Read Online Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) by Danielle Girard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Danielle Girard
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them in the skillet. The oil crackled and hissed, and as it did she recalled the familiar smell of the crowded restaurant, her father’s hearty laugh, and the scent of vanilla custard that was one with her mother.
Lucy would be starving, and she would enter the house with typical teenage drama. There’d be the rumble of the garage door, a slam followed by the quieter, gentler driver’s-side door closing as Jed also emerged from the car. Four quick breaths later, the kitchen door would burst open and shoes, backpack, gear, lunch box, water bottle would drop to the floor in a heap as she passed and stomped up the stairs.
At fifteen, Lucy was predictable only in her mood swings. Ten years earlier, when their daughter reached school age, Harper and Jed had set out house rules. One was that coats, bags, shoes, and the like had to be hung up or out of the pathway to the garage.
House rules had fallen apart sometime last spring when Lucy turned into—well, whatever this was. It was practically a fire danger the way stuff was strewn around.
As Harper flipped the first breast, oil spit at her. She grabbed the apron off the hook and pulled it on over her blues, wishing she’d had time to change her clothes before cooking. She checked the biscuits in the oven, thankful for the dough her mother had brought by over the weekend and more grateful that they hadn’t baked it all for Sunday dinner. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were always a scramble. Harper worked tens, and they were the busiest days at the lab for Jed.
Though she’d resisted Jed’s pragmatic response to her wanting another child when Lucy was two or three, she couldn’t imagine now how they could have managed two children.
The garage door started with a kick and rumbled open as Harper slid the biscuits out of the oven. She swung open the refrigerator door, found a bottle of beer, and gave the door a bump with her hip to send it closed. The cap fought a little—probably the opener starting to wear down from use—but Harper won, and the cap popped off. She tossed it into the trash and tipped the bottle to her lips as the door opened from the garage.
Jed entered first, scowling.
She lowered the beer. “What’s wrong?”
“According to your daughter, everything.”
She was always Harper’s daughter when she was being moody and difficult. Unless it was Harper talking. Then she was Jed’s. “Want a beer?”
“Uh, duh,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Harper handed Jed her beer. “Lucy’s better at the eye roll.”
“I know. I don’t have nearly as much practice,” he said with an exasperated sigh—another of Lucy’s favorite new mannerisms. Harper opened the refrigerator for another one.
The phone rang.
“You think it’s Lucy, calling from the car?”
Jed’s hand hovered above the wireless receiver. “If it is, she is grounded for a month.”
“Hello.” The smile vanished as he set down the beer. Harper closed the refrigerator.
“Okay, Kathy. Hang on a sec. She’s right here.”
Harper crossed to the phone.
Jed covered the mouthpiece. “Frances Pinckney is dead.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Dead?”
“Your mother just found her.”
Harper reached for the phone, but before she could speak, the door from the garage slammed against the kitchen wall.
Making a racket, Lucy kicked her shoes off as she entered the house, dropped her backpack and lunch sack onto the floor, and crossed to the kitchen table, where she dropped into a chair.
“I’m absolutely starving,” she announced. “What’s for dinner?”
7
Charleston, South Carolina
Harper arrived at the home of Frances Pinckney as the coroner’s vehicle was parking. Charleston County owned three coroner’s vans, but the one on the curb was the oldest by more than a decade. Rusted wheel wells and a rattling that could be heard a block away, the van was nicknamed “Bessie.” The fact that it was Bessie parked on the curb meant Burl Delford was on call. He was the
Lucy would be starving, and she would enter the house with typical teenage drama. There’d be the rumble of the garage door, a slam followed by the quieter, gentler driver’s-side door closing as Jed also emerged from the car. Four quick breaths later, the kitchen door would burst open and shoes, backpack, gear, lunch box, water bottle would drop to the floor in a heap as she passed and stomped up the stairs.
At fifteen, Lucy was predictable only in her mood swings. Ten years earlier, when their daughter reached school age, Harper and Jed had set out house rules. One was that coats, bags, shoes, and the like had to be hung up or out of the pathway to the garage.
House rules had fallen apart sometime last spring when Lucy turned into—well, whatever this was. It was practically a fire danger the way stuff was strewn around.
As Harper flipped the first breast, oil spit at her. She grabbed the apron off the hook and pulled it on over her blues, wishing she’d had time to change her clothes before cooking. She checked the biscuits in the oven, thankful for the dough her mother had brought by over the weekend and more grateful that they hadn’t baked it all for Sunday dinner. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were always a scramble. Harper worked tens, and they were the busiest days at the lab for Jed.
Though she’d resisted Jed’s pragmatic response to her wanting another child when Lucy was two or three, she couldn’t imagine now how they could have managed two children.
The garage door started with a kick and rumbled open as Harper slid the biscuits out of the oven. She swung open the refrigerator door, found a bottle of beer, and gave the door a bump with her hip to send it closed. The cap fought a little—probably the opener starting to wear down from use—but Harper won, and the cap popped off. She tossed it into the trash and tipped the bottle to her lips as the door opened from the garage.
Jed entered first, scowling.
She lowered the beer. “What’s wrong?”
“According to your daughter, everything.”
She was always Harper’s daughter when she was being moody and difficult. Unless it was Harper talking. Then she was Jed’s. “Want a beer?”
“Uh, duh,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Harper handed Jed her beer. “Lucy’s better at the eye roll.”
“I know. I don’t have nearly as much practice,” he said with an exasperated sigh—another of Lucy’s favorite new mannerisms. Harper opened the refrigerator for another one.
The phone rang.
“You think it’s Lucy, calling from the car?”
Jed’s hand hovered above the wireless receiver. “If it is, she is grounded for a month.”
“Hello.” The smile vanished as he set down the beer. Harper closed the refrigerator.
“Okay, Kathy. Hang on a sec. She’s right here.”
Harper crossed to the phone.
Jed covered the mouthpiece. “Frances Pinckney is dead.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Dead?”
“Your mother just found her.”
Harper reached for the phone, but before she could speak, the door from the garage slammed against the kitchen wall.
Making a racket, Lucy kicked her shoes off as she entered the house, dropped her backpack and lunch sack onto the floor, and crossed to the kitchen table, where she dropped into a chair.
“I’m absolutely starving,” she announced. “What’s for dinner?”
7
Charleston, South Carolina
Harper arrived at the home of Frances Pinckney as the coroner’s vehicle was parking. Charleston County owned three coroner’s vans, but the one on the curb was the oldest by more than a decade. Rusted wheel wells and a rattling that could be heard a block away, the van was nicknamed “Bessie.” The fact that it was Bessie parked on the curb meant Burl Delford was on call. He was the
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