Disembodied Bones (21 page)

Elan’s mouth opened and she knew that she had
caught him by surprise. “Why would I possibly not want to talk with
you?”

Her head tilted in that knowing manner. “Did
you read the paper? Tinie’s mother thinks I’m doing the devil’s
work and her daughter will now be working at Home Depot instead of
here. Someone asked me if I could find the Loch Ness Monster
yesterday and someone else wanted to know if I could find a twenty
dollar bill that he lost ten years ago.” Leonie’s eyes rolled in
her head. “It was a guess. I thought someone as button-down and
straight-laced as you are wouldn’t want to have anything to do with
a flake.”

“Jesus Christ,” Elan swore. “I thought you
knew me a little better than that, Leonie.”

Leonie straightened up. Dressed a little more
like the owner of an antique and collectibles store, she wore a
pink, tailored shirt that hugged her slender curves. White slacks
hugged her long legs and the swell of her hips, emphasizing her
trimness and Elan hesitated for a moment to admire her, despite
what she had just shared with him. Vintage jewelry adorned her,
garnets set in silver that gracefully fell in a cascade from her
neck and splashed across her wrist. Both Dacey and she often wore
merchandise to highlight it. But the garnets and silver were
displayed well upon her. Long black hair plunged softly to her
waist, attesting to the time spent brushing it out and keeping it
silky smooth. Her gold eyes, however, appeared a little tired in
what was not normally a gaunt face. She hadn’t been sleeping
well.

“So I’m dating a witch, then?” he said with
amusement. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Leonie’s lips twitched involuntarily. “Better
a witch than a-”

He shook his finger under her nose.
“Ah-ah-ah. Dated those, too.” Elan’s face lost its amusement as he
stared at her. “So what’s a fella got to do to spend some time with
the most notorious woman in the county?”

“Not say things like that,” Leonie said
firmly. She whipped the cloth around she’d been using to dust and
polish the glass. “You want something for your mother? We have a
bunch of Depression glass. Some carnival glass, too. There’s a
fruit bowl that’s immaculate.”

“You do know that carnival glass isn’t the
same as Depression glass,” Elan said arrogantly, easily recognizing
her attempt to switch subjects.

“You want me to sound like an encyclopedia?”
Leonie smiled faintly. “Of course, I know the difference.” She
issued out a brief description of what Depression really was.

“Very good, Leonie,” he said with a little
hand clap. “And carnival glass?”

“A little more interesting that, oui. It was
first made by a U.S. company called Fenton, generally in the first
two decades of the twentieth century and is known for its
iridescent array of colors on glassware. True carnival glass is
rare and getting rarer. So many knock-offs.”

Elan was impressed. Leonie spouted the
information out like a truly educated individual. “And can you tell
the difference, between the real thing and the fakes, the copies as
it were?” His velvety question instantly caught her attention.
There was a meaning underneath the words that she didn’t
understand.

“Not always,” she said, choosing her words
cautiously. “Some of the companies who make the replicas use
original molds. More and more purchasers don’t mind making extra
money by selling an object as ‘real’ carnival glass as opposed to a
tenth of the value for a twentieth century copy. Or even a
twenty-first century copy.” Elan’s expression changed again and she
thought she saw a flash of triumph on his well-shaped face before
it became thoughtful.

The cowbells jangled discordantly again and
both of them jumped. Elan lost his introspective expression and she
saw annoyance at the interruption. Curious, she was about to ask
him what was wrong, when he looked around the store. “You all alone
here, Leonie, sweetheart?”

Leonie shrugged. “It happens sometimes. Lost
an employee this morning.”

“Oh? You have to fire someone?”

“No, they quit. The devil in me thing.”
Leonie peered around Elan’s broad shoulders and saw a group of
elderly women splitting up as they started to peruse the aisles of
the store. “Concerns with the whole kidnapping/me involved or not
thing.”

“I read the paper. I heard what the sheriff
said,” Elan admitted easily. His voice didn’t give anything away.
His head slowly surveyed the gaggle of senior citizens scrupulously
inspecting each and every item in the store and then returned to
Leonie.

