She squeezed my hands reassuringly. “No, no. You know that man doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. John would be supportive, no matter what his feelings might be about this, which is why I haven’t told him yet. No, it’s not John I’m afraid of. It’s me.”
I squinted at her, struggling to understand. “You’re being just a tad oblique here. I’m afraid you’re going to have to spell it out for me.”
Her eyes met mine fully for the first time. “I’m afraid that my carelessness about birth control is about to ruin the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m afraid of what this news will do to John’s and my marriage and his beautiful relationship with my son. And maybe most of all, in order to prevent all of that happening, I’m afraid I’m going to have to have an abortion and carry the awful guilt of it to my grave.” And at last, the long-repressed tears burst free in great, shaking sobs as I held her and patted her gently on the back.
As I waited for the storm to pass, I considered what she had confided to me. I could understand the cause of her distress. Whatever one’s personal views happened to be about a woman’s right to terminate an unwanted pregnancy, I knew that abortion remained a very personal issue. I also knew that for all of her loving tolerance of other people’s choices, abortion had to be a last-ditch option for my Baptist-reared friend. Her back would really have to be against the wall for her even to consider it.
For all of her Jamaican gorgeousness, Strutter was not a tidy weeper. After five minutes of full-out blubbering, her sobs subsided, and she raised a reddened, blotchy face. My one tissue had long since passed the point of no return, so she had no choice but to wipe her streaming eyes and nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me do this. Oh, god. Now I have a headache.” She finished mopping her face and rolled up her sleeves to conceal the evidence of her inelegance.
“Mmmm. A good cry can be very therapeutic, but the headache is the price. A little better now?”
“I guess so.” Briefly, she put her head down between her knees. “Increases the blood flow. Good for a headache,” she explained in a muffled voice. After a minute she rolled back to an upright position. “Let’s start back, okay?”
I nodded, and we got to our feet, heading slowly back through the parking lot to the street above. The air was noticeably cooler in the early evening, and it seemed as if all of Wethersfield had retreated to their homes and local restaurants for an early dinner.
“What should I do, Kate? I know it’s not fair of me to ask you, but I need your advice. What would you do in my place?”
For a moment, I actually tried to put myself in Strutter’s shoes. What would I do if I were faced with her dilemma? Then I realized the impossibility of trying to answer such a question, even hypothetically, and abandoned the effort. “I couldn’t possibly know that unless it happened to me, and with the hot flashes I’m having, that’s extremely unlikely. This sort of situation has way too many variables for me even to hazard a guess. There are the ages of the two people, how they feel about each other, where they are in their lives when it happens, who else is involved. But most importantly, I’m not you, and you’re not me. There is no one, right answer, Sweetie. I will be thrilled if you and John decide to have this baby, and you all live happily ever after, but only you can decide if that’s right for you and yours.”
We trudged on in silence, Strutter massaging the back of her neck with one hand. “I know, I know. I just don’t know how to do that.”
“Maybe you’re not giving John enough credit here,” I pointed out cautiously. “After all, he’s not some seventeen-year-old kid. He’s a mature man, and maturity could work to your advantage here. He fathered that baby you’re carrying. Don’t you think he deserves some say in how this all turns out? You’re in this together, and I think you’re making a mistake by keeping it from him.” Nervously, I darted a glance at Strutter to see how she received this pronouncement, but she was too weary and headachy to take umbrage.
“I guess you could be right,” she replied with uncharacteristic acquiescence. “Maybe I should tell him, I don’t know. It’s just that once I do, I can’t take it back. It will be out there, shadowing everything else in our lives.” She sighed heavily as we reached our cars. “I promise to give it some more thought tonight. By the way, what does Margo have to say about this? Oh, come on,” she protested when I didn’t answer right away. “I’m quite sure that Margo is well aware of my condition. She notices everything.”
I admitted that Margo and I had both at least suspected that she was with child. “She was as tickled as I was initially. We just couldn’t understand why you were keeping such wonderful news all to yourself, but we knew it was your decision to make.” I stopped uncomfortably.
