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

  “We’re having dinner together tomorrow, though, if I can stay awake. He keeps the strangest hours. I’m starving by six o’clock, but he’s not ready to eat until about nine. I’m ready for sleep by ten and up again at five-thirty in the morning. He stays up half the night and strolls out to work sometime after nine-thirty.” I shook my head.

  “It’s cultural, Darlin’. He was raised in a hot climate where they take siestas, then eat dinner at some ungodly hour of the night.” She waggled her polished fingernails at me for the Coke. “It could work in your favor, though.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Think about it. You’re worried that after all these years of independence, neither of you is goin’ to be able to stand sharin’ your space with someone else.” Armando and I had been divorced from our respective spouses for a dozen years or more, and both of us had enjoyed our solitude and privacy. “But from what you’re tellin’ me, you won’t actually be in the same space a lot of the time during the work week. And you’re already used to spendin’ the weekends together.”

  Again, she had a point. We sat in companionable silence. “Interesting day today,” I commented after a while. “First Emma leaving, and that weird newspaper clipping. Then that business with the Henstock sisters and a disappearing corpse. If Strutter hadn’t seen it too, I’d think the ladies had been into the cooking sherry. By the way, have you ever seen a baby swan?” I told her about the little family Emma and I had seen on the Spring Street Pond. “I’ll show you the pictures after I download them tonight. I promised Emma I’d send her updates.”

  Margo grimaced. “Doesn’t sound all that appealin’, frankly. Why don’t you just keep them for Emma. Will you be all right without your little girl?” Her question was wry, since my little girl was pushing twenty-eight, but her pat on my knee was sympathetic.

  “Oh, I’ll get by,” I assured her. “I just hope she’ll have some fun and not study herself into a nervous breakdown or something.”

  Margo stared at me in disbelief, and we both broke out laughing. There had never been a time when Emma wasn’t ready to party, and the chance of her overstudying, I knew well from her high-school years, was slim to none.

  “What do you suppose was the matter with Strutter?” I asked, changing the subject once again. “It’s not like her to get queasy over a little thing like a corpse.”

  “Mmmmm,” Margo agreed. “And I’ve seen her digest Jamaican jerk lunches that sent me runnin’ for the Tums after just a couple of bites, so I don’t think it was indigestion. In fact, I remember her tellin’ me once that the only time she had ever lost her breakfast was when she was expectin’ Charlie.” Charlie was Strutter’s twelve-year-old son. We were quiet for a minute, considering. Then we faced each other with open mouths.

  “I wonder if she even knows it yet?” I giggled.

  “Probably just decidin’ when the best time would be to tell her unsuspectin’ partners that she’s got a bun in the oven,” Margo opined. “I want to know if her shiny new husband has been clued in.” We exchanged grins, thinking how ecstatic John Putnam would be at the news, though the new couple had been married for less than a year. “Well, at least this day ended up better than it started.”

  I had to agree. I stuffed the empty Diet Coke can into my voluminous handbag, and we went to fetch Rhett from his luxurious pen. One of the many fat squirrels who routinely raided our trash cans taunted him from a low-hanging tree branch, but Rhett had eyes only for his mistress. I scritched his head, and we parted company for the night.

  * * *

  As I washed up my few dishes in the kitchen of my condominium a couple of hours later, the events of the day spun through my head. I was usually quite content in my solitude, but tonight I longed for Armando’s calm presence. As if he had read my mind, he phoned just as I was drying my hands. “Hi, Handsome. How are things going? Everybody in a bad mood because they have to work late?” I could picture the scene well, as I had lived through it on a monthly basis for several years.

  “No worse than usual,” he reassured me in his exquisitely accented baritone. “At least the computer system is es-still up and running.” Despite his reassuring words, his use of the Spanish “ess” betrayed his fatigue. “How was your day, Cara?” Knowing how busy he was, I covered the events of the past twelve hours as succinctly as possible. When I ran down, he chuckled softly. “So just another day at the office, eh? You have been abandoned by your daughter, discovered yet another deceased person, and learned that your dear friend está en cinta. It is, how do you say it, the life cycle in a nuthouse.”

