Bones & Boxes: a Hetty Fox Cozy Mystery (Hetty Fox Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Anna Drake

  “Just leave it. The estate can handle the repairs. After all, this isn’t our house, and Carrie, as much as I loved her, wasn’t our aunt. We’re doing the family a favor just being here.”

  “No, they have enough on their plates. I’d rather have it repaired.”

  “Suit yourself, then. There’s always George Pratt. He’s a local handyman. I’m sure he can fix this.”

  “Give me a tug up, would you?” I stuck out my hand. She grabbed it and yanked me back to my feet. Once upright, I knelt before the hole to examine the damage. “You won’t believe this, but I think there’s something hidden in there.”

  She leaned in behind me. “You’re kidding. Can you tell what it is?”

  “Maybe I could with a flashlight.” The space behind the wall stretched out before me, inky-gray and uninviting. I extended my arm, touching a dark blob inside its depth. Squinting now, I could almost make it out. “I think it’s a small cardboard box.”

  She straightened. “Why would anyone hide a box behind a closet wall? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know.” I gave a pull and dragged the thing out. It was about a foot square and six inches in height. The flaps had been secured by slipping them over and under themselves, but they hadn’t been taped down. “I wonder if we should open it?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Carrie might have hidden it there for a reason. She might not want someone pawing through it.”

  “But maybe it could give us a clue as to why Carrie was killed.”

  Rose’s cheeks flushed. “I think that’s highly unlikely.”

  “We should at least turn it over to the police. But I don’t want to make us look foolish. It might contain nothing more incriminating than old baby shoes.”

  “That would certainly make us look dumb,” she agreed.

  “Let’s go downstairs. We can sit at the kitchen table and go through the contents. Then we’ll know if the police need to see it or not.”

  She frowned. “I think we should put it back and have the wall boarded up over it again.”

  “Oh, come on. We can’t do that… or at least I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

  ***

  Down in the kitchen, she flipped on the overhead light. I proceeded on to the table and set the box down. Then, grabbing the thermos and styrofoam cups I’d brought with us, I poured us each a cup of hot, sweet tea.

  Rose joined me and wrapped her hands around the cup. She spent a long moment staring at the box. “What do you think is in it?”

  I place my cup on the table. “Well, let’s find out, shall we?” I pulled the box closer and worked the flaps free. Leaning forward to better see what was inside, I wondered what could be so important that Carrie would have packed this box up and hidden it behind a wall?

  Rose shook her head. “I still think we should put this back and forget we ever saw it.”

  “What fun would that be?”

  She glared at me. “Remember the warning about curiosity and a cat?”

  I laughed. “That’s just an old wives tale.”

  “And just what do you think we are?”

  I shrugged off her comment and pawed through the box. “It looks like she put an odd collection of stuff in here. There’s what appears to be a diary, a few pieces of old jewelry, and some photos.”

  Rose leaned in closer. She wore a puzzled look on her face. “A diary? I didn’t know anyone bothered with those things anymore.”

  “Actually, I suspect it’s rather old. In fact, it looks like the kind of thing that was around when I was a teenager.”

  “Yes, I remember those things, too. Did you keep one?”

  “Never. Nothing that important ever seemed to happen to me. Mind you, I still have some keepsakes from those days. But I never bothered with a diary.”

  I reached out and plucked the thing from the box. It was about four inches wide by five inches long and had a faded, red vinyl cover. It was a cheap thing, as most of them were in those days. There was also a little strap attached to the back that wrapped around to the front and was secured there by a small, metal lock.

  “Why in the world would Carrie hide something like that behind a wall?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Is it locked?”

  I gave the cover a tug. “It seems to be.” I shoved my free hand back into the box and began rooting around.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The key.”

  “Carrie wouldn’t have kept it with the diary, would she?”

  “You’re probably right, but… wait a minute.” My fingers closed around a small, flat metal key. I withdrew it from the box. “Here we go.” I held it up for Rose to see.

  She ignored it. “You aren’t really going to read her locked diary?”

  “I am.”

  Rose placed her hand on top of mine. “Do you think we should do this? I mean diaries are supposed to be so personal.”

  “Rose, Carrie has been brutally murdered. Of course we need to see what’s in the diary. There’s nothing to say it will relate to her murder, but there’s no way to know if the entries are tied to her death without reading it.” I inserted the key in the lock and twisted it. Finally, after taking a deep breath, I opened the cover, and sat down to read.

  Rose leaned in even closer.

  I skimmed the first few pages. “It reads like the overly wrought ramblings of a teenager for sure.. There are several names mentioned.” I turned my head to get a better glimpse of my companion, who was still leaning over my shoulder. “There’s a Tim, and a Patty, along with a Joyce, and Betty, too. Do you know any of them?”

  “Probably. I think we all went to school together. Still, it would be nice to have the last names, just to be sure.”

  “There are several photos in the box. Do you think they could help you figure out the connections?”

  “They might. I was a couple of years behind Carrie in school. But there weren’t that many children in our classes to keep track of.”

