Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  At my desk, I tried to marshal my thoughts. I made a “to do” list, topped with replacing the door. Replacing the door. Of course, I had to find Anthony. One glance at my watch, and I knew that if he had a job today, he’d be long gone. I dialed his home, not expecting an answer.

  To my surprise, Theresa answered.

  “Theresa? What are you doing home? Why aren’t you in school?” Then I recovered a bit of common sense. “This is Kelly.”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Kelly. I recognize your voice. I wasn’t feeling well today, and Dad said I could stay home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, relieved at the simple explanation. “Has your dad left?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He went on a job for a friend, about eight this morning.”

  “Do you know where the job is?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He always tells me in case we need him. This is another house in Fairmount—1916 Sixth Avenue.”

  “Thanks, Theresa. I’ll find him.”

  Action, I decided, was better than waiting around. I went to Sixth Avenue. The house was one of the wood ones so common in the area. Right now, windows boarded, front porch sagging, it looked pretty hopeless. I wouldn’t have bought it, and I wondered about Anthony’s friend.

  “Anthony?” I stood outside and called. After three shouts, Anthony appeared around the side of the house.

  “Miss Kelly, what you doing here?”

  “I need a new front door, Anthony. Someone shot mine up last night.”

  “Mother of God!” His hand flew to his head and started raking his hair, though I doubted he realized he was doing that. “Shot?”

  I nodded. “What do I need to do to get a new one?”

  “I’ll go now and measure and then you go pick out the door. You know where you want to go?”

  “Yeah. Old Home Supply on College. I want one that fits the house.” Old Home Supply was a wonderful store where you picked your way through everything to find the treasures. Want some old French doors? They have them to fit hundreds of openings. Old sinks, faucets, chandeliers, glass doorknobs—all of it in a jumble that leaves you bewildered unless you have patience. I once walked by an antique metal couch in front of the store that had a Texas star in the middle of the back and a running horse on either side. I chewed on the thought all afternoon and then called back and asked them to deliver it. It was wonderful on the patio, though I did add a cushion. Old Home Supply was where you found almost whatever you needed for an old house.

  He smiled. “Of course. Let’s go.”

  We climbed into my Camry—a good serviceable car for driving clients around, though I would much have preferred a Volkswagen bug convertible. “Can you leave your job?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a friend. He bought the house for himself. I told him it wasn’t worth fixing, but he’s determined. I’ll work for him when there’s nothing more important.” Clearly, I was more important.

  We were at the house in three minutes. Anthony tsk-tsk-ed over the shattered door, now covered by plywood, and took measurements that he wrote on a piece of paper. He handed it to me.

  “Want to go with me to pick the door?”

  “Yeah, I’d like to do that. I trust you, but I gotta see that it would work.”

  On the way to College Avenue, a short drive, I said, “Tim called.”

  “The husband? Don’t mess with him, Miss Kelly. He’s no good.”

  “He’s heard about what’s going on—the skeleton, the fire, the front door—and he wants to take the girls to protect them.”

  “No,” Anthony said vehemently. “You must not let him. Does he care about the girls?”

  I shrugged and thought a minute. “Yes, I suppose he does, but only as long as they don’t interfere with what he wants to do. Would he use them to get at me? Yeah, I think he would.”

  “Your children,” he said, “are God’s blessing. You got to protect them. How did he know about all that so quick?”

  I looked at him. “I’ve been puzzling on that this morning. I don’t have any idea. There are a few people that might have called him—and they might have seen the pieces in the paper about the skeleton and the fire, but they wouldn’t have known about the front door.” Florence Dodson? I doubted that. Mrs. Dodson didn’t much like men. Dave Shirley, the insurance agent? I hadn’t even called him about the door yet. One of Tim’s old drinking buddies might have seen the skeleton and fire in the newspaper, but the front door….

  He made a fist and rubbed it. “You need me to talk to him, I will.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind. But you don’t think I’m putting the girls in danger, do you?”

