“And that you are in a big hurry to get rid of me.”
“You’re being very silly. I’ll talk to you later. ‘bye!” I finished brightly and disconnected. Quickly, I flipped through the pages in my address book to find Jenny’s home number. Her mumbled “hello” brought me right back to my own misspent youth, when calling a friend before noon on a Sunday would have been unthinkable. I apologized for bothering her and asked if she had kept the strange mailings we had been receiving at the office. She was quiet for so long, I thought she had fallen back to sleep. “Jenny?” I prodded gently.
“Mmmm, yes, I heard you. I’m just trying to think. There were two of them, right? And the envelopes were hand printed in blue felt pen. Yes, I think I stuck them in the middle drawer of my desk. I was going to look up those crazy quotations on the Internet when I had a minute, but then I got busy and forgot about it. Why do you need them? Has something else happened?” She was sounding dangerously more alert every second. I had no interest in getting into an elaborate explanation of the previous day’s events.
“Yes, but I can get them from you tomorrow morning. I just needed to know if you still had them. Don’t give it another thought. See you tomorrow!” Once again, I disconnected hastily and moved on to my next call, but Emma’s phone went right to voice mail. Officer Ron must still be on the premises, I reflected. “Hi, Em, me again. Kind of a flap here last night. Call me when you get a sec.”
Before I got a chance to call her, Margo phoned me. “Well, hey, Sugar. You’re sounding all bright-eyed and bushy tailed for this hour on a Sunday mornin’, especially after all the excitement last night. What did that man of yours have to say about your adventure?”
“Some adventure! And if you think I gave him anything except the barest outline of what happened here last night, you’re crazy. How about meeting me at the Town Line for a bodacious breakfast?”
No one would guess by looking at her svelte figure, but diner breakfasts were one of Margo’s favorite things in the world, and the Town Line Diner in Rocky Hill served up her very favorite farmer’s omelette. “You’re on. See you there in half an hour.”
Thrashing my way out from under Simon’s bulk, I dashed for the shower and jumped into my weekend jeans and shirt. Make-up consisted of two swipes of mascara and one of lipstick. On my way through the bedroom, I yanked the sheets off my bed and dropped them into the washer in the hall. A little detergent and fabric softener, a few dial twists, and I headed for the door. As I opened it, I heard the phone start to ring. Instantly, I knew it was Armando, having rethought my sketchy account of the previous evening’s activities and wanting to dig deeper. I slammed the door and ran down the garage steps to my car. Another five seconds, and I wouldn’t have heard the phone ring, I rationalized.
Despite my speedy preparations, Margo managed to beat me to the Town Line. I pulled open the door from the big parking lot and took comfort from the familiar sounds and scents of the diner. Families fresh from church services occupied the many tables and booths, along with young couples who were probably still on last night’s date and an assortment of regulars, of which I was now glad to be one. I was making my way to a booth at the end of the row by the front windows when Sherrie, a regular Sunday morning waitress, pointed Margo out at the end of the long counter.
“So is this a bad omen?” I asked her over excellent coffee. “Sins of omission seem like a bad way to start off this new phase in our relationship.” I had explained my heavily edited version of last night’s visitor during my phone conversation with Armando this morning. Margo took a thoughtful sip of her own brew.
“Frankly, Sugar, I think that’s a young person’s perspective. Those of us with a few more miles on us have a different take on these things.”
“Well, that’s for sure, but what do mean in this case?” I prompted.
“When you’re young, you believe with all of your heart that complete honesty is essential to a lastin’ relationship … with friends, men, whoever. Our parents drill that into us so we’ll be truthful with them. But after dealin’ with the fallout from all of that frankness and candor over the years, we learn that very often, complete honesty is not the way to go. If a friend asks you if she looks fat, and she does, you’d be crazy to tell her the truth. You make a huge mistake and cheat on your boyfriend with an old flame, and how does tellin’ him about it improve things? You feel better because you’ve come clean, but he feels terrible. Much better just to mend your ways, keep your mouth shut and deal with your guilty conscience in silence. Then there are the social invitations you’d rather be shot dead than accept. A kindly fib is the only acceptable way out. You know what I mean.”
