Page 19 of Cold, Cold Bones
Before leaving the MCME, I phoned Katy to see if she wanted to catch a quick dinner. She was entangled in sorting kitchenware. Said if she quit, she’d dump everything in drawers and never arrange things properly. I understood.
On the way to the annex, I stopped at the Harris Teeter for a few basics. Exited with a full cart and $246 additional on my credit card.
I was unloading my trunk when my least favorite neighbor came flying out of the main house. With long, angry strides he arrowed straight toward me.
I considered darting into and not re-emerging from the annex.
“Ms. Brennan.” Pointing one long finger in my direction. “Do not avoid me.”
Too late.
Crap.
Alasdair Campbell is a fully owned subsidiary of Snarky, Inc. The man is loud, egotistical, and combative. Campbell has lived at Sharon Hall for about three years, and throughout that time has committed his life force to tormenting me. His current complaint involves a garden sculpture allegedly upsetting his son.
Shifting the grocery bag to my left hand, I turned and smiled with a warmth I didn’t feel.
Campbell bore down, face red as the squares in the scarf wrapping his throat. Disloyal, I thought, knowing the Campbell tartan was green.
“Finlay had another episode today,” he declared, breathing hard. His features were a combo of fury and exertion.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he’s still seeing Dr. Chee.” I’d recommended the child psychologist. Was surprised when Campbell had followed through on my suggestion.
“It’s that cursed turtle. Every time we pass it Finlay has an attack.”
“Dr. Chee thinks Finlay’s distress is caused by my gardensculpture?” She doesn’t. Chee and I are old friends and had spoken. Strictly in hypotheticals, of course.
“That’s not the point,” Campbell snapped.
“That is precisely the point.”
“You must remove that obscenity.”
“If you bring me a note from Dr. Chee stating that the turtle is causing Finlay emotional discomfort, I will be happy to do so.”
Campbell’s eyes narrowed in a menacing way. I braced for further demands.
“I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug!” he spit, then whipped around and stomped off.
WTF?
Exhausted by my long day in the field and at the autopsy table, I didn’t have the energy to jot down the phrase.
After baking and eating my frozen lasagna, I tried phoning Ryan. Got his voice mail. Left a message.
I showered. Then Birdie and I climbed into bed and watched CNN for a while. He likes Don Lemon. I prefer Anderson Cooper.
I turned off the lamp and TV and lay in the dark, images swirling in my head. A small brown box. A severed head. A weather-beaten privy. A very fresh eye.
Again, the cells in my id nudged those in my forebrain.Pssst!
What?
Try as I might, I experienced no cerebral breakthrough.
The house seemed very empty without Katy. Very quiet. Except for the running toilet in my bathroom. I thought about waterfalls. Floods. Plumbers.
I considered getting up to jiggle the handle.
