CnC 4 A Harvest of Bones

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Charm to Call a Lost Pet Home

  Unearthed and Unearthly

  “Come here! Look at this!” Joe’s excited cry startled us. We hurried over. The men had torn away a patch of brush, exposing the full scope of the basement.

  As the light filtered down into the chamber, softly illuminating the dark corners, a chill of excitement raced up my back. Chances were, nobody had seen this basement for almost fifty years. The entire basement was covered with thick layers of mulch. We couldn’t reach the stairway due to the tendrils and vines that still blocked our path.

  My heart quickened as I stared at the mammoth chamber. “Oh my God, this is huge.”

  Murray stepped away from the edge. “Em, I don’t like it. Something feels wrong down there.”

  As I gazed down at the charred beams, a rush of wind swept past, and once again I thought I could hear a faint moan.

  “I know what you mean. I thought I heard someone cry out last night when we first found this. A woman, screaming …”

  MORE PRAISE FOR THE Chintz ’n China Mysteries

  “The perfect book to curl up with.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “A truly charismatic, down-to-earth character … Don’t miss this charming first book in the series. I look forward to the next one.”—Rendezvous

  “A very appealing series with some very scary stuff. Thank goodness there’s a charm included!”

  —Mysterylovers.com

  “A refreshingly innovative paranormal mystery that will appeal to a wide range of mystery aficionados.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Chintz ’n China Mysteries by Yasmine Galenorn

  GHOST OF A CHANCE

  LEGEND OF THE JADE DRAGON

  MURDER UNDER A MYSTIC MOON

  A HARVEST OF BONES

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  A HARVEST OF BONES

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2005

  Copyright © 2005 by Yasmine Galenorn.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-00791-4

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Always and forever

  to my beloved Samwise.

  Our love abides and grows

  Through both sorrow and joy.

  And to all the orphaned cats and dogs,

  Waiting in alleys, hiding in abandoned buildings,

  Who are hoping against hope to find their “forever” home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to the usual crew: Linda Parker, Barbara Etlin, and Alexandra Ash, my beta readers on this one; Christine Zika, my editor; Meredith Bernstein, my agent, for believing in me.

  Love and thanks to our cats for bringing such joy to our lives. When two of them were lost, I thought I’d go crazy. I want to thank the wonderful regulars on the Petsforum Cats Forum for helping me keep it together through two weeks of hell I never want to go through again.

  Thanks to my wonderful Warpies for all their support. To my sister, Wanda. To Margie, Vicki, Siduri, Ceu, Carl, Theresa, Tiffany, and Brad—good friends all. Daniela, for being a dear and providing the German translations for me.

  My readers—old and new. Without you, we authors would be lost.

  And of course, Mielikki, Tapio, Rauni, and Ukko, my spiritual guardians, gods, and guides.

  If you wish to contact me, you can through my website: www.galenorn.com.

  I’d like to make a plea here: Spay and neuter your pets; support your local cat and dog rescue organizations. And please, if you can, offer a good home to an orphaned fur-baby. Consider opening your heart to those animals who are waiting for someone to take them home.

  Lastly, remember: Sometimes when we harvest the fruits of our labors, we end up with more than we expect. Sometimes we must delve into old secrets in order to put them to rest. Sometimes love crosses all boundaries and barriers, no matter who or what tries to stop it. May you find love in your life, and may all your harvests be fruitful.

  Bright blessings to all,

  the Painted Panther

  Yasmine Galenorn

  But in her web she still delights

  To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

  For often through the silent nights

  A funeral, with plumes and lights

  And music, went to Camelot;

  Or when the Moon was overhead,

  Came two young lovers lately wed,

  “I am half sick of shadows,” said

  The Lady of Shalott.

  ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

  The Lady of Shalott

  Love is not changed by Death,

  And nothing is lost

  And all in the end is harvest.

  EDITH SITWELL

  One

  From Brigit’s Journal:

  The house is remarkably big, and there are so many thin
gs to remember. I hope I do well. Mr. Edward rather frightens me, though the Missus is nice enough.

  I didn’t know school would be so expensive; they were very firm on that account—they don’t accept charity cases and I’ve no resources or family to whom I can turn.

