Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery)

by Alter, Judy

  “I don’t care,” he said. “She ain’t goin’ to see him.”

  “Yes, she is, Anthony. If you don’t approve, she’ll sneak. Why don’t you try inviting him to dinner, getting to know him? Maybe he’s changed since all this trouble.” I took a deep breath, “Anthony, when you were young, did anyone ever give you a second chance?”

  He looked surprised, and then his face softened. “Yeah,” he said. “My pop did. After I’d done everything in the book wrong, he told me he loved me and had faith in me.”

  “And it made a difference?”

  He looked at me. “Okay, Miss Kelly. You win. She can go out with Joe. I may not be ready for dinner with him yet, but I’ll work on it.”

  “They’re coming to my house for supper tonight,” I said and turned away before he could roar.

  “Who’s coming for supper?” Maggie asked as I set the table for five.

  “Theresa and Joe.”

  “I don’t like Joe. I don’t want him to come to our house anymore.” She was determined. “He did bad things.”

  “I don’t want him either,” Em chimed in.

  “Girls, he’ll be a guest, and you will be polite. Joe is sorry for the things he did, and he’s making up for it. And he’s special to Theresa. You love Theresa, don’t you?”

  They nodded.

  “Then for her sake you’ll give Joe another chance, won’t you?”

  “Okay,” Maggie said, “but if he ever does anything bad again….”

  “Okay,” Em echoed.

  I decided to do oven-fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and make a salad. On the way home I’d bought a half-gallon of cookies ’n cream ice cream, the girls’ favorite. “If you’re pleasant and polite, you can have ice cream with chocolate sauce for dessert.” I didn’t even feel bad about bribing them.

  Joe and Theresa arrived right at six, and Joe was a different person already. The pony tail was gone, and the baggy pants were replaced by well-fitting jeans over which he wore a plaid, cotton shirt. I stared just a minute and then winked at him. I swear he smiled.

  Since I wasn’t about to offer them a drink before dinner, as I would have Mike, we went right to the dinner table. They were both quiet, but I’ll give Maggie credit. She tried.

  “So, Joe, how was your day?”

  Joe looked a little nonplussed. “It was okay,” he said. “I went looking for a job.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  He shrugged. “Just about anything I can do.”

  “Would you work at McDonald’s?” she pursued.

  I groaned inwardly.

  “If I had to,” he said, looking down at his plate.

  It went through my mind to offer him a job working with Anthony, but then I dismissed that as one of the worst ideas I’d had for a long time. I’d already meddled enough.

  “Joe likes kids,” Theresa said. “I thought he might apply to the YMCA or something like that, maybe the Boys and Girls Club.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  Joe seemed to get more in the spirit of things. “So, Maggie, how was your day?”

  “Bor-ing,” she said and told him how bored she got listening to others read.

  Joe had no idea what to say to that, but Theresa said, “Be patient, Maggie. I was never good at math, and I appreciated it when some of my friends helped me.”

  Maggie looked at her. “I’m no good at math either.”

  Em didn’t want to be left out. “Joe, do you want to see the picture I drew at school today? Mom’s going to frame it.”

  “Sure I do,” he said, and he was appropriately enthusiastic about her art. I could see that Em changed her mind about Joe, and Maggie was beginning to.

  After dinner, they both pitched in to help clean the kitchen, and it was done in no time. “Theresa,” I said, “would you take the girls to the back? I want to talk to Joe.”

  Joe looked like a deer caught in the headlights as I led him to the living room and motioned for him to sit in one of the big comfortable chairs. He perched on the edge of it, not enjoying its comfort.

  “Joe, don’t worry. You’re not in more trouble, and I’m not going to get angry. I just need to figure something out.”

  He looked at his hands.

  “Before my former husband came back to Fort Worth, he knew all about what was happening here, and I want to know how he knew.”

  Joe looked at me and took a deep breath. “I called him. He paid me to tell him.”

  “How did you know to call him?”

