Читать книгу Reading the Bones - Gina McMurchy-Barber - Страница 9

It was almost nine o’clock when I crawled out of bed the next morning, but I felt as if I hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours. Slowly, I made my way downstairs, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I stopped midway when I heard a strange voice coming from the kitchen.

“It’s too bad I didn’t know about your plans for the backyard. I would have told you what could happen when you start digging in this town.”

“It’s been a terrible shock to my system, not to mention a real hassle,” Aunt Margaret said. “I’ve spent hours planning the landscaping, and I can tell you this isn’t what I envisioned for my garden.”

“Well, next time you think about digging in your yard, just let old Bob give you some ideas about what to do with all that junk. Old bones make great wind chimes, and some of those artifacts are good as garden ornaments. I’ll bet that skull you found would’ve made a humdinger of a conversation piece.”

“Oh, please, don’t remind me. I have a time trying to get to sleep knowing it’s right outside my bedroom window.” I could picture my aunt’s face getting all dramatic.

“I can understand how you’re feeling,” the man said. “All the more reason you should get something for your trouble. After all, this is your place, not some old guy’s who lived a couple of thousand years ago. It’s yours, including everything on it.”

Before I walked into the kitchen, I knew I’d dislike the man sitting at the table with my aunt. As I came through the doorway, Aunt Margaret smiled and her guest looked up from his coffee. He was a pear-shaped fellow wearing a T-shirt that read: RENO — WHERE MEN PLAY CARDS AND WOMEN SERVE DRINKS!

“Good morning, Peggy,” Aunt Margaret said. “This is our new neighbour, Bob. He was telling me that people have been finding artifacts and bones around Crescent Beach for decades. He has some interesting ideas about what we should do if we find any more.”

The man held out a pudgy hand. “Hi there! I’m Bob Puddifoot.”

Just then I remembered seeing him before, but not face to face. Usually, when I passed by his yard, he was bent over his flower garden, his wide rump looking like two pillows. I shook his hand and smiled weakly. Then I turned away and poured myself some cereal. I noticed our town paper was open on the counter, and a big star was pencilled beside an ad that said: “Wanted: Ancient Native artifacts. Will pay good price. Contact 604-555-5555.”