Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  “I’m afraid, Miss Kelly. Whoever wants that diary, wants it bad. And they might come after you next.”

  “Or you, my friend,” I said. But it was a disturbing thought. As I hung up, I remembered Jo Ellen North’s extreme interest in the fireplace. It all fit together, but I wasn’t getting the picture. I was missing something, and I didn’t know what.

  I went home to check that the diary was still hidden and considered putting it in a safe deposit box. I’d think about that tomorrow.

  At two that afternoon, I picked up Barbara Wright. She was dressed in stylish pantsuit, brightened by a floral silk scarf that I knew came from Neiman Marcus. Her shoes were Ferragamo and her bag, Louis Vuitton. Barbara Wright may have been comfortable in sweats, but she knew how to dress right when the occasion called for it. I was glad I had worn a bright red embroidered jacket from Coldwater Creek and sueded silk taupe pants, even though I still had on my serviceable loafers.

  We started with the other two houses, both of which I’d shown Jo Ellen North—the charming Victorian with three bedrooms, a modernized kitchen, and that English garden, although in November the garden didn’t show well; and the brick cottage on College with its open, airy rooms and its ‘50s St. Charles kitchen. “I like the feel of the house,” she said, “but I’d need a newer kitchen. St. Charles was the thing in its day, but I cook too much—and entertain in the kitchen. We’d have to do major remodeling here.”

  Both houses, she said, interested her in one way or another, and she was glad she didn’t have to decide that day. “Now let’s go to Fairmount.”

  I told Anthony I’d be bringing a client through, and he straightened as much as possible. The house was still in the early stages of renovation. “We’ve had some setbacks,” I said, not wishing to be specific.

  “I’ve read about the house in the paper and heard the neighborhood gossip,” Barbara said. “It doesn’t bother me, and I can see beyond a mess.”

  As we toured from room to room, she was quiet, thinking, assessing.

  “I know it’s hard to tell now,” I apologized.

  “No, no, it’s fine. I can see you’re doing a good job of renovation, doing many of the same things I’d do myself. I think it would fit us. Let’s go back again and talk about plans for the kitchen—that’s probably most important to me.”

  So we stood in the midst of the kitchen, and I showed her, without a pang, Anthony’s pullout cupboards and the spice door.

  “Is this where the skeleton was?” she asked.

  I gulped, said yes, and tried to move on.

  “It would make such wonderful dinner party conversation,” she said. And then immediately, “How heartless of me. What is it they say on emails? Barbara Wright would like to recall that last message.”

  I liked this lady a lot.

  We discussed counter tops and color schemes, and she made some good suggestions. I’d end up, I thought, tailoring the house to her—but she wasn’t pushing me.

  I let her take her time, but after about forty-five minutes, she turned to me and said, “Thank you, Kelly. I’ll go tell Glenn about this, and we’ll talk and think. Meantime, keep an eye out for other houses for us. We won’t buy until we sell ours—no bridge loans for us in this economy—but we’d like to have some ideas.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  As we walked out the front door and down the steps, I saw a green Jaguar pull away from the curb and round the corner onto Allen Street far too fast.

  My heart jumped into my mouth. Was Jo Ellen North stalking me or keeping watch on the house? Either way, it scared the living you-know-what out of me.

  When I got behind the wheel of my car and reached to start the motor, my hands were shaking so that I struggled to put the key in the ignition.

  “Kelly? Are you all right?” Barbara’s face showed real concern, but I didn’t want to tell her the reason I was shaking.

  “I think I should have eaten lunch,” I said. “It just came over me all of a sudden.”

  “You young people just don’t pay attention to your bodies,” she said. “Come in and let me fix you something.”

  “Thanks, but I have to get home to relieve the babysitter. I’ll eat some peanut butter at home.” Okay, I crossed my fingers at the white lie, but by then the shaking stopped. I was still scared.

