A Skeleton in the Family Read online

  A trio of earnestly talking people approached the table and looked nonplused at the lack of sustenance.

  “Excuse me,” Michaels said, “I better go nudge catering. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Likewise.” I was pathetically grateful that he hadn’t shouted, Unclean! when learning I was an adjunct. I was about to start up a conversation with the newcomers at the table when I saw them glaring at the overabundance of food on my plate, and realized that they thought the ravaged refreshment table was my doing. So I smiled vaguely and found a concrete bench off to the side of the chapel where I could sit to gorge on my ill-gotten goods.

  I was still at it when Dr. Kirkland’s daughter-in-law walked in my direction, talking on a cell phone.

  She looked at me suspiciously before sitting down at a bench a few feet farther down the sidewalk, her back turned deliberately to me. Her snub might have meant more if she hadn’t been talking loudly enough that I could hear every word she said.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called back, but we had a death in the family. . . . No, it was just my mother-in-law. I’m at a memorial service at the college where she used to work right now. . . . No, he’s fine. It’s not like they were close. I mean, my father was in the Navy and was off on deployment for months, and I think I saw more of him than Rich did of his mother. . . . Devoted? Try obsessed! I’ve got nothing against education or science, but a woman with kids has no business going out into the field for months at a time. . . . That’s it exactly. Rich decided a long time ago to stay as far out of that world as possible. . . . No, the twins are just as bad as she was, though at least they had enough sense not to get married or have kids. Not that there’s anything wrong with a working mother, as long as she leaves the work at the office. Mother Kirkland never did—her house was like an auxiliary lab. I honestly don’t think she minded when her husband died. It gave her more room for her experiments. . . . It was terrible. The kids could never have friends over. And the summers were worse! Did she put the work away and spend time with her children? No, she kept on working, and while other kids were going to Disney or summer camp, Rich and the twins got to be lab assistants. It was practically child abuse. . . . Didn’t you hear? It was really awful. She’d just retired to Pennycross, and they’ve been having a crime wave down there. You’d think it was New York! Some thugs broke in to rob the house and killed her! Of course, anybody else in the world would have heard the crooks breaking in, but Mother Kirkland was working. So much for being retired . . . She never called anybody unless work was involved, so nobody was expecting to hear from her anytime soon. If it hadn’t been for the dog, she probably wouldn’t have been found as soon as she was. It just makes me sick to think of it.”

  Actually, I thought she sounded kind of gleeful in a stare-at-the-car-wreck kind of way, but since I was just as gleefully eavesdropping, I had no high moral ground on which to stand.

  “Oh, don’t get me started on that damned dog,” Corrina said. “I do—you know I have two of my own. But here’s the thing. When Rich was growing up, he wanted a dog in the worst way, but Mother Kirkland wouldn’t let him have one. . . . No, no cat either. Not even a hamster! She said a pet might mess up her experiments and that she didn’t have time to deal with one, anyway. Then, when she retired, the first thing she did was get a dog, which she paid more attention to than she ever did her grandchildren. . . . Well, we certainly weren’t going to take it, and the twins wouldn’t, so Rich dropped it off at a shelter. . . . Lunch next week would be great. Pick somewhere with a good bar. Having to deal with these academic types makes me crazy!”

  Corrina’s husband, Rich, came striding our way, and I pulled my own phone out of my purse so I could pretend to read e-mail or tweet or watch Justin Bieber videos—anything that would make my nosiness less obvious.

  Corrina ended her call, and after she spoke to her husband for a few moments at a much lower volume, they went back toward the chapel. I saw that the lawn was nearly empty of people and the caterers were cleaning up the buffet table, so it was time to go. I took my empty plate and cup back and headed for my van.

  I just hoped Sid would see something on the video I’d taken that would help him remember something useful.

  22

  He didn’t.

  “Are you sure you don’t recognize anybody?” I asked after showing him every bit of footage I’d filmed. It was late, and we were in the attic again. I was spending more time up there than I was in my bed.

  I pointed to people I’d thought were key players, saying, “These two are of Kirkland’s kids. This guy is their little brother. The woman is her not-so-devoted daughter-in-law. Michaels there is head of the anthro department. He said he’d known her for years. This other guy gave a eulogy, too.” I showed him everybody whose identity I’d found out, but he kept shaking his head. “Don’t any of these people look familiar?

  “Not a one,” he said. “It’s like the red carpet for the most boring awards show in the world.”

  “Coccyx!”

  Sid patted me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Georgia. I’m just causing trouble. Let’s forget I ever saw that woman. I don’t care that much.”

  I might have believed him if I hadn’t noticed one of his smaller bones lying on the floor under the table. “I’m not giving up!” I kicked a box of books, which didn’t help but did make me feel better for the millisecond before the pain kicked in.

  “Stop that and go to bed. You can leave me the computer and I’ll go through the video again. Maybe I’ll see something.”

  It was a better plan than anything I had to offer, and I was beat. So I told him to sneak the laptop back down to my bedroom before I got Madison up in the morning.

  I was too tired to stay up worrying, but in the morning, I really was hoping he would have found something. Instead, I found a note on top of my computer bag:

  I’m sorry. Nothing.

