Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  “Kelly, don’t hold out on me,” he said. “What house?”

  “Mine.”

  “Yours? I haven’t seen an MLS listing for it. You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “No. I’m buying the most wonderful Craftsman-style house you ever saw. At least, I think I am.”

  “You got a buyer for your house already?”

  “Keep your fingers crossed. I’ll know tomorrow.”

  Almost as soon as I hung up, the cell rang again, and this time it was Alan. “The Hunts want to sell it to you at the appraised value,” he said, satisfaction filling his voice.

  “Oh, Alan. I’m prepared to pay more. I figured it this morning, and I can go higher.” I was blabbing, and I could feel my heart racing.

  “Kelly,” his tone cut me off. “You don’t raise the asking price. Never. I won’t allow a client to do that.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Want me to draw up the papers? Any specifications?”

  “Yes, draw up the paper and no, no specs, except that the Hunts are welcome to visit whenever. Can I call her and arrange to go through the house with her again?”

  “Sure, you call. I’ll bring the papers by tonight for you to sign.”

  “Did she say when they wanted to close?”

  “Standard thirty days,” he said.

  I figured that would give me time to clean out my house and, I hoped, sell it.

  My evening was getting crowded. I remembered Anthony and hurried over to the house on Fairmount.

  “I thought you forgot me,” he said.

  “Never. But I think I just bought a house…and sold mine.” He had looked at the Craftsman house but didn’t know I’d made an offer nor that I’d found a possible buyer for mine, so I told him the whole story.

  “Terrific, Miss Kelly!” He grabbed me and danced me about the empty living room, laughing all the while. Then, abruptly stopping, “Now, my find.” Leading the way to the kitchen, he said, “I find this in the bedroom closet, behind a fake panel.” He handed me a small leather-bound book, with a gold-leaf page ribbon running through to mark a page. A gold clasp held it closed, and there was a place for a key—but no key. I pressed the clasp, and it sprang open.

  I stared at Anthony, who was grinning. Then I leafed through the book—pages of neat handwriting, dated entries. It was Marie Winton’s diary!

  “You gonna give it to the cops?” he asked.

  “Not until I read it,” I answered without hesitation. “And maybe not then. We’ll see.”

  I clutched the book to me, as though it were worth a fortune. “Thank you, Anthony. What made you look there?”

  “I sometimes get tired of working on the kitchen, and I explore the house, getting ideas for what I can do to other rooms. I’m going to make these closets bigger, easier to get too—so I was testing the walls, and I found….” He looked sheepish. “Another dead space.”

  I wanted to rush home, lock myself in the bedroom, and read every word of the diary, but I had to pick the girls up and then the Guthries were coming. When I had Maggie and Em both in the car, I said, “We have to go right home and straighten things up. People are coming to look at the house at five.”

  Em asked, “What people? Why are they looking at our house?”

  Just as I was about to say, “Because they might want to buy it,” Maggie interrupted with, “Mom, I have ballet today.”

  I’d forgotten entirely. Ballet was from four to five. My mind raced. Maybe I could drop her off and find another mother—one I knew and trusted, of course—to bring her home. But when I got to the ballet studio, the only mother I saw was Sarah’s—mother of the girl Em tangled with. No, that wouldn’t do. I searched my brain—and then my purse for my notebook with Mrs. Guthrie’s number in it. Frantic, I dialed.

  Claire Guthrie answered with her usual enthusiasm. When I explained, she agreed it would be no problem to move the appointment to five-thirty. In fact, it might be more convenient for Mr. Guthrie. That’s what she called him, Mr. Guthrie. I never ever referred to Tim as Mr. Spencer.

  Rather than get more flustered by rushing around, I sat and watched the lesson. But Em squirmed and wiggled, clearly bored. “Mommy, I have to peepee.” I took her to the restroom. “Mommy, I’m thirsty.” I got her a paper cup of water from the dispenser. “I didn’t want water. I wanted juice.”

  “Em, please be quiet. You’re disturbing the lesson. If you’re good for this and the Guthrie’s visit, I’ll get you whatever you want—well, almost.”