Almost stunned by her inability to move for
the moment, Leonie couldn’t help but to stare back at him. His
brown gaze was fiery and it seared her with his sudden intensity.
She had the uneasy feeling that she wasn’t supposed to see this
part of him, the conflagration and blazing force that raged there
inside him. One of his hands reached out to touch her cheek and
pulled her around to face him completely. His lips swept over hers
and one of the little old ladies tittered loudly behind them.

Elan withdrew with a grim smile and said, “I
wonder if you can tell the difference between the copy and the
original, Leonie.”

“What the hell do you-” Leonie snapped the
words off because a seventies something woman with hair the color
of bluebells in the springtime was standing not five feet away,
obviously waiting for Leonie’s attention.

“We’ll talk later,” Elan said softly. His
hand left her cheek and he turned abruptly away. His next words
floated back to her. “I’ve got things to do today. I’ll call you
tomorrow.”

The cowbells clanked and clattered on the
door as it swung open and shut.

The blue-haired woman giggled under a hand
covered with paste jewelry. “I always liked a forceful man. So
strong. Like the men in Barbara Cartland books.”

Leonie wished she hadn’t said it later,
because it revealed a little more about herself than she wanted
people to know. “Her heroines always stammered and acted like silly
little wimps.”

“Well, yes, dear, they did,” the lady
replied, with a sigh of pure longing. “But they were lost in the
throes of true love.”

A nasty word sprang to Leonie’s lips but she
cut it off ruthlessly.

•

The day went faster than Leonie would have
imagined. Those individuals who wanted to gape at her were
immediately dissuaded and the rest were genuine customers who
didn’t know or didn’t care about Saturday’s events. She ended up
selling the Pennsylvania Dutch chest to a couple from Austin, who
practically drooled over it while they carried it out to their SUV.
She also sold a complete set of Imperial dishware from the early
1930s to a woman from Canada. She had been looking for the pale
lemon shade in the Royal Lace pattern for a dozen years and was
willing to pay an arm and a leg for it.

Michael came in after twelve and vigorously
brooded until Leonie snapped, “You can always go apply for a job at
Home Depot, too.” Then he looked a little happier.

Leonie groaned as he went in the back to look
for some item for a customer. Michael would probably do exactly
that and Dacey would be cursing the day of Leonie’s birth. She
could hear her partner now, “Do you know how hard it is to get good
help? Michael works! Tinie works! They don’t look around and say,
‘Like, should we dust or something?’”

After dinner Leonie was going through her
regular routine. She counted the register’s returns and Michael was
checking the doors. The sun was falling to the west and shadows
were careening across the street, showing the scaffolding on the
courthouse, making the pink granite and red sandstone look gray and
black in the diminishing light. Even from across the street, the
laughing and grimacing carved stone faces of the west facing patio
were visible and Leonie paused to peer out the window. The square
around the tall building had emptied of people and vehicles. All
that was left were the leering, smiling, and scowling facades of
the courthouse. Dacey had sworn that once when she was all alone
she could hear the one they called the green man howling with
dismay that no one was paying attention to him.

Michael had vanished into the back. Leonie
was alone in front and she suddenly felt as if she were being
watched. The skin at the back of her neck rippled with goose bumps.
An unchecked shiver started at her shoulders and systematically
worked its way up into her neck and head, causing a riot within her
trembling muscles. Bit by bit, she turned her head and looked out
the arching windows of the store as if she would see someone
standing there with a mask on his face, looking in at her, waiting
for her.
Leonie.

No one was there. There weren’t even any
cars. All the other businesses had closed up for the evening and
Leonie had let time slip away. Golden light and shadows alternated
in streaks as they shot between buildings crossing the street and
the emerald green grass that surrounded the courthouse building.
Pink tinged the sky and Leonie inanely remembered the saying, “Red
skies at night, sailor’s delight. Red skies at morn, sailor be
warned.”

“I’m not a sailor,” she muttered irately.

