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and turned around to survey my new territory. The living room was carpeted, the only room in the house that was, and when Jane had had this done she’d run the carpet right up onto the window seat so that it was seamlessly cov- ered, side, top, and all. There were some hand- embroidered pillows arranged on it, and the effect was ~ 38 ~
    ~ A Bone to Pick ~
very pretty. The carpet Jane had been so partial to was a muted rose with a tiny blue pattern, and her liv- ing room furniture (a sofa and two armchairs) picked up that shade of blue, while the lamp shades were white or rose. There was a small color television arranged for easy viewing from Jane’s favorite chair. The antique table beside that chair was still stacked with magazines, a strange assortment that summed up Jane— Southern Living , Mystery Scene , Lear’s , and a publication from
the church.
The walls of this small room were lined with free- standing shelves overflowing with books. My mouth watered when I looked at them. One thing I knew Jane and I had shared: we loved books, we especially loved mysteries, and more than anything we loved books about real murders. Jane’s collection had al- ways been my envy.
At the rear of the living room was a dining area, with a beautiful table and chairs I believed Jane had in- herited from her mother. I knew nothing about antiques and cared less, but the table and chairs were gleaming under a light coating of dust, and, as I straightened the cushions and pushed the couch back to its place against the wall (why would anyone move a couch when he broke into a house?), I was already worried about car- ing for the set.
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    ~ Charlaine Harris ~
At least all the books hadn’t been thrown on the floor. Straightening this room actually took only a few moments.
I moved into the kitchen. I was avoiding Jane’s bedroom. It could wait.
The kitchen had a large double window that looked onto the backyard, and a tiny table with two chairs was set right in front of the window. Here was where Jane and I had had coffee when I’d visited her, if she hadn’t taken me into the living room. The disorder in the kitchen was just as puzzling. The shallow upper cabinets were fine, had not been touched, but the deeper bottom cabinets had been emptied carelessly. Nothing had been poured out of its container or wantonly vandalized, but the contents had been moved as though the cabinet itself were the object of the search, not possible loot that could be taken away. And the broom closet, tall and thin, had received special attention. I flipped on the kitchen light and stared at the wall in the back of the closet. It was marred with “. . . knife gouges, sure as shoot- ing,” I mumbled. While I stooped to reload the cabi- net shelves with pots and pans, I thought about those gouges. The breaker-in had wanted to see if there was something fake about the back of the closet; that was the only interpretation I could put on the holes. And ~ 40 ~
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only the large bottom cabinets had been disturbed; only the large pieces of furniture in the living room. So, Miss Genius, he was looking for something large. Okay, “he” could be a woman, but I wasn’t go- ing to the trouble of thinking “he or she.” “He” would do very well for now. What large thing could Jane Engle have concealed in her house that anyone could possibly want enough to break in for? Unan- swerable until I knew more, and I definitely had the feeling I would know more.
I finished picking up the kitchen and returned to the guest bedroom. The only disturbance there, now I’d cleared up the glass, was to the two single closets, which had been opened and emptied. There again, no attempt had been made to destroy or mutilate the items that had been taken from the closets; they’d just been emptied swiftly and thoroughly. Jane had stored her luggage in one closet, and the larger suitcases had been opened. Out-of-season clothes, boxes of pictures and mementos, a