by Lois Winston
My three-in-the-morning caller didn’t waste any time. I considered that for a moment, then switched gears. “How bad is it?”
“Thanks to Anthony here, we got to the fire early. Kitchen’s pretty much gone—he tells me he can start over pretty easily. Rest of the house is untouched. But there’s smoke and soot everywhere. ‘Course we pulled the wiring first thing, and we pulled out some of the ceiling. Make sure it didn’t spread in the attic. You wait a while; I can take you through it with a flashlight.”
“I’ll wait,” I said. I fingered the cell phone in my pocket. The girls must be all right or Joanie would have called.
“I’ll wait too,” Anthony said. “Theresa’s home with the boys.”
As I turned toward the house, I found myself facing bright lights. Microphones were thrust into my face, and the questions came fast. Every TV station in the area must have sent someone.
“What happened?”
“What do you know about this?”
“Is this the skeleton house?”
“I own the house,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady and trying to avoid looking at the lights, “but I know nothing about this. I…I don’t have anything to say.”
“How about you, sir?” One bold reporter thrust a mike in Anthony’s face, but he brushed it away, got up, and stalked off. I followed him, and the surly policeman held the reporters at bay.
About an hour later, Captain Coconauer took Anthony and me through the house. We’d spent that hour sitting on the curb, in silence, because there wasn’t anything to say. In my confusion, I forgot about the middle-of-the-night phone call I’d received.
The captain led us through the now-open front door because the steps to the back were destroyed. Coconauer assured me that “his people” would secure the property before they left.
“Great. All we need is some homeless people to drift in and start another fire.”
“Yeah. It could happen.” His voice was rueful.
I never saw a house that had burnt before, and I was almost more dumbstruck by this than I was about the skeleton. The once-white walls were covered with black soot, and the stench was unbearable. We tracked soot around, picking it up on our shoes.
“Oh, yeah,” Coconauer said. “Take your shoes off before you even get in your cars.”
With a tentative finger, I touched touch the wall and left a smear; when I drew it away, my finger was stained black. The soot covered the woodwork as well, and I thought of the refinishing we were going to do and how much more difficult it would be now.
The ceiling was torn out, and large bits of insulation hung down.
I didn’t know where Anthony would begin to restore the house, but the other Kelly seemed to sense that. “It was mine,” he said, “I’d call Black Brothers, the disaster people. Matter of fact, they probably got a guy outside already. They’re great fire chasers.”
Black Brothers was a company that cleaned rugs and furniture but specialized in cleaning up after disasters—fires, floods, and the like. So it was no surprise a few minutes later when a man stopped me as I came down the front steps.
“Ms. O’Connell? Mark Anderson of Black Brothers.” He thrust a card at me. “At your service.”
“What do you do?”
“First thing, we’ll tear out the walls…”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “They’re the original pulled plaster.”
“But, ma’am, they’re covered with soot. That plaster’s gonna smell bad.”
“Find a way to fix it, and I’ll hire you,” I said and turned away. I was too tired to argue.
“You be in the office early, Miss Kelly?” It was Anthony. “I…I want to talk to you.”
Surprised, I said, “Sure, Anthony.”
“And I bet we can bleach those walls and maybe paint Kilz on them—or I’ll look for something else that will do,” he said. “Don’t let them be tearing out those good plaster walls.”
“Thanks, Anthony.” I felt tears creeping down my cheeks and brushed them away.
The street was empty of curiosity seekers. When a man stopped me by touching my arm—why did everyone grab my arm tonight?—I almost screamed for Kelly Coconauer.
“Ma’am, I’m an insurance negotiator.” He thrust a business card at me. “I can help you get a better deal from your insurance company. You know,”—he almost snickered as if it were a joke we shared—”fudge a little on the damage and repair cost.”
“No thanks,” I said, walking away. But the man reminded me that in the morning my first call would be to the insurance company.
~*~
The lights still burned brightly in my living room, and Joanie’s car was parked in front. I eased the front door open. Joanie lay on the couch, sound asleep, her arms tight around Em, who was curled up next to her, snoring gently as only four-year-olds can. Both the snack tray and the wine bottle—a one-and-a-half liter one—were empty. No wonder Joanie slept. She didn’t budge when I eased Em out of her arms and, whispering to my child, carried her upstairs.
“I had a dream, Mommy, and I wanted you.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I had to go. It was an emergency.”
More awake now, Em said, “Maggie told me that you would be home soon, and I shouldn’t worry. But I was lonely, so I sat with Joanie. I guess we both fell asleep.”
“I guess you did.” I tucked her back into her bed. “Go back to sleep now, Em. I’m right here.” I sat, stroking the child’s hair until I heard that regular breathing again.
Gathering a pillow, sheet and blanket, I went back downstairs. “Joanie,” I whispered, “you spend the night right there.” I spread the sheet and blanket over her and tried to slide the pillow under her head.
“Kelly?” Joanie said, raising her head groggily. “Em woke up and cried for you, but Maggie helped me. And then we both fell asleep. She’s so adorable, Kelly. I loved holding her.”
Yeah, and you’d love holding your own baby.
