Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery)

by Alter, Judy

  “You can try, but I doubt it. That’s a pretty fluid neighborhood or has been until recently.”

  He flipped his tiny notebook shut. “Well, damn, I thought you’d walk the block for us.”

  I didn’t know whether to bristle or not, but when I saw he was smiling, I smiled too and said, “When I get around to it.”

  “Touché. Now about the family—they’d like to see the house, specifically the cupboard. It’s kind of macabre to my way of thinking, but it’s your call.”

  “When do they want to see it?”

  “They’re arriving this afternoon from Crawford, a small town outside Waco. I’m sure you’ve heard of it these days, president and all. Just a couple of brothers and, I think, one sister-in-law. Parents are long dead, of course. Brother tells me the mother died of a broken heart. Seems to think not only should I have solved this murder, I should have prevented it.”

  “So they’re angry.” It was an obvious statement.

  “They’re plain, small-town folk, and I think they’re overwhelmed, maybe confused. We’ll treat them nice.”

  “Anthony, the guy that’s redoing the house for me, should be there tomorrow all day. I’ll tell him to expect them. You’ll be bringing them?”

  “Nope. I got detecting to do. But someone from headquarters will escort them. Mayor likes us to treat people like this with kid gloves, so they don’t make a stink.” He rose. “Thanks for your help. If you run down Martin Properties, let me know. Here’s my card. I expect we’ll talk again.”

  I took the card and found myself saying, “I hope so,” and then thought it was a wildly inappropriate comment. I didn’t mean I wanted to talk to him necessarily. I meant that I wanted the case to move along.

  Conroy just smiled, gave me a mock salute, and left.

  I got out the phone book, turned to Martin, and stared in dismay. There were pages of Martins.

  ****

  Next morning, the newspaper headline over the article read, “Skeleton identified; relatives arriving.” A brief article rehashed the story of the finding of the skeleton, identified the victim as Marie Winton, and said the family was coming to Fort Worth from the small town of Crawford. Of course it played up President George W. Bush’s connection to Crawford, which had absolutely nothing to do with the Winton family. I sighed. I hated to see the story in the public attention again.

  After I got the girls delivered to their schools and told Keisha where I’d be, I headed for the Hunt house. I must stop calling it the Hunt house and start calling it mine. I parked on the street and got out to walk up that wonderful path to the front door. Only then did I notice that there was a bull’s eye painted on the sidewalk in front of the Hunts’ house. My first thought was, At least they didn’t disfigure the house and scare the Hunts. The second was, Damn. Whoever it is has made the connection. I thought once we moved here, we might be safe. How did they know?

  Mrs. Hunt greeted me warmly, but I was almost brusque as I asked, “Mrs. Hunt, have you seen what’s painted on your sidewalk?”

  “The bull’s eye? Adolph found it yesterday morning when he went to get the paper. We heard more street noise than usual that night. I suppose it was just kids.” She shrugged, apparently not too concerned. “We’ll get it off before you move in.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that,” I said. “I’m just sorry that it happened.”

  “Me, too. Come in and have some coffee and cake, and then we’ll get down to business.”

  I spent over two hours there. The Hunts would leave almost everything in the living room and dining room, taking only two occasional tables.

  They would take all the bedroom furniture, which suited me fine. I made scribbled notes as I went through the house, mentally placing the bedroom furniture we already had in this house, consigning living and dining room furniture to a garage sale.

  “Now,” Mrs. Hunt said, “you must go through the guest house. I fixed it up for our niece, who came to visit often.”

  The guest house had an L-shaped living area that wrapped around the bathroom. In the small corner, there was an efficiency kitchen, complete with a combination unit that was both stove and refrigerator and yet was still just counter-size, a sink, and a few cabinets.

  “I’ll leave the dishes,” Mrs. Hunt said. “I already have too many.”

  There were plain white pottery dishes, a few pots—but good heavy stainless—and an iron skillet. “Most people don’t know how to cook in these today,” Mrs. Hunt said, “but I wouldn’t trade mine for anything.”