  I withdrew the photos and laid them out on the table. “Do you recognize anyone?”

  “That one.” She pointed at a light-haired boy, “That’s Tim Benny. If I’m recalling right, I think Carrie had a crush on him in grade school.”

  “How about the others?”

  She pointed to one of the girls. “That’s Betty Stern. She moved away ages ago. Went to San Francisco, I think. The others still live nearabouts.”

  “So this diary belonged to Carrie, then?”

  “Yes, that would be my guess.”

  “Then the police need to know about this.”

  She scoffed. “No way. This stuff is from Carrie’s childhood. It has nothing to do with what’s happening today.”

  “You may be right, but this is a murder investigation. I don’t think the police would want us withholding something they hadn’t had a chance to study themselves.”

  Rose shook her head. “You read too many mysteries.”

  FIVE

  Detective Oberton arrived at Carrie’s house within fifteen minutes of our call. He stormed through the front door — scowling. “What do you mean you discovered a box hidden behind a wall? Who gave you permission to tear walls down?”

  “I didn’t do it deliberately,” I protested. But I didn’t tell him that I’d given that little tab-like thing a good-sized tug.

  “That’s right,” Rose joined in. “She was just helping me sort through the household goods. We were at work in the bedroom, and Hetty was in the closet.”

  “Why are you two doing that kind of work?” Oberton demanded. “You’re not related to the family. Neither one of you.”

  “Please, won’t you sit down?” I asked, waving him toward the couch.

  He folded himself onto the sofa, but his mood didn’t seem to improve any.

  Meanwhile, I summoned up my most pleasant smile. “As for why we’re here, Carrie’s niece asked us to go through the house for her. As to the wall, I stumbled against it, and
it gave way. I don’t know why.”

  “In the bedroom closet, you say?”

  “Yes, she was in there packing up Carrie’s clothes.”

  I nodded, giving Rose a thankful glance for her continued support. “Anyway, the hole is ancient history now. I thought you’d be more interested in the box.” I let my gaze drift to the container which now sat on the coffee table in front of the couch.

  Oberton frowned. “I suppose you’ve both stuck your noses into it?”

  “We opened the box and looked inside,” I confessed.

  “And did you touch anything?”

  I thought about lying, but what was the point? I doubted he’d believe us, besides, I suspected he could always check for fingerprints. I sighed. “I suppose we shouldn’t have. It’s just that we didn’t think of that then.”

  He mumbled something which sounded awfully close to a nasty word.

  I felt my cheeks flush. “It’s hard, you know, when you find a box hidden behind a wall not to be curious.”

  It was his turn to sigh. “So what’s in there?”

  I listed the contents.

  “Did you read the diary?” he asked

  “Some of it. But Carrie had apparently written the entries when she was young. It didn’t seem to contain anything to explain her murder.”

  “Did it mention Mrs. Whitcomb?”

  “The woman Carrie cleaned for?”

  Oberton nodded.

  “Not that I noticed. Again, I think it was all stuff from her youth. Why she’d have stashed it behind a wall… I can’t say.”

  Rose leaned forward. “Do you think it’s tied to the murder?”

  “I can hardly answer your question at this point. But from what you say, it sounds doubtful.” He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “I’ll take a look at that closet and the wall and then be on my way. Are you two finished cleaning?”

  Rose shook her head. “We’d just begun. We have the rest of the house to go through yet.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “But I would think most of the day.”

  “Well, give me a jangle when you’re done, please.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He looked at me and smiled sadly. “Because I think I’m going to want to keep a close eye on the pair of you.”

  ***

  That evening when I returned home I found Andrew waiting for me just inside the front door. “Well, you’ve had quite a day,” he said with his boyish grin. “A hidden box. A hacked off detective.”

  I removed my outer gear and stuffed it away in the closet. Then, lowering my head, I stomped off to the kitchen. I’d had a tough day. I didn’t fancy undergoing a play by play of the day’s problems.

  “You should make nice with that detective,” Andrew said.

  I pulled the kettle from off the stove and filled it with water. “I’m trying.”

  My ghost lifted his chin and stared down his nose at me. “Try harder.”

  I gave him a scathing glance. “Says he who haunts people for fun.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I had any options.”

  My heart sank at the sound of sorrow in his voice. I lowered my head from the weight of the guilt it carried. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay, really.”

  I reviewed our conversation and did an internal eye roll. I was holding a conversation with a man who claimed to be a ghost. I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. I took a deep breath. “Anyway, I learned today that Carrie and I shared a weakness.”

  “What’s that?

  “Ghosts.”

  “She had one, too?”

  I nodded. “We found a diary in Carrie’s house.”

  “I know that.”

  My jaw clenched shut for an instant. “Anyway, in it she’d written about her teenage crush on a boy named Tim. I had a feeling that was the only reason for the box. It was to hold the things that connected her with her first love. I didn’t mention my opinion to anyone, but that’s what I thought its purpose was.”

  His voice softened. “Are you telling me you’ve saved some of my things?”

