“But Ada and Lavinia didn’t even know about them at that time!”
“No, but they knew Michael was looking for something. So they went looking on their own and turned up that leather pouch in dear Papa’s desk.”
“That reminds me,” Strutter jumped in. “What was in that old pouch anyway?”
John smiled his quirky smile at her. “Exactly what everyone thought was in it … love letters from Marianna Armentano to Judge Henstock and records of his earlier representation of her in court.”
“Why would the Judge have kept those things? And why weren’t they in that closet? After all, that was why he had it built, wasn’t it?” That part still didn’t make sense.
John nodded. “Good question. As best we can figure it out, Judge Henstock had to be aware of Marianna’s sudden disappearance. He knew Adrian had learned of their affair, because Marianna had told him so. He probably figured out that Adrian Armentano had done something violent and kept those records and letters as a kind of insurance against his being dragged into it. If Marianna turned up dead, and Armentano tried to pin the murder on Henstock, the Judge figured he could produce evidence of a motive for Armentano, jealousy caused by his wife’s betrayal.”
We all pondered that for a moment. “It’s such an incredible sequence of events, but I guess that’s what happens when secret builds upon secret,” I mused.
“Sooner or later, the skeletons come out of the closet,” Margo agreed, “literally, in this case.”
Strutter sat with a still-skeptical look on her face. “Assuming everything Michael told you is true, and that’s one hell of an assumption, how did he manage to be the one the Henstock sisters called when they needed a plumber? There’s about a hundred different ones listed in the Yellow Pages. And how did he even know that they would need a plumber?”
This time, it was Margo who answered the question. “That’s where life really gets stranger than fiction. You couldn’t make this stuff up. As luck would have it, before Adrian Armentano was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, he was a regular bingo player. Once a month at the congregational church hall, just like clockwork. Remind you of anyone?”
I thought for a moment. “Ada Henstock! That’s where she was the night Lavinia and I got stuck in the basement.”
“Right you are, Sugar. And accordin’ to John, Ada remembers the old man well. They used to sit by each other sometimes. One night, she mentioned to the people at their table that there seemed to be a leak in the wall behind an old closet her daddy had built in the basement, and could anyone recommend a plumber to take a look-see? I guess Adrian’s blood just ran cold. He put two and two together, and very shortly thereafter, Michael appeared at the Henstocks’ kitchen door with a phony name and a phony business card to go with it.”
John finished the sad story. “Adrian’s guilty conscience and fear of discovery prompted a stroke, and that’s when they found the cancer.”
We were all quiet for a moment. “Poor Michael,” I said finally. “Poor little boy, believing he had been abandoned by his mother all those years. And then he found out that the truth was even worse.” Strutter reached over and covered my hand with hers.
“I know,” she said.
“He didn’t really hurt me, and he’s suffered enough for the sins of his father, not to mention those of his mother. I’m not going to press charges.”
“I know,” said John.
“Armando and I are thinking about getting married,” I said, apropos of nothing.
Margo snorted into her coffee cup, which never failed to astonish me. “Sugar, we all know that.”
Epilog
The group assembled in the Henstock sisters’ parlor comprised most of the people you would expect on such an occasion. I liked the new way of including men in wedding and baby showers. It had always seemed inappropriate to me to limit attendance at such events to women. Men’s roles in marriage and child-rearing are equally critical, after all.
Across the room, Margo and John Harkness, joined by Rhett Butler, were giving Henry the dog the attention he craved. Strutter and her husband visited with Lavinia and Ada on the tufted settee beneath the big front windows. In another corner, Emma had Joey and his steady girlfriend Justine pinned to the wall. She was grilling her brother mercilessly on his intentions. Justine appeared to be listening to his answers with interest, as would I later in the day when Emma relayed them to me. Despite his attentiveness to Emma in Boston, or perhaps because of it, Officer Ron had apparently failed to make the cut in my daughter’s eyes. “Too available,” she had summed up the relationship, and I knew that Officer Ron was out of luck.