  “Damn it!” I said.

  Of course Madison picked that moment to come out of her bedroom. “What’s wrong?”

  “I stubbed my toe.” I noticed she was rubbing her eyes more than usual. “What about you? You’re not looking too chipper this morning.”

  “I didn’t sleep well. I kept hearing noises from the attic. Did you get a squirrel trap yet? I think he’s having squirrel raves up there.”

  I’d forgotten that particular lie. “I’ll take care of it today.” Another lie. I really hated lying to her, but I didn’t feel I could break Sid’s confidence, either. Bouncing back and forth between the two of them was starting to make me feel like a philandering wife, but instead of getting twice the sex, I was just getting screwed.

  The two of us stumbled through our morning routines, and since Madison was running late, I went the few blocks out of my way to drop off her and her bike at school so she wouldn’t be late. Of course that made me late for my first class, which provided a new dose of guilt.

  After class, I bought myself the biggest cup of coffee offered on campus and stumbled toward the adjunct office. I would have gone to my parents’ office instead, since it was bound to be quieter, but if I had, I’d have fallen asleep and missed my afternoon classes. I didn’t need any more reasons to feel bad about myself.

  In a desperate attempt to impersonate a useful member of society, I got caught up with all the e-mailed questions and requests for deadline extensions. Next I whipped through some early essays that had shown up in my mailbox. It was a better-than-average showing—a few papers showed some nice turns of phrase, and none were utter disasters. Most cheering of all, Fletcher called and asked if I had time to meet him for lunch, which I definitely did.

  It wasn’t fancy—we went to Jasper’s, the diner just outside McQuaid’s front entrance—but I was happy to count it as a third date, especially when he expressed regret that he had to cover a story that night, so we couldn’t go out. Instead he suggested we go out on Sunday. I acc
epted, and got back on campus early for my next class.

  I’d thought I could spend some quality time with Madison that night, but she had other ideas. After she wolfed down a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, a friend picked her up for a movie. A less-fortunate woman might have felt glum at the prospect of a Friday evening alone, but I had an ace in the hole. Or rather, a skeleton in the attic. I made sure all the blinds were down, put the chain on the door so Madison wouldn’t come in unexpectedly, and went up to knock on Sid’s door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Who do you think? Want to come down and watch a movie?”

  “I don’t know. I just started a book and it’s really good.”

  “Uh-huh. You’ve been eavesdropping and you know I’m alone, so now you’re playing hard to get.”

  “I’m made of bone. You don’t get much harder than that.”

  “Suit yourself. I thought you might want to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas in Blu-ray, and—”

  Before I could finish, he came clattering down the stairs.

  Since Jack Skellington was one of the few positive role models in media for ambulatory skeletons, the movie was a favorite for both of us, so we didn’t talk until it was over. Only then did I say, “I guess you still don’t recognize anybody from the memorial service.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have expected to. People can change a lot in thirty years.”

  “You recognized Dr. Kirkland.”

  “She’s an exception—from the stuff you found on the Web, she looked and dressed the exact same way for the last forty years.”

  “I suppose we could try to find pictures of people from thirty years ago. . . .” I said, but we both knew I was grasping at straws. Which people would I look up? Kirkland’s family? Colleagues? Students? “Have you come up with anything else?”

  “There’s still my tattoo.”

  “Your what?”

  “My tattoo. In my skull.”

  “That’s not a tattoo.”

  “Sure it is. All the cool kids have tattoos.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, I don’t know what to do about the ‘tattoo.’ Yo said there’s no standards for IDs, so how can we track down the collection you came from?”

  “Put it up on the Web, see if anybody recognizes the markings? Or check around with other adjuncts?”

  “What if word gets back to the curator of whatever collection you came from and he or she wants you back? Yo said you were worth a lot of money—”

  “I’d say I’m priceless.”

  “Without a doubt, but it’s not like we have a bill of sale for you—the carnival you were in probably thought somebody stole you.”

  “I escaped,” Sid said haughtily. “Speaking of the carnival, maybe the people there killed me.”

  “Sure, traveling carnivals kill patrons and then use them to decorate their haunted houses all the time. They probably caught you in the tunnel of love making out with the carnival owner’s voluptuous daughter and took umbrage. Didn’t Wes Craven use that story? Or was it George Romero?”

  “I’d totally watch that movie.”

  “But not as a documentary. Anyway, back to the tattoo. An ID number says scientist to me, not carnival. So what connection would Dr. Kirkland have with a carnival?”

  “I don’t know, but the carnival is the first place I remember. Maybe somebody there could tell us more.”

  “Sid, I don’t even remember which carnival it was. Do you?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Would your parents know?”

  “We’re only supposed to call if there’s an emergency.”

  “Yeah. Not an emergency.”

  I heard a bone hit the floor and knew he was letting pieces of himself fall off on purpose. Not that it mattered—it worked every time. “Deborah might remember.”

  “Good idea! Only you better do the asking. She’s still on her ‘Sid doesn’t exist’ kick.”