  “Would you tell me how to cook with it?” I asked, mentally moving the skillet inside the house.

  The whole place had bright yellow walls, royal blue woodwork—an odd combination that I might have thought would never work until I saw it—and blue-and-yellow plaid curtains. The comforter on the bed and the pillow shams echoed the blue-and-yellow color scheme, with an obviously cheery effect. A small writing table, a rattan chair, a bookcase filled the rest of the small room. I would add a TV for Theresa.

  When I left, just before lunch, I was greatly cheered. I went by the office but nothing pressing had happened, so I went to the Fairmount house. Anthony was there. So were Marie Winton’s brothers, David and George, and her sister-in-law, Phyllis, whom George introduced as “the little woman.” Both men were, I guessed, close to seventy, their faces and hands tanned and gnarled by years spent outdoors. They called me “ma’am.” A policewoman, out of uniform, accompanied them and introduced herself as Sally McLean. She called me “Ms. O’Connell.”

  “Ms. O’Connell, we appreciate you making the house available to us. Mr. Anthony here has shown us the…ah…cupboard in question and detailed how he found…ah…the remains.”

  Hard to be delicate, Sally. Why not say it like it is? “I’m glad to help,” I offered condolences to the family. They were actually standing in the kitchen, looking at the charred wood. It went through my mind that I should tell these people about the diary. They would treasure it as a remembrance of their sister. But I couldn’t bring the words out of my mouth. Someday I’d get it to them, but not now, not until the case was solved.

  “Mr. Anthony said there’s been a fire,” the proper Ms. McLean said. “Vandals, I believe?”

  “Why would anyone burn Marie’s house?” Phyllis wailed.

  I declined to point out that it hadn’t been Marie’s house in a long time. “Probably to cover up something they didn’t want found—or couldn’t find themselves.” I thought Ms. McLean should have come up with that or a better answer.

  “Poor, poor Marie,” Phyllis said, wringing her hands.

  “Marie couldn’t wait to get out of Crawford,” George said. “Too tiny to hold her. Didn’t want to marry a farmer like her daddy or her brothers. But we never thought….” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Never thought,” echoed David.

  Phyllis broke in with, “The boys are somewhat ashamed. They hope this story doesn’t get back to Crawford.”

  I was dumbfounded and had no reply, but Ms. McLean rushed in with, “No need for it to. We’ll try to keep any more mention out of the paper.” She neglected to mention it had already been in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram.

  George warmed to his subject. “She used to write us letters, all about the man she was going to marry and how busy and happy she was, said sometimes they went to one or two small restaurants but mostly they stayed in. Thought it was odd. Marie was always on the go, never content to sit at home.”

  I thought I knew the reason: the man she was going to marry was already married and couldn’t be seen with her in public. But I kept quiet.

  George went on, “Then one day the letters just stopped. We finally notified the authorities, oh, ’bout six months later, but they couldn’t find any trace of her. Nobody could figure it out.” He paused and then added bitterly, “Guess now we know why.”

  “Did the authorities search the house?” If the authorities were notified, why wasn’t it in the cold c
ase records? Buck Conroy should have found it, but I could see him shrugging his shoulders and saying, “Just slipped through the cracks.”

  “I believe they did, but they didn’t find nothing.”

  I wondered what they smelled. “The man she was going to marry—do you remember his name?”

  George shook his head. “Maybe the missus does,” he said turning to his wife.

  “Martin,” she said clearly. “Martin something, but I don’t remember what.” She could, I thought, be an attractive woman but her boxy-cut suit—apparently her Sunday best—did nothing to flatter her, nor did the perm that added kinks to what might have been soft, gray hair.

  Martin?” I repeated. “Are you sure that wasn’t his last name?”

  “Quite sure,” Phyllis said. “She called him Marty. We never met him, of course.”

  “Did you ever see a picture?”

  “No.” She sniffed, obviously still indignant over the snub.

  “But they were making wedding plans?”

  “That’s what she told us….”

