Page 5 of Cold, Cold Bones
A word about my home, which is somewhat unconventional.
Sharon Hall is a nineteenth-century manor-turned-condo-complex lying a spit from the Queens University campus. My little outbuilding is called the annex. Annex to what? No one knows. The diminutive two-story structure appears on none of the estate’s original plans. The big house is there. The coach house. The herb and formal gardens. No annex. Clearly the little outbuilding was an unimportant add-on.
I once sought the help of an architectural historian at UNCC. She dug but failed to learn anything useful. Kiln? Tackle shed? Smokehouse? She had other suggestions that I’ve forgotten. I don’t really care. Barely twelve hundred square feet, the arrangement suits myneeds. Bedroom and bath up. Kitchen, dining room, parlor, and study down.
I rented the annex when my marriage to Pete imploded, and, eventually, I bought the place. Made no changes until the past year. Then, major renovation. The Ryan story. Later.
Arriving home, I let myself in and set my purse on the counter. Called out to Birdie. No cat appeared.
Not up to dealing with a feline snit, I climbed to the second floor, stripped, and took a very long, very hot shower. When I emerged, smelling of goats’ milk and chai body wash, the cat was regarding me from atop the vanity, round yellow eyes filled with reproach.
“I know. I was gone longer than anticipated. It couldn’t be helped.”
No response.
“You wouldn’t believe how much stuff she had.” Jesus. I was apologizing to a cat.
Birdie hopped to the floor and exited without comment.
“Whatever,” I said to the haughtily elevated tail.
I was pulling on sweats when a voice called up the stairs. “I’m here.”
“Coming right down.”
Katy was standing in the kitchen, face tense.
“There’s a box on your doorstep.”
“No,” I said, laughing. “Not another box.”
I stepped outside and scooped up the package.
“Who’s it from?” Katy’s voice sounded odd.
“No idea.”
“Is there a return address?”
I shook my head no.
“Were you expecting something?” Back rigid, Katy maintained her distance from me. From the thing in my hands?
Suspecting that the unexplained parcel was the source of my daughter’s uneasiness, I set it on the counter, got a Heineken from the fridge, and handed the beer to her.
“Chill,” I said, wary of whatever dark memory had been triggered. And wanting to calm her. “I get lots of deliveries. Half the time I’ve forgotten what I ordered.”
Digging a box cutter from a drawer, I cut the brown paper, then sliced through the tape. After laying back the flaps, I peered inside.
My breath caught in my throat.
My hand flew to my mouth.
2
Impaled like a bug on a pin, the thing was fixed in place and gazing straight at me.
Katy’s reaction was more verbal than mine.