  He looked at me, and I realized he was expecting me to call right away. I didn’t know if Deborah was even home, but I did know he’d keep looking at me with those big, black eye sockets until I tried, so I got the phone.

  Apparently her social life was as lively as mine—she answered on the first ring.

  “Deborah? Georgia.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Glad to hear your voice, too.”

  “Uh-huh. What do you need?”

  “Just your memory. What was the name of the carnival where we got Sid?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I know this is going to sound crazy—”

  “Everything involving that bag of bones sounds crazy, because everything involving him is crazy.”

  “I’m trying to find out who he is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He wasn’t born a skeleton. Okay, he was born with a skeleton, but it’s a safe assumption that there were also skin, organs, and such included with the original package. And a name. It’s the name I want.”

  “Why?”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered what his real name is?”

  “Not once. I’ve wondered about how to get him out of our lives, but not how he got into it.”

  “Look, if you don’t remember the name of the carnival—”

  “Oh, I remember, but I’m not going to tell you unless you tell me what caused the sudden interest.”

  I sighed. Deborah could give mules lessons in stubborn and was impervious to any bribe I could afford to offer. “Sid saw somebody he remembered from when he was still conventionally alive.”

  “What? Where?”

  “At that anime convention. He saw a woman he recognized.”

  “Did she recognize him?”

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  “Please forget that I asked that.”

  “It’s forgotten. Anyway, we found out her name and a lot about her, but he hasn’t remembered anything else.

  “He’s not planning to approach her, is he?”

  “No, of course not.” That was a safe bet. “But now that he’s remembered something from his past, he wants to know more. I thought we could track him back to where we got him.”

  “Meaning the carnival.” There was a pause. “It seems to me that you’re just opening a can of worms. What if I don’t tell you?”

  “Then I’ll get in touch with Mom and Phil. If they don’t remember, I’ll go to the library and find any ads for carnivals in that period. Or maybe there was a newspaper article about the fire that night. It might take me a while, but you know I’ll find it.”

  “If you’d devote some of that energy to researching a paper or two—”

  “You don’t want to finish that sentence.”

  “Okay, fine. The carnival was Fenton’s. Fenton’s Family Fiesta, Fenton’s Fun Festival, something like that, but it was definitely Fenton’s.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to say good night and hang up the phone. Good night.” I hung up the phone.

  The next step was to get my laptop out and Google “Fenton” and “carnival” and hope for the best. Much to my surprise, it turned out that carnivals had entered the Internet age. Not only did Fenton’s Family Festival have a Web site, but it was on Facebook and Twitter as well. I thought about trying to send an e-mail or make a phone call to ask for information, but it’s much harder to turn down a request for information in person.

  According to the site, the show stuck with the New England area, so I checked the route, hoping it wasn’t too late in the year for them to be touring. I lucked out. They were going to be about an hour’s drive away in Westfield for Oktoberfest. We could even go the next day, since Madison had already planned to hang with Samantha for anime-related shenani
gans.

  That cleared the way for Sid to come with me, or so he informed me when I told him I was carnival bound. “And I am not riding in that suitcase.”

  “Let me guess. You want to sit in the front seat with me and give heart attacks to all the other drivers. I think that would snarl traffic a bit.”

  “You’ve got more degrees than a thermometer, and I’m brilliant. I’m sure we can come up with something.”

  23

  We came up with something, but it would have been a stretch to call it brilliant. I took Madison to Samantha’s house first thing in the morning, teenager time, which was just before noon. Then I drove back to the house, where Sid was waiting for me, already in disguise.

  He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt that was a souvenir from one of my previous jobs, hood up, and he had a Red Sox cap over that. A pair of oversize sunglasses, left over from when oversize sunglasses were fashionable, covered most of his face. For his legs, he’d cinched a pair of sweatpants as tight as they would go, but was still in danger of losing them if he wasn’t careful. When we added a pair of tan stretchy gloves and my father’s snow boots, he was mostly concealed. I figured that as long as I didn’t let any other cars get overly close, we should be okay.

  Getting him to the van unseen took a little maneuvering, but we got it done and were soon on the highway to Westfield.

  “This is great,” Sid said. “I haven’t ridden shotgun since that Halloween back when you were in high school.”

  “I remember that,” I said. “We crashed Rinda Patterson’s Halloween party.”

  “I crashed the party,” Sid corrected me. “You just drove the getaway car.”

  “I was still close enough to see.” I grinned. “And hear.” Sid had rung the doorbell, and Rinda answered, expecting either a trick-or-treater or a tardy party guest, not a skeleton moaning at her. She’d screamed and fled, leaving the door wide open for Sid to go inside. Which he’d done with enthusiasm, zipping into the living room, through the kitchen and dining room, and then back out the front door to dive into our car, which I’d parked behind a bush in case anybody was watching. Nobody was—they were too busy screaming and running to notice as I drove away, laughing my ass off. “I suppose I should feel guilty about that, but I don’t. Not inviting me to the party was one thing, but inviting every girl in our class except me was just mean.” It had been worth being grounded for two weeks when my parents heard about it through the school-yard grapevine and deduced the identity of the monster.