  “Some guy I know up on Jacksboro Highway, he asked me to do it. He knew where Mr. Spencer was and that I knew him from having worked for him.”

  This was getting confusing. “What guy? What’s his name?”

  Joe shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. There are some mean people around, and I don’t want them to think I ratted on them. But I’ll tell you that they said a Mr. Martin wanted your ex to let him know what was happening with that skeleton house.”

  Martin. Bells pealed in my brain in a wild cacophony of sound. “Who’s Mr. Martin?”

  “I have no idea,” Joe said. “All I know is the name. Does that help?”

  “Yes, I think it does. And Joe, this is between you and me. I’ll never tell where I learned that name. As a matter of fact, it’s a name I already know, but you’ve sort of tied it together for me.”

  “I don’t understand, Miss Kelly, but you be careful. You’re messing with some people who won’t stop at nothing.”

  “Anything,” I corrected before I thought. I looked at him. “You be careful, Joe, if you’re involved with these people.”

  He grinned. “Not me, not anymore. I gotta show Theresa’s father I’m good enough for her. I think my wild days are over—and I’m glad. I thank you, Miss Kelly, for what you did for me, in spite of everything.”

  Part of me wanted to reach out and hug him; the other part wondered if this was like a three-month conversion to religion. “I’m proud of you,” is all I said, “and you let me know if I can help. I want you to make it.”

  I almost thought he I saw a tear in the corner of one eye. I don’t think anyone ever believed in him before, except maybe Theresa.

  After Joe and Theresa left, I kissed the girls and tucked them in, then ran for the phone book, turning to the pages for Martin, remembering that there were pages and pages of Martins. But now I started with the M listings, looking for M. Martin or Marty Martin. There were at least twenty-five people whose first initial was M. It was hopeless.

  Now what, Kelly? I sat at my desk for over an hour, my thoughts tangled. Marty Martin was bound to be M.W. Martin or “Marty” of Marie Winton’s letters home—I was convinced of that, but I had no proof. And he was older than Marie—judging from the picture in the locket he was maybe mid-thirties in the late fifties, which would put him in his early eighties now.

  That Mr. Martin would want to know what was going on at the house was believable. Probably he hadn’t worried all the years it was in private hands, but once someone—specifically me—began to tear it apart for renovation, he knew the secret was out. And then, of course, it was indeed out—in the newspapers, on TV. He couldn’t do anything, but he must have known it would start an investigation. I guess no one is ever sure how safe their secrets are.

  My mind spun out a tale. Martin wanted Tim notified because he thought Tim could stop me. Tim, knowing me too well, knew he couldn’t stop me by asking—or ordering—so he employed Joe, who was eager for an easy dollar.

  The right thing, I knew, was to tell all this to Buck Conroy, but I also knew I wasn’t going to do that. He’d laugh at me for spinning theories in the air. I could hear him say, “Conjecture, Kelly, all conjecture. We can’t go anywhere with that. Doesn’t prove Martin killed Marie Winton.” And, of course, it didn’t. It just meant I was getting closer.

  Maybe I should tell Mike—but he’d lecture me again about getting involved where I shouldn’t and putting myself in danger. In a way, if Martin was
that desperate and had such bad friends as Joe implied, I really was in danger. That thought sent me down the hall to check again on my sleeping daughters.

  I didn’t get much sleep that night. About three o’clock in the morning I sat bolt upright in bed. M.W.M. wasn’t Marty’s initials—it was a wishful monogram on Marie’s part. It stood for Marie Winton Martin. It hadn’t dawned on me before. Mr. Martin was called Marty as a nickname from his last name, not his first, like my uncle who was called Mac because his name was MacBain. Sure didn’t help solve the mystery though.

  ****

  Next morning I went to the office but couldn’t keep my mind on what I was doing. I was drawing up the papers for Mrs. Wright, when Jo Ellen North called. “I just wondered if you’d changed your mind yet about selling me that house yet,” she said, her voice cold.

