by Lois Winston
What Christian meant about Fairmount proving a puzzle was that when Fairmount was on its downhill slide, becoming rental property, people moved in and out at a rapid rate, and nobody seemed to care about fixing houses up. It was not what you’d call a stable neighborhood. Checking occupants fifteen, twenty years ago, might well provide me a long list—and the people listed might be impossible to find.
I wadded up the slips that were calls from newspaper and television journalists and threw them in the wastebasket. Keisha was impressed by my aim and clapped every time one hit the basket. She frowned when I missed, because I didn’t get up to pick the paper up and put it in the wastebasket—I’d do that later. One or two were business calls. I returned them, even getting an appointment to view a house for a new listing. Then I began to sift through the paperwork on my desk.
The phone rang almost immediately. Keisha forwarded it to my phone. When I answered it with “Kelly O’Connell” and heard, “Ms. O’Connell, Mark Sullivan here. Fort Worth Star-Telegram. We’d like to do a feature story on the skeleton you found yesterday—you know, play up the mystery aspects, interview people who lived in the house, and all that. You game?”
I tried to keep a tight rein on my temper and my tongue. The Star-Telegram, these days, was the only general newspaper in town, and it paid to have good relations with the newspaper. “No, Mr. Sullivan, I’m not game. I want to sell that house, so I don’t want to spread the story far and wide about a skeleton being found in it. Too many people might think it’s haunted.”
Long silence on the other end of the line. Clearly that was exactly the aspect that Mark Sullivan planned to play up—a haunted house. “You sure? You might benefit from the publicity.” He knew it was a weak hope; I could tell from his voice.
“I’m sure,” I hung up the phone and looked across the room. “Keisha?”
Keisha shrugged. “I’m done taking those calls, Kelly. You’re gonna have to tell them yourself.”
“Thanks a lot. I’ll treat if you’ll go get lunch—a cheeseburger from the Grill with curly fries and lots of ketchup.”
“You got a deal,” Keisha said. “I’ll go about 11:30, beat the crowd.”
I worked steadily all morning, finishing the contract that should have been done the day before and clearing my desk so that I could spend the afternoon beginning to explore city directories. Should I begin in the present and work back or in 1917 and work forward? That skeleton had to be there say, ten years, but to start in the middle seemed risky.
Keisha brought me a salad. “You got to eat right,” she said. “You feeding those girls the way you eat?”
“I fix healthy, balanced meals. And this salad is perfect. Thanks for adding grilled chicken to it.” I tried to put indignation into my voice, but I know she caught the glimmer of a giggle. I wanted that cheeseburger.
I finished the salad, wrapped up the loose ends on my desk, and made a note of two houses I wanted to do a curb assessment on. I could tell from the curb whether or not I wanted to see a particular house. Tim knew the business and he taught me well. The marriage didn’t do as well.
I still couldn’t pinpoint where it went wrong, when it began to sour, except that it was right after Em was born. Our last year together was miserable. Tim never wanted to go anywhere, do anything. Gone were the days when we entertained and went to parties, out to nice restaurants, lived the life of the happy young couple. There was no affection—and no sex. Dumb thing that I am it took me a long time to realize he had a girlfriend, and a lot of those “calls” had nothing to do with real estate. I guess in some ways I’ll always be Pollyanna.
~*~
I was about to head out the door when Keisha said, “Phone for you.” I raised my eyebrows in a question.
“Nope,” Keisha said. “You best take this one.”
Emily Shannon, Em’s pre-school teacher. Em loved the fact that she and “Miss Emily” shared a name. I didn’t love what I heard now.
“Kelly, Em’s been fighting. I’m afraid she’s pretty upset, and you better come take her home.”
Em fighting? Impossible. “I can’t believe it,” I said.
“Neither could I,” Miss Emily echoed, “but Sarah said something that upset her. I’m sending Sarah home too. They were scratching and kicking and screaming.”
“No biting?” Apparently biting was common in children, but I couldn’t imagine it. Not my girls.
