I leaned over Jenny’s shoulder to have a look at the accompanying photo of the botanical phenomenon, which resembled a tightly closed, three-foot-tall lily bud. “Now there’s something only a botanist could love.” I yielded my spot to Margo, who had joined us on her way to refill her coffee mug. Incredibly, she had risked wearing white linen to the office, but I had to admit that the fitted sheath complemented her fair coloring and blonde chignon exquisitely. Rhett Butler, the chocolate Labrador Retriever who was Margo’s constant companion, nuzzled my ankle, and I obliged with a head scritch while his mistress gazed, awestruck, at the corpse flower bud.
“Oh, my,” Margo gasped. “That is the most phallic flower I have ever seen, Sugar. Why, it’s absolutely disgustin’!” She winked at me behind Jenny’s back.
“Since when do you use the words ‘phallic’ and ‘disgusting’ in the same comment?” I countered. Southern belle though she was, Margo’s avid interest in men made her resemble Samantha Jones more closely than Scarlett O’Hara. Since last fall, she had been focusing on Lieutenant John Harkness, who headed the Wethersfield Police Department’s detective division. He was also Ron Chapman’s boss. To everyone’s amazement, John had abandoned his dour professional persona and was thriving under the attentions of my libidinous partner. “Who sent us the clipping, and what’s that scribbling down there on the corner?”
Jenny handed me the clipping, which was actually a computer print-out of an article from an internet news website, and took a closer look at the envelope. “There’s no return address, but it’s postmarked Storrs,” she noted. Do you have a friend at UConn, Kate?”
The University of Connecticut was located in Storrs. “Not that I’m aware of. Why? Was it addressed to me?”
Jenny inspected the address again. It had been block printed in blue felt pen. “Mmmm, no, it wasn’t. It just says Mack Realty in upper and lower case, as if the person who sent it doesn’t know that M-A-C-K is an acronym of the first letters of Margo, Charlene and Kate.” She handed the envelope to Margo and looked at us expectantly. “What do you think?”
I held the print-out closer to the lamp on Jenny’s desk. The Law Barn’s loft had windows and skylights, but downstairs, only the offices at the rear of the first floor enjoyed natural light. The lobby, which occupied the center of that level, was always a bit dim, so we kept a variety of table lamps on during the day to brighten things up. I turned the sheet of paper sideways and peered at the scribbles in the margin, apparently made with the same blue felt pen that was used on the envelope. “It is reported commonly that there is fornication among you,” I read with difficulty and looked up. “A Bible verse maybe?” I had been raised as a Lutheran, but my adult attitude toward organized religion was distinctly agnostic, and my remembrance of Bible verses was sketchy.
Margo took a look. “Sure sounds like one to me, Sugar, if I’m rememberin’ all those Sunday mornins’ I spent yawnin’ at the First Baptist Church of Atlanta correctly. And what’s this last part? ‘And it shall come to pass that instead of sweat … no, make that sweet … smell there shall be stink.’ Is that a reference to the absolutely revoltin’ plant in this news article?”
“I guess,” I responded doubtfully, “but what does one thing have to do with the other? And why does someone want to bring fornication and large, smelly plants to our attention?” We looked blankly at each other, then back to Jenny.
“My guess would be some religious zealot has it in for one of you,” she announced. “He or she probably doesn’t like the fact that all of us unmarried females are breaking at least one of the Commandments on a regular basis.” She smiled sunnily. “You know, Kate and Armando … Margo and John … Emma and Ron … oops! Sorry, Kate. I keep forgetting that you’re Emma’s mom.”
My smile was thin. “I believe you said ‘all of us,’ which would include you, would it not?” I said tartly. Margo giggled, and Jenny started to squirm. The telephone rang, and she snatched it off the hook gratefully.
Momentarily stumped, we left the article and its envelope on Jenny’s desk and headed for the coffeemaker. Along with the photocopier, it stood in a little alcove to the left of the lobby. Rhett Butler kept us company, no doubt hoping for a handout from the jar of dog treats that sat next to the coffeemaker. “So what’s on everybody’s agendas today?” I inquired as I slid a pre-measured filter pack into the plastic basket and poured water into the top of the machine. Making coffee for the junior associates had been one of Margo’s duties at the Hartford law firm where she, Charlene and I had worked before we joined forces to open the realty office, and she flatly refused to do it again outside of her own kitchen. I didn’t blame her.
