A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Read online

  He looked up from his notes. “A few nights ago, we believe the same intruder entered the house again from the side door, either before or during Kate’s visit with Miss Lavinia, to search for something related to that victim. He made friends with the dog by giving him a treat of some sort, which later allowed him to exit the house without causing a ruckus. Apparently, he still didn’t find what he was looking for, because he assaulted Kate this afternoon.”

  Suddenly, fatigue overcame me, and I was eager to be done with this rehash. A quick glance around the table confirmed that we all shared that feeling. “So now what?” I asked dully.

  John lifted the leather pouch from the floor to the table. “Now, I think we may have our first real clue somewhere in these documents.” He looked at the sisters, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I understand that you ladies found this in a locked drawer of your father’s desk in the study after, uh, forcing it open.”

  “Why, yes,” Ada responded promptly. Papa left everything in this house to Lavinia and me, so we had every right to examine the contents of his desk. When I remembered that the desk had been locked all these years, we tried to think where the key might have got to, but it was no use. So we forced the lock.”

  “With a crowbar,” Lavinia added, for good measure. John beamed at her and shook his head in amazement. His approval of their pro-active approach was apparent. Lavinia blushed to the roots of her white hair, and even Ada grew a bit rosy.

  “Well, let’s hope your initiative puts us on the right track to resolve this situation. I’ll bring these documents back to the station and put the night-shift detectives right on it. Perhaps they’ll have some information for us in the morning.” He pushed back his chair, and Henry leaped to his feet, panting adoringly. It was clear that John had made more than one conquest tonight. “In the meantime, everybody remember that Kate’s assailant is still out there somewhere, and he’s something of a chameleon. Stay alert, and keep everything locked up tight. If anything at all worries you, dial 911 immediately.”

  He rose to see us all safely to our respective vehicles and gave Henry an approving pat. “How did you get that dog to mind, John?” I couldn’t help but ask as Strutter helped the sisters clear the table. Margo had excused herself and gone in search of the powder room.

  John looked surprised. “Henry’s not a bad little guy. Dogs need to know what’s expected of them. Obviously, he was trained by someone before he wound up at the shelter. He just needs to be reminded of his manners, don’t you, Fella?” He tugged the dog’s ear gently, and Henry wriggled with joy.

  “And I know just the one for the job,” Margo said, joining us at the door. She and John exchanged knowing looks, and I felt sure that a play date with Rhett Butler was in Henry’s future. We all said our goodnights, and Strutter followed us slowly out the side door of the old house. The number of cars in the driveway, as well as the lights blazing uncharacteristically throughout the first floor of the house, must have the neighbors thinking the old girls were throwing one heck of a party. If they only knew.

  “I’ll call you in the mornin’, Sugar,” Margo whispered, following John down the porch stairs. “I have the beginnings of an idea about what to do with this fabulous house, but right now,” she glanced anxiously at our friend, “I think Strutter needs a hug.”

  Fourteen

  In keeping with my newfound determination not to withhold information from Armando, I filled him in on the events of the day when he got home from work. From the force of long habit, I consciously minimized the drama. I even attempted to make light of the attack by pumping my fist in the air in triumph after relating how I had turned the tables and thwarted my assailant.

  I was disappointed, even dismayed, to see the color drain from Armando’s face during my recitation. He put his mug of tea on the coffee table and leaned his head on one hand. A small tic appeared at the corner of his left eye. “So this thug, this matón, has been following you all over town for many days now. He disguised his vehicle to fool you, and today, he waited for you to be alone and assaulted you in the parking lot. Is this accurate?”

  I had to admit that it sounded pretty bad, when he put it like that, and I said so.

  “What other way is there to put it?” he demanded. “This man means you harm for no other reason than he believes you know the location of some evidence of a past crime. Who knows how this would have ended, had you not gone into your Superwoman mode?” The tic under his eye was becoming more pronounced.

  “The good news is that we found out who’s been sending us hate mail,” I said brightly and spewed out the whole story of Strutter’s quasi ex-husband. “Now that the police have had a little chat with him, I don’t think we’ll be bothered any more, which is a good thing, because Strutter has already had more than enough drama for one week, and I honestly don’t think she could handle anything more.” I became aware that I was babbling and stopped. “Ready for dinner, Honey?”

  “Not yet.” Armando turned to face me fully, and I noticed how tired he looked. No, more like sick and tired. I realized how great a toll the events of the past week had taken on him. Just moving in with me would have been quite enough for him to handle without having to deal with the stress of recent events in my life. It wasn’t my fault, exactly, but given the present circumstances, who could blame him if he were reconsidering his decision to share my roof. “What is the plan of the police to find this man in the van and to protect you until they do?”

