“Then that would be 1968,” I said, conveying another of the few dates I had managed to retain from my barely read school textbooks. “The Judge must have been in his sixties by then and ready to retire, but he never got around to writing his memoir?”
“No,” Lavinia confirmed sadly. “He died at the bench. Right in the middle of the prosecutor’s summation, Papa suffered a massive heart attack and fell over dead. It was in all the papers.”
I could well imagine that it had been. “So that closet or vault was opened after his death?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Ada spoke up at last. “I’m quite sure I would have remembered that, wouldn’t you, Lavinia?”
“Oh, yes. It would have been quite a noisy business, having to break down the door. There’s no question that we would have known about it. In fact, we would have had to arrange to have it done, but we didn’t. Quite frankly, I had forgotten all about it by that time.”
I carefully swallowed a sip of tea, then asked the questions that were front and center in all of our minds, “So how did that woman’s body get put into the vault, and what happened to your father’s private papers?”
* * *
“What did the ladies have to say then?” Armando prompted me that evening, as fascinated by my report of the conversation as I had been by the real thing. While our paella baked in the oven, we sat in our customary spots, side-by-side on the living room sofa, sipping a shiraz we had both come to enjoy. A small fire enlivened the hearth and brightened the evening, which had turned cool and rainy. Having cadged as many shrimp as they figured they could get, Jasmine and Simon lay on their cushion before the cozy blaze. As usual, fourteen-pound Simon’s head lolled on seven-pound Jasmine’s belly, which she tolerated for the warmth.
“Nothing. We all just sat there and looked at each other for a minute. Then Ada had the bright idea of trying to contact Clara and Agnes to see if they could shed any light on what had happened to that vault and the papers inside it, but Lavinia reminded her that Clara had passed away long since, and Agnes, if she’s still alive, must be well into her nineties and more than a little forgetful. We agreed that they would do what they could to locate her on the off chance that she might remember something happening around the time of the Judge’s death. The poor old girls are desperate to get this thing resolved so they can repair their leaking pipes and get that aging white elephant on the market.” I shook my head in despair. “I can’t imagine who would buy it, though. It’s in such disrepair, and it’s so big. There must be eight or nine bedrooms …” Suddenly, the beginning of an idea about who might buy the Henstocks’ house and for what purpose formed in my head, but I kept silent.
A small log broke in the grate and showered sparks into the ashes below. Armando rose to add more wood. “How is it that you get yourself in the middle of these intrigues, Mia?” he asked, poking at the embers carefully so as not to disturb the slumbering felines. “You are becoming like that lady on television who lives in Maine and writes murder stories. Soon you will be banned from people’s houses because they fear you will discover a body under the bed.”
I was not amused. “I do not, as you put it, ‘get myself in the middle’ of these things, and I’m not in the habit of poking around underneath people’s beds. Frankly, until I went into the residential realty business, I had no idea how many family intrigues there appear to be swirling around in a small town at any given time. The skeleton in the Henstock sisters’ closet happened to be literal, but there are plenty of the figurative variety to go around, believe me. Sometimes it seems as if everyone has something to hide, and as soon as we list a house for sale, some secret pops out into the open to complicate matters.”
Armando closed the firescreen doors and reseated himself next to me. “Perhaps that is because one often buys a house because of a marriage or a birth, and then sells a house because of a divorce or a death. These are momentous occasions spurred by very strong emotions. Love, jealousy, sorrow, anger are all very powerful. You know that.”
As was often the case, his observation was right on the money, but I wasn’t about to say so. His implication that I somehow inserted myself into other people’s family imbroglios still rankled. “And what are your secrets, Armando? Now that we’re moving in together, am I going to discover something sinister about your past?” I draped my legs across his lap and put my arms around his neck. “What is the skeleton in your closet?” I asked the question lightly, but I was half serious. They say you can’t really know anybody else until you share a roof.