“Well, at least I’ve made that decision. Let’s see how I do with the next one.”
Seven
Margo had predicted accurately that I wouldn’t get much sleep, but it wasn’t caffeine or even agita about Armando moving in that kept me tossing and turning. I had pretty much made my peace with that for the moment. It would be what it would be, and I would deal with it as it happened. No, it was Strutter and her dilemma that was on my mind, followed closely by the man in the black van, and after that by the Henstock sisters’ difficult situation.
Lavinia and Ada and Strutter and John all pinwheeled through my overactive brain until dawn, when, bleary eyed, I untangled myself from the sheets and plodded into the kitchen for some coffee. Jasmine appeared to beg for some tuna fish, and I was glad to be able to solve her problem, since I had no idea what to do about anyone else’s.
Shortly before eight o’clock, I shut both cats into my bedroom with a litter box, water, and a bowl of crunchies. They were accustomed to this drill on days when I had outside workmen in to do the rugs or windows or one repair or another, and they accepted their fate fairly philosophically. The patch of sunshine on my bed was just as good for napping as the one in the living room, after all.
Before heading for the office, I dialed Armando’s number. “How’s it going?” I asked, determined to be cheerful. “All set for the movers?”
“They are already here, and no, I am not ready! I will talk to you later.” Bang, down went the receiver. Not a good omen, I thought; but once again, I shrugged off my misgivings. Moving day was always awful. This one would pass, and then the worst would be over.
I let myself into the Law Barn, remembering my promise to get our anonymous letters to John Harkness today. The scene in the lobby as I approached Jenny’s desk was pure déjà vu. Once again, Jenny sat holding a newspaper clipping in her hand. I said good morning and bent to read it over her shoulder. It was another story about the University of Connecticut’s corpse flower, which apparently would reach its full and hideous glory sometime within the next week. A webcam had been installed so that anyone could tap into UConn’s website and witness the foul-smelling flora at a safe distance, but those with less delicate sensibilities were lining up around the clock to visit the botany lab in person.
“So what’s today’s message for us poor sinners?” I asked Jenny when she turned the clipping sideways to read the blue block printing in its margin.
“’Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen,’” she read aloud, then turned to look at me. “I don’t get it, do you?”
“Well, this one doesn’t sound particularly Biblical, at any rate. Maybe our pen pal is branching out into secular sources. He or she does still seem hung up on this corpse flower, though, and the business about foul odors. Listen, don’t touch this one too much.” I held out a fresh zip-lock freezer bag that I had brought for the occasion. “Just drop it in here along with the envelope it came in. Did you find the first two, by the way?”
A worried frown settled on Jenny’s pretty face. “Yes, they’re here. What’s this all about, Kate?” She pulled open her top drawer. Handling the previous letters by their corners, she added them to my pouch, and I slid it shut without touching them.
/> “I wish I knew.” I gave her an edited version of Saturday night’s attempted break-in, as I had for Armando, but law student Jenny was not to be fobbed off quite so easily.
“So the police are assuming that there’s a connection between these letters and the intruder.”
“Not assuming, exactly. They’re just trying to get a handle on this guy, and these letters are a place to start. There may not be a connection at all,” I told her.
“What about the situation at the Henstocks’ house?” she persisted. “Could the fact that Strutter saw the skeleton have something to do with the attempted break-in?”
“I don’t see how Strutter seeing the remains could result in someone following me. That doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“But you were there later. In fact, it was you who brought the police into it.”
“Well, technically, it was Margo who called them, but yes, Strutter and I showed up with John Harkness in tow. If someone was watching the house …” I trailed off, not wanting to dwell on that possibility. “Anyway, I’ll get these over to the police department, and we’ll see if they offer any clues. Is Strutter in yet?” I was anxious to see what her state of mind was this morning.
“No, but Margo came in about half an hour ago. She’s in the office.”
