“On second thought, maybe you’re right. A woman might pull another woman’s hair out, but throwing her to the dogs is definitely a guy thing. But which one of us is he so mad at?”
“I don’t know, Jen, but I’m starting to take this a whole lot more seriously.” I thought for a minute. “Maybe if we found out what Jezebel did?” I suggested.
“Good idea.” A true child of the information age, Jenny quickly Googled the name Jezebel, reviewed the first page of hits, and selected a Wikipedia entry. “ ‘Jezebel is introduced in the Bible as a Phoenician princess, the daughter of the King of Sidon, who marries King Ahab. She turns Ahab away from the God of the Jews and toward the worship of the Phoenician god Baal. Furthermore, she uses her control over Ahab to lead the Hebrews into idolatry and sexual immorality.’” Jenny scanned the rest of the article quickly. “There’s a lot of fury and smiting and battles, as you would expect, but here’s what we want. Some guy named Jehu is finally appointed by the god of the Jews to kill Jezebel. It says, ‘Jehu then confronts Jezebel in Jezreel and urges her eunuchs to kill her by throwing her out a window. They comply, tossing her out the window and leaving her in the street to be eaten by dogs. Only Jezebel’s skull, feet, and hands remained.’ Nice, huh?”
“Lovely,” I agreed, but my attention had been captured by the final words of the Wikipedia account. “Only Jezebel’s skull, feet, and hands remained,” I repeated. “Remind you of anything?”
“Oh, wow! The skeleton in the Henstock house. That clinches it. These letters are definitely connected to the body in their basement.”
I remembered the newspaper clipping. “I suppose this is more about that smelly corpse flower.” I nudged it around on the desk so we could both read it.
Corpse Flower Ready to Bloom, June 23, 3:05 p.m. US/Eastern. Storrs, Conn. (AP) Wait until the neighbors get a whiff of this. A giant exotic plant that has not bloomed in the Northeast in more than 60 years is ready to flower at the University of Connecticut’s greenhouses.
The “corpse flower has the odor of three-day-old road kill, and UConn botanists couldn’t be more excited. Once open, the spiked, bright red bloom even resembles rotting meat, a veritable welcome mat for the insects that pollinate it—flies and carrion beetles.
“It looks like something has died. It smells like something has died. It has some of the same chemicals that dead bodies produce,” a UConn research assistant said today.
The plant is expected to blossom in the next five to six days. Already at 4 feet high, the flower could reach more than 6 feet high and at least that wide when it opens up. The stinky botanical curiosity is expected to attract visitors like … well, flies. It will last just two days, and UConn plans to extend visiting hours at the research greenhouse to accommodate the nosy. A Web cam on the UConn Internet site provides odorless footage of the flower.
“Huh,” I said, perplexed. For the umpteenth time this week, I felt a prickle of fear. “All I know is that something about this corpse flower has our friend all whooped up. It seems connected in his warped brain to whatever transgression he believes one of us has committed—or something that poor woman in the Henstocks’ basement did. Maybe it’s both, I don’t know, but unless I miss my guess, he’s also linking the time this thing achieves its full glory to when he plans to punish us.” I plucked a tissue from the box on Jenny’s desk and used it to scoop the envelope and its contents into a manilla folder. “That means we had all better be especially careful over the next few days. I’ll take these to the Police Department this morning. Maybe this time they’ll be able to lift some prints off the letter.”
I retreated to the Mack office and sat brooding over a mug of coffee as I considered the events of the previous evening. Interestingly, I found the prospect of being eaten by dogs only slightly more alarming that that of entering into a second marriage. I loved Armando with all my heart and was completely committed to our relationship for the long term, but my views on voluntary versus legal commitment had not changed since I shared them with Margo. I had been shocked to discover yesterday that apparently, Armando’s had.
“Think about it, Mia,” he had persisted over glasses of port as the last of the fire hissed in the grate. “The children will be happy. It is time. I don’t want to be, how do you call it, roommates. I want to be married to you.”