  I struggled to reassure him. “Unfortunately, I still could not give them a good physical description, since he was behind me throughout the, um, assault. He was wearing pretty much the same thing as always … jeans, windbreaker, knitted hat. He changed the color of the van and the signs on the doors, and he could do that again. And since I didn’t get a license plate number …” I shrugged. “But an APB has been issued for a blue van with ‘Best Painters’ signs and a broken taillight, just in case he doesn’t have time to do another make-over. And I did some major damage to his left arm, so he may have to seek medical attention. All of the hospitals and walk-in centers have been put on alert. The Wethersfield Police have the Law Barn on regular patrol during office hours.”

  “They did that yesterday,” Armando commented drily. “I do not see that it has helped much so far.”

  “But now they have more accurate information to go on.” It sounded lame even to me, but what more was there to say? I got to my feet and headed for the kitchen, trying not to limp noticeably, although my ankle was killing me after the day’s workout. “Some hot food and a glass of wine will do us both good. Back in a jiffy.”

  * * *

  Saturday morning was clear and lovely enough to serve as an advertisement for summer in New England. For the first time this season, Armando and I took mugs of coffee and the newspaper out onto the back deck to savor the soft breeze and the birdsong that surrounded us. Not for the first time, I was aware that the sounds of the summer birds were distinctly different from those of the starlings, mourning doves, cardinals and crows that stayed throughout the winter. From the wetlands behind our house came the songs of robins, flickers, and of course, the mockingbird with his seemingly endless repertoire. All were busy with the business of feeding the insatiable nestlings that clamored from every treetop.

  By the time he was well into his second cup of coffee and the world news, Armando seemed far more relaxed than he had the previous evening. The tic under his left eye had vanished, I was pleased to note. Now if only the police could track down my tormentor, perhaps our lives could get back to normal. Predictably, just as I had settled into lazy consideration of the day’s schedule, the phone rang. I got up once again to answer it. There might be some good news from the police about the investigation.

  “Kate here,” I announced, dropping heavily into the overstuffed chair next to the telephone table.

  “Margo here,” was the bright reply. Too bright for this hour on a Saturday morning, I speculated, but the reason soon
became evident. “How are you today, Sugar?” I opened my mouth to tell her, but she rushed on. “Listen, I have the most incredible idea about the Henstocks’ house. It hit me yesterday evenin’ when I trotted on down the hall to find the powder room while you were all sayin’ your goodbyes, remember? Well, all those old doors look alike, and it’s not like they had a sign posted, so I turned a wrong doorknob or two before I found the loo.”

  “Okay,” I said warily. “So what did you find? If you tell me another skeleton fell out of another closet, I’m hanging up.”

  “Oh, this is much more interestin’ than some old bag of bones, Honey. If I’m right, and I usually am about this sort of thing, the Henstock ladies are sittin’ in the middle of an absolute treasure trove.”

  My mind spun busily through what I remembered of the house. “It’s a grand old house, Margo, but honestly, it needs such a lot of work …”

  “Not the house, silly woman. The furniture. If what I saw piled up in those back rooms downstairs is any indication, those little ol’ gals have one of the most fabulous collections of antiques I have ever seen.”

  I remained skeptical. I have never been one to oooh and aaah over the uncomfortable old horrors that seemed to populate the few antique stores I had visited in my lifetime. Still, I knew many people who did. I remembered the tufted settees and leaded lampshades in the Henstocks’ front parlor. “Do you really think that musty old stuff is worth anything?”

  “Stuff? Stuff? Sugar, I personally know two dealers in Atlanta who would cheerfully slap their grandmas for a chance to get their hands on what I saw last night, let alone whatever else is probably in that house.

  “Slap their grandmothers? Who would do such an awful thing?”

  “It’s just an expression, Hon, sorry. I keep forgettin’ how literal you Yankees are. The point is, the Henstocks’ house may be fallin’ down around their ears, but that furniture is an undiscovered gold mine. I know because antique collectin’ was just about Mama and Daddy’s favorite thing to do in the world. Daddy’s idea of a Sunday drive was a tour of the local antique shops, and instead of Little Red Ridin’ Hood, Mama read to me from The Bulfinch Anatomy of Antique Furniture. I believe they’re on a first-name basis with every dealer east of the Mississippi. I can identify periods and designers at fifty paces, and my hunch is, these old gals have nothin’ whatsoever to worry about.”

  My initial skepticism was followed by a wave of elation. I realized how fond I had become of Ada and Lavinia and how worried I had been about the financial future. If what Margo said was true, and it never occurred to me to doubt her, they would be all right even if we didn’t succeed in selling their house.

  “But that’s wonderful!” I exulted. “Have you told Ada and Lavinia yet?”

  I could hear the smile in Margo’s voice. “No, Sugar. After everythin’ you’ve been through on their behalf, I thought you might like to help me do that. Of course, we need to convince them to let us bring one or two dealers through the house to inventory what’s there and put a value on it. But wait. I haven’t told you the best part.”

  “There’s more? Tell me, tell me.” I was suddenly greedy for more good news.

  “This part was Strutter’s idea. She was feelin’ so blue last night about that dreadful Reggie person and his not even givin’ a damn about his own son that I followed her home. Her hubby and Charlie went out to pick up pizza, and I told her about my discovery at the Henstocks to distract her from the general awfulness of the day. It worked.”