Of course, I agreed with her. “But in this particular case, why am I hedging the facts with Armando?”
“Because you know Armando well enough to know that he’d get into a big, macho flap if you told him all the details, and what good would that do? The police are on the case. You and I are grown-up, sensible women and are on the alert. If you think about it, there’s not a single thing Armando can do here to be useful, so why get him all riled up? It would be downright unkind, especially considerin’ all of the stress he must already be under today tryin’ to get ready for the big move tomorrow.”
Just hearing her say the m-word made my stomach feel funny. “Speaking of stress …” I stirred my coffee and chewed on a thumbnail.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, are you still obsessin’ over this?” Margo slapped my thumb away from my mouth lightly. “It’s perfectly natural to get cold feet at this stage, but we both know you’re goin’ to go through with it. In fact, if he called you right now and said he’s lost his nerve and just can’t move in after all, you’d be devastated.”
I ran that scenario through my head and had to agree with her. I would be crushed. “So how do I get rid of these jitters?”
“You don’t. You can’t. You wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t have the willies after all these years of livin’ by your lonesome. Havin’ all that freedom and privacy was great, but Sugar, this will be great, too. Just put one foot in front of the other one for a few days, and the move will be behind you. You will have had your first spat or two, and kissed and made up, and it’ll all turn out just fine. You wait and see. Now drink your coffee, and let’s order us up an omelet and some home fries.”
My butterflies flew away, and my stomach growled in anticipation. No doubt my misgivings would return, but for the moment, I felt undeniably better. I smiled at my friend and signaled to Sherrie that we were ready to order.
“So what’s the latest on the Henstock sisters’ skeleton?” I asked after we had dithered happily for a few moments between bagels or croissants, English muffins or pumpernickel toast. “Any new developments from the good lieutenant?” At the mention of John Harkness, Margo’s lips curved into a smile. If I didn’t know her love-them-and-leave-them ways so well, I would be tempted to think she was besotted.
“Not much. The forensics report makes the remains those of a woman, youngish, Caucasian. No obvious signs that she was done in with a hammer or a bullet to the head, so cause of death is nearly impossible to identify. The fabric and the dye were aged at about sixty years, which means she went into that closet thingie in the basement around 1945, as near as anybody can say.” She shrugged. “Weird to think that gruesome body was right in the house with them all that time. When did you say the Judge died?”
“The late 1960s, I think.” I repeated what Ada and Lavinia had told me about their father’s late-night visitors all those years ago. “Do you think the Judge knocked up one of his lady friends, then did her in and hid the body in the basement?”
Margo choked on her coffee and dabbed daintily at her lips with a naplin, wide-eyed. “Thank goodness there’s so much chatterin’ goin’ on around us that nobody but me heard that. You are absolutely sick! Just because a mature, single gentleman feels the need of some, um, companionship from time to time and needs to be discreet because of his position d
oesn’t make him a monster and a murderer!”
“All right, all right. It was just a thought. It’s not that I begrudge the poor guy a girlfriend or two. It can’t have been easy to be a single man in the public eye, having to raise two young daughters. But you have to agree, it’s an interesting theory. Or maybe it wasn’t murder at all. Maybe one of the ladies had designs on him, and when he rejected her and refused to marry her, she took an overdose and expired in his study just to make him suffer! And when he found her, he was afraid he’d be accused of murdering her, so he walled her up in the basement one dark night.”
