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

by Alter, Judy

  Ashford said, “The complainant wishes to make a statement,” and he nodded at me. “Ms. Kelly O’Connell,” he said.

  I wished I had planned in advance what I wanted to say. My palms were sweaty, my face going red. “Your honor” —I knew that part was right— “I know this young man only slightly, and that’s a long, complicated story that you don’t have time for.”

  “I appreciate that, Ms. O’Connell,” the judge’s tone was dry.

  “But I don’t think he’s a hardened criminal, and I don’t want to see him become one. I want”…I stumbled over the words… “deferred adjudication.”

  “Do you realize we dismiss a great number of vandalism cases?” Judge Sullivan asked. “Especially juveniles and I understand that Mr. Mendez is not a juvenile, but still….”

  “I talked to Joe this morning and told him I thought actions have consequences, and he needs to learn that. But I also think he needs some counseling, and he needs to learn to help others, like community service….”

  “Have you considered standing for the bar?” the judge asked, a smile flitting across his face. “Thank you, Ms. O’Connell.”

  It went pretty much as I hoped. Six months of deferred adjudication, after which, if Joe behaved, the charge would be dismissed, and he would have no record. The judge assigned a probation officer and a counselor, and Joe would begin community service the next week. The judge told him to get a permanent, fulltime job. Then he banged his gavel, said, “Next,” and we were out of the courtroom.

  “You happy?” Larry Ashford asked.

  “Yeah. Call me if you lose your job.”

  He smiled as much as he could, and we parted. Just as he turned away, Joe and his mother caught up with me. Joe hung his head and didn’t look at me, but his mother said, “Thank you. Joe and me, we’re going to make it right. I’m…I’m going to pay attention to him.” I didn’t tell her I thought it was too little too late. But I did put a hand on Joe’s arm, almost forcing him to look at me, and I said, “Take care of Theresa.”

  He nodded, and I had the feeling he would.

  It was time to get the girls, and I hurried to my car, feeling maybe a bit too smug until a small voice inside me warned, that’s when you always get in trouble.

  ****

  Wednesday morning I was at my desk, trying to catch up on paperwork. I thought briefly of calling Mrs. North, “Mrs. Jerry North,” and decided against it. I usually hated to pressure clients, but even though I thought one or two of the houses we’d looked at would fit, that wasn’t what stopped me from calling. It was the uneasy feeling Jo Ellen North gave me. I wished I could just forget about her, but she was a pretty determined lady, and I knew she’d call again.

  Keisha answered the phone, gave me a long look, and said, “Interesting phone call for you.”

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  “Kelly O’Connell.”

  “Ms. O’Connell, my name is Mark Smotherman. I’m with Unsolved Mysteries, the TV show.”

  I sensed trouble coming. “Yes?”

  “The Winton family of Crawford, Texas—guess we all know where that is, these days”—a slight chuckle—“has contacted us about a segment on their murdered sister, and we’re interested. I…well, truth is, would you cooperate? Could we film at the house, interview you? We’ve got to make Fort Worth part of the story or it won’t fly.”

  I remembered how appalled I’d been when the Star-Telegram wanted to do a feature. But this was different—this was Marie Winton’s family grasping at straws, hoping that a national television show would uncover the killer of their loved one. I knew the show had a strong success rate, but I didn’t see how it could help in this case. Still…I sat, silent, thinking.

  “Ms. O’Connell, are you there?”

  “What? Oh, yes, sorry. I was thinking. When would you do this?”

  “We schedule months ahead, so probably not till, oh, maybe March.”

  March? I expect Buck Conroy to solve this long before March. “Yeah, I’ll help to a certain extent. Depends on what you want when the time comes.” She paused. “What happens if the crime is solved before then?”

  He sighed. “We cancel the segment and move on to other things. Happens a lot, which I guess is a good thing. I mean, crimes being solved.” Then, his voice defensive, “But we do have a good crime-solving record.”

  “Yeah, I know. And the Wintons contacted you? Did they say the Fort Worth police weren’t doing enough?”

