The Bone Bed

directly relates to the body, I explain.
    Biological materials, medications, for example, I say to her. But I will look at whatever I’m allowed to look at, assuming my opinion is helpful, I make myself clear.
    “Sure, it’s all helpful,” she says. “I’m curious if you usually do your own photography.”
    “Generally, no.”
    “So if Marino’s not available, you wouldn’t bring one of the other investigators. You have what? About six of them?”
    “I wouldn’t bring Marino or anyone here,” I answer her. “Not under the circumstances.”

twenty-four
    OFF THE ENTRYWAY TO THE LEFT IS THE DINING ROOM, small, with Wedgwood-blue walls and white molding and trim, the mahogany table in front of the fireplace set with six antique chairs upholstered in dark red velvet.
    A built-in hutch displays royal-blue dishes trimmed in gold, French Saxon china that is old, and sterling flatware in cabinets, also French and antique, is stored in wooden chests, a patina of tarnish on all of the pieces. White candles on the table and the mantel have never been lit, and potted plants by the curtained window are long dead, everything covered in dust that hasn’t been disturbed in many months, I estimate. I flip a wall switch and nothing happens, the bulbs of the chandelier and sconces burned out.
    “It doesn’t appear they’re on timers.” I scan wall switches and outlets, looking for any sign of power strips or other devices that might have allowed Peggy Stanton to program certain lights to turn on and off. “Were these switches in the on position when you got here?”
    “Yes.” Burke is interested in her cell phone.
    “And you left them in the on position?” I ask because it’s important.
    “Any lights that are burned out, it’s because they were left on by whoever was in the house last.” She’s scrolling through e-mails.
    “It’s probably safe to assume that either she left the dining room lights on the last time she was in her house or someone else did.”
    “The window in here faces the street.” She’s reading e-mails and wiping her nose with a tissue. “Maybe she was in the habit of leaving the lights on in the dining room so it looked like someone was home.”
    “Most people wouldn’t leave on a crystal chandelier and crystal sconces when they go out, especially if they were leaving town. It’s a real pain to replace the bulbs.” I’ve seen what I need to see in here, and Burke is barely listening.
    I walk out of the dining room and across the entryway, waiting for what’s next as I wonder how much of what’s happening was masterminded by Benton. How much is he allowing? Burke is walking me through this house because she intends to walk me through something else.
    “If it was her habit to come and go in her car, it might have made more sense to leave lights on that illuminate the garage.” I tell her my thoughts anyway, feeling uncannily the way I did earlier today when Jill Donoghue played her games with me in court.
    I stop by the floral upholstered couch in the formal living room and look around at more European antiques, probably French, everything immaculate and dusty. I notice a canvas bag on the floor next to a wing chair, and inside are skeins of wool and knitting needles, and a navy blue scarf that looks about halfway done. If she’d left town for the summer, would she have neglected to take with her a project she’d begun? The fireplace is fitted with a gas insert that’s supposed to look like birch logs, a remote on top of the mantel.
    “The fireplace works; I checked,” Burke says.
    “Most people shut off the pilot light in the summer and turn it back on in the fall. Is her house heated with natural gas? It’s warm in here.” I find the thermostat. “The heat is on and set to seventy degrees.”
    “Not sure if it’s natural gas.”
    “Most likely it is. Pilot lights burn gas, too. You leave one on for five or six months and chances are good the gas will run out. So she’s been getting fuel deliveries.”
    “Someone collecting her mail, paying her bills, making sure gas deliveries don’t stop, and suspending her newspaper.” She doesn’t indicate what that makes her think or even if she finds it noteworthy. “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job.”
    “That’s good, because you couldn’t possibly.”
    “I don’t mean to question you.”
    “Of course you do. But go right ahead.” I look at flowers on the coffee table that are so wilted it’s