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

by Alter, Judy

  ****

  I spent Friday packing up the kitchen and went to bed exhausted. A strange noise pulled me out of a sound sleep. Something went plop against the house. I listened and heard it again. Something definitely hit the front of the house—not a big something but enough to make a sound. Cautiously, I threw back the covers and felt for my slippers. Before I could get to the window, though, I heard the sound of sirens, that strange peculiar sound police cars make when the sirens are turned on for just a minute, as they close in on whoever it is they want to stop. The sirens stopped as quickly as they’d begun.

  I looked out the window and saw Joe’s car, with a police car on either side of it, lights still flashing. Puzzled, I just stood there while the doors to Joe’s car were pulled open and the occupants pulled out and put against the car, their hand on the roof, their feet spread. Police officers searched them for weapons. Fascinated, as though I was watching a stage play in which I was not involved, I stayed rooted to the spot.

  Ever watchful, Maggie came up behind me. “What is it, Mom?”

  “It’s Joe and his friends. The police have stopped them, but I don’t know what they’ve done.” Something in me didn’t want to know, didn’t want to go downstairs and out the door. But when the doorbell rang insistently I went, Maggie, by now joined by Em, padding behind me.

  Mike Shandy was at the door. “Bad news,” he said. “Come on outside.”

  I wanted to ask, like a child, “Do I have to?” But I went. Mike took me by the hand and led me halfway down the sidewalk. Then he turned me toward the house, and I gasped. Two huge spots of bright yellow paint discolored the house—the plopping noise I’d heard. They covered brick, windowsill, and window, one even creeping down over the front door, which made me think how furious Anthony would be. I was speechless, even though I kept opening my mouth to say something, ask a question, to try to grasp what happened.

  “They used a paint ball gun,” Mike said. “We found it in the car.”

  “Why? I thought the vandalism ended. Nothing happened….” I remembered. “Nothing since Tim died.”

  “That’s only six days, Kelly. And clearly, it has happened again.” He was as patient as he would be with a child.

  “The Guthries.” An unladylike thought went through my mind about what Jim Guthrie would do if he saw this. “I have to get it off before they take possession. Anthony! I’ve got to call Anthony.”

  Mike put out an arm. “Not in the middle of the night. You can’t do anything until tomorrow.”

  Unnoticed by either me or Mike, Maggie walked to the street, where Joe and his friends were still lined up against their car, guarded by two officers. “Joe,” she said with determination, “why did you do that to our house?”

  The young man looked at the ground and didn’t answer her.

  “Joe, that was a bad thing to do. I thought you were my friend.”

  I noticed only then and screamed, “Maggie, you come back here this minute. Em? Where are you?”

  “Kelly, calm down,” Mike said. “Both girls are fine. Nothing will happen to them. There are six policemen here, and three unarmed punks.” He’d picked up Anthony’s word.

  Em was indeed standing right next to me. Feeling foolish, I reached for the child and waited as Maggie came up the walk.

  “I’m disappointed in Joe,” Maggie said. “He’s not my friend anymore.”

  I hugged her and turned toward the house. As I did, I saw the curtain in Theresa’s room flutter. She watched but did not come outside. So much for her prediction that Joe wouldn’t hurt her. Maybe not her, but he hadn’t sworn off me yet.

  “We’re booking them,” Mike said, “and we won’t let them make bond quite so fast this time. Kelly, take the girls upstairs. You’re safe for the night. Try to sleep.”

  I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

  As Mike left, he said, “I’ll be here early in the morning, with doughnuts.”

  “Thanks.” I put an arm around his shoulder. He was so good. “Mike, there’s no way I can thank you for all you do for me.”

  “Part of it is my job, part of it is that I like you a lot, and part is that I think you’re getting a rotten deal.”

  For the first time I smiled. “That’s quite a mix. But thanks.”

  As the girls and I walked upstairs, both girls headed for my room, their usual pattern of late after something happened in the night. But tonight Theresa stood in the hallway.

