A Skeleton in the Closet
by
Judith K. Ivie
A Kate Lawrence Mystery from
Mainly Murder Press
PO Box 290586 Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586
www.mainlymurderpress.com
Mainly Murder Press
Senior Editor: Paula Knudson
Copy Editor: Jennafer Sprankle
Cover Designer: Karen A. Phillips
All rights reserved
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Mainly Murder Press
www.mainlymurderpress.com
Copyright © 2009 by Judith K. Ivie
ISBN 978-0-615-26899-6
ASIN B002DUCR18
Published in the United States of America
2009
Mainly Murder Press
PO Box 290586 Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586
Dedicated with Appreciation to:
Shireen and John Aforismo
for generously allowing me to use the
Silas W. Robbins House
as the inspiration for this
work of fiction
and
Elaine, Melissa, Maggie, and
all of the other good folks at the
Wethersfield Historical Society
Books by Judith K. Ivie
In the Kate Lawrence Mystery Series:
Waiting for Armando
Murder on Old Main Street
A Skeleton in the Closet
Drowning in Christmas
Dying Wishes
_______________________
Romance Novella:
Don’t Say Goodbye to Love
Preface
Those of you who are already familiar with the Silas W. Robbins House at
185 Broad Street in Wethersfield, Connecticut, don’t need to be told that A Skeleton in the Closet is entirely a work of fiction, but others may. Purchased in 2001 by Shireen and John Aforismo and restored to its current splendor over the ensuing six years, this French Second Empire treasure has a very real and fascinating history dating back to 1873, which I urge you to discover for yourselves at www.silaswrobbins.com.
As did most of the other residents of Wethersfield, I followed the progress of the restoration with excitement and rejoiced at the grand opening of the Aforismos’ bed & breakfast in October 2007. When I approached Shireen and John about a year earlier with the idea of setting one of my Kate Lawrence mysteries in the house, they took a shine to the idea. We then spent a delightful, if somewhat unconventional, afternoon exploring the house from top to bottom to identify likely hiding places for a body. It’s not everyone’s idea of a good time, but I had a ball.
A Skeleton in the Closet is not the actual story of the Silas W. Robbins House, but it was inspired by the grand old structure and by the Aforismos, who allowed this author to play a game of “What if …?” I am very grateful, and we all hope you enjoy the results.
Judith K. Ivie
January 2009
Meet Judith K. Ivie
A lifelong Connecticut resident, Judith Ivie has worked in public relations, advertising, sales promotion, and the international tradeshow industry. She has also served as administrative assistant to several top executives.
Along the way, Judi also produced three nonfiction books, as well as numerous articles and essays. Her nonfiction focus is on work issues such as two-career marriages, workaholism, and midlife career changes. Shortly thereafter she broadened her repertoire to include fiction, and the Kate Lawrence mystery series was launched.
Whatever the genre, she strives to provide lively, entertaining reading that takes her readers away from their work and worries for a few hours, stimulates thought on a variety of contemporary issues-and gives them a laugh along the way.
Please visit www.JudithIvie.com to learn more about all of her books, or use the order form at the back of this book to order her other titles. Judi loves to hear from readers at [email protected].
One
The long, wet spring had finally turned the corner into a Connecticut summer so glorious that the residents of Old Wethersfield decided among ourselves it had probably been worth the wait. Now that we were into June, the houses on both sides of the Broad Street Green boasted lush lawns and flower beds glowing with every color imaginable under canopies of trees in full leaf. The fields behind the farmhouses showed promising signs of the sweet corn to come, and although I knew very well that I had another month to wait, I was already salivating at the thought of wolfing down a tomato so fresh it was still warm from the sun.
The grand old specimens of oak, elm and beech that anchored the green itself dozed in the morning sunshine, no doubt congratulating themselves on having survived yet another New England winter. Property was proudly maintained here, and nearly every Cape Cod, Colonial, Victorian and farmhouse along our route shone with fresh paint and liberally applied elbow grease.
Usually, my daughter Emma and I hiked the loop from the Law Barn on
Old Main Street, where our respective businesses were housed, to the Wethersfield Cove and back, but we varied our route occasionally to check out properties for sale in different neighborhoods. It’s not everyone’s idea of a good time, but we both have reason to be interested in local real estate. Along with my partners, Margo Farnsworth and Charlene Putnam, I own MACK Realty. Emma, a paralegal, and her friend Isabel, who had just passed her bar exam, were launching a real estate law practice in the Law Barn’s spacious loft. House sales were booming in what had to be the last of a sustained hot market, and our morning constitutionals gave us an opportunity to mix a little business with pleasure before the workday claimed us. We slowed our pace as we approached the little pond on the corner of Spring Street, where a dozen geese and a sprinkling of ducks habitually summered. Emma, her older brother Joey, and I shared a fondness for all types of critters, and we liked to follow the progress of the fuzzy ducklings and goslings as they morphed into sleek adulthood, ready for their fall migration to more hospitable winter quarters. For the past few years, a pair of black-legged mute swans had also selected our little pond as their summer home. Since swans are both bossy and territorial, their presence didn’t please the rest of the feathered inhabitants, but the human visitors were delighted. This year’s hatch had produced four splendid cygnets.