Before proceeding to the
Broad Street house on this sunny November afternoon, Armando and I had stopped at the Spring Street Pond, where the young swans were now sleek adults almost ready to strike out on their own. I wondered at the adults’ ability to complete the nurturing cycle on a yearly basis. After a summer of intense parenting, did they accept the cygnets’ departure each November with aplomb, or did they feel abandoned? Did they anticipate their empty nest with relief or dread? And did former hatchlings ever visit the old folks or even recognize them if they met by accident in the wild? It seemed unlikely. By next summer, this young foursome would be well and truly launched, caught up in the annual cycle of life with their own mates. Their memories of this summer would be obliterated by the extreme demands of procreation and survival. I reflected that their detachment was enviable, protecting them, as it did, from the heartbreaking goodbyes that punctuate the lives of human beings. Young ones would come and go, and the old ones would live and die, as naturally and inexorably as the changing of the seasons.
In contrast to the protective behavior they had exhibited throughout the summer, the parents foraged serenely today on the opposite side of the pond from their offspring, content in each other’s company. The youngsters drifted elsewhere in twos. As if to answer our unspoken concern about the smallest swan’s ability to make it on his own, he swam close to us and dipped his head gracefully down, down beneath the water. His aft section remained solidly on the surface as he stretched his neck and pulled busily at some weeds. When he surfaced, he tossed his elegant head as if to say, “See? I’ve got it!” Armando and I exchanged grins and bumped knuckles, then continued our walk to the party scheduled at the Henstocks’ house.
Against all odds, Armando and I had been living together successfully for nearly five months. Oh, it wasn’t perfect. We had absolutely gone for each other’s throats on a couple of occasions, and not over lofty philosophical issues either. When two strong-willed, independent people share living space, it’s not the great questions of life that light the fuse. It’s who threw his new red shirt into the washing machine with my white things.
After all of the hullaballoo and news clippings we had endured about the University of Connecticut’s corpse flower, the thing never really opened fully. A couple of days after the expected bloom date, reports were issued that while a partial bloom had been accomplished, the corm had never reached full flower. “Nipped in the bud,” as Strutter reported to us wryly, “just like Reggie’s plans to punish me for what he imagined were my sins.” We were all delighted to have that incident behind us, since Strutter’s pregnancy was now in full flower.
When we arrived at the
Broad Street house, we took a moment to appreciate how grand the old lady was looking. True to her word, Margo had produced a dealer-investor who had rummaged through the house in an ecstasy of discovery with Ada’s and Lavinia’s enthusiastic approvel. Two days later, he had assembled a group of investors and presented the ladies with an offer they didn’t even think of refusing. Although much work remained to be done, it was clear that sometime during the next summer, 185 Broad Street would be completely restored and functioning as an elegant bed-and-breakfast establishment. Until the work was finished, the sisters would remain in residence. Then they would withdraw to a snug little Cape Cod house, already purchased and renovat
ed, that adjoined the Broad Street property at the rear. Miraculously, it had come onto the market in September, and Margo moved swiftly to close the deal. The sisters would be comfortably close at hand to serve as docents at their old homestead from time to time and occasionally as hostesses for teas, showers, and other elegant events for which the big house was being readied. They gave every indication of looking forward to their new roles. We let ourselves into the kitchen through the side door and stood listening to our friends gathered down the hall. “This entryway has seen a lot of grisly comings and goings,” I reflected, thinking about the events of the past sixty-plus years.
Armando nodded somberly. “We cannot erase what has happened in the past, Cara, but perhaps future traffic through this room will be of a happier kind. We are certainly getting off to a good start today, are we not?”
I smiled up at him. “We are indeed. Let’s go celebrate Margo’s engagement to John. By the way, speaking of engagements … is your proposal still open?” I tugged gently at his ear.