  “What did they do?” she asked.

  “Hit the house with a paintball gun,” I said wearily. “I’ll have to call your dad first thing.” I looked at the girl. “You said Joe wouldn’t hurt you. I guess that didn’t include me?”

  “I thought it did,” Theresa said, “I really thought it did.” She buried her hands in her face, and I could tell that she was crying. Telling the girls to get in my bed, I went to Theresa and put my arms around her. She hugged me almost desperately and sobbed on my shoulder.

  “Theresa, it’s not your fault. Or is it?”

  “No,” the girl said, “but maybe I could have stopped it. I don’t know. I might have, before they beat me. Then I was scared.”

  “Could have? How?”

  But Theresa turned and went into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her and leaving me standing speechless in the hallway.

  ****

  Sleep didn’t come, and I was up even earlier than need be the next morning. The coffee pot was packed, and my only real choice was a drink of water. I brushed my teeth, tried to put on a little makeup and combed my hair, but the result was an exhausted-looking woman in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. Maybe I’m really bi-polar. I go from high joy to real lows from day to day. Yesterday I was so happy about the new house and everything. It looked like it was all working out—except for finding out who killed Tim and Marie Winton. But the day-to-day stuff should have been alright.

  Mike arrived at six-thirty with the doughnuts he’d promised and Starbucks coffee.

  Trying to brighten up, I said, “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “I try to be,” he said.

  There really wasn’t anything for us to do, so we sat on the living room floor with coffee and doughnuts, speaking little. Finally I asked, “What did you find out from Joe last night?” I was almost past the point of caring.

  “Me? Nothing. I had to get back on patrol. Turned it over to the detectives.”

  “Oh.”

  Coffee finished, we got up, and Mike asked, “What needs to go in my car?”

  I pointed to boxes, some of which contained precious, delicate china; others held things we needed immediately, but I marked each box carefully.—kitchen, bedroom, girls’ rooms, dining room. Mike began to load, and I went to waken the girls.

  “We’re moving today,” Em shouted as she jumped out of bed. “I have to hurry. I have a lot to do.”

  “Like what?” I asked with a smile.

  “I don’t know, Mom, but I bet I do.”

  Maggie got up more slowly and said tolerantly, “What we have to do, Em, is stay out of the way. But I heard Mike say he was bringing doughnuts.”

  “Then that’s the first thing I have to do—eat a doughnut.”

  The movers came promptly at eight, and as soon as I saw them started, I called Anthony and told him about the paint splotches. He cursed under his breath, not meaning me to hear, and said, “I come right away. But you need brick people. I can call.”

  “Please,” I said. “Tell them it has to be done today.”

  “You’ll pay,” he warned, but I just sighed and said, “I know.”

  My cell phone rang about nine. “This is Kelly.

  “Ms. O’Connell? This is Mrs. North.”

  Keisha’s right. The lady without a first name!

  “Yes, ma’am. I knew you called, and I returned your call.” Why was I already intimidated by this woman?

  “I was out of town briefly, but now I’m back, and I’d like to look at some houses in Fairmount today.”

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t show you houses until at least Monday. My family and I are moving today.”

  “Oh.” The displeasure was evident. “I really wanted to get busy with this.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, leaving the dutiful tone behind. “I have two young girls, and I absolutely cannot leave on moving day.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.” The tone implied that she did not understand at all. “Will you be available first thing Monday?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I could meet you at nine-thirty.”

  “No earlier?”

  “No. I have to get my girls to school.” This woman really bugged me, and I hadn’t even met her yet. Not a good way to start a relationship with a client.

  “Alright. Nine-thirty at your office. I know where it is.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you,” I said with what I hoped was a cordial tone. The words were not true.

  Mike took one load to the new house, came back, and said, “Kelly, unless you need me, I’m going home to sleep. I’m dead on my feet.”

  “Mike, you’ve been such a help. And I know you’re tired. Go on and sleep. I can handle things here.”