I gave Jenny a reassuring wink and went to collect a mug of coffee before heading down the half-stairway to the MACK Realty office. Despite the early hour, Margo was a picture of pulled-together perfection in a lime green linen capri pantsuit. She was curled up on the sofa, high-heeled taupe sandals standing neatly on the floor next to a matching tote. As usual, she was multi-tasking, talking earnestly to a client on the phone while her manicured fingers tapped busily at her laptop. She waggled a hand at me in greeting and brought her conversation to a close as I powered up my desktop computer and began checking emails.
“How did it go with Strutter yesterday? Did she fess up to being with child yet?”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that.” I took advantage of Strutter’s absence to fill Margo in on Strutter’s dilemma while I zipped through my Outlook inbox, deleting junk mail as I went. I finished my recitation and looked up. I was surprised that Margo had made no comment, but when I saw her face, I grew truly alarmed. She stared unseeingly out the windows behind me, her face a frozen mask of distress. “Margo, what is it?”
She dragged her eyes back to my face. “Strutter’s not serious about … terminatin’ her pregnancy,” she said finally. Her face was chalky.
“I’m very much afraid that she may be,” I reported. “She is clearly miserable at the prospect, but she seems to believe that an abortion may be the only way to salvage her relationship with John.”
Margo sprang to her feet and paced the carpet without bothering to slip into her shoes. “But … doin’ that would most definitely ruin their relationship, doesn’t she see? John would find out one way or another. These things are impossible to keep secret. And even if he agreed with her right to do it, he would look at her differently from that moment on. The damage would be irreparable. She has to tell him, let him help her make the decision, and let the chips fall where they may.” She stopped pacing and demanded, “Where is she now?”
“I’m not sure. At home, I guess. Why?”
Margo reseated herself abruptly, thrust her feet into her sandals, then grabbed her tote bag and jumped back up. “Because she and I are going to have a conversation right now.” Halfway up the stairs, she turned back. “Sorry, Sugar, but you’re not invited this time. She needs to have this chat with someone who’s been there and done that and can tell her what she would be lettin’ herself in for.” And she was gone.
I sat for a moment, allowing the full implication of her words to sink in. Poor Margo, poor Strutter, I thought. It’s a choice no woman should have to make. Margo had never shared with me what had to have been a very personal and distressing experience, but it was clear that she was about to confide in Strutter. For all of Margo’s exterior bravada, she was as tender as a marshmallow on the inside. I knew she could only be doing this in an attempt to spare Strutter pain that she herself had already experienced.
The ringing phone reminded me that it was time to get back to running our business, but I had one errand yet to do. I ran back up to the lobby and told Jenny to man the phones as best she could. I needed to get our hate mail into John Harkness’ hands, and I wanted to see what, if anything, was new on the investigation of the Henstocks’ skeleton. The thought of the impoverished old ladies sitting in that great house, worrying about their financial security, was more than I could bear.
On the drive to the Wethersfield Police Station, I allowed the idea I had had a couple of nights ago, but hadn’t had time to explore, to resurface. I had seen only the first floor of the Henstock house, but that had been enough to reveal a once-elegant residence. The rooms were high ceilinged and delightfully proportioned. Windows and light were plentiful. Much of the woodwork and molding was still exquisite, not to mention the brass fittings on cupboards, closets, windows and exterior doors. A variety of hardwood flooring and still-gorgeous, albeit threadbare, Oriental carpets enhanced every room. The porte cochere and carriage house added exterior interest to a beautifully landscaped property, or at least, it would be beautiful if it got the attention it needed.
Needless to say, everything would benefit from a healthy infusion of cash to make necessary repairs and cosmetic improvements. If only it could house a business of some sort. Maybe it could be a catering establishment that could also host weddings and fundraising events. I had heard that there was a ballroom on the top floor and imagined a small orchestra playing waltz music while elegantly attired dancers circled the floor. The house had once been the grande dame of the neighborhood. She had fallen on hard times, but it was plain to me that the old girl still had good bones.