~*~
No short mention in “Local Briefs” this time. The fire earned a picture on the front of the local section, complete with an 18-pt. headline proclaiming, “House Where Skeleton Found Burns; Police Suspect Arson.” Grateful that the picture only showed the massed fire trucks, I began reading. Fairly straightforward, the article suggested that the fire department claimed it was arson because of the coincidence of a skeleton found in the house the day before. They referred to the smell of kerosene in the kitchen, so that must have been where it had begun. Thank God Anthony got out all right.
When I flipped on the local TV news, things got a lot worse. The cameras caught me looking bewildered, scared, absolutely out of control. The way I remembered the moment, I was calm and collected and answered straightforwardly. That’s not the way it came across on camera.
“Is that you, Mom?” Maggie padded into the kitchen in her PJs.
“Yeah, darlin’, that’s me.”
“You look funny,” she said. “Were you scared or something?”
“I didn’t think so,” I said, “but now I guess maybe I was.”
The phone would ring all day, I knew that, but I didn’t expect a call at home. It was Dave Shirley, my insurance agent and a longtime friend. “Kelly, we’re gonna have to get an adjustor in that house first thing. When can you be there?”
“Whenever you say, Dave. After I get the girls to school. I’ll be there by nine-thirty. Is this okay with the police?” There went the day, sitting in a burned-out house waiting for an insurance adjustor.
“Yeah. They said we could go in, but we got to leave the crime scene tape up.”
Darn. That house is jinxed. I’ll never sell it even if I get it fixed. And it will cost me an arm and a leg. Even if I sell it, I’ll lose money.
Joanie came out of the downstairs bathroom, where she’d gone to “put on her face,” a much more elaborate procedure for her than me. “Thanks, Kelly, for the talk…and the couch. I don’t think you helped at all.” She gave me sad smile.
“Sorry, Joanie.” Nobody can help. You’ll have to figure this one out for yourself. “Come back anytime.”
I got the girls to school, on time for once, and then ran by the office to tell Keisha where I’d be and grab a handful of papers that I could work on. I forgot about Anthony and my promised nine o’clock meeting with him in the office. He came to the house just before nine-thirty. I was sitting on the porch on the collapsible chair I always kept in the car, staring off into space, enjoying the cool October breeze and being thankful it wasn’t cool enough to drive me inside that smelly house.
“Miss Kelly? I got something to show you.” He fished in the pocket of his coveralls and handed me a gold locket, with a delicate monogram: M.W.M., scrolled in elaborate letters. The points of the letters were heightened by diamond chips. The gold felt good in my hands. This was a valuable piece.
“What’s this?”
“Found it in the kitchen. I didn’t quite tell the truth last night. I rooted around in that kitchen, searched the corners of that dead space. Figured you were so intent what was in that box, we never looked any more. And this is what I found. Stuck it down in my pocket just before I got hit.”
I opened the locket and found a picture of a woman on one side and a man on the other. The pictures were black and white, but I could tell that the woman was young, quite young, maybe early twenties. She was smiling slightly, and expertly used makeup made her eyes look large and mysterious—the whole effect was that she knew a secret. Her dark hair hung just below the chin, turning up in a pert flip while the top of it seemed teased slightly. I took a deep breath—the ‘60s. The hair was the ‘60s—not the rebellious side of the ‘60s but not everybody was a hippie in those years. I remembered pictures of my own mother, who was born in 1945 and came of age during that decade.
The man was older—thirty-five, perhaps—and wearing a business suit, white shirt, and tie. His eyes looked intently at the camera but I could tell nothing from looking at him—I saw no joy, no intensity, just a dark look. He was handsome, if you liked the almost perfect, wavy dark hair kind of good looks. I never trusted men like that—especially after Tim.
“It’s evidence,” I said, looking at Anthony. “Maybe important evidence.”
“Yeah. You gonna give it to the police?”
“Not before I think about it.”
“That’s what I thought. You want me to start tearing out tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you. There’s another property you might go look at. Meantime, you got work?”
“Yeah, I got work. Don’t worry about me.”
“Anthony,” I started, and then let his name hang in mid-air.
“What is it, Miss Kelly?”
I started to tell him about that threatening phone call because now I’d connected it to the fire—I just couldn’t figure out why someone would care so much about the skeleton and that house. But I told myself there was no sense worrying Anthony. “Nothing,” I said. “I thought of something to ask you…but it isn’t important.”
He gave me a puzzled look and turned to go. “You call me if you think of it,” he said.
The adjustor was thorough, slow, and not talkative. I spent the morning on the porch—not wanting to follow him around inside where the smell was overpowering—and felt like I’d wasted the time. I went through the stack of paperwork, made the calls I could on the cell phone, and stared down the street until I’d memorized every house on the block.
The adjustor left about noon, taking with him a small spiral pad of notes that inspired my curiosity. But he said nothing, not even, “Sorry.” I called the office to be sure nothing major happened, grabbed a sandwich from the Grill, and headed for the main public library downtown and the city directories.