  “OK. I’ll check you when I wake up.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  He looked at me with an ironic smile on his face. “Yeah.”

  Anthony arrived while the movers were still loading. Looking at the damage, he cursed under his breath again and didn’t even apologize. “The brick men be here ten o’clock. I start on the wood now. By tonight, it be okay.”

  “Really?” I thought he’d say it was impossible, he’d get it done next week, and so on. I wasted lot of time anticipating Jim Guthrie’s reaction.

  “I promise.”

  The movers finished. I loaded my car, locked up the house, and followed the movers to the new house, leaving Anthony in charge of paint removal. There, I began directing the movers where to put what pieces of furniture. As I stood in the living room, pointing this piece to the bedrooms and that huge box to the kitchen, Buck Conroy knocked and entered without waiting for a by-your-leave.

  “I got news,” he said.

  He seemed to have no notion that I might be busy with something. “What news?” I asked.

  “Your friend Joe talked last night.”

  I put down whatever I was holding and sank into one of the overstuffed leather chairs. Almost afraid, I asked, “What did he say?”

  “Your ex was paying him to vandalize your house and the one on Fairmount, but he claims that he had nothing to do with the fire at that one. And he claims he didn’t kill your ex. He also claims he wasn’t there when the girl was beaten—and he got uptight about that one.”

  I tried to absorb this and fit it into the puzzle. “I thought the vandalism stopped when Tim was killed—until last night. So that doesn’t make sense. Why would they disfigure my house after Tim was dead and couldn’t pay?”

  Conroy smiled. “He had a credit balance, and they thought it was something to do out of respect for his memory.”

  “A memorial tribute? They shot paint at my house as a tribute to Tim?” I teetered on the edge of hysterical laughter.

  “That’s the story I got from the young man. Okay, young ruffian. I suspect they all had some beer, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “So now?”

  “They didn’t bond out this time, because it was a second offense for the other two, close on the heels of a first, and even though we can’t tie Joe to that night of the beating, he has a prior.”

  “A juvenile detention center won’t help them, will it?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Might just teach them some new tricks. But Joe’s twenty-one, too old for juvvie, and the state pen would teach him new tricks. The rest are under age and will go to juvvie if they don’t plead out.”

  “Will I have any say on what happens to Joe?”

  “You can decide whether or not to press charges. If you do, no; you can make an appeal at the sentencing hearing, but it’s up to the judge. Sort of depends on the luck of the draw—which judge he gets.”

  I thought about that. “I’ll let you know.”

  “You ought to send the little twerp to jail,” Conroy said. He pulled out a cigarette and would have lit it, except that I waved my hands in a negative gesture. “Your ex paid him handsomely. But that doesn’t mean he’s not a suspect in my mind for either the fire or, more important, Tim Spencer’s murder.”

  “But why would Tim pay him? And where’d he get the money? He claimed he couldn’t even pay child support. We’re back to what I said—find out where Tim was getting the money.”

  Conroy shrugged. “We found his cell phone—sloppy detective work. It was in the car, fallen down between the seat and the console.” He looked disgusted. “We traced some calls. He’s been in touch with some less than honorable men here in town. I don’t yet know the nature of the business, but he was mixed up in something not good.”

  “Did you ask Pam where he got money?”

  He got a funny look on his face. “Yeah, but what she said didn’t make sense. She said he’d found out who was Martin Properties.”

  Martin Properties! “The owners of Marie Winton’s house,” I exclaimed.

  “Well, yeah, but whoever they were, they’ve sure disappeared. We’ve tried everything to find them.”

  “I know. So did I.”

  He looked angry that I’d beaten him to the investigation.

  “But why vandalize the houses? What was in it for Tim?”

  “I asked Joe about that, but he said he didn’t know. Just said something about scaring you away from the skeleton house.”

  If Tim were alive, I could hear him saying something about how stubborn I was. Aloud, I said, “But then Joe didn’t kill him, did he? Why would he kill the person who was paying him? And he wouldn’t kill him and then give him a memorial, even if it’s a twisted one.”