“I’ve got showings scheduled from nine-thirty on at Vista Views,” she began, referring to the new active adult community for which we served as rental agents. “Then a quick manicure at one o’clock.” She tsk-ed over the state of her fingertips. They looked fine to me, but when it came to the fine points of personal grooming, Margo’s standards were higher than mine. “After that, it’s paperwork and more paperwork unless …” hope brightened her expertly made-up face, “Strutter comes in with a new listin’, as I frankly expect she will.” Strutter was the nickname of our third partner, Charlene Putnam. Recently remarried and the mother of a young son from her first, long-ago marriage, Strutter was a drop-dead gorgeous native of Jamaica. Soft curls fell to her shoulders, and eyes the color of the Caribbean sparkled in her beautiful, brown face, which topped a figure to die for and legs up to here. No one who had ever seen Charlene strut her stuff ever questioned the sobriquet.
“Where is Strutter anyway?” I questioned, filling Margo’s mug and then my own. I pointed at the dog treats and raised an eyebrow. Margo shook her head, and we carried our coffee down three steps to the MACK Realty office off the lobby at the rear of the Law Barn. I sat at the desk, and Margo arranged herself on the comfortable sofa and fired up her laptop. Rhett flopped at her feet, sighed once, and fell instantly asleep. He wasn’t as young as he once was, and he needed his naps so that he could keep a properly watchful eye on the back yard when Margo took him out to his spacious pen.
“I saw her checkin’ the phone messages earlier,” she said now, squinting a little as she scrolled through her emails. She resisted wearing her stylish computer glasses, even though I had pointed out the little frown line forming between her exquisitely groomed eyebrows. “There was one from Ada Henstock—you know, one of those darlin’ little ol’ gals who live over on the Broad Street Green. She wanted our advice on somethin’ to do with that enormous house she and her sister own near the Anderson Farm … the French Second Empire with the mansard roof.”
Known locally as The Henstock Girls at the age of eighty plus, the Misses Ada and Lavinia Henstock were fixtures in Old Wethersfield. The story went that although both sisters had been quite appealing in their youth, they were spinsters by choice. They had spurned the advances of many a prospective suitor upon the advice of their dear papa, who had never felt that any of the local gents were quite good enough for his little girls.
The Honorable Reuben Henstock, Esq., widowed shortly after his second daughter was born, had been a tartar of a man who had first served in the Connecticut State Legislature, then been appointed to the bench. He had never remarried, leaving the day-to-day care of his children to a succession of housekeepers, and had presided over trials right up until the day of his death in the late 1960s, when he had gaveled the day’s court business to a close and collapsed untidily across his bench.
Since then, the sisters, who were known for their ability to stretch a dollar, had shared their home with a scrawny cat or two, but men seeking their company had been unilaterally turned away.
“Huh!” Emma and I just walked right by that house. What kind of advice?”
“Frankly, we couldn’t make much sense of Ada’s message. You know how reserved she is, how reserved they both are, when they aren’t finishin’ each other’s sentences, but Ada was practically pleadin’ f
or one of us to come by and let her know how somethin’ or other might affect the value of their property. She seemed real upset, and you know how tenderhearted Strutter is. She picked up her purse and ran right on over there to put Miss Ada’s mind at ease.”
I couldn’t help smiling as I imagined Strutter walking her distinctive walk up to the front door of the Henstock house and lifting the big brass knocker. The ladies would be peeking from behind the lace curtains at one or the other of the big front windows. They knew Margo and me by sight, since we had sold a house in that neighborhood while Strutter and John were on their honeymoon, but what they would make of Strutter was anybody’s guess. It was safe to say that the elderly sisters’ experience of black women had been limited to peremptory exchanges with their dear papa’s kitchen help when they were growing up. What they would make of a stylishly clad black businesswoman rapping on their front door, I could not think.