As usual when he was directly questioned, Armando took evasive action. “I could ask the same of you, could I not?” he countered smilingly. “The difference between us is that I would never do that. Your past belongs to you only, and it does not matter to me. It is today and tomorrow that I wish to share with you.” And that unsatisfactory answer was clearly all I was going to get. I uncoiled myself and got up to serve the paella, cursing Latino men’s passion for privacy under my breath.
Much later, we dozed together on the sofa while we watched the fire die and settle. A knitted afghan warded off the evening chill, as did the two cats, who had recognized a better heat source when they saw it and abandoned the hearth to pile on top of us. “What’s the schedule for Monday? Are the movers coming to your apartment first thing in the morning?”
“Yes, mine is the first move of the day. All my belongings will be here by noon. I am sure you will have a heart attack when you come in the door after work. There will be boxes piled in the hallway, suitcases all over, my bed probably stuck halfway up the stairs …”
“That’s not funny.” He knew how I felt about clutter and disorder and how much I dreaded the inevitable mess of his moving in. Some things we were very clear about. For one thing, we had decided that having separate bedrooms and bathrooms would give each of us some private space, much needed at our ages. As attracted as we were to each other, we weren’t a pair of hormone-crazed twenty-somethings. Both of us had been married before, and both of us had enjoyed more than ten years of independence. This sharing of space was going to take some getting used to.
Besides, we functioned on drastically different internal clocks. I was up at five-thirty a.m. and out the door to work by seven-thirty. He arose at eight and got to his desk at a leisurely ten a.m. At the other end of the day, I was home by six p.m. and in bed with a crossword puzzle by nine-thirty. He rarely appeared before eight and was a true night owl, up until the wee hours. For this reason, I had had the wall between the living room and my bedroom soundproofed so he could watch television without disturbing me.
A large upstairs bedroom, which had always been empty, awaited him, as did the adjoining bathroom. Previously, these rooms had been used only by Joey on his once-a-week overnight stays and the occasional visitor. The large loft area that overlooked the living room where we sat would become Armando’s home office. Mine would remain in the small guest bedroom directly over my bedroom/bathroom suite on the first floor. Once we got past the moving-in stage, it really should work, so why was I still so doubtful?
“Where will your son be spending his Monday nights after this?” Armando asked, distracting me from the worries that scurried through my head.
“With his father or friends, or maybe in a nice motel. He doesn’t have apartment rent to pay, so I’m sure he’ll be fine.” I remembered the telephone conversation of a few weeks ago when I had broken the news to Joey about Armando’s and my plans. “Whatever he chooses to do, he was absolutely fine with the news. As a matter of fact, I got the distinct impression that he was finding the weekly visits to Mom a little confining and was glad to be let off the hook.”
I could feel Armando smiling. “He has a new lady friend, perhaps?”
“Always. I’ve just never known it to be the same one two weeks running.”
“And why should it be? He is still at an age where he can afford to enjoy himself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? That you’re not having
any fun?” I flared.
Armando sat up, dislodging the cats. They lumped off the sofa and flopped down on the rug to groom themselves with elaborate indifference, their backs pointedly to us. Gently, Armando took me by the shoulders. “Do not be so quick to take offense. It will be all right, Mia. We will survive this change, even enjoy it. It is the right thing to do. It is time.”
For both our sakes, I hoped he was right.
Five
Saturday morning evaporated in the usual marathon of housework, laundry, grocery shopping and other errands that piled up during the workweek. The cool rain continued, and I stopped by the Spring Street Pond to check on the cygnets and take the weekly update photos I had promised Emma. Because of the weather, I had the muddy street to myself. I put down the passenger side window and peered out into the reeds, trying to spot the white feathers of the huge cob. The water was high, rushing a full inch over the spillway and into the culvert running beneath the road, but no birds were in sight. Mom and dad were probably huddled over their scrawny, featherless brood in an effort to keep them dry and generate some warmth, I reasoned. After a few more minutes, I put up the window and pulled out my cell phone to report to Emma.