  I hustled the girls out the door and into the car, and we were home by five-ten. I rushed around, straightening things that I’d already straightened once that day. But when the door chimes rang, I felt I was ready. The girls were settled in the kitchen, with Theresa helping them bake cookies. I thought that bit of domesticity might add to the charm of the kitchen for the Guthries. Besides the smell of baking was famous as a subliminal factor or whatever in selling a house.

  The walk-through went well. Claire Guthrie was so eager to point out the amenities to her husband that I sat back and let her take over. He seemed impressed, though I found him hard to read—inscrutable was the word that came to mind.

  “May I offer you a glass of wine?” I asked, and both nodded their acceptance.

  We settled in the living room, and I asked if they had any questions about the house, its history, its upkeep. Mr. Guthrie—I thought his name was Jim—asked about utility bills and all those practical matters, while Claire said, “You know, Jim, this just feels right to me.”

  I was seeing a sale within my sights and could barely contain my excitement. But just then the front door flew open, and Tim Spencer burst into the room, his face red with anger. “You cannot sell this house,” he yelled. “I put too much into it. You cannot sell it.”

  The Guthries sat shocked, staring at him, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Em peek around the corner.

  I said the only thing I could think of. “My ex-husband does not come with the house,” I assured them. I thought it was clever, but no one laughed, and Tim said, “Quit trying to be smart, Kelly.”

  “Maybe we should finish our talk another time,” Jim Guthrie said, rising and looking at Tim.

  Feeling foolish, I performed the introductions, and the two men shook hands perfunctorily. Claire looked as though she’d rather touch a snake.

  Just as they started toward the door, which Tim had left open, Mike Shandy, in full uniform, appeared in the doorway. He looked at the strange assortment of people, looked again at me, and said, “Sorry. I’ll come back another time. I just wanted to tell you that the detectives think they’ve got a lead on the identity of that skeleton.”

  While Tim roared, “Skeleton?” the Guthries left without another word. I watched them go with sinking spirits. There was a sale gone sour.

  “Sorry,” Mike said. “Did I interrupt something?”

  I tried to smile at him, but it didn’t work. “Nothing that was going very well. Mike, this is my ex-husband, Tim Spencer.”

  Mike, ever friendly, held out his hand. “Mike Shandy. I’m the neighborhood patrol officer. Been keeping an eye on Kelly and the girls.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Tim said, ignoring the proffered hand. “What the hell are you talking about—a skeleton?”

  I knew this was an act for effect, and Tim knew about the skeleton—I remembered that he mentioned it in that first phone call. But now I was too stunned to think clearly.

  Mike said, “I guess Kelly will have to tell you that. Kelly, there’s no more surveillance, but you if you need me you have my number.” With a telling look at Tim, he asked me, “Okay with you if I go about my business now?”

  “Sure, Mike. I’ll be fine. Thanks. Maybe we can talk about the report in the morning.”

  “Sure,” he said. But then, “Why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night? I’m off, and we could talk about the whole case.” His look at Tim was calculated, and Tim responded, looking indignant.

&
nbsp; “I’d like to Mike, but the girls….”

  “Theresa can keep the girls.”

  “I can take the girls to dinner,” Tim said. “You two just go on and solve your mysteries.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

  My heart sank. I didn’t want the girls with Tim, but until the courts settled things, I had no choice. “Okay, thanks, Tim.” That was an effort to be gracious. “Theresa will have to go with you, of course….”

  “Of course,” Tim said sarcastically. “I can’t see my girls alone. You’d think I was a pedophile.”

  “Tim,” I said, “that’s not it, and you know it. I want them to have the comfort of someone familiar.”

  “I’m familiar, for God’s sake. I’m their father.”

  “Em doesn’t know you, and she’s scared of you. Theresa will go, and they have to be home by eight because it’s a school night. And before you go, I need to know where you and your friend,”—my voice lingered on the last word—”are staying.”

  “The Worthington,” Tim said curtly, naming one of Fort Worth’s nicest hotels, and stalked away.

  He must be doing better than I thought.

