A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 15

  “I really think you should tell Ada what you told me last night, Lavinia. She already knows that the Judge probably had a lady friend or two after your mother’s death. Besides, secrets always fester.” I had had far too many opportunities to see that for myself over the past few years. “Tell Ada exactly what you told me … that you believe that’s what you heard, although you don’t know what it meant. She’s a strong woman. She can take it, and after what happened last night, you need to have her completely aware and on your side.”

  I had jumped ahead, and Lavinia was understandably perplexed. “Do you mean that there’s some connection between what I overheard sixty years ago in Papa’s study and our getting locked in the basement? How could that possibly be?”

  “As bizarre as it seems, yes, I think there may be a connection.” I told her Margo’s theory. “We think it’s very possible that an intruder was in the house while you and I were in the parlor, looking for what he didn’t find on his first visit. That is, your plumber may not have been a plumber at all but someone who knew that your father’s private papers were hidden somewhere in the house and was looking for them. Did you ever discover what was stored in that closet, by the way?”

  I could almost hear poor Lavinia struggling to make sense of all that I had said. “I’m afraid not, my dear. As we told you, poor Clara, our cook, passed away long since, and our faithful housekeeper Agnes went to her reward two years ago, according to her niece, with whom I spoke a few days ago.”

  I changed tacks. “I know you found the plumber’s ad in a local newspaper, and he gave you a business card that turned out to be bogus, so those leads have been dead ends. Can you describe what he looked like?” I was eager to see if there were physical similarities between the plumber and the Van Man, as I had begun to think of my stalker. I had only seen him the once, standing on my front porch with his back to me. He had been wearing a dark blue or black windbreaker, jeans, and running shoes, which hardly constituted a memorable outfit. About the only distinguishing characteristic I could recall was his closely shaven head.

  “Well, let’s see. He was young-ish, but not a child. Middle-aged, I guess you’d say, or maybe older.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  She considered the question. “Some sort of dark jacket and denim pants. And a big tool belt, I remember that.”

  So far, so good. “And what about his hair? What color was it?” I held my breath and waited.

  “Why I don’t know,” she said finally. “He was wearing a knitted cap on his head. I remember wondering about that, because it was such a beautiful morning, much too warm to need a hat.”

  My heart sank as once again, the puzzle pieces refused to fit together.

  Twelve

  The next morning, I felt well enough to struggle in to the office—or perhaps the prospect of another day cooped up with only CNN and two somnolent cats for company was the stronger motivator. In the shower, I carefully palpated the bump on my head and didn’t see stars. When I found I was also able to manipulate shampoo bottle and hair dryer without too great a protest from my elbow, I covered my discolored toes with a clean sock, strapped the air cast back on, and bid Armando farewell.

  Even though it was my left ankle that had been injured, and my Altima had an automatic transmission, the cast made getting into and out of the car a clumsy undertaking, as loaded down as I was with my tote bag and laptop. The paramedics had left a pair of crutches with me, but I knew from experience that they would be more trouble than help, so I left them behind. The swelling was already down considerably, and I promised Armando I would spend as much time as possible with my ankle propped up.

  By the time I made it into the Law Barn lobby, half walking and half hopping, I was predictably pretty winded. Jenny rushed to unburden me and helped me navigate the six stairs leading down to the MACK Realty office, where I flopped onto the sofa. To my surprise, Strutter already occupied the desk chair, from which she was staring, heavy-eyed, at the computer screen. She glanced up briefly and waved to acknowledge my arrival before returning her attention to the screen.