  I drove Barbara back home. When I got to my house, Joe was there, and they were all working jigsaw puzzles. Joe worked on a simple one with Em, letting her place the pieces and praising her when she got it right, helping her when she didn’t. She crowed with delight every time a piece went into place. Theresa and Maggie were bent over a much more difficult puzzle of a mountain scene and barely looked up when I came in. The tranquil scene made me forget Jo Ellen North for a minute.

  “Joe, how was the interview?” He still wore a starched white shirt, tie, and nice slacks. His sports coat was thrown over a chair.

  “I think okay. They said they’d call in a day or two. They need someone from two-thirty until nine at night, which suits me fine.”

  Theresa added, “I could drop him off and pick up the girls for you every day if you want.” She hesitated. “I’d like to do that.”

  “Theresa, I’d have to pay you. I wouldn’t let you do it for nothing.”

  “No, Miss Kelly. You have done so much for us. I want to help, at least for a while.”

  “Well, we’ll see if Joe gets the job. Then maybe we could do that two or three days a week. You still have to take care of your family, Theresa.”

  “I know. I can juggle both.”

  After Theresa and Joe left, I got the girls fed, worked on homework with Maggie and more puzzles with Em, and got them to bed. Then I got ready for bed myself, but of course sleep wouldn’t come. It was too early for one thing, but I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I couldn’t settle down to read or even think about the office. And every time I shut my eyes, Jo Ellen North appeared in front of me, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Something was out of whack—Mr. Martin was the villain here. He killed his lover, Marie, and yet I had no inkling of a threat from him. But I was terrified of Jo Ellen North, and I wasn’t sure why.

  About nine-thirty I called Mike’s cell phone. He answered with a curt “Officer Shandy.”

  “Mike? Are you on duty? It’s Kelly.”

  I could hear the grin in his voice. “Yeah, Kelly, I know it’s you. Aside from your voice, which doesn’t sound like you tonight, I have caller ID What’s up?”

  I hesitated, stammered, wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh, I just…well, I wanted to talk to you, but if you’re on duty…”

  “I can take a break in about ten minutes. How about you put the coffee on and I’ll come over.”

  “Great.” Mike wasn’t going to solve my problem, and I knew it, but I was happier that he was coming over than I thought I would be. I put the coffee on.

  “What’s up?” Mike asked again when he was settled with his coffee.

  “I don’t know how to begin,” I said. “I…you can’t tell this to Buck Conroy.”

  “Kelly, you can’t tie my hands like that. I could face charges for withholding evidence if you tell me something and I don’t report it.” He looked stern, and I was for a moment sorry I’d called him. But I had to tell someone.

  “I don’t have anything concrete, any evidence, anything you could prove.”

  Now he was impatient. “Kelly, tell me the story.”

  “I know who owned Martin Properties and who M.W.M. was. His name is Martin, and I think M.W.M. was the monogram Marie thought she’d have when they married.”

  He looked skeptical. “How do you know about this guy named Martin?”

  “Well, we assumed Marty was his first name, but it must have been a nickname. Joe told me about Mr. Martin. Honest, Mike, I think he has changed, and when I asked he told me everything he knew.”

  “But he doesn’t know anything more about Martin than his last name, right?”

  “Right. I fi
gured I could look in the phone book, but there are lots of M. Martins. No way to tell who it is.”

  “And, that’s Buck Conroy’s job. But you’re right—you don’t have enough to go on yet. Still you need to call Conroy first thing in the morning. Promise?”

  “Okay,” I said, knowing that I hadn’t told the whole story yet.

  “I gotta get back on patrol,” he drained his coffee cup and stood up.

  “Mike, there’s something else.”

  He turned and looked at me, waiting, his posture clearly impatient.