“No biting,”
I called over my shoulder, “I’m gone for the day. I’ll have my cell phone on.”
~*~
Em sat in the reception area, with a teacher’s aide beside her. The aide held her hand and whispered words of comfort. But the poor child was sobbing. I knelt down and wrapped my arms around her. “Baby, baby, what is it? What happened?”
Em raised a tearful face. “Sarah said you had a skelton in your closet. She said her mom said that was bad. What’s a skelton? Is it in the closet at home?”
Oh dear God. How was I to know I should have explained it to the girls? And how do you tell a four-year-old the difference between a real skeleton, awful enough, and a skeleton in the closet, that old phrase that Sarah’s mother probably used jokingly. But just at the wrong time. And both little girls misinterpreted it.
“Were you sticking up for me, Em?”
“Yes, Mommy. I didn’t want anyone to say bad things about you. And she kept repeating it, like she was singing a song.”
“It isn’t anything bad. The skeleton’s not in my closet but I found one yesterday in the house Anthony’s working on. And it was sort of scary. That’s why I didn’t tell you.” I rose and held out my hand. “Come on, Em, let’s go home, and I’ll tell you all about the skeleton. Can you say it that way—skel-e-ton?”
Em nodded and repeated. “Skel-e-ton.”
“Good girl. Let’s go find Miss Emily so you can tell her you’re sorry.”
“Okay.” Em hopped off the couch, hooked her backpack over her shoulders, and took my hand.
Over Em’s head, I silently asked the aide if Sarah was already gone and was relieved that the answer was an affirmative nod of the head. I stuck my head in Em’s classroom and said, “Miss Emily? Em would like to talk to you a minute.”
The teacher came to the door and sent the aide into the room. “Em? Are you feeling better?”
Em nodded. “I didn’t understand. I thought Sarah said something bad about Mommy. But Mommy’s going to ‘splain it to me. And I’m sorry I caused trouble.”
Miss Emily hugged her. “I know you didn’t mean too. And I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay? We’ll start all over again.”
“Okay,” Em said, clutching my hand.
In the car, I said, “Em, I have to drive by two houses. Can you help me decide if I should look at the insides or not?”
Em nodded, silent with responsibility.
The first was a two-story clapboard house with an uncertain shingle roof. Years of neglect showed in peeling paint, shutters that hung askew, a wood pillar that showed rot at the base. I detected cracks in the masonry of the exterior chimney, a sign of structural problems, though that wasn’t unusual on the shifting earth of the neighborhood. Still, the house sat neglected too long. And it didn’t have much basic charm to begin with. A plain-Jane house with evenly matched windows, plain pillars on a small front porch.
“What do you think, Em?” I already knew it wasn’t a possibility.
“I don’t like it, Mommy. It looks like lazy people live there. They don’t even trim their bushes.”
“You’re right, Em. Thanks. I’ll take it off my list.”
“I’m glad I can help you, Mommy.”
The next house was a craftsman-style bungalow, quintessential WWI period. The bushes weren’t trimmed here either, but deliberately left to grow free. The house was brick, and someone apparently painted the trim within five years. The square pillars with decorative braces, wide porch, gabled dormer, low-pitched roof, and stone chimney hinted at the probability insi
de of wainscoting, beamed ceilings, a built-in buffet, and double doorways with visible braces. I didn’t see any telltale rot at the base of the pillars, and the roof looked pretty good. Anthony could work wonders with this one. Please, God, no skeletons in the closet.
“Em?”
“I don’t know, Mommy. The bushes aren’t trimmed…..” That must be her criterion for judging houses.
“But don’t you think the house looks more interesting?”
Solemn agreement. “Yes, I think so.”
“Okay. I’ll make an appointment to look at it tomorrow. Now, you know what I think?”
“No, Mommy, what do you think?”
“I think you need a cone from Curley’s Custard.”
A smile lit up Em’s face. “I think that’s a good idea, Mommy. I’d like chocolate.”
“Chocolate it is, and we’ll bring some home for Maggie, so she doesn’t feel left out.”