  I might be afraid of her, but I wasn’t going to let her bully me. “No, Mrs. North. I’ll let you know when that house is finished. In the meantime, I have some other houses to show you….”

  “I’m not interested,” she cut me off. “You’ll change your mind.” And the phone went dead.

  Was that a threat? It sounded enough like one that, acting on impulse, I called Mrs. Wright. “I’ll have the papers done in about an hour,” I said, “and I’ll bring them by if that’s convenient. And, Mrs. Wright, if you want to see that house on Fairmount, in its current condition, I’d be glad to show it to you—perhaps tomorrow? I have a couple of others for you to look at too.”

  “Lovely, my dear. My husband can look at the papers tonight, and I’ll get them back to you tomorrow. Then you can put your sign in our yard—I’ll feel like that’s real progress.”

  “What time would be best for you tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Let me just look at my calendar—oh, dear, I have a long boring luncheon to attend tomorrow. I suppose two o’clock makes it difficult to pick up your girls.”

  “I can have someone else pick them up, I think,” I said. “I’ll check tonight and let you know.”

  The papers were ready, but I thought it best to give an hour’s notice. So there I was, an hour on my hands, and nothing but the mysterious Mr. Martin on my mind. Just to get my mind on something else, I decided to call Claire Guthrie and see how they liked the house.

  “Oh, Kelly, I’m so glad to hear from you. We love the house. We haven’t done a thing to it; you left it in such perfect shape. We have some remodeling plans on down the road, but we’re very happy. Can’t you stop by for coffee?”

  “Now?” I squeaked.

  “Well, sure, if you have the time.”

  “I have an appointment close to you in an hour, so yes, I’d love a cup of coffee,” I said.

  “The pot’s on. Come right over.”

  It was weird to walk into the house I’d lived in for so long and see someone else’s furniture and paintings and, well, just everything. The house even smelled different, maybe Claire’s perfume, who knows? It was, subtly, a different house—and being there didn’t make me sad at all.

  We settled at the kitchen counter with coffee, and Claire asked how the real estate business was going. I told her about the house on Elizabeth Boulevard and my hopes for a big sale.

  “Well, we like it here so much, I’m telling all my friends they should move to Fairmount,” she said. “And I’m recommending you as an agent.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said, hoping she meant it and that it wasn’t just empty talk.

  As the conversation lagged a minute, I asked, “Do you know a woman named Jo Ellen North?”

  Claire laughed. “I know who she is, but she wouldn’t know me from a fly on the wall. She’s way above me socially—or thinks she is.”

  “You mean she has pretensions?” I asked with a grin.

  “More than that. She knows she’s better than anyone else. And I’ve no idea why. I hear there’s something funny in her family background, like her father was in jail for tax evasion or something.” Then she laughed again. “Listen to me, I’m nothing but an old gossip.”

  I filed her gossip away in my mind, even as I said, “Well, definitely not old.” I hesitated. “Do you know an older man named Marty?”

  She shook her head. “Never heard the name. Who is he?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure out the skeleton business about the house on Fairmount, and his name came up. Mrs. North wants to buy that house. In fact, she wants it so much that it’s scary—and suspicious.”

  “Why, Kelly, it sounds like you’re in the midst of a mystery.” She laughed again, and I tried to laugh with her.

  We chatted on, exchanging news of each other’s daughters—hers were in high school, and she was dreading the next year when the oldest, Megan, went away to college. “I’m hoping she’ll go to TCU. She might be in the dorm, but at least she’d be close by, and I wouldn’t be as frightened as if I left her on that huge UT campus.”

  “I can’t even imagine the day,” I said. “I’m still dealing with day-care, for heaven’s sake.”

  “It’ll go by before you know it,” she warned, and I knew she was right.

  As I left, we promised we’d get together for lunch soon. Driving the short distance to Elizabeth Boulevard, I realized that neither of us mentioned her husband. I wondered if he liked the house as well as she said he did.

  I handed Barbara Wright the papers without going past the front door and then promised I’d be back at two the next afternoon, unless she heard otherwise from me.