  “Whew! Thanks so much, Jen. I was running out of steam.” I grinned at her reassuringly as she fussed around piling up pillows from the sofa to prop my foot, bringing me coffee, and generally acting on her mother hen instincts. Having settled me to her satisfaction, she disappeared back up the stairs to the lobby. Suddenly, Strutter groaned and dropped her head into her hands. I leaned forward in alarm, spilling hot coffee on my hand. “Ouch! Strutter, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

  Strutter raised her head, and her expression did nothing to reassure me. Well, pregnancy at her age was no picnic, especially with a full-time job, an active twelve-year-old at home, and a new husband. “The baby’s fine. I’m fine, too, at least so far. Ask me again at the end of the day, and my answer may be very different.” She took pity on my obvious confusion and pointed at the computer screen. Once again, it showed the botanical lab at the University of Connecticut in which the much ballyhooed corpse flower was about to blossom into full hideousness. From the number of people standing in line, it was clear that the thing continued to attract hordes of visitors.

  I hobbled over to take a closer look. All I saw was the same huge, ugly specimen, although this morning, the turgid bud seemed to have begun to blossom. I scanned the screen and saw the same, fascinated stink groupies moving slowly by in ones and twos. The Web cam clock continued to monitor the time in the top right corner of the screen. “What’s the problem? I don’t see it.”

  “Him,” she amended tersely. “You don’t see him, and neither do I. That’s the problem.” Wearily, Strutter rose and pushed me into the chair. “Sit down, fool. You’re the one who should be off her feet.” She took my spot on the sofa. “That guard who’s always standing there on the left, moving people along. He’s not there today.”

  “Okay, he’s not there. So what? Why do you care about some university employee?”

  “I know this one.”

  “Really? Is he another one of your nephews?” Hartford County was studded with what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of Strutter’s Jamaican relatives. Most were the sons and daughters of her equally stunning sisters, who had migrated to the States from the island around the same time she had.

  “I wish,” was her sorrowful comment now. “Can you stand to hear about one more drama? If it’s any consolation,” she grinned briefly, “this one’s a beauty.”

  “Hey, what are friends for?”I assured her, but privately, I was filled with misgivings. I was up to here in unsolved mysteries, and it was still only June. At this rate, it promised to be a summer to remember, but I wasn’t at all certain I’d want to.

  Strutter smiled her thanks and sighed. “That man’s name is Reginald Dubois. I used to be married to him.”

  With difficulty, I kept my mouth from falling open. Tuttle had been Strutter’s name when I met her. She had married John Putnam about a year ago, but I had been vaguely aware of a short-lived, previous marriage that had produced her son Charlie. “Charlie’s father?” I finally managed to say.

  “Technically speaking, although Reggie was never a father in any real sense.”

  It’s funny how you take your friends on faith. I had always known about Strutter’s son, but I had never given a thought to who Charlie’s father might be. Strutter had been single when I met her two years before at the law firm where she and I and Margo had all worked. She was such a strong, loving mother, and there were always so many nieces and nephews and cousins around, that her family had seemed complete as it was. Then John had come along.

  “Tell me,” I said now.

  “I’ll give you the short version,” she promised. “When I first came to the States, I lived in San Diego. I worked as a waitress until I qualified for free tuition at the state university as a California resident. San Diego is a big Navy town, and Reggie was stationed there. We had a whirlwind romance, but I was raised very strictly. The only wa
y he could get me into bed was to marry me.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “He got leave and whisked me down to Tijuana, where he filled me with cheap wine and took me to some storefront specializing in hurry-up weddings for sailors in a hurry to bed their girlfriends. I was so naïve, and so drunk, that I went for it.”

  “Big mistake, huh?” I sympathized.

  “Oh, yeah. Charlie was born nine months later to the day. Reggie and I lived in married housing for the enlisted personnel, and I worked as long as I could see past my belly. But as soon as Charlie was born, Reggie got ugly. He started slapping me around pretty regularly, but the first time he shook the baby …” Her face contorted at the memory. “I left him immediately, of course. I waited for him to report for work, then packed up and moved in with a girlfriend from the restaurant. We took turns taking care of each other’s kids when we weren’t working.”

  “Did you report Reggie to the authorities?” I burned with anger on Strutter’s behalf.

  “No, I didn’t want him to know where I was living; but I did approach the Mexican authorities to get a divorce. Here’s the dramatic part.”