That was just what we did, and the extra cone turned the trick. Maggie was the caring, loving, protective big sister, giving Em advice on avoiding children who were unpleasant, hugging her a lot, and telling her that she was proud of her. “I’d have done just what you did, Em,” she said.
“Really?” Em asked, her tone somewhat awed.
“Really,” Maggie confirmed.
The mood was marred by a call from Sarah’s mother, who launched into a “your-child-hit-my-child for no reason” tirade.
I tried to stay calm, saying it was all a misunderstanding. “Em thought Sarah was saying something bad about me. You said something about a skeleton in my closet?”
“Well,” an impatient tone, “that was just a joke. Everyone knows that.”
“Four-year-olds don’t,” I said and hung up the phone. Then I gathered the girls together and explained about the skeleton.
“Oh, Mom, was it gross?” Maggie asked.
“No, Maggie. It didn’t look like a person. But it was scary—and sad to think about.”
“Now what do you do?”
With my fingers crossed behind me, I said, “The police will have to find out who that person was and how he or she got there. It’s not up to me.”
I fixed chopped steaks with brown gravy for dinner, one of the girls’ favorites, and green beans and green chili rice. Okay, Keisha, the rice is instant, but the rest of it is fresh and wholesome.
The girls were tucked in for the night, Em worn out by her day and Maggie reading a book. I told Maggie she could read for fifteen minutes, but I knew she would stretch that out, and I would forget to check on her. The pattern of our lives.
When the doorbell rang at five minutes to eight, I wondered who it could be—but then I remembered. What with Em’s “fight” and all, I had forgotten all about Joanie. Joanie and I often laughed that she shared a name with 1950s movie star Joan Bennett. Joanie said that was where she got her glamour, and I never reminded her that Joan Bennett’s hair was dark, her look seductive. Joanie was blonde, with shoulder-length hair, and, no matter how hard she tried, she gave an impression of eager instead of seductive. She had blue eyes—friendly, open, inviting—and I swear she never met a man she didn’t like. Since, at thirty-seven, she was five foot five inches and still shapely, all those men liked her equally well.
Joanie flourished a bottle of pretty good chardonnay.
“You eat dinner?” I asked.
Making a grand gesture, Joanie almost dropped the wine and said, “I couldn’t eat. Not a bite.”
If you drink much of that wine, you’d better eat. I went to the kitchen to trot out some cheese and crackers. Then I curled up in the big overstuffed chair, wine glass on the table beside me, but Joanie perched on the edge of the couch, clutching the wine glass as though she might splinter it in her hands any minute. I didn’t have to wait long.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
I didn’t know what I’d been expecting but not that. I asked the logical question, “Are you sure?”
Joanie nodded. “I took one of those home tests this morning, and it was positive. That’s when I called you.”
“Gosh, Joanie, I’m sorry I wasn’t more help right at the time.” And then, remembering my own pregnancies, I said, “You can’t drink that wine.”
“Yeah, I can,” Joanie said.
I thought I knew what she meant, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Instead, I asked the obvious, “Who’s the father?”
“Nobody.”
“Impossible.”
“Nobody that matters. A fling. Not someone I even want to tell about this.”
I said the next slowly, hesitantly, “You don’t want to keep the pregnancy, do you?”
To my relief she set the wine glass down. Joanie buried her head in her hands. “How can I?” she said, and now she was crying. “My folks would disown me. I’d lose my job. What kind of a future would I have? What kind of a future would the baby have?”
I took a deep breath. “You know your folks wouldn’t disown you. They might be disappointed, but in this day and age I doubt they think you’re saving yourself for marriage. This is just one of those things that aren’t supposed to happen. I don’t know about your job right now, but lots of single moms have good careers, Joanie.”
I looked at her, head still buried in her hands. “Joanie, this calls for chocolate.” I keep a hidden stash of exotic chocolate bars—milk chocolate with ground peanuts and jalapeño. They’re addictive, and I have to watch myself or I’d be going all the way to our upscale store, Central Market, to buy them every day. Joanie knows that if I offer to share my chocolate, it’s a big deal.
