to Underground, a place she certainly didn't want to go. And a lion that was as tall as Ivy held center stage in the Man-eater exhibit.
     Her soft-soled shoes were soundless on the marble floor and she moved through the slightly unnatural silence at a good clip even as she dug through her purse for the directions she'd taken from Steve. She still hadn't found a stairwell sign and was beginning to wonder if there even was a lower floor. Why not call him? If he was in the building they could hook up faster. She pulled the phone from beneath all the paraphernalia in her overstuffed tote, clutched Steve's directions in her other hand and dialed his number.
     No Signal. Damn!
     She glanced at her watch. After five already. Where was he? Overhead lights were dimming, replaced by the red glow of corner night lights. Nearby, hidden equipment hissed and rumbled. When she heard steps, her heart clutched. Silly of her. An employee was approaching. Or maybe Steve. But she still had to force herself to walk toward the footsteps, not run the other way.
     At the sight of him, her smile spread so wide it hurt. "I was afraid I'd missed you."
     "I've been hunting the museum for you. What made you so late?"
     "Traffic."
     "Hmmm," he said disinterestedly. "It happens, I guess. Did you bring the skull? Melanie is waiting." He looked tense, not a quality she'd seen in him before.
     Ivy opened the tote and pulled out the skull, which she'd carefully wrapped with one of her best Turkish towels.
     "Your laundry?" A dose of the teasing Steve. That was more like it.
     "No, it's part of my favorite towel set. I want it back." She grinned as she unwrapped the skull. "As soon as this is straightened out, we'll resume construction? Right?"
     "Right." But his answer was...curt, actually. Taking the skull, he moved into a small display alcove and set it next to a huge pottery urn. He stepped back a few inches, pulled wire-rimmed glasses from a pocket and inspected the head. "Impressive. In perfect condition. Even the means of death is still visible." He ran a finger across the jagged edges of the eye socket. "If it is an antiquity, it's an amazing find."
     "A find? No, we want it to be a murder victim. Well, no, I don't mean want, just that...Steve, I can't have my property tied up for months."
     "Years, even," he added unencouragingly. "Let me take a closer look." He whipped out a handful of cotton swabs and some glassy rectangles she presumed were specimen slides, then smudged some dirt onto the glass. Next, he scraped the inside of the skull with a tiny metal scoop. The scratchy noise sent unpleasant shivers up Ivy's spine.
     "Should you be doing that? "
     Steve looked up and didn't say anything. His cold gaze implied he wasn't used to being questioned.
     Ivy backpedaled. "I mean, isn't this better left to experts?"
     He labeled the finished slides before answering. "Melanie asked me to take samples."
     Didn't this man work construction? Ivy cast a sideways glance and noticed he wasn't dressed much like a construction worker, either. His casual shirt looked expensively detailed and his denims fit his impressive buns like they'd been custom-tailored. The dark hair that tumbled so fetchingly over his forehead whenever he took off his hard hat was now gelled into a sculptured style.
    "What?" she asked. "Are you kind of like the mild-mannered Clark Kent in reverse?"
     He laughed, a sound as pleasing to the ears as his grin was to the eyes.
"Archeology is my avocation. It's nice to run into someone who shares the passion."
     "Which wouldn't be me," Ivy said. "My passion is getting my house built."
     "I got that and my guess is you're going to get it fulfilled. This bone is too intact to be an antiquity." His smile gone, he looked dead serious as he put the tools and slides into a leather case that he slipped into a back pocket. "I need to run the samples to a lab."
     "Now? This late?" Ivy struggled to keep panic from her voice. "And you're leaving me here? Alone? The museum is empty."
     "You'll be fine. " He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and pointed down the corridor to a sign that said ‘exit,' not ‘stairs.' "Melanie's two flights down. Her office is the third door to your right." He rewrapped the skull and left it on the shelf. "Gotta go, babe. I'm sorry."
     Ivy frowned so deep her eyebrows collided. "Two...? Two flights? I thought you said one flight."
     He was already gone, headed on a path directly opposite the one he'd told her to take. When he disappeared behind an exit door, Ivy settled the skull back inside the tote. Eyes darting nervously around, she trudged toward the exit sign, alone, and none too happy about it. Something was very off here. Steve's preoccupied, impatient manner. The contradiction in floors. His vague relationship with Melanie. What were they to each other? Colleagues? Friends? Lovers?
     She rattled her head to shake off the fuzzy thinking. She always did have an overactive imagination. And this was no place to indulge her fears. It was so quiet. The kind of stillness that in movies always preceded something jumping from the bushes. Her gaze caught on a small foxlike creature lurking beneath a plume of wide-blade grass. Had it moved?
     Yes, it had moved.
     Of course it hadn't.
     The air conditioner clicked off and she jumped. Clutching the tote to her chest like a shield, she put another leaden foot in front of her. She'd been moving slower than a snail toward the stairs, but now she'd reached them. She opened the door, entering an enclosed stairwell and passing the first exit door, taking Steve at his word that Melanie's office was two flights down.
     The stairs terminated on the second sub-level, at a spot creepier than anything she'd seen so far. Most likely the exhibits were prepared here, but she'd expected more of a laboratory setting—finished floors, painted hallways and lots of fluorescent lighting overhead. This place was a cluttered mess of broken plaster, huge blocks of chipped Styrofoam and scraps of broken two-by-fours. Folded cardboard boxes leaned against the dirty walls and the hallway leading out of the area glowed weakly under a dim lightbulb.
     A soft thud sent Ivy jumping back.
     "Miss Powell?" she squeaked, hope twitching inside her constricted heart.
     But nothing was there. One of the cartons slipped, probably. No reason for her to stop walking. The hallway was straight ahead. Melanie's office.
     Third door to the right.
     Steve said.
     She was only two or three steps from the bottom when the lights went out.

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