  Since English was not his first language, I usually let Armando’s mangled idioms pass, but this time I burst out laughing. “I think you mean nutshell, but in this case, nuthouse is probably more accurate. The inmates were definitely running the asylum for the better part of it. So where are we having dinner tomorrow night?”

  “I was hoping for paella in your kitchen, after my late night tonight. Would that be all right with you?”

  I assured him that it would be very all right with me, and he blew me a kiss and disconnected after promising to bring extra shrimp for Jasmine and Simon, my two ancient and very spoiled cats. I knew that Jasmine especially would be as pleased to see Armando as the shrimp, since she had appropriated him as her personal property shortly after Armando and I started seeing each other. I kept telling her that he was too big to be her kitten, but she remained steadfast in her role assignment. Simon, on the other hand, just wolfed down whatever largesse Armando proffered, then returned to my side.

  Too wound up to read or sleep, I considered going into my office upstairs and checking my e-mails. Then I remembered the swan pictures on my digital camera and dug it out of my shoulder bag. With the help of the software installed on my computer, it would take only a few minutes to download the best shots, which I could then edit and send electronically to Emma, as promised. I should also send them to myself at the office so that Margo could have a look at the ugly babies tomorrow, although she hadn’t been wildly enthusiastic about that idea. Maybe talking about the swan babies would encourage Strutter to confide her news, too.

  The first couple of images showed the mature swans clearly, but the cygnets swimming between them were an unrecognizable blur. I had zoomed in for the next shot, focusing on the baby swimming nearest to his dad, and he showed up nicely against the green marsh grasses that tufted behind them. Something blue stuck in the reeds provided further contrast, and I used the cropping and enlarging tools to achieve the clearest possible image. Pleased with the result, I punched a button and waited for my little HP to grind out a photographic quality print-out. While it did so, I thought about Armando’s life-in-a-nuthouse analogy. Idiomatically correct or not, he had certainly gotten that right.

  I examined the print-out under my desk lamp and thought about my girl in Boston and my trucker son, driving through the night somewhere out there. Sleep well, be safe, I wished them silently. Not knowing exactly why, I peered more closely at the blue flotsam against which the cygnet contrasted so nicely. The material was darker than denim and not so vivid as a royal blue, but so what? It was just a piece of cloth, a rag, much like the one John’s flashlight had revealed on the floor of the Henstock girls’ basement that morning.

  My head swam as I stared, transfixed by what appeared to be a leathery, claw-like hand protruding from the remnants of a dark blue sleeve.

  Three

  “This absolutely cannot be happening again,” I wailed to Margo over the phone the next morning. My shocking discovery of the previous evening had been duly reported to the police, who had promptly dispatched an officer to take my statement and the revealing photograph. According to John Harkness, the mummified remains of a woman, age unspecified, had been retrieved with great difficulty from the marsh surrounding the Spring Street pond at first light this morning. Two officers in a small rowboat had rowed to the site and somehow managed to get a net around the decaying remains, hampered co
nsiderably by a large, male swan that flapped his wings threateningly and hissed at them throughout the proceedings. The officers persevered, however, and towed their gruesome bundle to shore, where it was placed in a body bag and transported to the medical examiner’s office in Hartford for forensic investigation.

  Obviously as sleep-deprived as I was, Margo yawned unabashedly in my ear. “Well, the good news is that Strutter and the Henstock gals have been validated in the eyes of the police. Even John had trouble swallowin’ their story about a body in the basement at first, but he stopped scoffin’ right quick after he saw that scrawny arm stickin’ up out of the grass.” She chuckled. “Good thing you noticed it before you emailed that picture off to Emma. Those baby swans were enough to turn her stomach without addin’ a decomposin’ corpse to the scene.”

  I winced at Margo’s forthright description. “Speaking of Strutter and the Henstocks, do they even know about this development yet?”

