They cleared much of the land themselves.
Over a long weekend Saint and Charlotte worked beneath a high sun, grunting as they tore at fronds, bent low and hacked roots of mountain laurel, witch hazel, and wild blueberry. They broke to eat a lunch of beans and ham hocks on cornbread the girl had perfected. In the shadow of the tall house and the memory of Norma, they worked to the background hum of Charlotte’s bees.
On Sunday morning an arborist came and felled half a dozen oaks, didn’t charge because he wanted the timber for his father’s mill. Saint gave him a couple of pieces of butter cake. Charlotte groused because she’d made plans for every crumb.
They took their shovels and wheelbarrows and went back to work, clearing out a section thirty by thirty. In a week Sammy’s contractor would come lay the foundations for the studio. Charlotte had balked at first, told Saint she was crazy if she wanted to waste her money like that, then eventually conceded she might like a little space of her own.
“Don’t think I’ll turn out like the pirate, making you all wealthy,” Charlotte had said as they looked at blueprints in the gallery.
“No chance of that at all,” Sammy said, a little too sadly.
Charlotte came up against a Douglas fir, found a short-handled axe in the woodshed, and hacked at it till her shoulder burned. When it fell she climbed on the carcass, stared down and spit on it and called it her bitch. Saint rolled her eyes.
By early evening the land was clear enough for the machine to come in.
“I miss Norma,” Charlotte said.
“People say it gets easier, but that’s only because each day we get a little closer to seeing them again.”
Charlotte looked over at her.
“You’re going to say you didn’t think I believed because I don’t go to church,” Saint said.
“I see you pray.”
“Maybe when we pray we’re not asking for intervention. We’re just reminding ourselves of the things that matter. You screw up and ask forgiveness of yourself. Someone loses their way, and you search your own mind for the guidance to help them.”
Charlotte walked the perimeter of the clearing, arms out like she balanced on tightrope.
“I think your grandmother likes Sammy,” Saint said.
“I think I’ve got a better chance of making Honey Princess than he has of slotting my grandmother.”
“Slotting?”
Charlotte laughed so hard she lost her footing and sprawled. She cursed as Saint knelt to help her up.
Blood dripped from her elbow. “Something sharp down there,” Charlotte said.
Above the sun set at a low angle, the light spread violet through heavy moisture over the St. Francois Mountains as Saint held something up to the purple sky.
“What is it?” Charlotte said.
Saint set it down, then dug out another, moving quickly, tilling the concretion till the shape was born. Charlotte knelt in the dirt beside her.
“Is that—”
“Bones,” Saint said. “A whole lot of bones.”
Charlotte stood as breeze shifted thickening trees, giving glimpses of the land behind.
Where the old Tooms house stood.
She looked back when Officer Michaels emerged from the side gate.
“What is it?” she said.
“There’s been a murder.”