  Anthony shook his head. “About that, I don’t know. I’m afraid for you, and if you’re in danger, then those precious girls are also. Why don’t you talk to that cop—Mike what’s-his-name? I think he’s sweet on you.”

  “Anthony, just because we’re both single and about the same age, don’t go matchmaking. Mike’s posted a guard at the house….”

  “Guard? I didn’t see no guard just now.”

  “That’s by design. They don’t want to be noticed.”

  “Oh, okay. But you talk to him anyway. Tell him about Tim. You never know if your ex-husband will do something crazy. I didn’t like him. I got a bad feeling from him.”

  “Me, too,” I said. But I used to feel so good about him. How do people change so much? And which one of us changed? I switched the subject. Just talking to Anthony strengthened me. He was, I decided, one of the most rooted and stable people in my world—and the other might just be Keisha. They were the ones I should have called last night instead of feeling sorry for myself alone.

  “I’m sorry Theresa isn’t feeling well today. I was surprised when she answered the phone a bit ago.”

  “Theresa at home?” There was no denying the surprise in his voice. “She went to school this morning, like she should.”

  My heart stopped for a second. I owed Anthony the truth. “She told me she didn’t feel well, and you told her to stay home.”

  He put his head in his hands. “Miss Kelly, I don’t know what to do with her. She’s…she’s running with some friends I don’t like, maybe even gangers, and she don’t listen to me anymore. I’ll take a strap to her when I get home.”

  No one ever took a strap to me in my life, nor could I imagine doing it to the girls, let alone a seventeen-year-old. “No, Anthony, don’t do that. Talk to her. Find out what’s going on. I’ll help any way I can. Maybe she’d come stay at the house a few days, think things through.” I realized that was a lame offer—if Tim didn’t’ think my home was safe enough for the girls, why would Anthony let his daughter stay there?

  He shook his head. “Okay, no strap. I’ll talk. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  We picked a classic door, twelve panes, beveled glass, good and thick.

  “This will look great when I get it painted,” Anthony said. “What color you want?”

  The old door was brown, to blend with the cream brick of the house. “Turquoise,” I said. “Beautiful, bright turquoise.”

  Anthony smiled. “You got it. I’ll get paint today.”

  Temporarily, both of us put the troubles of the day aside.

  I went back to my office.

  “Your latte is cold, and your doughnut is hard,” Keisha said without looking up. “Don’t send me on a fool’s errand again.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “I had to find Anthony in a hurry.”

  “He fix that door?”

  “He’s fixing…Keisha, how did you know about the door?”

  “Mr. Spencer called.” She waved a phone message at me.

  I wondered again how Tim knew about everything—the skeleton, the fire, the door? I read the brief message, “Arriving 9:00 flight. Will come straight to the house.”

  “What’s that sorry excuse coming back here for?” Keisha asked scornfully.

  Boy, there was a side to Tim I didn’t see when he was in the office. The
people who worked for him didn’t like him. Aloud I said, with some irony, “He’s going to protect me and the girls.”

  “Yeah? You best get yourself a gun—and use it on him first.”

  I called Dave, the insurance agent, who said, “What? Again? Kelly, this has got to stop.”

  His voice told me he didn’t know about the door, so he wasn’t the one who called Tim.

  “Someone’s trying to scare me, Dave. I can’t help it if they do property damage.”

  “They do too much,” he predicted, “and the powers that be will pull your insurance. It isn’t my call. Meantime, I’ll take care of this one. Send me the bill. The deductible applies, of course.”

  I knew he didn’t mean to frighten me, but he had.

  I made some other calls and then called for an appointment to see the Craftsman house Em and I checked out before.

  “You want to come now? It’s not very clean, but I can tidy up before you get here.” The owners were Mr. and Mrs. Adolph Hunt, and Mrs. Hunt sounded both pleasant and anxious to please.

  “How about thirty minutes? Would that give you time to tidy up?”

  “Yes. That would be fine. I’ll see you then.”

