Mrs. Worthington and her carload of gambling grannies returned Sunday night. She was the victor of Vegas to the tune of three hundred dollars, and called to invite Fred out to spend the spoils. While Fred was outside picking a boutonniere for the occasion, his now marginally wealthy flame of fame-locally at least- called a second time. Dean, who'd just returned from pressing election flesh, answered.
"Just give Mr. O'Connor a message," Mrs. Worthington said. "I forgot to tell him about those silly bones he was interested in. My sister Edna called from Yosemite." Dean was all ears. Unfortunately, the news was disappointing. The remains of what was now universally presumed to be Josh Mulligan rested in an unnamed southern California landfill. The burial had taken place in a dumpster in Downey, several days earlier. Dean pressed for details but there were none. Sister Edna, assuming the bones were old and broken props-albeit realistic ones-couldn't discard them fast enough. Dean thanked Mrs. W., congratulated the woman on her Vegas winnings, and said he'd pass on the message to Fred. With the theft of dinky pinkie digit from Cynthia's jewelry case, the only tangible proof of an actual body having existed remained in the minds of David and Cynthia Dean, and possibly Martha Boyd.
The chance of anyone believing the story was practically nil. Lydia Larkin thought the story was nonsense. Dean had explained this to Cynthia when he returned Friday night. It was right after Cynthia had commented on liking his perfume-what was it? Shalimar?
Dean volunteered to do supper Sunday night. After all, he'd abdicated all Bird Song's weekend chores in favor of his flesh-pressing tour, and Cynthia deserved a rest. He decided on kitchen sink soup-four night's leftovers stewed with a couple of cloves of garlic for a kicker. He even tossed in some biscuits, just to slop up the juice. But no pie. The diet remained in full swing.
Thus satiated, the Deans were early to bed as the weekend ended, not for sleep or sex, although the later thought crossed the Mr.'s mind, but more as a private escape from being nice to the guests. David was knee deep in a can't-put-down-able James Lee Burke mystery, while Cynthia plodded through her zillion-page saga, a real flower-presser in Dean's mind. Fred would be up till the moon was down, out spending Mrs. Worthington's Vegas spoils. A number of Bird Song's more recent guests were bickering over differing rules to Mexican Train Dominoes in the dining room while others were trading Boardwalk and Park Place in the parlor. The guests of longer term, the three remaining Dawkinses and Brandon Westlake, were all absent.