The Bone Bed

intellectual pursuits. You know the type,” she says to Benton, as if he’s that type, and it’s hard to tell if she’s teasing or flirting or means nothing by it.
    “Most people leave at least a few lights on.” He continues assessing how much Peggy Stanton kept to herself or encouraged her neighbors to mind their own business, or if she might have been liked or resented or avoided.
    Predators pick their victims for a reason.
    “We’ve been through every room,” Burke lets us know. “Sil’s still roaming around in the basement, says he wants to point out something electrical to you.” She directs this to Benton. “Don’t ask me. I can barely plug in a toaster. Nothing interesting so far, except it’s obvious the place has been empty for several weeks at least.”
    Several weeks.
    I don’t like the impression I’m getting.
    “We’ve requested records from the alarm company, which probably will be the best indication of when she was here last,” Burke adds, and I don’t agree.
    “An indication of when someone was here last doesn’t mean that person was Peggy Stanton,” I remind her. “It could have been someone else who was here.”
    I take off my tactical boots, not the same ones I had on earlier today, having insisted on a shower and a change of clothing before I was going anywhere.
    “And I can tell you with reasonable certainty that she wasn’t here in recent weeks, because she was dead by then. What about a housekeeper?” I ask.
    “One hasn’t been here for weeks; that’s obvious.”
    Weeks,
I think, and I don’t like where this is headed already. Burke is going to question any conclusion I make about facts she decides are debatable, and Benton isn’t going to intervene.
    “Do we know if she has a housekeeper?” I inquire. “Or if, perhaps, she might have cleaned her house herself?”
    “We don’t know yet. The yard man hasn’t been around, you probably noticed,” she says to me, and my regard for her hasn’t changed over the several years I’ve known her rather distantly.
    A former prosecutor, reasonably bright and aggressive, Special Agent Douglas Burke has always been appropriately attentive to the wife of the man she works with most closely and in secret. I like her and I don’t. I’ve never been sure what she honestly thinks of me or feels about my husband, her emotions and interests covert, and right now what I’m starting to sense is strong.
    “People tend to notice things like that in Cambridge.” Benton wipes down his coat, his shoes with the towel. “If the yard, the maintenance of the property are neglected long enough, inevitably someone calls the city and complains.”
    “We’re getting that information, too.” Burke hands us coveralls. “We have found out she stopped the newspaper delivery May third.”
    “Or somebody did.” Benton neatly places his coat and shoes on the plastic-covered safe area. “You can do it online. You abduct someone and don’t want it discovered anytime soon that the person is missing, go online and suspend the newspaper delivery. Make sure you place occasional calls on their cell phone to directory assistance, wherever you’ll get a recording. Or call people from the contact list at weird hours and hang up or don’t leave a message.”
    “It was her habit to suspend delivery every spring or early summer,” Burke informs us. “Specifically,
The Boston Globe,
whenever she was leaving Cambridge, and it doesn’t seem she spent summers here after her family was killed in the plane crash. I can’t imagine going through something like that. I can’t even think about it. Losing everybody at once.”
    “It would have reshaped her. She wouldn’t have been the same person after that, for better or worse.” Benton continues assessing who Peggy Stanton may have become.
    “If she was at her Lake Michigan cottage, she’d have the
Chicago Tribune
delivered, but that was never started up this summer.” Burke gives us gloves, and I notice her hands are shaking, probably from the Sudafed, or maybe she’s excited by the hunt.
    You want to hunt me, go ahead.
    “As I’ve indicated, all signs so far point to her never getting to Illinois.” She stares at me and I stare back.
    “The rug underneath?” I indicate what’s under the plastic as I walk across it in booties.
    “Nothing’s been done.” She knows what I’m asking.
    Any areas of flooring near entrances are important. If a perpetrator was in and out of the house,