  “This woman who wants to buy the Fairmount house, Jo Ellen North…I think she’s stalking me or something.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she’s been pressuring me to sell her the house right away, as is, and I’ve said no. The other day she made it sound like a threat. Last night, someone broke into the house again, but Anthony said it was a professional—they picked the back door lock and didn’t vandalize but tore out some things that indicated

  they were looking for something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” Okay, I lied, but I just didn’t figure telling Mike about the diary would do anything but make him furious at me—and I didn’t want that. Could I be prosecuted for withholding evidence? I rushed on. “And today, when I came out of the house, after showing it to someone else, Mrs. North drove away really fast. But I recognized her green Jaguar.”

  “Kelly, the break-in is serious, and you have to tell Conroy. But that business about this Mrs. North—it’s odd, but it’s nothing you can report. Tell Buck, but don’t expect much. If it happens seven or eight times, yeah, you can. But right now you don’t have anything. Just call Conroy about Martin.”

  “Okay.” I walked him to the door and just sort of stood there while he gave me a good-night hug. I wasn’t sure if he’d helped me a lot or not.

  I called Buck Conroy the next morning first thing after I got to the office.

  “Martin?” he said skeptically. “How do you know?”

  “I just know. From Joe.”

  “Oh, yeah. That punk. As though you’d trust him.”

  “At this point, I trust him,” I said, trying to convey my displeasure with his reaction.

  “I guess we can have someone check all the Martins in the phone book, but for what? To see who has the nickname Marty?” He paused a moment. “You got time to do that?”

  “No.” Now I was angry. “I don’t. And it’s not my job. Mike keeps telling me that. But if it’s any help, this man has connections on Jacksboro Highway.”

  “Isn’t exactly the den of thieves it used to be, but there still some rough types out there. We’ll keep it in mind. Meantime, you listen to Mike. He’s right.”

  I almost slammed the phone down.

  I was working away when the phone rang and Keisha got that funny look on her face again. “For you. You better take it.”

  By now, I never knew what that meant, so I answered with as perky a “Kelly O’Connell” as I could manage.

  “Ms. O’Connell, this is Jo Ellen North.”

  I started to say hello, but she cut me off. “I see that you showed that house to someone else. I thought I had an exclusive on it.” Her voice was stone cold.

  “I have a client who wanted to see it, and no one has an exclusive. The bidding wars can begin when the renovation is done.” I struggled to sound in control. “Besides, the situation on the house has changed. We’ve had another—ah, setback.” Well, that wasn’t true since this latest break-in didn’t do much damage.

  “Don’t you dare sell that house to anyone else,” she said and hung up the phone.

  Another threat, albeit vague. I wondered what Mike would say now.

  Late that afternoon, I was at home with the girls when Buck Conroy appeared at the front door. “Got any coffee? I got news, and I’ll trade,” he said.

  “Give me a minute.” I made him a cup in the single-cup coffee maker.

  When I brought it back, he said, “We found your guy.”

  My guy? “How’d you find him?”

  “I got contacts on Jacksboro Highway too. Your guy did time for tax evasion, has some shady connections.”

  Something clicked in the back of my mind—Claire Guthrie told me she thought that Jo Ellen’s father did time for tax evasion.

  “Name’s Robert Martin, lives at 1305 Rivercrest Drive—pretty upscale address. And he admits to an affair with Marie Winton but swears he did not kill her. His story is that one day he went to the house, and she was gone. But she didn’t take anything with her.”

  I was impressed. “That’s pretty fast work,” I said. Meantime I was writing down the address, though I had no idea what I’d do with it.

  “Yeah, we can do it when we get a lead. And that’s thanks to you. You buy that story?”

  “That he thinks she left and didn’t take anything with her? No. No woman does that, and every man knows it.”

  “I didn’t think so either. I’ll keep you posted.” He gulped down his coffee and said he had to go.

  After he left, I wasn’t sure what to think. We’d solved the Marie Winton murder—or at least were close. Why didn’t I feel what psychologists call “closure?” Because it wasn’t solved. Something was still very wrong.