“How’s it going, Em?” I asked when she answered, her voice fogged with sleep although it was after noon. “Is it as rainy there as it is here?”
“Mmm-hmm. A good day for sleeping. Thank God even crummy hotel rooms come with coffeemakers these days.” Water ran in the background. “So what’s happening with you? Same old, same old?”
By the time I finished a five-minute rundown on the Henstock ladies’ skeleton, the retrieval of the remains from the pond, the probability that Strutter was with child, and Armando’s and my imminent cohabitation, Emma sounded fully alert. “Whoa, I can’t believe what’s been going on there, and I’ve only been in Boston a few days.”
I agreed that it had been an eventful time and promised to keep her posted. More awake now, she filled me in briefly on her classes and textbooks, as well as her fellow students. “How are the swans doing?”
“Funny you should ask. I’ve been parked next to the pond for fifteen minutes now, and I haven’t seen a feather, but I wouldn’t expect to in this weather. The babies can’t stay warm and dry without their adult feathers, and those are a few weeks off yet.”
“Can you hang on a sec, ‘Cita?” She covered her cell phone briefly, and there was muffled conversation in the background. “Sorry, Momma. Ron’s here.” She paused. “You’re okay with that information, right?”
“Considering my upcoming living arrangements, I could hardly be otherwise without being a huge hypocrite,” I pointed out. “The fact that you’re nearly thirty, not sixteen, helps, too.”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” I heard the smile in her voice as she teased me.
“Except when I look in the mirror. Well, I’m glad you have company, Dearie. I’ll keep you posted on developments here. Say hello to Officer Ron. Oh! Before I go, have you talked to your brother lately?”
“Now that you mention it, no, I haven’t. His schedule is so crazy, and I’ve been up here, but I figured we’d talk at some point when things settle down a little. How is he taking being thrown out of the nest? Things going okay with his new girlfriend, or has she already bitten the dust?”
“I can’t really say, because I haven’t heard from him in more than a week either. New girlfriend? Hmmm. Maybe Armando was right.” I repeated what he had said about Joey’s not being upset with our new arrangement.
“Interesting! I’ll definitely give him a call sometime this weekend and get back to you. Don’t you worry. I’ll drag it out of him.”
We disconnected, and on impulse, I punched in Joey’s cell phone number. As usual of late, my call went right to voice mail. “Remember me, your mother? Just because we aren’t roommates any longer doesn’t mean you need to be a stranger. Call me.”
I hung up and resumed my surveillance of the pond. Nothing. A beat-up black van pulled up behind me, engine idling. Another birdwatcher, I assumed, or one of the locals who used the area for a lunch break. The pond was a regular stop for many of the town’s residents, especially on the weekend. I sighed and started the engine.
My conversation with Emma hadn’t comforted me as much as I had hoped. I still felt very unsettled. Too many changes, I speculated. I had always handled change poorly, preferring an orderly structure within which to live out my days, but over the last couple of years, I had experienced nothing but change, not to mention the two murders I had found myself involved in solving. My score on the life stress scale would be off the chart, and still, the changes kept coming. Starting MACK Realty with Margo and Strutter, Armando moving in, Emma off to Boston, Joey totally on his own and suddenly silent – and oh, yes, another mysterious body cropping up on the premises of one of our listings. Wherever the swans were today, I envied them the regular seasons of their lives. Then I remembered that they raised between three and seven offspring a year, every year, and I reconsidered.
I stopped for a red light at the intersection of
Maple Street and the Silas Deane Highway and glanced in my rearview mirror. To my surprise, the black van I had noticed at the pond was behind me. Well, not so surprising, really. Maple and the Deane were two of the major thoroughfares in Wethersfield and were heavily traveled by local residents and drivers en route from Glastonbury to Newington, as well. The fact was that I had been particularly watchful of vehicles that seemed to be shadowing me since an incident a year or so ago. At that time, a black Trans Am, driven by an unbalanced man who believed he was protecting a lady friend, had harassed me all the way from Wethersfield to Glastonbury, attempting to force me off the road. After a hair-raising, ten-minute chase across the Putnam Bridge, I wound up churning across the front lawn of the Glastonbury Police Department, where a nice young officer discovered me having hysterics a moment later. Ever since, I had been wary.
