Free A Bone to Pick by Charlaine Harris

and his wife, Leah, were at my front door, the door no one ever uses because they’d have to park in the back—ten feet from my back door—and then walk all the way around the whole row of town houses to the front to ring the bell. Of course, that was what Parnell and Leah had done. “Mr. Engle, Mrs. Engle,” I said. “Please come in.” Parnell opened fire immediately. “What did we do ~ 77 ~
    ~ Charlaine Harris ~
to Jane, Miss Teagarden? Did she tell you what we did to her that offended her so much she left everything to you?”
I didn’t need this.
“Don’t you start, Mr. Engle,” I said sharply. “Just don’t you start. This is not a good day . You got a car, you got some money, you got Madeleine the cat. Just be glad of it and leave me alone.”
“We were Jane’s own blood kin—”
“Don’t start that with me,” I snapped. I was sim- ply beyond trying to be polite. “I don’t know why she left everything to me, but it doesn’t make me feel very lucky right now, believe me.”
“We realize,” he said with less whine and more dignity, “that Jane did express her true wishes in her will. We know that she was in her good senses up un- til the end and that she made her choice knowing what she was doing. We’re not going to contest the will. We just don’t understand it.”
“Well, Mr. Engle, neither do I.” Parnell would have had that skull at the police station in less time than it takes to talk about it. But it was good news that they weren’t small-minded enough to contest the will and thereby cause me endless trouble and heartache. I knew Lawrenceton. Pretty soon people would start saying, ~ 78 ~
    ~ A Bone to Pick ~
Well, why did Jane Engle leave everything to a young woman she didn’t even know very well? And specula- tion would run rampant; I couldn’t even imagine the things people would make up to explain Jane’s inexpli- cable legacy. People were going to talk anyway, but any dispute about the will would put a nasty twist on that speculation.
Looking at Parnell Engle and his silent wife, with their dowdy clothes and grievances, I suddenly won- dered if I’d gotten the money to pay me for the inconve- nience of the skull. What Jane had told Bubba Sewell might have been just a smoke screen. She may have read my character thoroughly, almost supernaturally thoroughly, and known I would keep her secret. “Good-bye,” I said to them gently, and closed my front door slowly, so they couldn’t say I’d slammed it on them. I locked it carefully, and marched to my telephone. I looked up Bubba Sewell’s number and di- aled. He was in and available, to my surprise. “How’s things going, Miss Teagarden?” he drawled. “Kind of bumpy, Mr. Sewell.”
“Sorry to hear that. How can I be of assistance?” “Did Jane leave me a letter?”
“What?”
“A letter, Mr. Sewell. Did she leave me a letter, ~ 79 ~
    ~ Charlaine Harris ~
something I’m supposed to get after I’ve had the house a month, or something?”
“No, Miss Teagarden.”
“Not a cassette? No tape of any kind?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did you see anything like that in the safe deposit box?”
“No, no, can’t say as I did. Actually, I just rented that box after Jane became so ill, to put her good jewelry in.” “And she didn’t tell you what was in the house?” I asked carefully.
“Miss Teagarden, I have no idea what’s in Miss Engle’s house,” he said definitely. Very definitely. I stopped, baffled. Bubba Sewell didn’t want to know. If I told him, he might have to do something about it, and I hadn’t yet decided what should be done. “Thanks,” I said hopelessly. “Oh, by the way . . .” And I told him about Parnell and Leah’s visit. “He said for sure they weren’t going to contest?” “He said they knew that Jane was in her right mind when she made her will, that they just wanted to know why she left everything the way she did.” “But he didn’t talk about going to court or getting his own