Page 128 of Fire and Bones

Lipsey dropped then crushed her Camel with one well-cushioned heel, then bent to scoop the butt into her palm. Taking one backward step, she indicated that we could enter.

I noted that she didn’t question my role. Assumed my presence had been part of the boys’ heads-up.

The air inside smelled of decades of fried food. Of laundry left too long in a washer.

Just beyond the door, a three-panel gilt-framed mirror leaned at a cockeyed angle against a baseboard, either fallen from a wall or waiting to be hung. While passing, I caught triptych snapshots of myself. White jeans. Chambray shirt. OluKai sandals. Anxious face.

The décor was a gloomy affair, all somber wallpapers, carpets, and drapes. Heavy brass fixtures overhead, dark hardwoods underfoot, here and there covered by a threadbare area rug. I knew that signs of wear could indicate carpets with history and value. These sad puppies just looked old.

Pocket treasures clanking and rustling, sneakers squeaking like an athlete’s crossing a gym, Lipsey led us down a hall to a solarium pooching out from the rear of the first floor. The small sunroom had top-to-bottom windows on three sides, a cathedral ceiling, a black-and-white tile floor. A jungle of vegetation waterfalled from hanging baskets and blossomed from freestanding pots.

Deery and I dropped into wicker armchairs, once white, now dead fish gray, the pattern on their cushions faded and unrecognizable. Lipsey sat on the matching sofa.

I’ve picked up certain competencies over the years. Horticulture and gardening are not among them. I could identify philodendra, pothos, and Boston ferns, all species I’d killed in the course of my lifetime. The remaining flora was a mystery to me.

Early-morning sunlight filtered gently through the grime-coated glass. The air carried a pleasant earthy scent.

Until Lipsey dug her pack of Camels from the pocket jumble, slid a book of matches from beneath the cellophane, and lit up. The acrid mix of nicotine, carbon monoxide, and tar soon overrode the aromas of greenery and moist soil.

“May I record our conversation?” Deery asked, waggling his phone.

“You’re assumin’ we’ll have one.”

“Is that consent, Mrs. Lipsey?”

No response.

“Ma’am?”

Eyes hard, the old woman quipped, “You tell me.”

Though in her late eighties, it was clear that Susan Lipsey wouldn’t be short-listing herself for a retirement home anytime soon.

Deery glared at the old woman.

Lipsey glared back.

As per Deery’s directive, I continued to hold my tongue.

For a very long moment, silence filled the small space, punctured only by Lipsey’s wheezy breathing and a rhythmic ticking.

Tic.

Tic.

Tic.

My eyes ran a quick circuit. Noted water dripping from a hanging fern into a plastic container below.

Tic.

Tic

Tic.

“May I begin, ma’am?” Deery engaged the recorder on his phone.

Lipsey raised the Camel’s burning tip upright. Eyes crimped, she watched the red glow nibble tobacco and paper.