He swatted my hand away. “It is open, yes, but you are not ready yet. In truth, neither am I. Ask me again when we have lived together for a year. We will both know better then.”
“A year, huh?” I pretended to pout. “How can I be sure you will still be here?”
“I will be here,” he assured me. “Now let us see if we can make our way to the front room without having to call the police or the paramedics.”
And against all odds, we did.
Enjoy this preview of the fourth Kate Lawrence Mystery:
Drowning in Christmas
By Judith K. Ivie
One
“I wouldn’t ask you,” said my ex-husband, “but I’m desperate. I really need your help here.”
“No,” I said.
“Did you hear the desperate part, Kate?” Michael wisely refrained from whining, which he knew would only make me crankier. Instead, he allowed sufficient time to pass for his surprising request to replay in my mind. Yes, the man had to be on the edge.
I sighed heavily and closed my partner Strutter’s copy of A Homemade Holiday, which was supposed to be giving me great ideas on how to cook a Christmas goose. Something told me that my goose was pretty well cooked already. As ex-husbands go, mine was about as agreeable as they get, but this conversation sounded like big trouble to me. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the headache that began to throb through my temples.
“You know I don’t even attend weddings anymore, Michael, let alone organize one. Not now, not ever again. I endured enough family weddings, birthdays, anniversary parties, and holiday gatherings in the twenty-two years we were married to last me the rest of my life. I just send a lovely gift and decline the invitation. I’m done, through, finished. Am I getting through to you?”
“The fact that I’m even asking you should give you some idea of my state of mind.” Michael dropped his voice several decibels, the better to keep our conversation private from his present wife, I presumed. “Sheila already has her hands full with her teaching and the holiday pageant at the school, plus her mother will be spending Christmas with us this year.” He paused to let the full horror of having Sheila’s ditzy maternal relative as a houseguest sink in. “Having a wedding in this little apartment would be impossible under the best of circumstances, but right now …” He trailed off miserably.
Grudgingly, I admitted that he had a point. After years of working and saving, he and Sheila were finally on the verge of seeing their dream house, currently under construction on Lake Pocotopaug, become a reality. Having been lucky enough to sell their previous house sooner than expected in the current crummy real estate market, they were waiting out the final months of construction in a one-bedroom rental, not the ideal setting for a family wedding.
“So rent the church hall or the V.F.W. or a room at the community center,” I countered weakly, knowing that would never do. Schmidts were married at home. It was a family tradition with which I was well acquainted. Michael and I had been married in his parents’ living room nearly thirty years ago, and we had hosted our share of nuptials for cousins and nieces in our own home in the ensuing years. Still, I wasn’t caving in without a fight this time. I had quite enough on my plate already.
Michael regrouped and tried another approach. “We just need your house for the afternoon. Well, maybe the evening, too. There has to be a little party after the ceremony. You and Armando wouldn’t even have to be there, if you didn’t want to be. The caterer will do absolutely everything, including the clean-up. It’s just family and a few friends.” He played his ace. “Come on, Kate. I wouldn’t ask you, but you are Jeff’s godmother, after all. If you won’t do it for me, do it for him.”
That one hit the mark. When it comes to family ties, I’m notoriously unsentimental. I firmly believe that you can choose your friends, but your relatives are thrust upon you without your having any say in the matter. I have no great fondness for my mother’s and father’s numerous kinfolk, so I have aunties and first cousins I literally wouldn’t recognize on the street; but for Michael’s nephew Jeff, I have a soft spot. He’s the youngest of the three sons of Michael’s late brother and his wife, who were taken in an automobile accident several years ago.
Jeff’s quirky outlook and lightning-quick wit endear him to me, as well as to my son Joey and daughter Emma, above all of their less-interesting cousins. Besides, as Michael pointed out, I am Jeff’s godmother, however reluctantly I had agreed to assume that role upon his birth. I had performed my duties casually in the twenty-five years since, but now that Jeff’s parents were no longer among us, who else was there to help him out with his wedding? My heart softened.