  The next morning, impulsively, I drove to 1305 Rivercrest. It was one of the stately old mansions, probably built in the 1920s, almost southern antebellum in style—white pillars marching across the front, a verandah with French doors on either side of a double front door. It was three stories, with evenly spaced windows, now sporting plantation shutters but probably once draped in heavy fabric. As I drove by I could see the house stood on two lots and beside it was a large garden, with a pool, a greenhouse, and a cabaña—an estate, I thought, not just a house. I circled the block to come around and take another look. I had no idea what knowing where Robert Martin, Marie Winton’s lover, lived would tell me, except that it would satisfy some deep curiosity. On the north side of the house, a driveway led to what looked like a four-car garage, with guest—or servants—quarters over it. Okay, I told myself, one more pass by—and I circled the block again.

  This time, as I approached the house from the north, a dark green Jaguar, coming from the south, cut in front of me to turn into the driveway. No signal, no courtesy of the road, no friendly wave. As the car turned, the driver looked at me—and I found myself staring right at Jo Ellen North.

  Stunned, I picked up speed to get away, but after a block I slowed down and spun the story in my mind. Robert Martin killed his pregnant lover. Jo Ellen North must be his daughter, and she was trying to save her social position by protecting her father’s reputation. Or something like that.

  It made me so tired I wanted to go home to bed at ten o’clock in the morning, I drove with hands so shaky and breath so short, I kept wondering if I could make it home. My instinctive fear of Jo Ellen was right, but I had no idea what to do next. I knew, though, that I had to talk to someone, to have someone tell me it would be all right. Buck Conroy wasn’t that person. Instead, I called Mike and woke him up.

  His voice was thick with sleep, and I thought it sounded kind of nice, except I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of nice. I blurted out my story, pausing every once in a while to take a deep breath.

  “Kelly, slow down. I can’t follow what you’re saying. Where are you?”

  “Driving home from Rivercrest.”

  “Okay, first thing. Pull over and put the car in park. Then we’ll talk.”

  I felt like a child who was being chastised, but he was right. I was on Crestline Road, a residential street, and it was easy to do as he said. “Okay. I’m parked.”

  “Now, tell me slowly. You saw Jo Ellen North where?”

  “At Robert Martin’s house. I think she must be his daughter. And all along she’s been so frantic to buy the house because she wanted to keep his secret hidden.”

  “Whoa? Who’s Robert Martin, and how does he fit into this?
”

  I realized that I hadn’t seen him to tell him all that Buck had told me, so I filled him in on the details.

  “So what’s his secret? The skeleton?”

  “Yeah. He told Buck he did not kill Marie, but who else would have done it?”

  “You’d be surprised. How old was Jo Ellen?”

  “Too young. Maybe six, seven, eight. I think she’s trying to protect him. But what will she do now that the police have questioned him?”

  I could see Mike shaking his head, trying to wake up enough to puzzle this out. “I don’t know. But don’t make any more appointments with her. And you’ve got to tell Buck Conroy about this. Where are you going now?”

  “To the office. I was so upset I thought I’d go home and crawl in bed, but I’m calmer now.”

  “Okay. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll come get you for a late lunch.”

  “Thanks.” I did feel better. In fact, I had done such a mood swing, I thought I could handle anything. It turned out I was wrong.

  I had not been in the office five minutes when the phone rang and Keisha forwarded the call to me, though I noticed she was watching me carefully. When I said, “Kelly O’Connell,” I was greeted with, “You’ve now sent the police after my father. This is too much. You’ll be sorry.”

  I managed a weak, “Mrs. North?” My heart was pounding, and my hand got so sweaty I almost dropped the phone.

  “You’re damn right,” she said in the coldest voice I ever heard and slammed down the phone.

  With trembling hands, I dialed Buck Conroy’s number. When he answered I told him I had to talk to him right away.

  “Kelly, it’s gonna have to wait until about four this afternoon. I do have other cases, you know, and I got a break on one that I’ve got to follow up on.”

  “Four? I have to get my girls at three, and I don’t want them to be around when we talk.”

  “Get someone else to pick them up. Maybe your assistant. Do whatever you can. I’ll be at your office at four.”