  My only hope is to save up enough money to try again. I’m disappointed, of course, but at least this situation is better than starving. It won’t be so bad. The time will pass quickly, and I’m used to the work—I’ve never been spoiled or without chores to do. And I’m sure that in a couple of years, I’ll be able to carry out my original plans. I just have to bide my time, mind my manners, and do what is expected of me until then. At least they let me have a cat—bless them for that. My Mab is such a darling, and she’ll be good company for me when I need to talk about my troubles. I learned long ago, best to turn to animals for that, they can’t tell yours secrets. Even a diary isn’t safe from prying eyes. But a cat will listen, and keep her silence for you.

  “JEEZUZ!” AN ARGIOPE darted across my hand, off the branch I was holding. A second later, both tree limb and spider went flying. The striped orb weavers had grown fat on the last of the autumn insects; now their webs stretched in a parade through the tangle of brambles, silken strands shimmering under the feeble sunlight glinting through the buildup of clouds.

  As long as they stayed where they belonged I could handle them, but we’d invaded their territory, put them on high alert, leading to more than one scare when I pulled a vine out of the way here or moved a branch there. Still, despite the thorns and arachnids and chilled sweat running down my forehead, I was having fun.

  I still couldn’t believe it. To my delight, Joe had actually gone and bought the lot next door to my house. Even though it resulted in weed-whacking duty for me, I was happy. When he began making noises about making things between us permanent I’d been nervous at first, not because I didn’t love him, but because I’d been burned in the past—bad. But he was proving himself through his actions, and that was worth far more than a bunch of empty promises.

  The early autumn had been mild with an Indian summer, but October came roaring in with a vengeance. A windstorm whipped through Chiqetaw, bringing with it gusts of sixty-five miles per hour, and rain had pounded down for days. All of western Washington was on flood watch—not unusual for this time of year, but still nerve-racking. Jimbo fretted because Goldbar Creek had crested a foot over height, flooding the back part of his woods where we’d found his friend Scar’s body, and Harlow fussed about having to drive the long way into town in order to avoid a washout on the shortcut she and James usually took.

  About halfway through the month, though, we finally hit a clear spot and the meteorologist promised us dry weather—give or take a few showers—just in time for my birthday, which was on Halloween. Considering that he worked at KLIK-TV, I had my doubts about the accuracy of the forecast, but hey, I could dream, couldn’t I?

  So when Joe suggested I take a week off to help him clear out his new property, I decided, why not? He needed the help and I needed a break. I’d just finished a grueling three-day stint at the store, catering to the Washington Tea Tasters Society during their annual conference. The event left the Chintz ’n China spotty on inventory, but with a tidy profit. So I placed enough orders for the holiday season, told Cinnamon the store was hers for the week, and promised to drop in every day or so to make sure things were running smoothly.

  I stood back and took a deep breath, surveying the inroads we’d made on the mountains of blackberries. It had taken almost all day, but Joe and I’d managed to clear out the longest brambles, fighting our way through thorn and thistle. They were so thick and tall in places that we ended up pruning away at the ends until we could get close enough to clip the vines off at the ground. Then came the chore of digging them out, trying to get as many of the suckers as possible, along with the main root stem. I’d already punctured myself in a dozen places even though I was wearing heavy gardening gloves. At least I’d been smart enough to wear jeans and high-top boots, or my legs would be a bloody mess by now.

  I stood back and stretched my neck to the right, wincing as the vertebrae popped. In just two months, the yoga classes I’d been taking had made a tremendous difference in my flexibility, but my body was still rebelling. I wasn’t giving in, though. I’d been feeling on top of the world lately, fitting into clothes I’d tucked away three years ago, and I could make it through an afternoon of physical labor without getting winded now. Maybe one of these days I’d get a chance to really unleash my inner Lara Croft.

  Joe pulled off his bandana and mopped his forehead. The thermometer read fifty-six degrees, but we were both sweating. “That’s the third batch, and we aren’t even halfway done,” he said, gazing over the weed-strewn lot.

  We’d carted away three loads of thorny blackberries.

  Surrounded by thick, chest-high weeds, the lot buttressed up against my yard on the fourth, separated by a tall fence over which the brambles tenaciously crept. We discovered a driveway parallel to my own when we started cutting back the weeds, giving us the impression that perhaps a house had once stood on this lot. A few scrub trees dotted the yard, rising out of the brambles and weeds. Near the back, a tall yew—gnarled and knotted—towered out of the jungle, watching over the neighborhood, stark and solemn.