  I went to Nonna Tata, a nearby small and intimate Italian kitchen, ate pasta with pesto, and wished for a good glass of wine to wash it down. Then I appeared right on time at the house for sale—and was immediately charmed. When Em and I made our curbside inspection, I didn’t see the curved brick path that led to the front door—no concrete here—nor the antique rose bushes that lined the path. The landscaping was low key, not showy but natural. That explained what Em saw as untrimmed bushes. The main creed of Craftsman architects was to live in harmony with the natural woodwork and landscaping.

  Inside, the house was amazing, preserved almost intact. The oak woodwork was still natural—-paneling, pocket doors, mullions between long narrow window panes topped with small austere squares of leaded glass. Built-in cupboards in the dining room and the external brackets on doorways gleamed with polish and care. The walls were bare of artwork, which emphasized the beauty of the wood. A tiled living room fireplace was flanked by bookshelves with small leaded glass windows over them; the tile was a rust color that blended with the walls. But decorative, multi-colored floral tiles were inset on either side of the fireplace opening. The hearth was also rust-colored tile. Anthony wouldn’t have to do anything to this house. I could sell it as is.

  Mrs. Hunt watched me. Finally, she said, “It’s old-fashioned, I know that.”

  “Old-fashioned,” I breathed. “No, it’s wonderful. You’ve kept it just as it was when it was built—and we don’t see that in many of these houses in this condition any more. May I see the kitchen?”

  “Of course. Someone will want to redo this, I know.”

  “Why?” I asked as we walked through the dining room.

  ‘There’s no place for the refrigerator. It’s on the porch outside.”

  Typical of Craftsman houses.

  The kitchen was updated. I half expected to see a porcelain sink on legs with no storage underneath. The double sink was porcelain, but it had enclosed storage underneath; still it had the traditional double windows over the sink and the built-in cupboards had been retained, with multi-paned glass doors, so that the homeowner was almost forced to keep dishes in neat rows. I thought of my ongoing argument with Tim and now saw his viewpoint—well, just a bit. The stove, a marvelous Aga, European and cast-iron, fit right in with the look of the house—and I knew that real cooks, gourmet cooks, prized those stoves. There was no dishwasher, but I didn’t give that a second thought. I was in love with this house.

  We toured the three bedrooms, one of which was now a comfortable TV/office, mostly because of the addition of built-in bookshelves, stained to match the original wood of the house.

  Back in the living room, I sank into an overstuffed dark leather couch. Mrs. Hunt offered coffee, which I declined though I did ask for a glass of water. When we were both settled, I said, “The house has been immaculately maintained. Can you tell me its history?”

  “I grew up in this house. So did my mother. My grandparents built it. We never saw any reason to change it.”

  I smiled at the comforting tradition those words hinted at. “Why,” I asked, “do you want to sell it now?”

  She shook her head sadly. “I don’t. I’d like to live here until they carry me out, but Adolph…he wants to go to the Hill Country where his family is. He says we’re old and we need someplace small.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what we’ll do with all this stuff.” Her encompassing gesture took in Oriental rugs, massive furniture, books everywhere. “You think anyone will buy it?” Mrs. Hunt’s voice was tentative, doubtful.

  The idea that forming in my mind suddenly sprang forth from my lips. “Mrs. Hunt, I’d like to buy it. Not to sell but for me and my daughters to live in. I’ll pay a fair price, and if you want I’ll take some of the furnishings.” In my mind I was selling a lot of the furniture in my house at a garage sale. This gem of a house, which called out to me, wouldn’t have reminders of Tim—and I could get rid of some of the furniture he’d selected, which never fit into our old house. Someone once said to me, after viewing the modern furniture, “The house isn’t happy.” And I knew it wasn’t. Moving would be like starting life anew. The sale of my house would bring enough to cover the switch to this smaller one.

  “You want to live in it? Why?”

  “Because I think it’s the most wonderful house I’ve ever seen,” I said honestly.

  Mrs. Hunt breathed deeply. “Then I want you to live in it.”