Despite my resolve to be methodical, I started with the ‘60s, because of the picture in the locket. If I found a resident with the initials M.W.M., I’d have scored a hit, and I could give the locket to the police, along with information about the owner. I didn’t think far enough ahead to figure out what I’d tell the police about having it in my possession without turning it over to them. But it didn’t matter—I didn’t find M.W.M.
Only two people lived in the house in the ‘60s, when Fairmount began to lose its solid middle-class footing, turning into rental property. I copied the names: Marie Winton and Lupe Chavez. Marie Winton apparently lived there in 1960, and Lupe Chavez and his family occupied the house in 1968. I backtracked to the `50s and found that Marie Winton moved into the house in 1957. I wished that Marie Winton’s name had been Martin or Montgomery or McAdams. The M.W. fit but not a last name beginning with M. I guessed my next step was to check the City Hall tax rolls. Of course, if Marie Winton had married, those records would be of little help. Still, they might have a clue.
I had to pick up the girls or risk angering the day-care teacher again.
No ballet, no Scouts, nothing scheduled for the afternoon. I sank into the quiet of my house with gratitude. Maggie went off to do homework, complaining that second grade was much harder than first. “I’ll look at it with you when you’re through,” I told her. Em sat watching a video. She shouldn’t be glued to the screen so much. But I was too tired to object, too tired to think about dinner.
The next thing I knew Maggie was shaking me. “Mom, you fell asleep. What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”
I shook myself awake. A moment’s hesitation, then, “Hot dogs and custard at Curley’s.” The girls cheered and rushed around to gather shoes and sweaters, while I realized the last thing I wanted was a hot dog. But it was easier than thinking about defrosting in the microwave and cooking something. Tim would accuse me of not taking good care of them.
Curley’s was basically a drive-through, but it had a small grassy area, nicely planted, with three picnic tables. Frozen custard was the specialty—in several irresistible flavors, though I always hoped for chocolate mint. But you could also get kosher hot dogs, one of the few non-custard items on the menu. The girls ate theirs plain with mustard; I added chili, onions, and pickle relish and then worried about indigestion. But I was surprised at how good it tasted, after my initial hesitation. The custard flavor of the month was pumpkin—appropriate but not appealing, so we all had chocolate. You never go wrong with chocolate, even without jalapeños in it.
It was still warm, the heat of the day lingering, but I could feel the slightest chill creeping into the air. Fall was here, and Texas would soon show us its changeable nature—warm one day and bone-chilling cold the next. We sat at a picnic table, eating with plastic forks from paper containers, and the girls telling me about their days.
“How was your day, Mom?” Maggie asked.
“Busy and boring,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said, “I have boring days too. But tomorrow will be better.”
“Yeah, it will.”
I got the girls in bed soon after we came home and settled down with that novel I was still trying to read.
~*~
The next few days were uneventful. Mike Shandy called to say that the police removed the yellow crime scene tape from the house, and Anthony could begin work again. “I’d do what Coconauer said and call Black Brothers first,” he said.
“I will. I was just mad the other night that they were already there, like vultures—or ambulance chasers!”
He laughed. “I know. I saw the sparks in your eyes. Glad you didn’t try to deck that so-called insurance mediator. I’d have had to arrest you for assault.”
I remembered being alone when the sleazy man approached me. “How did you know about that?”
“I was watching you. Wanted to make sure you got to your car okay. But I didn’t figure you’d want a police escort right at that moment.”
“Thanks,” I said, “You were right.”
“Kelly, you call me if you need me. Got my card?”
“Somewhere.”
“Thanks,” he laughed again. “That makes me feel important. I’ll drop another one off at
the office.”
So, Mike Shandy is watching out for me. Interesting. I should tell him about that phone call.
Good as his word, Mike dropped the card off later that day, when I happened to be out of the office. When I came back, Keisha said, “That cop, the one who’s sweet on you, came by, left this for you.”
I took the card and turned away so Keisha wouldn’t see me blush.
The next day, I blanked the office out of my mind and went to City Hall to check tax records, only to learn records that old were on microfiche in storage and would have to be retrieved from their archives. I filled out a request form and was told I’d be notified when the records were available. There was a microfiche reader in the office, and I would have to read the film there. But the files would only be held in the office for one week—if I didn’t read them within that time, they’d be returned to storage.
“I’ll read them,” I said with determination.
Back at the office, I found myself doodling, writing the initials “M.W.M.” over and over on my notepad. Who was Marie Winton, and did she know M.W.M.? She lived in the house from 1957 to 1968. She was beautiful, and she looked sophisticated. She must have been single. How did she support herself? By then, Fairmount wasn’t an expensive place to live, but still….
A client called wanting to know why her house didn’t sell. I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “Because you refuse to fix it up, and it’s over-priced for its current condition.” I asked for a meeting to talk about lowering the price. The woman was now near enough desperate I could reason with her, I figured. Being extra pleasant with clients usually worked—my mother taught me that a teaspoon of sugar caught more flies than a cup of vinegar—but some people tried my patience. Tim, I know, would have been a lot blunter. Then another woman called wanting to buy an old house in Fairmount but one in good condition. “We have very few of those on the market,” I said, “but I’d be glad to meet with you and take your information.” Her name was Claire Guthrie, and, just over the phone, I got the impression of sophistication.