“What?” said Michael from behind her and
Leonie jumped in her seat.

“For the love of
Dieu
, Michael,” she
protested heavily. “Don’t do that.”

Michael looked at her curiously; his big blue
eyes open wide and as innocent as a lamb.

Leonie sighed. “You’re not walking home
alone, are you?”

As if a signal had come, a car pulled up in
front of the Gingerbread House. It was Michael’s mother. “Nope,” he
said, glancing out the window. “My mom would kill me deader than a
bug in a Raid factory. I’m out of here, unless you want me to do
something else?”

“No,
cher
,” she said quietly. “Be
safe.”

“Yeah,” Michael replied with that same
curious note in his voice. He wanted to ask her questions about
Olga’s kidnapping, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Don’t stay
too late, huh? Go party or something like that,” he called as he
left the store.

Leonie got up from her stool and locked the
door after him. Michael’s mother, she didn’t know the woman’s name,
waved from a silver sedan.
That kid’s probably going straight to
Home Depot for an application. Oh, well. Need to tell Dacey to
compose a help-wanted ad, I guess.

She rested her forehead against the glass and
was surprised at how hot it was. The air conditioned interior had
made her forget about the Texas heat and humidity. Leonie absorbed
the heat for a long second and stood back, peering outside. There
were only shadows and light in sporadic splashes, showing the
descending position of the sun in a pink stained sky.

The phone rang and Leonie bit her lip because
she jumped again. She hurried to answer it, mumbling under her
breath, “What is it, now? Why am I so damned jumpy?”

Then she grasped the receiver and pulled it
to her lip, grunting because she almost dropped it. Before she
could say the store name, a man’s voice asked her, “What about the
riddle, Leonie?”

-

I’m up.

I’m down.

I’m all around.

Yet never can I be found.

What am I?

I am the wind.

Tuesday, July 23rd - Wednesday, July 24th

What is not enough for one,

Just right for two,

And too much for three?

A giant blockage prevented Leonie from saying
anything.
Coincidence? Not anymore. Why didn’t I tell Scott
about Whitechapel’s use of riddles? Because he wouldn’t have
believed me, because he already thinks I’m pulling a fast one on
everyone, especially on Dacey. Because if I brought up Monroe
Whitechapel, then he’d slam the doors shut on the jail cell he’s
already metaphorically got me in.
Then she rediscovered her
voice with an unexpected surge of anger. Heatedly, she demanded,
“Who is this?”

“There was a riddle, wasn’t there?” It was a
man’s voice, muffled by something put over the phone receiver, but
obviously masculine, exacting, but wanting to keep his secrets from
her.

“Who is this?” she repeated, this time
calmly.

Nothing. The telephone line crackled with
energy.

“Dammit,” Leonie said. “Did you take Olga?
How could you do that to a little girl?”

“I didn’t take anyone,” the man snarled
suddenly, the loudness of his voice overpowering whatever was
covering the phone. “I’d never do that to a little girl, especially
since-”

Leonie was lost for a second. His voice
sounded so sincere, as if he truly believed what he was saying. But
she knew people lied all the time, and some of them were extremely
good at it. If this man was telling the truth there were two very
important questions for him: How did he know about the riddle in
Olga’s pocket and how did he know that Leonie knew about it?

A policeman? Scott Haskell? The kidnapper?
A journalist who got tipped off by some clerk? One of Dacey’s
family? Someone Erica told
? There were potentially dozens of
people who could know about the riddle. But the most important
question for Leonie was the one she thought she had already
answered: Could the riddle be connected to Monroe Whitechapel? She
had determined in her own mind that it had to be coincidental. If
it wasn’t, then someone was playing a demented game with her.
It
has to be coincidental
.

So quiet and still was the man on the other
end that Leonie couldn’t even hear him breathing. Was he trying to
decide what to tell her, what he could let slip by giving her
information? Whether or not he said more would he give it all away?
She could almost hear the indecision in the silence. Suddenly, he
said, “Think about it, Leonie. A riddle. What does that make you
think of?”