  Margo chuckled with satisfaction. “I could see the wheels just turnin’ and turnin’ behind those gorgeous eyes of hers. Then she said, ‘I’ll bet the right investor could turn that house into the antiques showcase of New England. You know how the collectors flock to this part of the country. Wethersfield is a huge draw already. Just imagine that house fully restored to its original glory and completely furnished with authentic period pieces. It could be a bed-and-breakfast, just the way you thought. But this one would be especially for antique lovers, and every stick of furniture would be for sale … for the right price, of course.’ How about that for an idea?”

  “Wow. It sounds wonderful, but the initial investment would have to be enormous …”

  “Oh, pish, tosh,” Margo dismissed my practical concerns. “There you go worryin’ about money again. I’ve already told you, one call to Atlanta, and I’ll have dealers lined up on the ladies’ doorstep competin’ with each other to submit a proposal. All we have to do is sell the idea to Ada and Lavinia. Do you think they’d be willin’ to consider it?”

  I considered the question. The

  Broad Street house had been the sisters’ home for more than eighty years. They had never known another. Reluctantly, they had come to grips with the need to sell the actual structure, if they could; but how could they give up all the lovely furnishings inside the house, as well? It seemed almost too much to ask. “It’s an incredible idea, Margo. It could absolutely be the answer, but can Ada and Lavinia accept the idea of losing their house and most of their belongings, too, in exchange for financial security? I just don’t know. All we can do is lay out the idea and see what they say. How is Strutter doing, by the way?”

  “By the time I left her last night, she seemed more like her old self than I’ve seen her in a long time. I think it did her good to have somethin’ else to think about for a while. I know it picked me right up,” Margo confirmed. “What with one thing and another, this has been one of the most depressin’ weeks I can remember. It’s about time the tide turned.”

  I agreed. “Maybe the police will find the lead they need among those documents John took away last night, and it will help them get Van Man out of the picture. If they do, and we can all go back to our routine business, I swear I’ll never complain about having a boring day again. Have you heard anything from John yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’m expectin’ him to call any minute now. I’d like to have good news for the ladies about the investigation before we talk to them about our idea. Talk to you later, Hon.” And she was gone.

  I replaced the phone in its cradle in better spirits than I could recall enjoying in some time. Maybe Margo was right. Perhaps her discovery at the Henstocks’ house was a sign that things were beginning to go in our favor. I got up with a smile on my face and went back outside to tell Armando the good news.

  * * *

  Thanks to my partners’ creative thinking and Mother Nature’s dazzling display of early summer weather, my mood improved steadily throughout the morning. As is the case for most women who work outside the home, Saturdays were reserved for the domestic tasks and errands that accumulated during the week. At least I didn’t have soccer practice and Cub Scout field trips to contend with any more, I comforted myself as I slogged through the third load of laundry and pushed the vacuum cleaner around the downstairs rugs.

  Upstairs, Armando wrestled with his electronics, setting up his complicated stereo system and hooking up his computer and printer in the loft that overlooked the living room. Just a few years ago, when I had moved into The Birches, he had served as my volunteer electrician and done the same things for me. It seemed kind of silly for us each to have our own audio and computer systems, not to mention separate phone lines, but that appeared to be the situation when middle-aged people merged households. After years of having everything exactly the way we wanted it in our individual abodes, it took the edge off our anxieties about living together if we didn’t have to share absolutely everything. Presumably, we would adjust to this new state of affairs and be able to operate in a more blended environment in time.

  By early afternoon, we were ready to tackle the most pressing of the weekend errands. We set out to do the grocery shopping at the local Stop ‘n’ Shop and managed to get that done fairly amicably. I had long ago learned to split up the list and take separate carts so he wouldn’t be hovering over me and second-guessing my every choice. It wound up being a little bit more expensive, since we might wind up gett
ing both black and Spanish olives, instead of one or the other; but at least we didn’t have to stand there debating our preferences in the aisle before one of us deferred to the other.

  We loaded up the car and considered lunch options. A sandwich at the diner now, or a trip to visit the swan family at the Spring Street Pond, followed by coffee and Italian cookies at Modern Pastry on Franklin Avenue? We opted for the latter and headed for the pond.

  “There they are!” I leaned forward eagerly, camera at the ready, as Armando drove slowly along the sandy road next to the grass verge. The splendid weather had brought easily a dozen visitors to the pond this afternoon, who were busy ignoring the “Do Not Feed the Animals” sign and pitching all sorts of bread, popcorn and other dreadful stuff to the waterfowl. At the very leas they could put down cracked corn, I fumed silently, but there was apparently no convincing people that they were doing more harm than good with their offerings. I shook off my irritation and concentrated on capturing the entire swan brood in one photo, but the cygnets wouldn’t cooperate. Along with the ducks and a few geese, they kept lunging for the limp bread and other garbage that would gum up their digestive tracts and keep them from foraging for the pond greens and other nutritious natural food available to them.