Idiotically, my mind had latched onto his reference to Emma and Joey. Some children, I scoffed inwardly. Emma was twenty-eight, and Joey had reached thirty last November. Both had active, adult lives of their own … so much so that Emma was a hundred miles away, and I hadn’t heard from Joey in more than a week. Where was he anyway? I dropped my aching head into my hands. Too many mysteries, I decided. Do what you can with the information you have. I dug two Advils out of my purse and washed them down with coffee.
While the ibuprofen worked its magic, I punched on my computer and began to respond to inquiries about one or another of Mack’s property listings. Margo came in at nine, the ever-faithful Rhett at her heels, and joined me on phone duty. Just as I was about to ask if she had heard from Strutter, the Jamaican beauty herself strolled down the stairs. She had never looked better, and she walked her old walk into the office as if she had never been absent. She struck a pose, hands on hips, and waited.
Mercifully, the phones stayed silent, since Strutter was obviously bursting with news. “What?” we said simultaneously. I held my breath, and I had a feeling that Margo did, too.
A huge grin split Strutter’s face from ear to ear. “I told John I was pregnant, that’s what. Furthermore, I told him I had decided to have the baby, and if he didn’t like it, he would be forcing me to choose between him and the baby, and he really didn’t want to go there.” She paused for dramatic effect.
Margo and I exchanged dumbfounded looks. “And?” I prompted obediently.
“He looked at me as if I had totally taken leave of my senses. Then he called me a whole string of names I can’t remember, except they all seemed to be synonyms for world’s biggest fool. And then he said, ‘Let’s go tell Charlie he’s about to have a little brother or sister to boss around.’” She did a little wiggle and a hip bump. “That man is not just happy about this, he’s thrilled. I don’t know who acted like the bigger kid last night, him or Charlie, but both my guys are officially over the moon, and now I can be, too. I can never thank you enough,” she finished, looking from one to the other of us. “You are the best friends I ever had.”
That did it. The room exploded into celebratory hugs and laughter, causing Jenny to come to the top of the stairs to ask what all the excitement was about. We told her, tripping over each other’s words, and she screamed and clapped both hands to her head. After another round of hugs, she said, “This is the best news ever. I just thought you’d figured out who our unwelcome correspondent is.”
Questioning looks from Strutter and Margo prompted me to share the latest missive with my partners, and our mood quickly sobered. “I don’t like the sound of this one,” Strutter offered. “Up until now, the letters have been the usual crackpot ramblings of some self-righteous fool, although there was always something about that stink blossom …”
“Corpse flower,” I corrected automatically.
“Ooooh, that name,” Margo shivered. “Can you imagine how hideous? And people are just linin’ up to be disgusted by it.”
“Mmmmm, just like rubberneckers at the scene of a car accident,” I agreed. “I can’t understand it myself, but there’s some two-day-old roadkill on Prospect that’s getting pretty ripe. Maybe we can sell tickets, a buck a whiff.”
Strutter made a face and clutched her stomach. “Please! My stomach is touchy enough.”
“He said something about a Web cam, or at least the newspaper did,” Jenny remembered. “Let’s take a look.”
Before we could get on line, my cell phone rang, and I glanced at the display. Probably a wrong number. Most of my friends know better than to call my cell phone during the workday. Then I recognized th
e phone number of my long-lost son. “Sorry. I’ve got to take this,” I apologized and took my phone closer to the back windows to get a better signal. “Joey!” I answered as my colleagues trooped up the stairs to investigate the UConn Web cam site on Jenny’s computer. “I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination and Emma was really an only child.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry, Ma. I’ve just been really busy.”
“So I understand. What’s her name?”
Obviously, I had taken him by surprise. “What’s whose name? Oh!” He laughed sheepishly, and imagined him squirming, just as he had at the age of twelve when I’d caught him on the phone with his first girlfriend. “Justine,” he said finally. Might as well get it over with.
“Tell me.”