Margo stared at me. “Have you been watchin’ daytime television? I cannot think how such a melodramatic solution to this little mystery even occurred to you …”
Fortunately, Sherrie chose this moment to delivery our breakfasts, and I was spared having to reply immediately. For a few moments, we busied ourselves with jam and butter, then forked into our omelets ravenously. I waited until Margo had her mouth full to forestall further comment from her. “This situation doesn’t require any additional drama from me. I don’t think even a soap opera writer could come up with this one. A woman’s body is walled up in a local judge’s basement for more than sixty years … oh, no!” I dropped my fork with a clatter. “You don’t think the poor thing was walled in alive, do you?”
For the second time in five minutes, Margo choked. “Who puts these ghastly ideas into your head? I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty. No, of course she wasn’t alive. There was a family in that house, which is far from soundproof. And I don’t care what they tell you in those trashy books you must be readin’, a few bricks and some mortar are not goin’ to silence somebody who’s behind them screamin’ her head off.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Where was I? So the body is plastered up behind some bricks in the basement. The judge dies. The little girls turn into old ladies. Some pipes spring a leak, and they call a plumber. He goes down into the basement and rips out some bricks that are blocking access to the leaking pipes, and there’s Skeleton Woman. He freaks and runs out of the house, never to return. The sisters call us, not the police, because they’re afraid that having a corpse in their basement might be a turn-off to potential buyers for their house. By the way, do we actually have the listing for that yet? Then the police come, but the skeleton has disappeared, right along with the mystery plumber, whom nobody can seem to locate.”
I chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Margo concentrated on her eggs in an effort to tune me out, but I continued. “Next, the body or remains or whatever turn up in the Spring Street Pond. Nobody has a clue about the identity. And oh, yes … coincidentally, I’m being stalked by a guy in a black van, but we don’t know if that has any connection to the Henstock sisters’ skeleton. How’s that for melodrama?” I took a bite of my toast and waved at Sherrie for more coffee, but before she could pour my refill, Margo put her hand over my cup.
“Thanks, Sugar, but I think this girl has had just about enough caffeine.” Sherrie laughed and departed while I pouted over my empty cup. Margo pushed my ice water a little closer. “Try some of that. I think you’re overheatin’. Now, if we really must have this revoltin’ conversation, at least let me finish my food first.”
Twenty minutes later, sated with food and conversation, but having arrived at no plausible solutions, we inched our way through the crowd of diner patrons waiting in line at the register to be seated and pushed through the doors to the parking lot.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the second level and ambled toward our cars. “Are you and John doing anything this afternoon?” Margo arched an eyebrow. “Let me rephrase that. Are you and John doing anything else this afternoon?”
Margo giggled. “Why, I don’t know just yet, but if we do, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. How about you? Are you goin’ over to help Armando finish packin’?”
“Nope, uh uh, no way,” I said firmly. “Packrats have to pay the price for their hoarding. I know what’s in that apartment. I’ve seen it many times. He has ten years worth of unnecessary papers, every book he’s ever read, and clothes he hasn’t worn since the 1980s. A lot of stuff is in piles on the floor. And I don’t even want to talk about the kitchen. Our deal is that I get the house ready for him to move into, and he sorts out and packs his stuff. Anything that won’t fit into his bedroom, bathroom and the loft area will have to be stored in the basement, neatly and in cartons. He’s on his own with the packing.” We arrived at my car. “I think I’ll give Strutter a call and fill her in on last night. Maybe we can meet for coffee later. I’d love to get her to open up about what’s going on with her lately.”
“Make it a decaf,” Margo advised. “I have a feelin’ you’re not goin’ to do much sleepin’ tonight as it is. You don’t need to be loadin’ up with caffeine on top of everythin’ else.” She fumbled in her stylish tote bag for her car key. “And Sugar?”
“Uh huh?”
“Watch out for strange men in black vans.”
* * *
Late that afternoon, Strutter and I ambled along
Old Main Street heading toward the Wethersfield Cove. Somewhat to my surprise, she had agreed to meet me for a before-dinner walk, although she had declined to stop for coffee along the way, citing the ubiquitous “stomach problems.” As overstimulated as I already was, I was glad to take a pass on the caffeine anyway. We spent a pleasant few minutes poking among the flats of vegetable and floral seedlings at Comstock, Ferre & Company, then crossed the road and headed downhill to the Cove. Basking in the warmth of the sun that had finally decided to acknowledge that it was summer, it was difficult to accept that we had passed the longest day of the year and were already losing a minute or two of daylight each day.