  I nodded, blinking back tears. “I still have my favorite photos of you. And I kept many of your letters.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “I loved my husband,” I suddenly protested. “You must understand that.”

  “And I’m glad. Hetty, I never wanted you to go through life alone.”

  I shook my head. I was standing here explaining myself to what was probably nothing more than a creature from my imagination.

  If my daughter ever learned of my present condition, she’d doubtless lock me away in an old person’s home in a heartbeat — and rightfully so.

  Behind me, the kettle sent forth its shrill blast. It was tea time. Ghosts and daughters and the state of my mind could be sorted out another day. I’d earned myself a welcome break — for now.

  ***

  Although I didn’t know why, the next morning found me more pulled together than I’d been in a while. It might have had something to do with Andrew’s absence from the kitchen. In fact, I hadn’t seen him in any of his usual haunts. Perhaps my imagination had given me a break and slapped a muzzle on my would-be ghost.

  Pleased with that thought, I tossed down a glass of orange juice and nibbled on a piece of toast. Finally, I fixed a bowl of cat food for Blackie.

  He usually went easy on my morning offering, preferring to load up on real chunks of beef or chicken or pork from my evening meal instead. There was no question about it. Blackie was one very smart cat.

  But since I’d skipped supper last night, I thought he might be hungry enough to lower his standards this morning. Not that he’d shown up in the kitchen so far. I figured he was still ticked with me for leaving him alone with Andrew yesterday. They still hadn’t shown any signs of turning into best buddies.

  I placed the cat food on the floor and refreshed his water. Then, I returned to my bedroom and changed into a blouse and a pair of slacks. Oberton’s mention of Mrs. Whitcomb’s name yesterday had stimulated my curiosity. I couldn’t help wondering if her death could have any connection to Carrie’s murder. So just after waking this morning, I’d decided to scratch my newly found itch.

  But first, I called Rose to ask what year Mrs. Whitcomb had died. She didn’t seem to understand why I cared, but she eventually came up with an approximate date. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got the year right, at least,” she said. “And don’t forget Carrie’s nephews are due in today. They’ll be here about ten.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. At some point yesterday, I’d promised to help her greet the men. But I had plenty of time to visit the library first. So after hanging up, I donned coat, hat, and gloves and headed out into the crisp, cold day.

  The Hendricksville Public LIbrary sits about two blocks off the downtown square. At one time, the square was the center of the city’s shopping life. But as the town’s population shrank, businesses had fled. Or so my daughter had told me.

  Now, the square boasted a couple of taverns, a trendy antique mall, and a bank. I thought it remarkable that a town this small managed to support a public library, but Rose had said residents had approved a referendum that guaranteed funding for several years to come.

  In addition to books, many by my favorite authors, the library also housed back issues of old newspapers on microfilm. I intended to prowl through the films to learn more about Mrs. Whitcomb and her death.

  After pulling my car into the parking lot, I set off at a fast clip for the door. The building I entered was a large, old, red-brick affair. It smelled of dust and long-time use. The microfilm reader was located at the far end of a short hallway. A large wooden chest containing the microfilm rolls stood beside it. I located the drawer with the correct year and pulled forth a film of the Weaverton Chronicle.

  Weaverton was the largest town in the county and was also our county seat. Its newspaper covered e
vents not just there but also those that happened in the small towns around it, Hendricksville included.

  Taking a seat, I switched on the machine and fed the film through the correct slots. Then scrolling forward, I scanned the pages in search of news of the woman’s death. Prowling through an entire year would be slow going, but my curiosity was up and so was my determination.

  My search took a while, but I finally spotted the story in an October issue. Police first said it was believed the woman had fallen from the cliff. The story said her body had been found near the river by a fisherman. The next day the report was updated. It said a suicide note had been recovered from her home, and it was now thought the woman had plunged to her death deliberately. Mrs. Whitcomb’s sister, a Paula Barstow, had apparently told police her sister had been depressed, although the article did not say why.

  The obit on a later page, listed a husband, Arthur Whitcomb. He’d died two years earlier. There apparently were no children. Other relatives included the surviving sister and a nephew.

  I rewound the film and started over again, this time pouring through the pages to see if I could find any more information on the deceased. Midsummer, I found an article in the business section which listed Mrs. Whitcomb as a newly named bank officer at First Federal. It seemed an unlikely appointment for someone who was allegedly depressed.

  Satisfied that I’d collected as much information as I could, I returned the film to its drawer and set off for Rose’s house.

  SIX

  After leaving the library, I headed straight for Rose’s house. My search had taken me longer than I’d expected. I only hoped I hadn’t missed the appointment with the nephews.

  “They should be here in another half hour or so,” Rose said as she slammed the door shut behind me. I couldn’t blame her. A nasty wind had come up and was pushing cold air into her living room right along with me.

  “Let me have your things,” she said. I shifted out of my winter gear and passed them to her.

  After squaring them away in the closet, she said she had a coffee cake in the oven. “I hope you don’t mind hanging out in the kitchen until the boys arrive?”