“She’s the night manager at a grocery store on my Monday-Wednesday-Friday route. We’d talk whenever I ran into her on the loading dock. It was part of her job to check in deliveries,” he added in explanation. “Anyway, we just hit it off, and I asked her out.”
“Uh huh. More, please.”
He took an extra beat, then sucked in a big breath and blurted, “We’ve been seeing each other exclusively for more than a month now, and the lease was up on her apartment, and Armando was moving in with you anyway, so I needed to find a place of my own for the nights I’m off. That’s why I’m calling, to give you my new address.” He paused again. “And to tell you that Justine’s my new roommate.”
I was a trifle taken aback, but not shocked. Actually, I was secretly tickled that my nomadic son was sufficiently smitten to have a serious lady friend. He was well over twenty-one, and presumably, so was Justine. I put him out of his misery.
“Think we could meet her before the wedding?” I twitted him, then instantly regretted it. Who was I to be joking about roommates and weddings at this interesting moment in my life?
“I’ll try to arrange it,” he responded in his old smart-aleck fashion, clearly relieved to have the Telling of the News behind him. So what’s new with you?
I told him, leaving out the more alarming parts. Why was it that I could never seem to trust the men in my life with such information? Part of it was that I had been cursed with an independent streak. Another part was my deeply held beliefs about the nature of women versus the nature of men. My daughter and my women friends could be concerned about me and help me out from time to time without smothering me with over-protectiveness. Men just had to step in and take over as if I were a complete idiot. It was beyond annoying. Besides, I really believe men enjoy an opportunity to kick a little butt. It’s the nature of the beast.
“Call your sister,” was my parting shot to Joey before I disconnected, although it was probably unnecessary. He and Emma had scrapped their way through childhood, always at odds, but maturity had brought them close together. That was as it should be. Well, at least one of my mysteries had been solved, and her name was Justine.
By late morning, things had pretty much returned to normal at Mack Realty. After spending a few minutes ogling the ghastly corpse flower on UConn’s Web cam, as well as the dozens of eager spectators queued up to see it, we marveled at the public’s insatiable appetite for the grotesque. This corpse flower thing had all the trappings of a freak show, but in this case, the freak was botanical.
“How would you like to be that poor guard who has to stand next to that smelly thing all day and monitor the crowd?” I pointed out a burly black man standing to one side of the exhibit. Occasionally, he would step forward and move whoever was at the head of the line along. Two minutes seemed to be the limit, according to the clock that ticked along at the upper right of the screen. I couldn’t imagine wanting to be in that hideous flora’s presence for even one minute. The Web cam image was enough for me.
Nestled in its huge, hothouse pot, the three-foot-wide titan arum was a sickly green. The open blossom, if you could call it that, was nearly black. Protruding obscenely was the spadex, a cylindrical column of the same, sickly green as the blossom. It extended fully four feet into the air and had Margo and Jenny giggling at the obvious parallels to male genitalia. Only Strutter remained silent.
“That’s not a guard. That’s just a lab employee. See the UConn identification badge on his shirt pocket?” She leaned closer to the screen for a few seconds, frowning. An odd expression came over her face.
“Feeling okay?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. It’s just that there’s something familiar …” she turned back to the screen and pointed to the guard. At that moment, the website switched to another camera, and the guard was blocked by a spectator.
Margo looked at her watch. “Time to get movin,’ ladies.” We were all shocked to discover how much of the morning had evaporated and quickly dispersed to our various duties. Strutter took off to open the rental office at Vista View. Margo had an eleven-thirty appointment to show a house over on
Garden Street. Knowing she would be glad to have an excuse to stop in and see John, I handed her the manilla folder containing today’s hate mail to deliver to him. Jenny busied herself at the copier assembling more information packets on Vista View, since we were running low. I retreated to the Mack office to man the phones. Shortly after one o’clock, my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since dinner last night, and I volunteered to get a pizza from the diner at the corner of
Church Street for Jenny and me. I welcomed the opportunity to stretch my legs on such a beautiful afternoon and strolled happily down Old Main Street. Abby Dalton, the owner of the diner, was a good friend, and it would be good to say hello and catch up. Old Wethersfield was busy as local workers flocked to the diner and the boutique eateries that lined the street. Whether your tastes ran to homemade soup, fresh croissants, pizza or old standards like burgers and fries, you were sure to find it here.