“What’s with the stomach upsets? You seem to be having a lot of them lately. Are you feeling all right? Everything okay with John and Charlie?” I asked as we crossed the Cove’s sandy parking lot and paused at the water’s edge, causing my perceptive friend to cut her eyes sideways at me. My tone had been too casual, and she knew me too well. She stooped briefly to pick up a handful of pebbles and stood tossing them into the cove. A mirthless smile accentuated the turmoil in her eyes, which were the color of the Caribbean sea.
“You’re right, of course. I’m pregnant. Six weeks gone, as near as I can figure. I was crazy to think you and Margo wouldn’t pick up on it for a while yet.” Plunk, plunk went the pebbles. I struggled to find the right words to say.
“But that’s wonderful! Charlie must be so excited, and John … well, he must be over the moon. What did he say when you told him the news?” I decided not to ask why she had not wanted Margo and me, her partners and best friends in the world, to know yet.
The pebbles were gone, but Strutter continued to stare at the horizon. Then she made her decision and turned to face me. “I haven’t told John yet or Charlie, either. I don’t know if I’m going to.” She shrugged forlornly, and a tear straggled down her beautiful face.
“Don’t know if you’re going to … here, let’s sit down for a minute.” I shoved her gently in the direction of a convenient bench and fumbled in my pocket for a tissue. “Now what’s this all about? Spill it.”
Strutter sat on the bench with uncharacteristic meekness and honked into the tissue. A quick glance around reassured me that we had the place practically to ourselves. The only other people in sight were a young couple walking their dog up toward the road. “I’m sure you’re right about Charlie. He’d be out of his mind happy at the thought of a little brother or even a little sister.” She paused. “It’s John I’m not so sure about.”
I ran a scenario through my head of her breaking the news to John Putnam and could imagine nothing but his handsome face wreathed in smiles. “But I know John was never married before, and he doesn’t have any children. So this is his big chance! Every man wants a namesake.”
“Maybe not. John’s not a sweet young thing of thirty-seven like m
e, you know.” She smiled bleakly. “He’s fifty-one years old, Kate. In his mind, that’s grampa territory, not an age when anyone wants to be up all night with a screaming baby.”
I had to admit that I had never given the difference in age between Strutter and John a moment’s thought. They had fallen for each other like a ton of bricks, and the joy they radiated obliterated any reservations they might have about something as unlikely as more children. The sobering reality of a possibly fractious infant shed a somewhat different light on the matter. “But surely you discussed this …”
“… before we got married?” Strutter finished my question for me. “Actually, we didn’t. I know that seems odd, but, well, there was Charlie, and John was so taken by him, it seemed as if our little family was already in place. A son that age is just right for John, and Charlie followed him around like a puppy from the first time they met. John is the father he never had and always longed for. It was all perfect.”
I cleared my throat, uncertain of how to phrase my next question. “But Strutter, unless you went into this marriage intending to be celibate—and the way you and John can’t stand next to each other unless you’re holding hands, I know that’s not true—you had to acknowledge the possibility of conceiving a child. As you point out, you’re still in your prime, Girl. Weren’t you being … careful?”
Again, the sad smile. “Sure, mostly. But once in a while, we’d get careless, and as I have good reason to know, once is apparently all is takes. Charlie spent the night with a friend back in the early part of May, and we opened a bottle of good wine, and … well, here I am, knocked up like a teenager and just about as scared.”
Concerned, I could understand. Upset was even within my ken. But scared? I turned in my seat and took her hands in my own. Despite the heat of the afternoon, they were icy cold. “Now what on earth do you have to be frightened about? Surely not John.”
A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 8