“Well, this has been some Thursday morning so far. I saw the baby swans about an hour ago. They look rather like vultures at this stage, did you know that? Emma is taking off this afternoon for six weeks in Boston, and I’m not at all sure how I feel about that. Some religious fanatic seems to have taken exception to the way we conduct our personal lives, and the Henstock girls are having the vapors. Anything else?” I grinned at Margo as I picked up my phone.
I had learned over the past year that once the phone started ringing, it rarely stopped, and by nine o’clock, the day was officially launched. One call followed another, and I did my best to field inquiries about listed properties, refer buyers to the back-up law firm that was covering while Emma and Isabel got ready to open their doors, and soothe jittery sellers who were anxious to move their properties. A major advantage of having a real estate brokerage in Old Wethersfield is that all of the property that can be developed under current zoning ordinances has pretty much been developed. It’s an extremely desirable community, located west of the Connecticut River and south of Hartford, and almost any residential property that comes on the market generates a flurry of interest. Even a house with an in-ground swimming pool and no garage will sell in this community, despite our short summers and long winters. I know, because we’ve done it. As we tell people over and over again, it’s just a matter of matching the right buyer with the right property, and if it takes a little time, well, the deal will be that much sweeter when it’s done.
As Margo was preparing to leave for her first appointment, we heard the front doors of the Law Barn crash open. Strutter rushed through the lobby and skittered down the half-staircase to the office, almost falling in her haste. She burst through the doorway looking about as pale as it’s possible for a black woman to look. “The Henstock sisters have a skeleton in their closet,” she announced.
“Don’t they always?” murmured Margo, still focused on her computer screen, “and it’s the primmest old gals that usually have the wickedest secrets.” She giggled delightedly. “I can hardly wait. Let’s hear it.” She punched Save, crossed one elegant leg over the other, and gave MACK Realty’s third partner her full attention. I stopped making notes to myself at my desk and did the same.
“No, really,” insisted Strutter. She collapsed onto the sofa next to Margo and looked from one to the other of us wildly. “Kate, Margo, listen to me. There’s a skeleton behind a false wall in an old closet in the Henstock sisters’ basement. Literally. It had clothes on, or at least, it used to.” She clutched her briefcase to her chest and swallowed hard. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Instinctively, Margo leaned away and pulled her Jimmy Choos out of harm’s way. I leaped up, wastebasket at the ready, but Strutter waved me away.
“No, no, I’m not really going to hurl. I just feel queasy, and so would you, if you’d seen what I just saw.” She flopped back on the sofa and stuck her legs out in front of her. “I need coffee. No,” she amended hastily, holding one hand to her stomach, “make that water. Please,” she added feebly, eyes closed.
“You bet, Sugar.” Margo practically leaped to her feet, causing Rhett Butler to snap to attention. She hurried out to the water cooler and returned in seconds with a filled paper cup. Strutter sat up and sipped carefully, holding the cup between hands that trembled.
I could stand it no longer. “Charlene Putnam, I love you like a sister, but I’m going to walk over there and shake you if you don’t tell us what you are talking about right now.”
“Don’t make me turn Rhett Butler on you,” Margo threatened for good measure. The dog panted happily at the mention of his name. He might lick Strutter to death, I knew, but that was about the extent of her peril.
With an effort, Strutter pulled herself together. “As soon as I parked in front of that big, spooky house, I knew it was a mistake to go inside. There were those crazy old ladies peeking out at me from behind the front curtains, plain as day. Did they imagine I was there to rob them at nine o’clock on a Friday morning? You’d think they’d never seen a black woman on their front porch before.” She stopped shaking and took another noisy sip of water, irked by the memory. Margo and I exchanged glances.
“They were raised in another era,” I soothed, “and they don’t get out much these days either. They probably aren’t used to women being business owners, never mind black women.”
“Huh! Probably don’t know we can vote and own property now and everything,” Strutter fumed. Margo snorted, an unattractive habit of hers when something tickled her. “Anyway, I announced who I was, and Miss Ada let me in. At least, I think it was Ada. The bigger one with the kinky permanent wave and the sensible shoes.” I nodded. “The wispy one, Lavinia, just kind of fluttered around, waving a hankie and moaning to herself. We went into the front room, the one they’d been using to check me out, and sat on the sofa, and I asked as delicately as I could what had them in such a swivet. I didn’t want to be too pushy, them still being in shock at having a sister sitting right there on their sofa and all.” Another snort from Margo.