  “Here’s the dramatic part?” I was almost afraid to listen to any more.

  “Turns out that place in Tijuana was a sham operation that churned out phony marriage certificates for stupid Americans. Even the ceremony was malarkey, but we spoke so little Spanish, we thought it was the real thing. The only real things about the whole experience were the pesos that changed hands before the ceremony and the baby that arrived nine months later. Otherwise, it was all pure fiction.”

  I could feel my eyes as big as saucers as I stared at my friend. “So then what did you do?”

  “Since I wasn’t legally connected to Charlie’s father, and I wasn’t about to go after him for child support anyway, I decided to cut my losses and just disappear. I packed up the baby and headed for Connecticut to live with Estella and her husband.” Estella was one of Strutter’s two older sisters, who had a son some ten years older than Charlie. “It took me five years, but I put myself through a legal assistant program at Manchester Community College, went to work at BGB, and got a little apartment for me and Charlie.” She shrugged. “End of story.”

  BGB was the Hartford law firm at which we had worked side by side before joining forces with Margo to start MACK Realty. “Until you met Margo and me and John came along,” I pointed out, eager to get to the happy ending. I was rewarded with a fond glance.

  “Until then,” she agreed warmly. Her gaze returned to the computer screen. “And now this.”

  “It’s an incredible coincidence that he should turn up in Connecticut, I agree, but Dubois is ancient history. He doesn’t know you’re here … or does he?”

  Strutter closed her eyes and rubbed her temples slowly. “I didn’t think so, but as you say, it’s an incredible coincidence that he’s here.” She opened her eyes. “What other reason would he have to come all the way across the country? I’m afraid he’s looking for his son.”

  “But how would he find Charlie—or you, for that matter?”

  “I heard from my girlfriend once or twice after I came east. She said Reggie had been discharged from the Navy but wound up in prison on an armed assault charge very soon after that. Big surprise, huh?” She rolled her eyes. “Obviously, he was released, probably quite a few years ago. And if he knows anything about computers, it wouldn’t be hard to trace me, especially with my name all over transaction documents during the past couple of years.”

  I had to admit the truth of what she said. “But what makes you think he’s trying to find you and Charlie? What could he want?”

  “His wife and child, that’s what.” She jumped up from the sofa and paced restlessly to the window. She stared out at Rhett’s pen for a moment, then whirled around to face me. “The thing is, I know our marriage was never legal, but I’m not sure Reggie knows it. He may very well think we’re still married.” She turned to stare out the window again. “It’s these poison pen letters, Kate. They’re totally connected to that awful corpse flower at UConn, which is where Reggie apparently works now. And despite his violent tendencies, he always thought of himself as an upstanding Christian. There’s something about the judgmental, punitive tone of the letters we’ve been getting.”

  She made a face at me over her shoulder. “I was raised on fire and brimstone sermons, too, but some of those Old Testament boys are a little over the top for me. I mean, the Bible says you have to stone your mother if she makes clothes out of two different threads. If Reggie knows about me and John and thinks I’m committing adultery, who knows what he’s capable of doing?”

  I sipped my cooling coffee and gave it some thought. Strutter hadn’t been kidding about the drama, and as far-fetched as her story might seem to an outsider, I knew Charlene Tuttle Putnam as well as I knew anyone. If she had connected these seemingly haphazard dots, they could well be part of a dangerous picture. Besides, this was the best lead yet on our poison pen-pal.

  “You’re right. There are too many coincidences and half-connections here to ignore. That stink-flower is supposed to be in full bloom today or tomorrow, according to the newspapers, and a violent man who may think you’re still his wife, even though you never really were, may have it in his mind to punish you for your nonexistent sins. We have to tell John Harkness, and the sooner the better.”

  Margo chose this moment to sail through the law barn lobby and down the steps to our office, Rhett Butler adoringly at heel. “Have to tell John Harkness what, exactly?” she smiled, looking from one to the other of us. “And how is your poor ankle, Darlin’?”