  He cleared his throat. “They said the investigation wasn’t moving along as they’d like it to.”

  “Well, I think the police are doing the best they can”—after ignoring the case for years—“but I’d like to help the Wintons. I know they’re suffering. So, yes, I’ll do whatever you need.” I added, “Well, almost whatever. Within reason.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be in touch.”

  I put down the phone and stared into space.

  “What was that?” Keisha listened to my one-sided conversation with curiosity.

  “I may be on national TV,” I said and told her the whole story.

  Keisha shook her head. “I think you’re gonna find out who did it before that. I got faith in you, boss lady.”

  ****

  My next phone call was from Buck Conroy. Before I could tell him about the television show, he said, “Well, your husband sure married himself a piece of work. We tracked her down at her sister’s and went out to see her. Decided not to pull her in…yet.” He added that last word ominously.

  “What do you mean?” I could picture him, cigarette drooping out of his mouth, phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear while he did something else on his desk. In fact, I thought I could hear computer keys clicking. With great restraint, I didn’t ask him how Joanie was—I think I was afraid he’d twist the reply.

  “This is her third marriage. The Martin name came from her second husband.”

  There goes the connection to M.W.M. and Martin Properties.

  “She used to be a stripper in LA, cut quite a swath. Don’t know much about her first marriage—she clammed up about it. But Martin was in real estate, and that’s how she met your ex. She left the husband for Tim Spencer. It was a messy divorce, two-year-old kid that the husband got custody of.”

  So Tim became a home breaker—not only his home, but somebody else’s. “She say why she left a husband and child for Tim? If it was passion, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear.”

  He laughed. “No. She’s a gold-digger. She thought he was a real estate mogul. She just began to figure it out when he whisked her to Vegas for a quickie wedding and then brought her here. Said his fortune was here. But he also said something funny to her, that it was significant that her name was Martin because that was the key to his future. I doubt there’s any connection to her ex and Martin Properties.”

  I thought about that for a long minute. “So he knew before he came here that the house was owned by Martin Properties? I know someone here told him about the skeleton—I just haven’t figured out who. But how did he know about Martin Properties?”

  “No idea. And I wish you’d figure out who shoveled information to him. It wasn’t Joe. He came into the picture after Spencer planned the dirty work.”

  I sighed. “I agree. I don’t know what difference it would make if we found out who first told him. If he knew about the death, could he research the history of the house online? I never thought of trying that.”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

  “If you do, don’t tell me. It would have saved me hours away from the office and home.” I almost laughed but couldn’t quite. “And that’s the woman my ex-husband exposed my children to—a stripper who’s been married three times. She didn’t seem that bad…well, I don’t mean bad…but you know what I mean.”

  “Aw, come on, Kelly. Happens to the best of us. Strippers can be good people. I don’t think she’s a bad sort. Life’s dealt her some bad hands, and maybe she’d didn’t hand
le them well. Sister’s something else though—a real hard nose who doesn’t cut Pam any slack. Kept saying she came from a good family and should have known better. Had the new Mrs. Spencer in tears.”

  “Do you think she loved Tim?”

  “People like that? I don’t think they know about love in terms of commitment—I don’t think I know that—or at least I didn’t think I did until recently. But, yeah, I think she loved him. And I think she cared about him and about your girls and was good to them—she talked about them.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That means a lot. So is she off your list?”

  “Not by a long shot. Neither is Joe. But I got some other leads.” With that enigmatic statement, he hung up without saying goodbye or anything.

  The gossip in me came to life, and I called Joanie at work, something I almost never did. “Joanie, you in the midst of something?”

  “No, just sitting here trying to plan a campaign, but my mind keeps wandering.”

  “In what direction?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

  “Well, Buck Conroy of course,” she giggled. “I can’t keep my mind off him.”

  Or your hands, I thought. “Joanie, does he know about the baby?”

  “Oh, yes. He says it doesn’t matter at all. He kind of always wanted children—isn’t that sweet?”