  When Tim was gone, Mike said, “I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

  “It’s trouble that’s there anyway.”

  “Are you really afraid he’d kidnap the girls, Kelly?”

  “I’m terrified,” I replied.

  “Let’s have dinner in. I’ll bring something, maybe from Nonna Tata, and you provide the wine. That way, that jerk will know I’m on the premises and waiting for him to bring those girls home.”

  “Thanks, Mike. That would be great. I’ll have a pinot ready.”

  He left, and I turned to see both girls peering out the kitchen door and Theresa standing behind them, the look on her face dark.

  As I bent to hug the girls, Theresa said, “He’s evil, Miss Kelly. I know the kind. He’s evil.”

  I tried to cover the girls’ ears. I knew Theresa meant Tim, not Mike, but I didn’t want them to hear that.

  SEVEN

  The girls were upset after Tim and Mike left. Maggie balked at doing homework, and Em wouldn’t leave my side. Theresa, upset in a different way, retreated to her room and refused to come out for dinner. I gave the girls waffles and bacon, sent them to early baths, and tried to tuck them in early. Both wanted to sleep in my bed, and I thought that was okay. They needed security after seeing their father behave so badly. I read to them until Em was asleep and Maggie seemed comforted.

  As I got up to leave, Maggie whispered, “He’ll be sorry, Mom. He’s not like that. It’s just …well, he told me he wants us to grow up in this house.”

  Curious, I sat back down by Maggie. “What else did he say to you, Mag? Did he say again that he wants you to go back to California with him?”

  “Oh, yeah, but I told him no way. I live with you.” She yawned widely.

  I leaned down to kiss her nose. “You ready to go to sleep?”

  “Yeah,” Maggie said. “I don’t think I’ll have bad dreams.”

  Theresa was sitting at the small table in the guest room, busy with pencil and paper.

  “Homework?” I asked.

  The girl quickly put her hand over what she’d been working on. “No,” she said hesitantly, “I…I’m keeping a journal.” Then, defiantly, “You can’t see it. Neither can my dad.”

  Mildly, I said, “I’m sure neither of us would think of asking to see your journal.” Then I felt guilty, because I knew I was about to look at Marie Winton’s journal. But to Theresa, I said, “I don’t know why you say Tim is evil, and I don’t think I want to know—I have my own opinions on the subject. But I do want you to make sure he doesn’t take the girls off to California some night when I just think he’s taken them to dinner.”

  “I understand that, Miss Kelly, and I can do it.”

  “He’ll pick the three of you up at five tomorrow night. I told him the girls have to be home at eight because it’s a school night.”

  “Okay,” Theresa said impassively. “I’ll go and eat his food. I hope he takes us some place really special this time.”

  I smiled. “Maybe I should suggest Bistro Louise?” It was one of the more expensive restaurants on the southwest side of Fort Worth.

  “I’ve never even heard of that,” Theresa said dreamily. “Is it good?”

  I nodded. “It is. But I doubt you’ll go there.”

  She shrugged, and I leaned down and hugged her. Somewhere inside this girl was a really sweet child trying to come out of a protective shell.

  I looked in at the girls, but they were sound asleep. I was free to put on my robe and read Marie Winton’s diary, even though it made me feel like a voyeur or worse. Some pages did make me feel worse, for Miss Winton had been a young girl carried away by passion, and she wasn’t hesitant about committing that passion to words, words she never thought anyone else would see. She was in love with a man named Marty, but there was little description of him, except that he was married. As I read on, I became increasingly frustrated. Although Marty was mentioned a thousand times—and by then I could have identified him from some pretty personal physical details—there was no indication of his full identity. There was mention of a wife and daughter, but only in passing.

  Marie had not begun the diary when she first moved into the house. Indeed she only began to keep it in early 1959, and it stopped abruptly on September 12 of that year. But the last entries were fascinating. Marie confirmed in June what she suspected. She was pregnant. She reported that Marty was overjoyed and promised her they would marry before the baby came. She asked about his wife, and he told her not to worry. He would take care of everything. What happened between 1959 and 1967 when the house was sold? Obviously, the skeleton was the pregnant Marie Winton. By then Marie had replaced Miranda in my mind. Indeed, I began to feel like she was an old friend, a girlfriend that I wanted to lecture as I had Joanie, for she was as foolish as Joanie.