  At my insistence, we would make arrangements for another realtor to handle the sale. I didn’t want any suspicion that I was taking advantage. I would, however, sell my own house myself—and I envisioned a wonderful garage sale as I discarded furniture that reminded me of Tim. For a moment, I regretted the expensive front door I’d just bought that day.

  I floated out the door. For an hour and a half, I’d forgotten about skeletons and fires and shot-gunned front doors and Tim’s immediate threat. I envisioned the girls and myself in this house. I’d have to tell them about not scarring the walls and all, but then they were past the age of writing on the walls with crayons. Life, I thought, is good.

  FIVE

  By the time I brought the girls home, the new front door was in place, gleaming bright turquoise.

  Maggie forgot her frequent determination not to show any excitement about things. “Oh, Mom,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”

  Never wanting to be left behind, Em echoed, “It’s beautiful.”

  “I like it too,” I told them. “I think it brightens the house.” Impulsively I asked, “Girls, what would you think if we moved to a new house.” Even as I said the words, something in the back of my mind told me this was a mistake.

  “I like our house,” Maggie said. “Why would we move?”

  “We could live in a smaller house. And I found one that was lovely. You’ve heard me say that a house reaches out and touches you.”

  Maggie nodded grudgingly.

  “This one touched me.”

  “Is it the house we found, Mommy?” Em asked, clapping her hands in delight.

  “Yes, Em, it is.”

  “Em’s seen it and I haven’t?” Maggie’s jealousy was almost tangible.

  I bent to Maggie and hugged her. “The day Em came home from school because of Sarah and their fight, she and I drove by. She hasn’t been inside, but I’ll take you both inside… maybe tomorrow.”

  After supper, I got the girls bathed—Em still needed help—and in their PJs. I didn’t mention their father’s anticipated arrival, though not doing so made me feel like a coward. The doorbell rang a little before eight, and I realized a disadvantage of the wonderful front door. If Jack the Ripper came calling, I had no place to hide. This time, it was Mike Shandy.

  “Kelly, I’ve got news. Mind if I come in?”

  “Actually, Mike,
I’m glad to see you. Want coffee, a beer?”

  “I’m on duty,” he said, “so coffee. Thanks.”

  While the single cup was brewing I came back into the living room. Mike stood by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. “We heard from the coroner today. Your skeleton—”

  My skeleton?

  “—was a female, between twenty and thirty, about five foot six, probably not overweight.” He paused. “Here’s the surprise: she was about six months pregnant. And, she was shot in the head, almost execution style.”

  I sank down on the couch. Pregnant. Someone killed a baby as well as the mother. “Why would anyone kill a pregnant woman?” Then I remembered a line from a mystery I’d read—love, hate, and greed. Those were the reasons for killing someone. And which was it here? “DNA won’t be much help will it? I mean you could get DNA from the fetal skeleton, couldn’t you?” I hated those words even as I said them.

  “Not really. DNA won’t show us much, though we’ll run it. The victim’s DNA might help us identify her, but DNA wasn’t much used in the early ‘60s, so it’s unlikely hers would be on file. What we need is a lucky break to identify her and then match the DNA to something she wore or used or touch. As for the guy who did this, there isn’t anything left to take DNA samples from that might indicate identity—you can shoot a person from a distance, and that wouldn’t leave DNA. And suppose there was something—semen, or whatever—if the killer had a DNA sample on file, which is unlikely, the DNA was run years after this event, so we’d have to identify the person first. Long story short, it isn’t going to help us.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “She didn’t have a wedding ring on. We’d have found that.”

  “So you think the father of the baby killed her?”

  “It’s a place to start. But we haven’t any idea who he was.”

  “How do we find out?” I asked.

  “We don’t.” His tone was firm, and so was the look on his face. “Homicide does. I’m just a patrol cop, and you’re a civilian. We’re both out of the loop from now on. And I want you to remember that. You’ve already been threatened, Kelly, by someone who’s not afraid.”