The light changed, and I pulled across the highway and around the long curve of Maple, then turned right on Prospect. The van stayed with me up and down the series of grades as Prospect crossed Wolcott Hill, then
Ridge Road. When I signaled for the right turn into The Birches, I half expected the van to follow, but it continued straight on Prospect. I shook off my apprehension as I proceeded down the entrance road at the posted fifteen m.p.h. limit. By the time I reached my driveway, the van was nowhere in sight, and my heartbeat slowed as I pushed the garage door opener on my visor. As soon as I pulled inside, I shut the door again and let relief wash through me. What was my problem? All at once, having a man around the house seemed like a great idea.
It took two trips up the garage stairs into the kitchen to wrestle in all of the groceries, dry cleaning, and drugstore purchases. I hardly spent a penny all week, but on Saturday, the cash outlay was impressive. It would be nice to be sharing some of the household expenses, too, I admitted. Come this time next week, Armando would be living here. I wondered how that would feel. Would he come with me on my round of errands?
I chuckled as I remembered a couple Armando and I had seen once at the supermarket. A thin, scowling woman pushed a cart alongside the meat case. Clearly out of patience, she looked back over her shoulder at a sulky fellow lingering in the soup aisle. “Richard, are you or are you not going to participate?” the woman shrilled. Richard put down his minestrone and slouched to her side, and Armando and I couldn’t help but snicker. Now, whenever Armando dragged his feet about something, I would put my hands on my hips and bark, “Armando, are you or are you not going to participate?” It never really worked, of course, but it always gave us a laugh.
Jasmine yawned her way into the kitchen and stuck her head into one bag after another, her nose telling her there was fresh ground meat in there somewhere. “Yes, you’re right,” I applauded the old lady. I pulled out a package of lean beef and broke her off a chunk before rewrapping it in meal-sized portions for the freezer. She was lucky this time and swallowed the last m
orsel before Simon’s nose kicked in, and he appeared in the doorway. She sashayed past him nonchalantly and leaped up onto the living room sofa to clean her whiskers. Simon eyed me suspiciously. “Oh, all right, you win.” I opened one of my freezer bags and gave him just a bite. Satisfied, he trailed after Jasmine and jumped up on the sofa to snuggle against her.
On impulse I climbed the stairs to the second floor to have a last look around before move-in day. The large spare room had been freshly painted and the carpeting steam-cleaned. The closet was empty, and the walls were bare. How different it would look with all of Armando’s things inside. I knew that he was a packrat who hated to part with anything, and whatever furniture he had would be bursting with books and art supplies, magazines and papers. I also knew that his favorite place to store things was the floor and that every surface would be covered with books and papers to keep them close at hand. I thought of poor Grace, my once-a-month cleaning person, attempting to deal with this room. It might be time to give her a raise.
Wandering across the loft area that overlooked the living room below, I stuck my head into the large bathroom. A new cabinet occupied a niche behind the shower/tub combination, and another one hung on the wall next to the commode. Fresh towels hung on the rods. The mirror shone, and a new shower curtain hung from the rod. Everything was ready … except me. I wondered how long it would take me to adjust to this new arrangement. I was happy about it, I reminded myself. Really, I was. Living under the same roof would take our relationship to a whole new level, I felt sure. But I remembered how crowded I had felt by my first marriage and how much I had loved the last dozen years of peaceful solitude. Was I too old a leopard to change my spots?
Armando was devoting his weekend to sorting and packing his belongings in preparation for Monday’s move, a task I was thankful to be spared. I took advantage of his absence Saturday evening to get in some quality girl time with such activities as coloring my hair, touching up my nails and giving myself a pedicure.
A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 6