  “Yeah, sweet,” I mumbled. After asking how she was feeling, to which she answered she thought she was walking on air, and a few other questions to camouflage the nosy nature of my call, I said, “Well, come by and see the girls sometime.”

  “I will, and I’ll bring Buck.”

  “Swell.” I was afraid I banged the phone down. Keisha gave me a long look. I was worried about Joanie, afraid she was in for a big letdown at just the wrong moment when Buck decided he didn’t find a woman seven or eight months pregnant attractive any more. Not my problem, I decided. Besides, what did I know about romance? I wasn’t too successful at it.

  ****

  A woman who lived in one of the grand mansions on Elizabeth Boulevard called, wanting to list her house for sale. With visions of a sale of at least $600,000, maybe close to $700,000, I was delighted to make an appointment to see the house that afternoon before the girls got out of school. Then I danced around the office until Keisha said, “For a woman who owns a house with a skeleton in the closet and whose ex-husband was just shot to death, you sure are happy.”

  “Got to look on the bright side, Keisha,” I said. “This may be the sale that makes this company.” I was back in my manic phase.

  Elizabeth Boulevard was “the” address to have in Ryan Place, a wide street with huge trees and stately homes. Never mind that the ground shifted all the time, and those homes all had cracks in their old plaster. It just meant constant maintenance, and most of the owners could afford it.

  The house was a classic, red brick with a long, wide porch across the front and large white pillars, evenly spaced windows, the front steps edged with red brick. Landscaping was good. I appraised the curb appeal and found it—well—wonderful. The downstairs windows were curtained with light, gauzy material that seemed unobtrusive, as was the bevel-paned front door, and when I rang the doorbell, I heard sonorous chimes. An attractive woman, probably in her early sixties, answered the door. No maid here, I thought with a certain amount of relief. The older woman was shorter than me, her hair cut fashionably short in a casual, almost windblown look, her makeup unobtrusive but perfect. She wore a velour pantsuit—comfort more than style. “Ms. O’Connell?” she asked.

  “Yes, Mrs. Wright. I’m Kelly O’Connell.”

  “Come in,” she said and welcomed me into an expansive entry hall with wide-planked, pegged-oak floors and two staircases that met on a large landing and curved upwards into one.

  “I know you’ll want to see the house,” Mrs. Wright said and led the way on a brisk tour. The formal living room, with arched windows, old pulled plaster, wall sconces, and the same wide-planked wood floors, lay to the right of the entry hall and featured a large fireplace. Mediterranean tiles lined the circular firebox, and a beautiful, gilt mantel topped it. Beyond that room was a sun porch with a red tile floor, wicker furniture, and lots of windows. To the left of the entry was a formal dining room and a breakfast room and, to the back, an updated kitchen with a cooking island, Sub-Zero refrigerator/freezer, JennAir gas stove with a grill, a griddle, and a warming drawer.

  “It’s wonderful,” I said, almost breathless.

  Upstairs I toured four large, airy bedrooms, surrounded by windows, each with its own updated bathroom. Off the master bedroom another sun porch offered a wonderful space for reading the morning paper and sipping coffee.

  “Come downstairs, and we’ll have a cup of tea,” Mrs. Wright said. “I always think that’s so civilized in the afternoon.”

  I followed and found myself seated at a round cherry table, the distressing subtle enough to show that the table a genuine antique and not something bought at store that featured faux antiques. The tea was English, and with it Mrs. Wright served wafer-like chocolate and vanilla cookies. I decided I’d like to live this way.

  “How much did you want to ask for your house, Mrs. Wright?”

  “My dear, you tell me. But you must call me Barbara. I’m not used to such formality. As for the house, we’ve lived here since 1960. Raised four children. But now it’s time for us to downsize. My husband isn’t able to keep up the yard and all—he’s a lawyer, and he’s tired, ready for an easier life. We’d like to stay in the neighborhood—another reason I called you. I’ve my eye on a house you’re redoing at the corner of Fairmount and Allen. One-story. I think that just might suit us, and it looks comfortable, substantial. I’d like to see it.”

