Free Ashes and Bones by Dana Cameron Page A

the doubt. Bitch.
    “—I really must insist that you don’t send him any more ‘presents.’”
    There it was again—presents? And I could practically hear her making quotation marks with her fingers.
    “You know as well as I what the doctor says, and you know, equally well, that he, like most men, is incapable of curbing his appetites—”
    Dear Beebee. I have no clue what you’re talking about and I refuse to be lectured by someone five years older than me. You could be one hundred years older, and I still wouldn’t take it.
    “—and so, please. No more steaks. I will not be placed in the situation of being the bad guy, trying to keep him healthy. I must insist and I hope you will understand. Bye for now.”
    Steaks? I could barely make my fingers work the phone to call Beebee back.
    She answered at once. “Beebee Fielding.”
    “Beebee, it’s Emma. I got your message, but the thing is, I never sent Dad any steaks. I wouldn’t, you know that.” Quite apart from respecting her wishes, at least when it came to Dad’s health, I’m not the steak-sending sort. She knew that as well.
    “Well, the package had one of those preprinted labels, you know, the kind with the printed note from the sender. It said, ‘Dad, have a blast. E. Fielding.’ What am I supposed to think?”
    “Beebee, this is important. Did Dad eat any of them?”
    A delicate, frustrated sigh. “I told you in my message. The delivery truck no sooner left the driveway than he had the grill fired up and all six of them on the fire. I caught him, but he pleaded, and so we had our neighbors over.”
    “Is he…was everyone all right, after?” I couldn’t believe how stupid I felt, or how shaky my voice sounded even to myself.
    “Yes, of course. They were very good steaks,” she said grudgingly. “He had a little bellyache, after, but that was simply because he’d eaten too much, too fast. And he can never stop with just one treat, he had to have blue cheese dressing on his salad, and potato salad from the deli, and too much whiskey after his beer—”
    I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good. Not the stomachache, but that there was nothing worse.”
    “Emma, what is all this about?”
    “I think someone is playing practical jokes on me. I’m afraid that they might turn nasty.”
    There was silence from the other end. “So why would they send very expensive presents to us?”
    To show me just how closely I’m being watched, I thought. To show that whoever it was knew me, knows my family. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just to embarrass me, when I have to confess that I’m not that thoughtful. When was all this?”
    “The day before yesterday. I waited to call because I wanted to calm myself. I was very upset that you might have…even though he loved the idea that you…”
    While Beebee tried not to offend me, while trying to correct me, while telling me how much Dad had enjoyed the treat that I hadn’t sent, I recalled what I knew about food poisoning. If the meat had been tampered with, it would have shown by now, I figured. “And it came straight from the source? Not a private home?”
    “No, it looked as though it had been sent straight from the company in Omaha. What am I going to tell your father?”
    “I…don’t know. You can tell him the truth, I guess. Just do me a favor?”
    There was a guarded pause before she answered. “Yes?”
    “Give me the name of the company that sent it? And if you get any other packages that look like they’re from me,give me a call, would you? Like I said, I’m just worried that this joker might turn nasty.”
    Beebee met my father through their mutual dealings in real estate, in the upper-end market in Connecticut. She knew something about competition and nasty tricks. “Of course. Thanks for calling.”
    “Yeah, you, too.” I hung up, then glared at the answering machine. There was one message left, and I almost didn’t dare to listen to it again.
    “Emma, it’s your