  George interrupted. “Why are you asking us all these questions? You’re not with the authorities. They’re the ones who are supposed to be solving this. We should talk to them.”

  “Of course,” I said as graciously as I could. “Have you talked to Detective Conroy?”

  “Who’s he?”

  I thought it wouldn’t be tactful to answer, “Someone who’s all tied up with other cases.” Instead, I said, “Let me give you his cell phone number” and fished in my purse for the card. As I read it off, George said, “I don’t know as I trust a man who has a cell phone and not a regular office.”

  And how could he function as a detective without leaving a “regular” office?

  I was looking for a way to escape, but I knew I couldn’t abandon Anthony, who stood silently by, looking distressed. Phyllis saved us. “George, it’s dinner time. I saw a Denny’s down by the motel. Let’s go eat. The burned smell is making me slightly nauseous.”

  I always disliked that word—and people who used it.

  For some strange reason, Anthony’s favorite phrase went through my head, and I thought, Mother of God, they’re staying at the Clayton House. The Clayton House was probably the cheapest, oldest, most run-down motel in our part of town. There was a nice Ramada down the street in one direction and a Residence Inn and Courtyard by Marriott in the other. But they were staying at the Clayton House.

  They left without a “Thank you” or “Nice to meet you” or any of the polite vagaries. When they were gone, Anthony said, “I feel sorry for them, but I don’t like them.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, “you don’t have to put up with them.”

  ****

  Halloween was a success—sort of. The girls went off to school, dressed in their costumes, Em feeling, she said, “like a princess” in a pink tulle tutu and pink leotard, with a silver crown on her head and a silver wand in her hand. Privately I thought Maggie’s deliberately drab costume was less attractive, but Maggie was most pleased. I promised to take them trick-or- treating in the early evening, dropped them at their schools, and rushed to the Dollar Store to buy candy to give out at our house.

  Mike Shandy called the office just before I left to get the girls. “You plan on taking the girls trick-or-treating?”

  “Of course. I hate to leave the house, but they’re set on it.”

  “Let me take them and you stay with the house. I’m not comfortable about the whole thing.”

  I knew I should listen to him, but I said, “Mike, they can’t go trick-or-treating with a police officer—and even if you’re off-duty, everyone in the neighborhood knows who you are.”

  “Okay, if you promise to stay on your block, I’ll watch the house and you take them. I got off duty specially.”

  I started to bristle. He was treating me like a little child, but then I remembered how scared I’d been a couple of nights ago, and I agreed.

  And that’s how Tim Spencer arrived at what he still considered to be “his” house and found the door opened by the policeman for whom he’d developed a definite dislike.

  “Trick-or-treating?” Mike quipped, as he later recounted the incident to me.

  “I came to see my daughters in their Halloween costumes.” Tim’s voice was thick with offense.

  “Oh. They’re trick-or-treating, but Kelly said they’d stay in this block. You can go look or come in. I’m just minding the house, till Kelly gets back.”

  “Well, you can go now,” Tim said dismissively. “I’ll ‘mind the house.’” His tone indicated that he was definitely mocking Mike.

  “I don’t think so,” Mike said he told him. “I told Kelly I’d watch the house.”

  According to Mike, they sat in uneasy silence. Two or three trick-or-treat groups came to the door, and Mike greeted them cheerfully. In turn, they’d say, “Trick-or-treat, Mr. Mike,” and he doled out the candy. Their cheerful greetings to him didn’t improve Tim’s mood at all.

  When the girls and I came in, I clearly didn’t expect to see those two men sitting there together, and I barely managed a civil hello to Tim. The girls greeted both with equal cheer, “Hi, Dad. Hi, Mr. Mike.”

  “I came to see you in your costumes,” Tim said petulantly. Clearly he did not feel they were making enough of a fuss over him.

  “Did you bring us treats?” Maggie asked.

  “No,” he said shortly. “You’ve got enough in that bag.”

  Without hesitation, she whirled around, “Mike, can I help pass out treats?”