  I swallowed hard. “It’s still being renovated and we’ve had some setbacks. It’s not ready to show.” That house is jinxed. How can two rich people want to buy a house where a skeleton was found?

  Mrs. Wright waved a hand. “That’s not a problem. We’re not in a hurry. We’re just thinking ahead. But back to this house. We bought it for a song, and I don’t know what it’s worth today. If I don’t like what you say, I’ll get a second opinion.”

  I love meeting easy clients. “I think you should. I would put this house on the market at $795,000.”

  The other woman raised her eyebrows. “You would? That much?”

  “Well, then you could be prepared to come down a little, but, yes, I’d start there.”

  After another sip of tea, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was time to get the girls. “Mrs. Wright, I have to run get my daughters from school, but I’ll run comps on sales on Elizabeth Boulevard, just confirm my price estimate. Then I’ll draw up a realtor’s agreement and bring it by tomorrow morning, if that’s all right. I generally ask a client to stay with me a minimum of three months. I wouldn’t want you to expect the house to sell the first day I put a sign up—this house is special and will need just the right buyer, who can also afford it.”

  “I know, dear,” she said, patting my hand. “We’re not in a hurry. Now run get those girls. How old are they?”

  As I crossed that huge entry hall, I told her about Maggie and Em and that I was a single parent.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “Well, I hope their father helps out some.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “He can’t. He got shot last week,” but I thought better of it.

  Her last words were, “Think about showing me that house.”

  The idea of showing Mrs. Wright the house scared me, and I knew why—I was afraid of Mrs. North. That instinct came from deep within me. I’d met other society women who perhaps intimidated me, made me feel shabby or awkward or something but never anyone who made me afraid. I was afraid of Jo Ellen North for myself and, even more, for my girls. I drove a little faster to get Maggie from school.

  Of course, Maggie was perfectly safe, waiting impatiently for me. Once she was in the car and we headed toward Em’s day-care facility, I asked how her day w
as.

  “Actually,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “it was pretty dull. I can read better than anyone in the class, and I get bored listening to them.”

  The corners of my mouth twitched. “Perhaps you could ask Miss Benson to give you extra work… or maybe you could help some of the other children. Why don’t you talk to Miss Benson about it?”

  Maggie stared at me. She expected reproof; instead she got encouragement, and she was a bit uncertain what to do next.

  Em claimed her day was wonderful. “Look,” she said, waving a large piece of paper, “I drew our new house.”

  She captured some of the feel of the house—the pillars on the porch, the curving walk, and the bushes, all of course in primitive terms.

  “Why, Em, that’s wonderful. I’ll put it on the refrigerator.”

  “No, Mom. It’s so good it needs a frame,” she declared.

  “Of course,” I murmured, vowing to hang it in my bedroom.

  The girls didn’t ask about my day, which was good, because I didn’t want to tell them about going to court with Joe. The thought of Joe made me rethink Tim’s California connection. Joe could have called Tim. He knew him from working with Anthony, but why would Joe call?

  That night I called Theresa, ostensibly to ask how she was.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Joe told me what you did today. Thanks.”

  “Is Joe okay with it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s grateful to you, says he’s going to make you proud of him and glad that you did what you did.”

  “I hope so,” I said. Then with a guilty feeling of using Theresa I said, “Why don’t you bring Joe to supper tomorrow night? Just to show that there are no hard feelings and get us off on a better footing.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know…I can’t tell my dad I’m doing that.”

  This time I was honest. “Theresa, I’ll tell your dad. It’s time you stopped hiding your relationship with Joe. I’ll explain the whole thing to Anthony tomorrow.”

  And I did. I lectured that sweet old man up one side and down the other. When I said Theresa loved Joe, he put up his hands in protest, but I talked right on. I told him what Theresa had told me about Joe being ignored as a child, and what I’d done in court.