In the two years since Mack Realty had taken up residence in the Law Barn, we had become acquainted with most of the business owners, and I was greeted with many waves and smiles as they bustled back to their shops and offices after squeezing quick lunches into their busy days.
Now that I was watchful for vans, it seemed to me that every other vehicle parked along
Old Main Street was a beat-up work van. Lots of them even had broken headlights or taillights. Presumably, their owners didn’t bother to repair them because they were driven primarily during the day. A blue one parked in front of Wethersfield Travel caught my eye. Festooned with ladders, pails and ropes, with magnetic signs proclaiming that it was the property of Best Painters affixed to both sides, it was typical of the battered vehicles favored by local service people, except that this one was in pretty good shape. A fresh coat of paint covered most of the dings and dents in the old workhorse. I mused that they must have become their own customers. A shiny black one a few spaces further down gave me pause until I saw the logo of a Hartford office supplies store that routinely made deliveries in this area. The young driver lounged in the front seat, one foot propped on the dashboard, cell phone to one ear. Were young people never at a loss for conversation? Perhaps because I spent so much of my work day on the phone, I kept my cell phone for emergency use only and usually had it switched off. Because of recent events, I had taken to keeping it with me and switched on. Occasionally, I even remembered to recharge the battery. I patted it in my pocket now and went inside the diner to say hello to Abby and collect my pizza.
Late in the afternoon, long after Jenny and I had polished off a large part of the sausage-and-mushroom special, I was surprised to get a call from Lavinia Henstock. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, Kate, but I wonder if I could possibly impose on you to drop by the house again this evening.”
That was the longest sentence Lavinia had ever uttered to me directly, and I was immediately concerned. “Is everything okay, Lavinia? Did you hear something from the police department?”
“Fine, fine,” she replied absently. “In fact, Sister and I have been told that we can go ahead and have the plumbing repairs completed i
n the basement. We’ve had a locksmith in to change the locks on all of the exterior doors, of course. Just a precaution, you know.” She cleared her throat. “Ada mentioned your idea of turning this house into a bed and breakfast as an alternative to selling it.”
“How do you feel about that?” I prompted.
“Oh, fine, fine,” she repeated vaguely. Clearly, that wasn’t the topic uppermost on her mind, but she couldn’t seem to get to whatever did hold the top spot. I waited as patiently as I could, picturing the old dear standing in her kitchen, perhaps fidgeting with the telephone cord or the strings on her ever-present apron. “Ada will be out for the evening. It’s her monthly bingo night at the church.” Another pause.
A thought occurred to me. “Are you uneasy about being in the house alone, Lavinia?” How terrible it must be to be afraid of being alone in the house she had grown up in, but under the present circumstances, I could understand it. The saddest part was that I was the only one the poor darling could think to call to keep her company. It underlined how much the old ladies had come to depend on each other. But Lavinia surprised me.
“Goodness, no,” she protested with vigor. “Nothing like that, nothing at all.” After a final hesitation, she plunged into the real reason for having reached out to me. “Our recent, uh, unpleasantness has jogged my memory, you see. I’ve remembered something. At least, I believe I’ve remembered something. At my age, it’s sometimes difficult to tell if one is actually remembering a real incident or if one’s mind has created a fiction, rather like a dream, based on a snippet of long-ago conversation. In any event, I believe Ada might find this upsetting. I’m quite old enough to know that very often, it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, so before I contact that nice Lieutenant Harkness …” I could almost see Lavinia patting her hair into place. “… or risk unnerving Ada, I wonder if you would be willing to hear me out and give me your considered opinion.”
A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 12