  “I’ll survive,” I said tersely. “The question at hand is, will Strutter?”

  Without missing a beat, Margo flowed elegantly into Strutter’s recently vacated seat and folded her hands in her lap.Rhett flopped at her feet and panted happily, overwhelmed at being surrounded by his three biggest fans. “I believe I’ve missed somethin’ here. Now you just tell your Auntie Margo all about it.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Margo and Strutter were on their way to the Wethersfield Police Department to share this latest development with John Harkness and his team. To his utter delight, Rhett was permitted to accompany them. As Margo put it, “Nothin’ is quite so off-puttin’ to a would-be attacker as a great, big ol’ hound dog.” I doubted that affectionate, docile Rhett would deter any assailant older than a toddler, but it didn’t hurt anything to let her keep her illusion. On their way through the lobby, they warned Jenny to be on the lookout for a strange man hanging around, particularly if he asked for Strutter, and to give out absolutely no information about their whereabouts. Jenny went on point like a good setter, and I was confident that we were in good hands.

  The morning wore on. Every half hour or so, I got out of my chair and hobbled a few steps just to stretch my cramped muscles. I was pleased to note that my ice-packs-alternated-with-heat-packs regimen of the previous day had brought the swelling down considerably on my ankle, and getting around was becoming more manageable. At about eleven o’clock, Margo called to say that she and Strutter were on their way to Vista Views. Under the circumstances, she didn’t want Strutter there on her own, and I agreed.

  John had sent an investigator up to the University to make inquiries about the guard we presumed was Reggie Dubois. For good measure, he was having a patrol car keep an eye on the Law Barn at regular intervals throughout the day, which I was surprisingly glad to hear. Whatever Dubois’s intentions were, I felt certain that he meant Strutter—and perhaps all of us—harm, and I was grateful for any protection we could get.

  By noon, Jenny and I were both hungry. She left me to man the phones while she ran up the street to the diner, locking me for good measure. Within minutes, she was back with two huge, chicken salad sandwiches and side orders of the diner’s delicious cole slaw. “Any suspicious-looking characters lurking about?” I asked between greedy bites.

  “Nope, no one.” Her tongue snaked out of
one side of her mouth to lick off some dressing. “Not even Fat Squirrel is around, since Rhett isn’t here to harass.” She sighed with satisfaction and patted her flat stomach. “If I keep this up, I’m going to gain more weight than Strutter by the time her baby arrives. When is she due, by the way?”

  I told her that it might very well be a Christmas baby, and she broke into a big grin. “What a Christmas present, huh?” I agreed that it didn’t get much better than that. She scooped up our trash and returned to her post, leaving me to my thoughts.

  Thirteen

  By five o’clock, I had completely cleaned up the paperwork that had accumulated during my absence and returned all of the pending phone calls. Despite being propped up for most of the day, my ankle had begun to throb again. I was more than ready to call it a day, so I decided to shut things down and visit the water cooler on my way out in order to swallow another pair of Advils. Predictably, I had hoisted myself out of my chair and taken a couple of painful steps when the phone rang. Annoyed, I hobbled back and snatched the phone from its cradle. “Kate Lawrence,” I snapped.

  “Oh, dear. I do hope I haven’t called at a bad time,” quavered Lavinia Henstock, and I immediately felt bad. I flopped back into my chair.

  “No, no, not at all,” I assured her, lightening my tone. “I’m just used to being able to move around more quickly than this ankle is allowing.” Ooops. That sounded as if I blamed her for the accident. I changed course hastily. “What can I do for you, Lavinia?”

  There was a brief pause. “Is it all right for me to be, uh, candid on this telephone line?”

  I was startled. “No one but Jenny, our receptionist, can access this line, and she’s gone for the day, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  “Oh, good. I do feel it’s best to be as discreet as possible,” Lavinia said, relieved. Despite my assurances, she lowered her voice, presumably to avoid being overheard at her end. “I found it. That is, I believe I found it … what that plumber must have been looking for all this time.”