This morning, the elegant twosome seemed to be sleeping late, as they were nowhere in sight. I hadn’t visited the pond in several weeks, and I was eager to see the babies and be sure that all were present and accounted for. The few Canadian geese who had not been run off, plus a small number of sturdy mallards, were taking advantage of the swans’ absence by preening their feathers on the grass near us.
“Eeuuuww, what’s that?” Emma stood on the bank and twisted her long, ash blonde hair into a high ponytail as she scanned the bank on the far side of the pond, squinting in the bright sunlight. She leaned forward and frowned. “It looks like a hairy chicken.”
I peered in the direction she was pointing. Though my eyes aren’t as young as my daughter’s, I could make out what did indeed look something like a chicken covered in dryer lint wriggling in the tall grass. One scrawny, unattractive wing stretche
d out briefly. Instinctively, Emma shrank away, but the sight made me smile. “Maybe it’s a baby buzzard,” she ventured. “Do buzzards live around here?” The creature in question now unfolded a long, wobbly neck and lifted its head. Emma looked at me in bewilderment. “What in the world …”
Before I could speak, her question was answered. Out of the marsh grasses to the left of the mysterious specimen strutted two magnificent swans, herding three more of their babies. When the adults had their four hideous offspring satisfactorily corralled, they all filed into the water. First came Dad, gliding slowly across the still surface. The four youngsters paddled after him furiously. I noticed that one of them was a bit smaller than the others, but he or she seemed to be able to keep up just fine. Mom brought up the rear. “Baby swans!” Emma crowed in disbelief. “Hans Christian Andersen sure had that ugly duckling thing right. I’ve never seen one before, have you, Mamacita? It’s kind of like with pigeons. You know there must be babies, but I don’t know anyone who has actually seen one.”
Emma’s nickname for me was a hangover from a long-ago semester of high school Spanish. After ten years, it had almost stopped annoying me. “They’re cygnets, technically speaking, and yes, I’ve seen them before. They’re absolutely adorable when they’re first hatched, just like ducklings. This is their awkward adolescence, but they’ll morph into beauties in a few more weeks.” We stared at the gawky youngsters as their proud parents continued their circuit of the pond, oblivious to our opinions. I checked my watch. It was only 7:15, still too early for the dog walkers and the baby strollers.
I scanned the neighboring apartment buildings to be sure we wouldn’t be disturbed for a while longer, then eased open the trunk of my Altima and extracted the digital camera I kept handy. I wanted to be able to get a closer look at these fascinating babies when I got back to my computer.
I rejoined Emma at the water’s edge next to the sign that read, “Don’t Feed the Animals” and hoped once again that it was keeping people from tossing bread, crackers and the other awful stuff they had been taught by their misguided parents to throw into the pond for the geese and ducks who summered there. They meant it kindly, of course, but the truth was that the starchy stuff swelled the birds’ bellies, spread avian botulism through the excessive droppings that resulted, and kept the birds from foraging for the seeds, aquatic grasses, and submerged pond weeds that constituted their ideal diet, supplemented with a few invertebrates, fish eggs and small fish.
I took two careful photos of the little family and checked the results in my viewer before turning the camera off. “There. Now I have proof that baby swans are ugly. I wonder when they’ll get pretty this year?”
“I hope it’s not before I get back.” Emma looked a bit wistful as she smoothed her hair out of her hazel eyes, so much like my own. She was a slightly shorter, sturdier version of me at the same age, and her smile lit up any room she entered. Her brother Joey had dipped equally into both sides of his gene pool and wore my face atop his father’s frame. On him, I had to admit the combination looked good, and more than a few young women seemed to agree.
“When is that again?” I asked as we headed back toward the Broad Street Green, where our cars were parked.
“Six weeks from Saturday, the end of July.”
Today’s walk would be our last for several weeks, I reflected. This afternoon Emma would leave for Boston, about one hundred miles northeast of Wethersfield, to study in preparation for the National Federation of Paralegal Associations’ advanced competency exam. The designation of Registered Paralegal would enhance her new business’s credentials, which was a good idea for a pair of twenty-eight-year-olds striking out on their own.
“How is Officer Ron taking your impending separation?” I twitted her. Ron Chapman of the Wethersfield Police Department was Emma’s latest beau.
“Not well, but that’s okay. It will be good for him to miss me. He’s coming up for the Fourth of July concert by the Charles River. A little absence will make for a hot reunion,” she teased back, digging an elbow into my ribs.