The irony of that observation under the present circumstances struck me funny, and I started to giggle—that is, until I glanced into my rearview mirror at a traffic light and saw a dark van with a tinted windshield close behind me. The laughter died in my throat, and I gripped the wheel tightly, hardly daring to breathe. I was on the
Silas Deane Highway, just two long blocks from the police department. The light turned green, and with difficulty, I restrained myself from stamping on the gas pedal. Instead, I accelerated smoothly to a moderate rate of speed, and as the police department driveway came up on my right, I put my blinker on and turned in. Would the van follow? No, of course not, I chided myself. If this were the man in question, and I had no evidence that it was, this was not a destination to which he would follow me. The van slid on by the driveway. I eased into the first available parking space and jumped out of the car. By craning my neck, I could just make out the rear of the van, which had been caught in heavy traffic at the next light. I couldn’t read the license plate, but I was almost certain that the left rear taillight had only a partial cover. Or was I imagining that? I squinted into the morning sunlight, but a city bus blew by, totally obscuring my view.
I abandoned the effort and trudged into the police department. A young woman at the desk took my name and punched John Harkness’ extension number into her phone. After a few murmured words, she hung up and reported that Lieutenant Harkness was unavailable at the moment, but Sergeant Fletcher could see me if I took the elevator up to the second floor.
As the elevator doors slid open, I was greeted by a beaming Rick Fletcher. I had always been fond of Rick. He had been in high school with Joey and Emma, and as a young officer with the WPD, he had helped me out of more than one tight spot. “Sergeant Fletcher, is it now?” I twitted him. “And when did this promotion take place? Not that I ever had any doubt that you would one day get the recognition you deserve.”
“About a month ago, Ms. Lawrence, thanks. Come on down to my cubicle. The Lieutenant is out trying to track down that plumber who found the body at the Henstock house, but he said you would be coming by with some letters. Are these
the ones?”
I handed over my freezer bag and took the chair next to his desk. “Yes, and we added another one to our collection this morning.” I filled him in letter number three. “Today’s quote didn’t seem to be Biblical, but I’m not much of a student of the good book, so I can’t be sure. I also have no idea if these letters and my would-be intruder are connected in any way. It’s entirely possible that we’re contending with two crazies here.”
Reluctantly, I told him about the black van behind me on my way here. “But honestly, Rick,” I concluded, I don’t know if it was the same van. With one thing and another, I’m so on edge, I’ll probably be seeing black vans around every corner for a few days. It seems as if every workman in New England drives one.”
“Mmm.” He looked up from his examination of the accusatory clippings, which he handled carefully with some sort of tweezer device he pulled from a desk drawer. “Well, it’s a long shot, but we’ll try to lift some fingerprints off these and run them through the system. I don’t hold much hope, but we have to try. And without a plate on that van, we’re pretty much dead in the water there. The broken taillight is purely anecdotal evidence, since that wouldn’t be recorded anywhere.” Noting my crestfallen expression, he quickly added, “But who knows? Maybe the Lieutenant will come up with the Henstocks’ plumber, and he’ll turn out to drive a black van with a broken taillight.”
“… who used to be a priest and has an odor phobia,” I chimed in. “Yes, that would be perfect, wouldn’t it? Now if only he turns out to have a record, and his fingerprints are in the system!” Rick’s phone started to ring, and I got to my feet. “Thanks, I’ll keep in touch. No, no, I’ll see myself out.” I flashed him a smile and headed back to the elevator to face the rest of my day. As it turned out, it had only just begun.
* * *
Late that afternoon, the phone rang for what seemed like the hundredth time. Neither Margo nor Strutter had appeared, leaving Jenny and me to fend for ourselves. As much as I sympathized with Strutter’s dilemma, I couldn’t help feeling abandoned and resentful. I was having a bit of a day too, after all. My stomach had been in turmoil for hours as I contemplated what was happening at my formerly orderly abode and what I would have to face there this evening. Being left to hold the MACK Realty fort was the last straw. I snatched up the phone. “MACK Realty. Kate speaking.”
A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 9