  Marie filled her days decorating the second bedroom as a nursery, buying baby clothes, thinking up children’s names—she favored Rebecca for a girl and William for a boy, because she thought it sounded strong. Apparently Marty was generous and allowed her to spend lavishly on the nursery. I also noted wryly that, like me, she didn’t appear much interested in making baby clothes or knitting for the infant.

  But in late August, the tone of the entries changed. Marie reported that she saw a strange car outside the house several times, always the same car—a black Cadillac—and when she went onto the porch, it drove away. She told Marty about it, but he told her not to worry. Then one day, he brought a suitcase to her house and announced he left his wife and was moving in. Marie wrote of it with great joy, but she said some nagging fear wouldn’t leave her alone. She didn’t know what it was, but something was wrong.

  And then, September 12 was the last entry, a brief happy note anticipating the baby and the family she would soon have. “I wonder when we will be married,” she wrote. “I guess Marty will surprise me.”

  I closed the diary and found that great big tears were streaming down my cheeks. I cried for a young woman who had so many dreams and never lived to see them come true. What would I do with the diary? For the moment I tucked the small volume up high on my closet shelf. I wasn’t ready to turn it over to anyone—it was too personal.

  I was sound asleep, a child pressed into either side of me, when the phone rang at three o’clock. I should have learned by now not to answer, but, sleepily, I muttered, “Hello?”

  The same young voice as before said, “You haven’t stopped investigating that skeleton. We know you’ve been checking tax records and ownership stuff. If you don’t give it up, you could be putting your daughters in danger.” The line clicked, and, now wide awake, I stared at the phone. Putting my daughters in danger! I looked at them sleeping so peacefully, and my heart twisted. I would quit searching for answers, I vowed. The police would have to handle it. I would stick to renovation and selling real estate. But
the same old question niggled in my mind: how could anyone so young care that much about something that happened forty-plus years ago? And particularly someone who I suspected was a gang member with no connection to that forty-year-old skeleton?

  I lay wide awake, clutching the sleeping girls to me, rethinking everything I knew about the Marie Winton. Tomorrow, I vowed, I’ll tell everything to Mike Shandy and give him the notes I’d made. If I thought that resolution would bring sleep, I was sadly mistaken.

  ~*~

  The next morning at breakfast I told the girls that their father was coming to take them to dinner. Maggie took the news with equanimity but Em wailed, “I don’t want to go. I don’t like him.”

  Theresa was up like a shot, her arms around the child, saying soothingly, “I’m going too, Em. It will be all right. Maybe he’ll take us for pigs in a blanket.”

  “At Ol’ South?” Em asked.

  Theresa nodded, and Em said solemnly, “Okay, if I can hold your hand, Theresa.”

  “You can, Em.”

  I marveled, less at Em than at Theresa. The girl could go from light and sunshine to dark and back again without any warning. I sighed. If that was a symptom of all teenage girls, I had some rough years ahead of me.

  I was dispirited as I dropped the girls off and went to the office. I had, I knew, lost the sale of my house—and it was all Tim’s fault. Well, maybe a little Mike’s. What a time to arrive talking about the skeleton. I was sure he spoke before he thought.

  At the office, I had barely dug out all my notes on the skeleton when Anthony called. “Mother of God!”

  I wished he’d stop saying that. Among other things, it scared me.

  “The house,” he yelled, as if I was hard of hearing. “They trashed it. Graffiti on the brick walls, paint everywhere on the inside…Miss Kelly, I don’t know how many times I can keep fixing this house. I don’t ever get to remodeling, because I’m always fixing damage.”

  “I’ll be right there, Anthony, and I’ll call the police.” I dialed the non-emergency police number and reported the damage and then headed to the house. What greeted me was appalling. Bright yellow paint splashed all over the red brick walls, not in the front of the house, but on the sides and the back.