by Lois Winston
“They didn’t anyone to see them in front,” Anthony said. “Punks.” He spat in contempt.
“What’s inside?”
“Come. I show you.”
It looked like someone had a paintball fight in the house—bright colors were smeared all over the walls and floors. I reached out to hold on to Anthony and keep myself from falling in shock.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Anthony said. “We hadn’t painted the walls yet, and we can cover that, use Kilz if we need to. And we haven’t refinished the floors. But it’s the idea that someone did this. Why did those punks do it?”
“How do you know it’s punks?” I asked.
“Didn’t you say before that you had phone calls from someone who sounded young?”
I hung my head. “Yeah, and I had another phone call last night. The caller warned me to leave the mystery of the skeleton alone. But why do young punks—your word, not mine—care about whether or not we solve the mystery of a skeleton forty years old?”
“Because somebody is paying them,” Anthony said sagely,
I told myself if I stopped investigating, the vandalism would stop and the girls would be safe. Simple solution.
The police were perfunctory. “Hard to catch people like this. Best you can do is secure the house.”
I thought we had. But after the police filled out their report and left, Anthony and I huddled. I called the electrician we used and arranged for motion sensitive floods all around the house. Anthony described the doors that should go on the house and went off to Old Home Supply to buy them and then to Home Depot to buy deadlocks. And he bought enough plywood to cover the windows—from the inside, where it couldn’t be pried off.
“We finish,” he said, “this place be like a fortress.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling exhausted. I wondered if anyone would miss me if I snuck home and took a nap at noon. I got in my car to drive, reluctantly, back to the office.
“Phone message,” Keisha said, handing me a pink slip.
It was Claire Guthrie. With trembling hands, I dialed the number. Of course, they didn’t want the house—with a belligerent ex-husband and a policeman who arrived talking about skeletons.
“I want your house,” Claire said, “but Mr. Guthrie is uncertain after everything that went on last night. Can we meet for lunch, and you can explain it to me? I think I can persuade him.”
I grasped the phone. Haltingly, I managed to say, “Lunch would be great. What’s a good day for you?”
“Have you had lunch yet today?”
“No.”
“Let’s meet at Bistro Louise in half an hour. Will that work for you?”
I tried to be nonchalant, though my heart was racing. “Sure. I can do that.”
“Okay. See you there.”
Bistro Louise, owned by a chef, was a high-toned restaurant that specialized in French haute cuisine. I ate there once years before, when Tim was spending money. I remember being appalled that I ordered Dover sole and later found it cost $45.
Claire and I met as though casual friends over lunch, and I managed to hide my agitation. I ordered the Salad Niçoise, and Claire ordered the sautéed flounder. I admired her panache. After five minutes, it wasn’t hard to forget my agitation. I liked her.
“Okay,” she said bluntly, “tell me what all that was about the skeleton.”
I did my best to tell the story, leaving out the vandalism at my house and making it sound as though everything revolved around the house being remodeled. As for Tim, I shrugged, said I was getting a restraining order, and he’d probably eventually go back to California. “He wants the girls,” I said, “but he’s not getting them. He doesn’t really care about that house.”
“My goodness,” Claire said, “you do lead an exciting life. But I have to tell you I’ve been through it too. I know all about it. Not the skeleton, of course, but the ex-husband. I have one who’s nasty, nasty.” And she was off telling tales that honestly did include a kidnapping attempt. “He went to jail,” she said complacently. “Now, let’s talk about happier things. How did you get into your business, and where are you moving?”
So I told her about my love of old houses, and I dwelt on the Craftsman house I was buying until I was afraid she’d want it for herself. But she didn’t. Instead she switched the talk to old houses in general and then antiques and we chattered away all through lunch, our talk punctuated by frequent laughs. I could be friends with this woman.
Finally, she said, “About your house,” the words I was afraid to hear, but her eyes twinkled with amusement. “I know I can persuade my husband. Can you write a contract I can give him tonight?”