  “Mmm hmmm. John told Strutter on the phone last night, but he let the ladies sleep through all the hoop-de-doo at the pond this morning, then stopped by to tell them in person. I think he just wanted another cup of Miss Lavinia’s tea.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “See you later, Sugar.”

  “Later,” I agreed and slouched over to the coffee maker for a refill. At least I’d be able to get a decent night’s sleep tonight, I comforted myself. Then I remembered that I’d promised Armando paella for dinner. Groaning, I went to check the contents of my pantry cupboard. Rice, chicken stock, saffron, garlic, sweet onions. So far, so good.

  I pulled open the refrigerator. Two decent tomatoes and a green pepper. The turkey kielbasa in the meat drawer wasn’t chorizo, but it would do. I pulled frozen peas, some chicken, and a a few ciabata rolls out of the freezer to thaw in the refrigerator. It looked as if the shrimp Armando had promised to pick up at City Fish after work would give me the final ingredient. I didn’t care for mussels, which were included in most traditional recipes, but Armando and I both preferred shrimp. Jasmine and Simon wouldn’t object either, I felt sure. I just hoped I didn’t fall dead asleep in my plate. I rinsed out my coffee mug and trudged off to shower and dress.

  Arriving at the Law Barn at a little after nine, I found Strutter and Jenny huddled over the mail at the reception desk once again. “Don’t tell me. Another clipping? What’s this one about … how women should be seen but not heard?” I waited for a laugh, but I didn’t get one.

  Jenny held up a second envelope addressed in blue block letters to “Mack Realty,” upper and lower case just like the first one. “There’s another clipping about that stinky corpse flower getting ready to bloom at the University, but I don’t think the quote is from the Bible this time.” She handed over a piece of paper to which a clipping from the Hartford Courant had been taped. Scrawled in the margin were the words, “The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike.”

  “Lovely sentiment, but it doesn’t ring a bell.” I handed it back and looked at Strutter, who stood silent and frowning. “Mean anything to you?” My casual inquiry produced an explosion.

  “Now why would you think that?” she demanded, hands on hips, taking two steps toward me, the better to get in my face. “Was it addressed to me personally? Or are you just assuming someone is making these wild accusations against me?”

  I recoiled, eyes wide. “What accusations?” I protested. Then I remembered that Strutter may well be operating under a hormonal handicap. I made a weak stab at defusing her anger. “As far as I can tell so far, these stupid letters aren’t directed to anyone in particular. Somebody just thinks we smell bad. Collectively,” I added with a smile for good measure and tried to pat her shoulder, but she slid away from me.

  “Sorry. Just didn’t have my coffee yet. This business with the Henstocks still has my stomach in an uproar.” Strutter dropped her eyes and placed one hand over her abdomen, somewhat protectively, I thought. “I’ve got to get on over to Vista Views anyway. It’s my turn to play rental agent this morning.” Snatching up her purse and her briefcase, she charged toward the back door of the Law Barn without going anywhere near the coffee pot, I noticed. She nearly ran into Margo, who was just coming in. Jenny and I stared after her.

  “What was that all about?” Jenny asked in confusion.

  “Yes, what was that all about?” Margo agreed, staring after Strutter, “And what’s got Strutter all riled up? She about knocked me over.”

  Jenny and I filled her in on Strutter’s reaction to this morning’s mail.

  “Huh. Seems to me someone is takin’ this foolishness a scootch personally, don’t you think?” She patted her French twist back into perfection and smoothed her stylish lavender capri outfit unnecessarily. “Now why is that?”

  I jerked my eyes meaningfully toward Jenny, who was momentarily distracted by the phone, and headed for the coffee niche. “I haven’t got a clue, but until we find out what’s going on with her, let’s not blow her cover.” I poured each of us a mug of fresh brew, which we took down the half-flight to the MACK Realty office. I plunked mine on the desk and booted up the Dell, while Margo arranged herself decoratively on the sofa and checked her cell phone for messages. “It wouldn’t be the first time some crackpot decided to distribute a little hate mail.”