  “I think I’ll turn that over to your mom, Maggie. I’ve got to be going. But I like your outfit—what’s that character’s name again?”

  Pleased, Maggie said, “Hermione. I’m Hermione.”

  “You sure are,” he said, hugging her.

  Tim left hastily a moment after Mike, and I let the girls help give out treats until about eight, when I turned out the lights and signaled that the evening was over.

  Upstairs I found Theresa watching from her bedroom window. “I wanted to be sure Joe didn’t come,” she explained. “He didn’t.”

  ****

  I am a list maker, and the next day I sat at the kitchen counter, making a list of what had to do before the garage sale. I’d studied the calendar. If the girls and I were going to move November 15, I’d have the garage sale the next weekend. Too bad I’d already missed the neighborhood garage sale but there was no help for that. Then I listed:

  Sort girls closets

  Clean my closet

  Go through kitchen cupboards

  Tag and mark major pieces of furniture

  Empty garage

  The garage. I phoned the Worthington, and asked for Tim Spencer’s room.

  “I’m sorry. We do not have a guest by that name,” the operator said.

  Puzzled, I asked, “Can you tell me when he checked out? It must be within the last”—I thought a minute—“two days.”

  “Checking my records, I don’t find a guest by that name the last month.”

  I scratched my head. If Tim wasn’t at the Worthington, where was he? What if he’d kept the girls too long one night and I’d tried to call him there? Not being able to find him didn’t particularly bother me as long as the girls were safe—I’d just as soon never hear from him again. But it was strange—and I’d get the truth before he took them anywhere again.

  That afternoon, with both girls in the car, I asked casually, “Did your dad ever take you to the hotel where he’s staying?”

  They chorused “No,” and Maggie asked, “Why?”

  “I just wondered,” I said vaguely.

  I was not left to wonder for long. I purchased a precooked roast chicken at Central Market, along with some mac and cheese. An expensive way to feed them, I acknowledged, but healthy and they’ll like it. They did. Theresa went to have dinner with her family and spend the night—Anthony had described it as a trial visit. So I had the girls to myself and was
thoroughly enjoying it, when the phone rang.

  When I answered with, “Hello,” Tim said casually, “Kelly, I thought it was only fair to tell you that I’ve filed papers for custody of the girls. My lawyer says it will have to go to mediation, of course, and I gave him your lawyer’s name.”

  Surprised but not particularly upset, I told him he was wasting his money. “But Tim Spencer, if you drag those girls into this and make them testify or put them in an awkward situation, I’ll have your hide!” Deep down, Tim probably knew it was a lost cause before he began, but he was punishing me. Tim had left the marriage and then blamed it all on me. And now he was punishing me. But I would not let him punish the girls.

  “By the way, where are you staying? I tried to call the Worthington today, and they’d never had a guest registered under your name.”

  ‘Why did you call?” he countered.

  “I need you to get your stuff out of the garage. I’m having a garage sale next weekend, and we’re moving on the fifteenth.”

  “You sold the house?” He was aghast.

  “Yes. You knew I would. I just found a buyer sooner than I expected.”

  It was Tim’s turn to pause. There was a long silence, but at length he said, “Well, I don’t know what you want me to do with the stuff in the garage. I have no place to put it, and I can’t ship it to California. It’s not worth the freight.”

  “I don’t care what you do with it. Either it’s gone by next Sunday night or I’ll call Goodwill. And I’ll have my lawyer officially notify your lawyer. This is my property, and you have no right to store your belongings here.”

  “Bitch!” he spat out.

  I remembered when that would have broken my heart. Now it didn’t faze me. “By the way, Tim, where are you staying?”

  “Try the Days Inn on Highway 30 out in White Settlement,” he said, naming a suburb to the west of the city, and slammed down the phone.

  Maggie was watching me attentively. “Was that Dad?”

  “Yes, sweetie, it was.”

  “I could hear him yell at you, Mom. That wasn’t very nice of him.”

  “No,” I agreed, “it wasn’t. But he was upset. Always remember, he’s upset with me, not you.”