Page 7 of Too Old for This
I close the file. That’s enough for now.
No time for a trip down memory lane, not when Plum is still in my freezer. First, I settle in for a nap. Long night ahead.
—
The house is almost dark when I wake. The only light comes from the embers in the fireplace. I heave myself up, feeling all the activity of the past twenty-four hours. The soreness is deep in my bones, screaming out for me to stop.
I rebuild the fire, get it roaring with three new logs stacked side by side, making a flat surface across the iron grate. I open all the windows and plug in a few air fresheners.
In the garage, I divide the bundles by type—chicken and turkey first. I stack them all in a shopping bag and bring them into the living room. It would be easier if I had a crematorium and could burn Plum all at once. The whole middle part with the chain saw could be skipped.
Alas, we don’t get everything we want. In fact, I’ve decided that getting one or two things Ireallydesire is the best I can do.
This process is not quick. It’s not like burning paper or even wood. Beyond the frozen veins, blood, muscles, and organs, there are bones.
Using a fireplace requires work. You can’t just throw a body in and expect it to burn—or a limb, for that matter. Fireplaces are not incinerators. To do it properly, the body must be cut into small pieces, and the fire must continue burning so it can reduce as much as possible to ash. If it’s done right, only bone fragments and teeth will remain. The first time, I did it wrong and had to reburn what was left. An unpleasant process, to say the least.
Success depends on the temperature of the fire. The wood and logs are stacked to allow for air flow and maximum burn, and I stoke it with a bellow. The more oxygen the fire gets, thehotter it burns. The gate in front helps keep the heat contained, in turn making the temperature rise.
I step into the backyard to get some fresh air and wait for the first packages to burn.
Over the next few hours, I get through the chicken, turkey, and red meat before taking a break. The smell still gets to me; that hasn’t changed. The charred, burning stench is impossible to get used to.
I go out back and cut a hunk of rosemary from the garden—God knows, I have enough of it—and throw it into the fire. It helps.
Only then do I notice the missed call. It’s the second one today from the same unknown number. This time there’s a voicemail.
“Hi. My name is Cole Fletcher. Sorry to bother you. I know this might sound a bit strange, but I’m looking for my girlfriend, Plum Dixon. I think she stopped by your house yesterday? I haven’t heard from her, and I’m getting a bit worried. Could you please call me back when you have a chance?”
Her boyfriend. The world really does move faster than it used to, and Cole knows exactly where Plum’s phone has been over the past day. Even I know there’s an app for that.
I call him back. Cole answers on the first ring. He sounds out of breath.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is Lottie Jones. You left a message for me about Plum Dixon?”
“Yes, thank you so much for calling me back.”
“Of course. How can I help?”
“Plum was down in Baycliff doing some research for a project she’s working on. She went to your house yesterday?”
“Yes, she was here,” I say. “She came by last night to discuss a docuseries she wants to make. We talked for a bit, and she left after that.”
“Okay…” Cole’s voice trails off for a minute, like he’s reading something. “What time did she leave your house?”
“It was around nine or nine fifteen. You said you haven’t been able to get hold of her, is that right?”
“She’s not answering calls or texts.”
“That’s rather alarming,” I say.
“Did Plum happen to mention where she was heading next?”
“She said something about leaving town last night but didn’t say where.”
“Really?” he says. “Strange.”