  I calculated the amount of foliage left to clear before we’d be able to see the entirety of the lot. “I’m estimating at least another full day’s work ahead of us,” I said. “Then you can bring in a rototiller and dig up the roots.”

  “Sorry you agreed to help?” Joe asked, a grin on his face.

  I planted a kiss on his cheek. “Nope, I may not like the spiders or the thorns, but I needed this break. Besides, this way, I won’t have to hire somebody to cut these damned brambles back next year. They’ve been trying to creep over the fence ever since I moved in.”

  “I just thought that, you put in such a hard week, you might be regretting all the work this is turning out to be.” He knelt down in the dirt near the leading edge of the remaining blackberries and dug away at the rich loam. “Hey, look at this. What do you suppose it is?”

  I cautiously picked my way through the thorny stubble and squatted beside him. He was staring at what looked like a layer of bricks jutting out from beneath the front line of the bramble brigade.

  “I don’t know.” The bricks continued beneath the brambles and I used a stick to pry away the vines. “Patio, maybe? Maybe we were right—maybe there was a house under all this mess. Whatever it is, it seems to go back a ways. Why don’t we hack off another two or three feet of berries to get a better look?”

  He picked up the machete he was using and started whacking at the vines while I gathered them up and tossed them aside. After a few minutes, more of the brick became visible. As we cleared another few feet, I began to realize that what we thought was a patio actually led to a large brick-lined hole in the ground. The afternoon light was waning, and it was difficult to tell just how big the chamber was.

  Joe lay down on his stomach and stuck his head over the edge. “Hand me the flashlight.”

  I sorted through the tools until I found the high-beam light. I placed it in his hand and he shone it down into the inky void and scooted forward a bit. Worried that he’d scoot himself right over the edge and plunge to whatever might be waiting below, I knelt beside him and planted a hand on his butt, holding onto his belt.

  He glanced over his shoulder with an evil grin. “Want to take a break?”

  I smacked his ass. “Yes, but not right now. Get your nose back in there and tell me what you see.”

  “Yes’m.” He peered back into the hole and flicked the light from side to side. After a moment, he rolled back up again, looking confused. “That’s a pretty big hole down there. Basement, maybe?” He shrugged. “Do you know if there was a house on this lot? When I bought it, the lawyer didn’t mention anything about one. He just told me that Mrs. Finch said go ahead and start work
on it whenever I wanted, because she didn’t have any use for it.”

  Irena Finch, nee Irena Brunswick. One of the town’s economic mavens. She ran in the same circle as Harlow, but she had old money. Once in awhile, she showed up in my shop. I had a suspicion she belonged to the smelling-salts crowd—those women who used fainting as a form of manipulation, and who practiced the art of the guilt-trip with as much finesse as Trump practiced the art of the deal.

  I frowned. I’d lived here going on three years, but had never heard anything relating to a house on the corner. “I have no idea. Until we uncovered the driveway, I thought it was just an empty lot that had never been used. I’ve never had any reason to ask. What did you see?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to tell. The brambles are still covering most of it. They’ve draped down over the sides, and it looks like the longer vines grew over the top until they formed a canopy. Whatever the case, this has been covered up for a long, long time.”

  Curious, I jerked my thumb, motioning for him to move over. “I want a look.”

  He handed me the flashlight and I stretched out, poking my head over the edge. The next thing I knew, Joe had grabbed a firm hold onto my legs. Probably a good idea, considering my track record. In the past year, my skirmishes into mayhem and murder had landed me in the hospital twice. Though, to be fair to myself, during my last adventure, it had been Joe who’d ended up in a cast.

  As I flickered the light around, I began to get a feeling for the immensity of the brick-lined lair. Joe was right. It looked like a basement, and I was pretty sure I caught a glimpse of a staircase descending from the other side, but any access—if it was a set of stairs—was still obscured by brambles. I caught my breath as the scent of bonfires and decay and mold settled into my lungs. A chill raced along my spine and I suddenly longed to be in my house, warm in front of the fireplace. I scooted forward as a sound caught my attention.