“And what did Ada say?” I prodded in an effort to move this along. Margo checked her watch none too discreetly.
Finally, Strutter kicked it into high gear. “She said they’d about run through all the money from their papa’s trust fund, and they were considering selling the house, but some pipes running to the old boiler needed serious repairs, and they’d had a fellow banging around in the basement tearing out walls and bricks, and he found something even worse than the leak, and they needed to know how it might affect the value of the property.” She sucked in a breath. We waited.
“It was a skeleton! He found it right there in a closet that had been built next to where the pipes come down next to the furnace. He had to break through the back wall, which was apparently false, because there was another one behind it. He completely freaked, said he didn’t want to be involved in any investigation or questioned by the police, and he packed up his tools and ran out of there. For some reason, Ada called us. Naturally, I thought she was hallucinating or seeing shadows, so I had her get me a big ol’ flashlight and dragged her down there to show her it had just been some moth-eaten clothes on a hanger or something, and, well,” she gulped, “there was a skeleton, or sort of a skeleton. It was more like a dried-up old mummy with scraps of cloth clinging to parts of it.” She shuddered.
Margo looked at me and back at Strutter. “But why on earth did Ada call us instead of the police? Did she want to know if they should include the thing in their askin’ price?” Strutter was not amused.
“Where are Ada and Lavinia now?” I inserted hastily.
“They’re right where I left them in their front parlor, drinking cups of strong, hot tea with lots of sugar. I told them I’d come back here and consult with my partners. I didn’t know what else to do, and I surely wanted to get out of there.”
I sat on the couch next to her and patted her arm. “Well, of course you did. The question is, what do we do now?”
Margo promptly took charge. “I’m going to call John and ask him to mee
t you—unofficially, of course—over at the Henstocks,” she said, punching numbers into her cell phone, “and then I’m going over to Vista Views for my first showing. I’m already late. Don’t worry,” she comforted Strutter, who looked stricken at the thought of returning to the Henstock house. “John will take very good care of you. He’s the head of the detective division, remember, and very reliable. I have reason to know that he’s also the soul of discretion.” She winked broadly, trying to get Strutter to smile, but she wouldn’t.
“Getting tangled up with you, he’d have to be,” was her only comment.
Two
A dark blue Ford sedan was just pulling into the Henstocks’ driveway as I crossed from
Old Main Street to the Broad Street Green on Garden Street. The car was so remarkable in its unremarkableness that it practically screamed “cop.” I parked behind it, and Strutter and I joined Lieutenant John Harkness on the front walk. “John, thanks for coming.” For the hundredth time, I noticed how beautifully turned out the lieutenant was, his barbered good looks set off by an immaculate navy blue blazer and pinstriped shirt. A gray silk tie was knotted neatly under his collar, and his cordovan loafers shone with polish. Fair, blue-eyed men sometimes didn’t age well, but John Harkness was clearly going to be the exception to the rule. “Morning, Kate, Mrs. Putnam.” No matter how often Margo urged him to do so, John refused to use Strutter’s nickname. I had heard him call her Charlene once or twice on a social occasion, but that was as far as his natural reserve would allow him to go. Since this was an official visit, I didn’t tease him. “Why don’t you bring me up to speed.”
Strutter completed a more coherent version of her previous breathless recap just as we reached the front porch of
185 Broad Street. The exotic balustrades and slender columns rising three stories were in a state of genteel dishabille, as was the rest of the imposing structure. Although it had doubtless been grand back in the day, the place now had money pit written all over it. I hope the Henstock sisters aren’t about to ask MACK Realty to list it for sale, I thought distractedly, then pulled my mind back to the problem at hand. John scribbled a few notes in a leather-bound pocket notebook, nodded once, then bestowed one of his rare smiles on Strutter. “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. This house dates back to, what, the late 1800s?” He looked to me for confirmation, and I nodded. “You’d be surprised how often a skeleton, or even a partial skeleton, falls out of the walls of these old places or gets dug up in the basement when the owners do major renovations or repairs.” Not finding a doorbell, he lifted the ornate knocker on the front door and let it drop.
A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 2