  I looked at my watch. It was noon. I went to the Grill, ordered a cheeseburger, and then before the check was written changed that to a Caesar salad with chicken. Keisha would be so proud. I ate my salad at one of the tall tables in the front room, where you sat with your legs dangling from chairs that are barstool height. It is a great place for watching the people who come in, but nobody I knew came that day.

  Chapter Fourteen

  That night I called Theresa to ask if she and Joe could pick the girls up from their schools the next day and stay with them until I finished an appointment. “I can do it, Miss Kelly, but Joe, he has a job interview tomorrow afternoon. He’s going to the YMCA in Wedgwood, where they have lots of after-school programs and such for young kids.”

  “Theresa, I know you can take care of the girls alone, but how will you get them from school without a car if Joe’s busy?”

  “I’ll take Joe to his appointment and then get the girls. Joe can take a bus—or wait for me, his choice. He won’t mind.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Miss Kelly, I’m sure. You go on to your appointment, and don’t worry.”

  “I’ll leave Em’s car seat at the office for you and tell Keisha to expect you.”

  I told the girls Theresa would pick them up, which elicited from Maggie the comment that Theresa was more likely to be on time than I was and from Em a question: “Isn’t Joe coming too? I want him to. I like Joe now.”

  Fickle woman. “Joe may come by later.”

  ****

  Anthony called the next morning, but I wasn’t worried. The days of Anthony calling to report bad things were over. Wrong.

  “Miss Kelly? Someone broke into the house last night.”

  I thought I might cry, just put down the phone and sob. Had Joe been playing me for a fool? And Theresa? “How bad is it?” I asked and almost put my hands over my ears so I wouldn’t hear the answer.

  “This was something different,” he said. “This was a professional, someone looking for something. He picked the lock on the back door and was methodical about going through the house. Pried panels off the fireplace, left the spice rack swung out so I know he looked there. But it wasn’t vandalism—it was a deliberate search.”

  The diary. Of course, someone was looking for the diary. Before I could say anything, Anthony asked, “You still got that diary?”

  “Yes. It’s in my closet. With the move and all, I just sort of moved it and forgot about it.” Well, I didn’t for
get, but I tried not to think of it because I didn’t know what to do with it.

  “You should have given it to Mike,” he said sternly.

  “I know, I know. But it’s such a personal thing. I hated to hand it over to the police and have it tagged as evidence and thrown in a bin. Now…well, if I give it to them now, Mike will be furious. And, honest, Anthony, there’s not one helpful thing in there.”

  “I’m afraid, Miss Kelly. Whoever wants that diary, wants it bad. And they might come after you next.”

  “Or you, my friend,” I said. But it was a disturbing thought. As I hung up, I remembered Jo Ellen North’s extreme interest in the fireplace. It all fit together, but I wasn’t getting the picture. I was missing something, and I didn’t know what.

  I went home to check that the diary was still hidden and considered putting it in a safe deposit box. I’d think about that tomorrow.

  At two that afternoon, I picked up Barbara Wright. She was dressed in stylish pantsuit, brightened by a floral silk scarf that I knew came from Neiman Marcus. Her shoes were Ferragamo and her bag, Louis Vuitton. Barbara Wright may have been comfortable in sweats, but she knew how to dress right when the occasion called for it. I was glad I had worn a bright red embroidered jacket from Coldwater Creek and sueded silk taupe pants, even though I still had on my serviceable loafers.

  We started with the other two houses, both of which I’d shown Jo Ellen North—the charming Victorian with three bedrooms, a modernized kitchen, and that English garden, although in November the garden didn’t show well; and the brick cottage on College with its open, airy rooms and its ’50s St. Charles kitchen. “I like the feel of the house,” she said, “but I’d need a newer kitchen. St. Charles was the thing in its day, but I cook too much—and entertain in the kitchen. We’d have to do major remodeling here.”

  Both houses, she said, interested her in one way or another, and she was glad she didn’t have to decide that day. “Now let’s go to Fairmount.”