  Margo chuckled, remembering our run-in the previous year with a religious zealot who had harassed the owner of the diner located a few blocks down

  Old Main Street from our office. “So whatever are we goin’ to do about Strutter? If these mood swings get any wilder, we’re going to have to keep away from the payin’ customers. Why do you suppose she doesn’t want to confide in us, her dearest friends in the whole wide world?” “I have no idea. Maybe it’s that old superstition about not telling anyone until you’re three months along so you don’t have to deal with a lot of questions and drama if you have an early miscarriage.” I clicked briskly through my Outlook messages, deleting the garbage emails that grew like mushrooms overnight.

  “Seems to me there would be a lot of questions and drama whenever you had a miscarriage, so I surely don’t understand that one.” Margo snapped her cell phone shut and fished in her handbag for a mirror.

  “Because miscarriages aren’t all that uncommon in the first trimester. After that, the pregnancy is considered well established.”

  “Well established? Sounds like a vegetable garden or a charitable foundation, not a bun in the oven.” She fussed briefly with an imaginary stray lock and dropped her compact back into her purse. “Speakin’ of well established, when is that man of yours establishin’ himself in your residence? Over the weekend?”

  “Monday. It was the only day Armando could get a mover. I think twenty percent of the population chooses June to move. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here at MACK Realty. This whole moving-in thing is unnerving enough without my having to stand there and watch him invading my space. After work will be soon enough for me to go and survey the wreckage.” My stomach did its usual flip-flop at the thought. “I’m really nervous about this.”

  She chuckled. “No kiddin’. I haven’t seen you this het up since … well, come to think of it, Sugar, since never. What is the worst that could happen? You turn a washer load of his undies pink when your red blouse gets in with them by accident? He leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and you come to blows? What?” She peered at me, obviously perplexed.

  I stopped punching keys and returned her gaze. “It’s hard to understand, I know. Most women my age would be over the moon to have a wonderful man like Armando in their lives. He’s so thoughtful and intelligent and makes me laugh. He’s great company. And he doesn’t do any of those awful guy things like belching or adjusting himself in public. He’s a pack rat, but he’s absolutely fastidious about his personal grooming. My kids are fond of him. Jasmine and Simon adore him.”

  “Not to mention he’s cute as the devil.” Margo had moved from examining her flawless hair to shaping her already perfect nails with an emery board. “Let�
��s not forget that.”

  I smiled as I visualized Armando’s chiseled profile and coffee-with-cream skin from his toenails to the roots of his hair. “There is that. And he isn’t even addicted to televised sports, except for maybe World Cup soccer.” I sighed. “It’s really not about him. It’s about me. I’m the problem.”

  Another chuckle. “You can be a handful.”

  I knew that my ex-husband, for one, would be only too happy to agree with Margo. He and I were still excellent friends, but after two children and twenty-two years together, we had had to abandon the idea of living together. Why? I struggled to find the right words.

  “For one thing, I’m not what you’d call conventional. I don’t care about birthdays, and I don’t celebrate most holidays. I don’t go to church.”

  “And how does Armando feel about those things?”

  “He’s very sentimental. He always makes a big fuss over my birthday, and he loves Christmas. The church thing doesn’t bother him, though.”

  “So let him make a fuss over you once in a while and sing a few Christmas carols. No big deal. What else?”

  I searched my mind for other weirdnesses. “The thing is, I’m usually happier alone than I am being with someone else for long periods of time. I’m perfectly content in my own company. I’ve never been one of those women who can’t have a meal in a restaurant or go to a movie by themselves. I do those things all the time very happily. And I like silence. I look forward to coming home to a quiet, orderly house at night and finding things exactly as I left them that morning.”

  I jumped to my feet and paced in front of the desk, on a roll now. “And I’m selfish, okay? I freely admit it. I want things the way I want them, and I don’t enjoy the prospect of making endless compromises to accommodate someone else’s preferences. If I want to play rock and roll and bop around my living room, then that’s what I do. And if I want to cook fish and cauliflower and eat onions and garlic and drink a little too much wine, well, that’s my business.” I flapped my hands in frustration. “It’s about my personal space. I don’t want to lose it. Can you understand this at all?”