Buttons and Bones by Monica Ferris Page A

turned to knock on the door.
    Lars opened it and came out, and the camera came up again. The reporter said, “Good morning. I’m Marla Johnson—”
    Lars interrupted her in a voice that brooked no argument. “We have nothing to say. Please clear off our property. Thank you.” He turned and came back inside.
    The reporter blinked at the closed door then turned to face the camera. “That was Lars Larson, new owner of the cabin in which— under which the skeleton was found.”
    She tried knocking on the door again, but it stayed shut. She looked around and saw Betsy at the window, but Betsy immediately withdrew.
    The crew filmed the cabin from various angles and went away.
    Lars, Betsy, and Jill spent the rest of the morning working to clear the beautiful white pine floor of its coverings of linoleum and musty carpet. The floor—whose wood looked more yellow than white to Betsy—appeared to be in good shape, no stains or severe scuffing. Twice cars appeared in the clearing bringing members of news agencies. Lars patiently repeated his initial reply to their request for an interview.
    Between visits the cabin was emptied of the carpet and linoleum coverings. Then the bathroom walls and floor were diagramed and measured. After a light lunch—spent ignoring the persistent knocking of another television crew—Lars said, “The heck with this. Emma Beth, my little sweetheart, how would you like to go see the turtle races?”
    The child’s face flushed pink and her mouth opened with delight, her light blue eyes fairly shooting sparks. “Can we go? Can we go right now? We should go right now so they won’t be over and we’ve missed them.”
    “Right now,” said Lars.
    Everyone piled into the SUV, and Lars, his foot a trifle heavy on the accelerator, took them out to Highway 6, down the other side of Thunder Lake, and past the shore of Big Rice Lake. He drove right by Laura Lake, between Upper Trelipe and Little Bass Lake, split Inguadona Lake, came within hailing distance of Rice Lake and Cooper Lake and on to the shore of Girl Lake—and Longville. All in less than twenty minutes and without even nearing all the lakes in the area.
    Longville was a pleasant little town with very broad streets and lots of shops catering to tourists. Lars found the street with the statue of the turtle, correctly surmising that it marked the site of the races about to begin. There was already a crowd gathering and he had to park in a lot two long blocks away.
    The “racetrack” was two circles painted in the middle of the broad street, one about four feet in diameter, the other circling it, about eight yards across. A low stage had been set up alongside it, fronted by five-gallon buckets filled with annoyed or frightened or confused turtles. On the stage, a man with a microphone was encouraging children to come forward and, for an entry fee of three dollars, select a turtle to race. All the turtles, he said, were fresh caught and would be released at the end of the day. “No professional racers allowed,” he asserted, mock seriously.
    Airey picked the first turtle he saw and promptly dropped it onto the asphalt when it came out of its shell and scratched his fingers lightly with its claws. Betsy picked it up and tried to interest him in it. He was willing to look, but not anxious to take it back. It was a lively, good-size turtle, so Betsy kept it for him.
    Emma Beth, on the other hand, was looking for a soul mate and went peering into bucket after bucket. She was on the last one before a turtle looked back at her with what she interpreted as a friend-for-life eye.
    The rules of the races were simple. For each heat, a child placed his or her turtle inside the smaller circle, holding it in place until the command to start was given. The first turtle to cross the border of the outer circle won.
    The turtles, new to the game and in any case not particularly interested in racing toward a shouting crowd of humans, mostly retreated to the