In the kitchen, I remembered how elated I was each time I discovered I was pregnant. What would it be like to have pregnancy as a threat? When I handed her the chocolate—she seemed to have an appetite for that and ate half of the big bar—I said, “I can’t say one decision or the other is right for you, but I want you to think about it so you don’t do something you regret later.”
Joanie raised her tear-streaked face. “If I have an abortion, will you go with me?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” Even if you don’t agree, you support a friend in her decision. I poured more wine. “Want something more than chocolate to eat now?”
Joanie nodded.
Just then the phone rang. Who could be calling at nine-thirty at night?
It was Anthony, and for the second time in as many days, I heard panic in his voice. “Miss Kelly, you come quick. The house on Fairmount—it’s on fire. Mother of God!”
“I’ll be right there.” I slammed down the phone. “Joanie, I’ve got to go. My Fairmount house is on fire. Stay with the girls for me, will you?”
Joanie looked panicky. “What if they wake up? I…I don’t know anything about kids. I’m no good with them.”
As I grabbed my purse, I said, “If Em wakes up, wake Maggie—she’ll take care of her. If Maggie wakes up, just tell her where I’ve gone. She’ll be fine. Thanks, Joanie. I need you right now.”
And I was out the door.
THREE
The curious had already gathered in a knot across the street from the house. I parked at the other end of the block and threaded my way between fire trucks. Lights flashed, walkie-talkies crackled, and shouts rang out. Confusion at its worst, though I clung to the hope that it was more organized than it seemed.
“Hey, lady, you can’t come in here. Get across the street with the others.” An angry voice was followed by a strong hand grabbing my arm.
I pulled away indignantly. It was a policeman I didn’t know. “I own this property. Where’s the fire captain in charge?”
His attitude modified but only a little. “I’ll take you,” he said, reclaiming his grip on my arm.
I jerked away again. He wasn’t going to drag me anywhere. “I’ll follow you,” I said, my voice as strong as I could make it. But then I saw an ambulance and, sitting at the open back door, Anthony, his head wrapped in a bandage. I ignored the policeman and ran toward the ambulance; t
he policeman stood there bellowing, “Hey!”
“Anthony, what happened to you?”
A rueful smile and a tentative gesture to his head. “I got a goose egg, Miss Kelly. Somebody decked me from behind. Felt like tire iron or something like that. Maybe a blackjack.” Out of his coveralls, Anthony was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans that revealed more belly than the coveralls did, especially as he sat hunched over in the ambulance. He looked like somebody’s kindly grandfather.
“Decked you? Why? Who?”
As Anthony shook his head, another voice said, “You tell us.”
The fire captain. “He doesn’t have any idea. Do you?”
“No,” I said and then turned to Anthony. “Start from the beginning. What were you doing here at nine o’clock at night?”
“I left yesterday without my tools. Wasn’t thinking. Today, I went fishing. Tomorrow, you don’t need me, I work for a friend. I came back for my tools.”
“And?”
Now a sheepish look. “I knew I shouldn’t cross that yellow tape, but I snuck under it. In the back, by the kitchen. I keep a key hidden back there. Got the key, unlocked the door, and then—wham! Next thing I know I’m in the kitchen, on the floor, and I smell smoke. I ran outside hollering ‘Fire, fire,’ and somebody called the fire department.”
“It’s definitely arson,” the fire captain said.
“Arson? Who would set the house on fire? Why?”
The fire captain remembered his manners. “I’m Captain Coconauer. Kelly Coconauer. And you’re?”
“Kelly O’Connell. I own the house.”
A grin on his Irish face, complete with wrinkles indicating too many years of fighting fires. “Same first name.” Then the grin disappeared back into the wrinkles “You find a skeleton here yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.” Yes, I was a bit intimidated.
“Seems like too much of a coincidence.”
I agreed. “But what? Who?”
“Not my job,” he said. “We got the fire put out. Now the police have to figure out who and why. But sounds to me like there’s something someone didn’t want found.”