I carried the phone and my coffee mug to the back windows of my freestanding condominium unit and gazed at the gray December landscape. My elderly cat Jasmine was perched on the back of the sofa. She stared fixedly at three wild turkeys pecking contentedly on the snowless lawn. No doubt they were grateful to have dodged a bullet now that Thanksgiving was safely past.
“When is this wedding in my house that I don’t have to attend supposed to take place?”
Sensing that he still had a shot, Michael brightened. “The twenty-seventh, which is the Sunday after Christmas. Jeff has to leave for North Carolina two days later, which is why he and Donna decided to move up their wedding date. The University offers housing for married graduate students only. Hey, you won’t even have to decorate, since even you must leave your Christmas stuff up until New Year’s Day.”
I ignored this slur on my holiday spirit. “Great. You do realize that Emma is bringing her new boyfriend here on Christmas Eve to meet us. Jared, I think this one is named, and I’m expected to do the whole Norman Rockwell bit. Chestnuts roasting, pumpkin pie, et cetera et cetera. She’s gone a little nuts over this guy, and she’s taking me with her. When you called, I was looking at recipes for roast goose.”
“You’re cooking a goose?” The disbelief in Michael’s voice was evident. Then, straying from the point as he often did, “Why not turkey?”
I considered my feathered friends, now making their leisurely way toward the marsh that bordered The Birches. They strolled the grounds of our Wethersfield, Connecticut condominium community daily and roosted in the surrounding trees at night. Before I’d come to live here, I hadn’t known that turkeys can fly. Now I regularly watched them helicopter up to their favorite branches as the sun slipped beneath the horizon.
“Too much like pets, I guess.” Truth be told, I wasn’t much looking forward to roasting a goose either. The things we do for our children. “So the situation is that I’m entertaining Emma’s steady on Thursday evening, and three days later, I’m throwing a wedding.” I sighed again. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, and it was for Jeff and his absolutely darling fiancée Donna, whom he had been dating since high school.
I could almost hear the grin of relief breaking across Michael’s amiable face. “I’m telling you, this caterer is incredible. You won’t have t
o lift a finger, Kate. He and his staff will do everything … food, flowers, music, photographer. They bring everything in and take everything away afterwards. Sheila’s friend Millie used him for her daughter’s wedding last summer.”
The headache teased behind my eyes again, and I interrupted Michael’s rhapsodic litany. “Okay, okay, I get it. I won’t have to do a thing.” Yeah, right. “So send out the invitations, and let’s get it done,” I said rashly. “Now can I go to work, please?”
“You bet, sure! Thanks a million, Katie. You’re the best. We’ll talk again in a couple of days.” He was gone before I could take back my words. Not that I would, I amended my thoughts guiltily. I swallowed the last of my tepid coffee and watched the turkeys melt into the marsh, becoming one with the colors of the dried undergrowth. Now you see them, now you don’t. Invisibility has its appeal, I thought wistfully. At the moment, I was feeling far too visible, not to mention vulnerable, on several fronts.
Work was one of them. For the past two years, since meeting at the downtown Hartford law firm where we all worked at that time, my friends and partners Margo Harkness, nee Farnsworth, and Charlene “Strutter” Putnam, nee Tuttle, had owned and operated MACK Realty in Wethersfield’s historic district. Starting our own business had been an adventure, to say the least, and the hot real estate market had taken us on a wild ride.
A couple of months ago, the financial market had crashed, taking real estate and every other kind of sales down with it. Temporarily, at least, MACK Realty operated out of Margo’s dining room, where she and Strutter had hunkered down to weather the storm. Our receptionist Jenny had opted to return to UConn Law School full time. Because I had administrative and computer skills, I decided to put them to good use in a temporary position in the local office of Unified Christian Charities, situated in Hartford.
A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 19