“That’s way too much information for your mother,” I complained. “Knock it off, or I’ll force you to listen to the lurid details of my sex life.” I did a Groucho Marx eyebrow wiggle.
She feigned shock. “You and Armando have a sex life? At your advanced ages? Amazing.” Armando Velasquez was my steady man, a handsome South American transplant who could still make my middle-aged heart flutter like a teenager’s after eight years together—when we weren’t bickering, that is. Unfortunately, at present, we were. The topic was moving in together, which we were days from doing. As devoted as we were to each other, and as much as we loved being together, we were both reluctant to give up the freedom of solo living we had enjoyed since our respective divorces many years ago. Armando seemed to think we would be fine under the same roof. I wasn’t as confident.
I sighed as we approached our cars and tried to ignore the anxiety that nibbled at my midsection. “I’ll come by and take baby swan pictures once a week or so. I can e-mail them to you so you can keep up with the little uglies’ progress.”
“Great! You can send them right to my cell phone.” Emma owned every electronic gadget on the market, which I realized was age appropriate, but it astounded me that she operated all of them with ease. I could barely manage to place a call on my cell phone, and I seriously doubted my ability to send digital photos to hers, but I decided to let her keep her illusions about her mother’s technical ability for a while longer.
“I’m going home to pack. I’ll call you later to say goodbye.” Emma was quite aware of my angst and opted not to drag out our farewell. She hugged my neck, climbed into her Saturn, and zoomed off, leaving me gazing after her with mixed feelings. Officer Ron might be okay with Emma’s newfound independence, but I wasn’t sure I was.
Emma and her brother Joey, seventeen months older than she, had both preferred to stay close to home until recently, content to live within a tight circle of friends and family. About two years ago, Joey had suddenly become restless, acquired a commercial driver’s license, and now led the gypsy existence of a long distance trucker.
To everyone’s amazement, he loved it. Six nights a week, he lived in his surprisingly comfortable tractor, which, when hooked up to a trailer, formed the seventy-three-foot rig in which he moved back and forth across the country. The space behind the driver’s seat resembled a very small apartment and contained bunk beds, a small refrigerator, cupboards and shelves, a television/DVD player, laptop computer, and a satellite radio dish. The truck stops he frequented offered shower rooms and power hook-ups and even air conditioning or heat, depending upon the season, which was provided through a window vent.
One night a week, he turned up from Denver or San Diego or Atlanta to spend the night at my Wethersfield condominium, wolf down a home-cooked meal, and play with Simon and Jasmine, my aged housecats. The rest of the time, he was seeing more of the United States, Canada, and even Mexico than I ever would, and I had a wall map full of push-pins to prove it.
Now Emma was heading for the big city, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I was proud of her, certainly, but there was something more. Fear? No. I chuckled as I unlaced my Avias and stuck my feet into the sandals I wore to work these warm summer days. Emma was nobody’s fool. Her father and I had raised her to take care of herself. She would be gone for only a few weeks. More likely, I was a little envious. My own school days in Boston, a city I continue to love, had ended more than thirty years ago, but the spirit of the perpetual teenager that still inhabited my middle-aged body remembered the sounds and scents of summer evenings by the Charles River, enjoying the Boston Pops concerts with beaux of my own. It had been pretty heady stuff then. For Emma’s sake, I hoped it still was.
* * *
“Eeeuuwww, what’s that?” This time the comment came from Jenny, the pretty youngster who worked as our receptionist, as I entered the Law Barn’s lobby through the back door. Frowning, sh
e scanned the newspaper clipping she held in one hand, then turned it sideways to examine something written in the margin. An envelope dangled from her other hand. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, but on her, it was merely cute. No one looking at Jenny for the first time would guess that the petite brunette was a second-year law student at the University of Connecticut, working days to earn the tuition for her night classes, in which she ranked solidly among the top ten percent. “Listen to this, Kate.” She read aloud:
June 14 / 3:05 p.m. US/Eastern, STORRS, Conn. (AP) Within the next few weeks, New Englanders will have the opportunity to see and smell one of the strangest productions of the vegetable kingdom: the titan arum, which features a gigantic bloom—and a mighty stench akin to that of decaying flesh—is expected to open sometime near the end of June at the University of Connecticut’s Department of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology Conservatory.
Currently, the flower bud is more than three feet high and growing by several inches each day. The plant growth facilities manager estimates the plant will flower between June 28 and July 2. Mature flowers are about 6 feet high and 3 feet across, shaped like an urn, with a tall spike rising from the center. The colors of the corpse flower—a sickly yellow and blackish purple—imitate a pot roast that sat out in the sun for a week. The fragrance is universally described as being powerful and revolting, with elements of old socks, dead bodies and rotten vegetables. As if that isn’t weird enough, the corpse flower is actually warm-blooded, heating itself up at the height of flowering, probably to help spread its putrid odor and attract the flies that will pollinate the plant.
A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 1