  “You’re probably right. Joe doesn’t make sense as a suspect, but maybe he could have suspected Tim would double-cross him. But then, why the memorial tribute, as you call it, a week later? I won’t take him off what I see as a rather short list.” He looked at me a long minute. “There’s always the possibility that you hired someone to do it. I don’t believe that either, but I got to put it on my list of possibles. Pam Spencer is looking better and better to me. And then of course there’s your ex’s connections here and in California—he may have double-crossed someone, and the murder isn’t related to Marie Winton at all. Worst thing is we still don’t have any idea who killed that Winton woman. Neither case is closed, and, in spite of everything, I got a strong feeling they’re connected.”

  I stared at him. “Are your instincts usually right on?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “they usually are.”

  I didn’t know whether or not to worry. Maybe relief was most appropriate.

  “Got to go,” he said. “Got a hot date tonight.” He leered at me, sort of laughing, and then left.

  ****

  The girls and I spent Sunday unpacking—no church again, though I sent a quick apology to God and hoped he understood. The girls hung dresses in their closets, folded PJs and shirts and jeans in drawers and by early afternoon had their rooms neat. Struggling with the kitchen things, I wished my part was that simple.

  Theresa came in for lunch, and I made everyone grilled cheese sandwiches. Looking around at the still-unpacked boxes and the stacks of dishes, I decided I’d wash them later. Theresa asked, “Miss Kelly, can I help you with this?”

  “Don’t you need to unpack your own things?”

  “I’ve pretty much done that, but I…I want to talk to you.”

  I looked at the girls, but Theresa said, “No, they can stay.” She reached an arm for Em who came for a hug. “I think it’s time for me to go home. My dad, he’ll try. He knows now the strap isn’t the answer. And my brothers, Stefan and Emil, they need me. My dad needs me.” Then in a rush she added, “I wouldn
’t want you to think I’m not grateful…it’s just I think it’s time to go home.”

  Em began to sob and wail about missing Theresa, and Maggie went to Theresa’s other side and asked solemnly, “Will you come back for a sleepover?”

  Laughing, Theresa said, “I sure will.”

  I pushed the girls aside so I could hug Theresa. “I think that’s a wonderful decision,” she said. “Have you told your dad?”

  “No. But I know he’ll be glad.”

  “I know he will too. Let’s invite him and the boys to dinner tonight, and you can tell him and then go home with him. Can you repack your clothes that quickly?”

  “I never unpacked them,” Theresa said with a slight smile.

  So it was done. A puzzled Anthony accepted the dinner invitation and said they would be there at six. After he talked to Theresa, she handed the phone to me. “He wants to tell you something. About the paint on the house.”

  I looked at the phone as though it might bite me. “Anthony?”

  “Good news. Well, sort of good news. I wasted your money calling the brick people. Its water-base paint and came off easily. But I don’t know that I could have done it alone in one day. Now you can’t even tell it was ever there. Brick didn’t change color, wood doesn’t need repainting.”

  “Oh, Anthony, that’s wonderful.”

  “They only there three hours. Not too much cost, I hope.”

  I was so relieved I didn’t care. I might even file an insurance claim, now that I could assure Dave Shirley that the vandalism was over.

  After I thanked Anthony, probably one too many times, and hung up, I looked at my watch. Too late to do a pot roast. I’d have to do chicken. I left Theresa watching the girls, while I ran to the store and got chicken thighs to roast with lemon and butter and herbs, makings for a salad, and baking potatoes to which I’d add sour cream, butter, and cheese. Then I bought two bottles of wine and a big bottle of Coke—a special treat for the girls who were usually only given 7-Up or Sprite. When Mike Shandy called to ask how the move-in was going, it was no problem to add him to the dinner party—I had plenty of food.

  While I was at the grocery, Theresa made huge leaps in unpacking the kitchen, and the girls were drying the dishes she washed.