“What do you want written into the contract?” I asked, trying to keep hesitation out of my voice.
“We want all light fixtures to remain,” Claire said, “and we want some minor repairs done—the light switch in the master bath moved away from the shower, the furnace vents cleaned and inspected. Of course I guess the regular inspection would catch things like that.”
“Yes, it would,” I said with a sigh of relief. “Do you have a realtor?”
“No. I just consulted you. How soon can you close?”
“Thirty days,” I said. “That’s pretty standard, and that’s what the seller asked for at the house I’m buying.”
Claire sighed. “We hoped to have possession sooner—Christmas coming and all that. I don’t suppose you can move it up?”
Holding my breath, I said, “I really can’t.” I’d forgotten all about Christmas coming up. Besides this was only mid-October—Christmas wasn’t that soon.
Claire said, “Well, I guess if we want the house, we’ll have to wait. Maybe we can come through, make plans between now and then?”
“Any time. Just give me a call so I can be sure to be there. You have my numbers.” I took a breath. “I’ll write a contract and present it for your consideration. You’re free to make changes, requests, whatever—the inspection is a regular part of the procedure.” From just one meeting, I was quite sure Jim Guthrie would try to negotiate the price, even though I had said it was non-negotiable. But I didn’t mention that.
When the check came, Claire insisted on picking it up. “Lunch was my idea,” she said.
I thanked her and assured her she would have a contract in her hands by four o’clock that afternoon.
“Aside from real estate,” Claire said, “I enjoyed the lunch. We must do it again soon.”
I made a mental note, as I told her goodbye and thanks, to take her to Nonna Tata.
I hurried back to the office. With Keisha’s help, I had the contract ready to deliver before three o’clock. I sped to the schools, picked up the girls early, and said cheerily, “We have to go to Ridglea to deliver a contract.”
“Ridglea?” Em echoed. “Is that someplace fun?”
“It’s just a neighborhood,” Maggie said loftily, “like Fairmount. Mom’s working, and we have to tag along.”
“Did you have something else you wanted to do?” I asked solicitously.
“My homework,” Maggie replied.
“I’ll get you home as soon as I can. I know you have to do your homework before you go to dinner with your dad.”
Maggie yawned. “Maybe he’ll help me with it.”
I pushed the limit on the west freeway and turned north on Ridglea Boulevard. The Guthries lived in Old Ridglea, a more prestigious area than Fairmount by a long shot, but theirs was a sort of medium house, not one of the large and expensive ones. My house would be a step up for them in size and charm, if not in prestigious neighborhoods. I liked Claire even more for making that choice, and then I grinned about her sure belief that she could get that grumpy husband to do whatever she wanted. She hadn’t seemed at first like the urban pioneer type, but I guess I misjudged her. I was pretty sure her daughters went to private school, so local schools weren’t a factor.
I left the girls in the car while I ran up the stairs and rang the doorbell. When Cl
aire invited me in, I said, “I hate to thrust these papers at you and run, but my girls are in the car, and I have to get them home to go to dinner with their father.”
Claire gave me a look of faint amusement, as though she couldn’t believe I would let that man take my children to supper. I stammered a bit. “They have a nanny who goes with them. She’ll see that he doesn’t put them on a plane to California.”
“Good,” she said. “I’ll have these at your office in the morning,” she said.
Once home, I gave the girls a snack, settled Maggie at the kitchen table with her homework, and asked brightly, “Em, can you help me set the table?”
“Just for you, Momma?”
“No, darling. Mike Shandy is coming for dinner.”
“Oh,” the child said. “I like him. I’d rather stay here with you.” She had about her an air that said the matter was entirely settled.
“No, Em. You’re going to dinner with your father.”
“I don’t want to.” She began to pout, and I knew tears were next.
Maggie jumped in, getting up to hug her sister and saying, “Remember, Em? We’re going to get him to take us to Ol’ South so you can have pigs in a blanket, and Theresa is going to hold your hand.”
Em looked unmoved. “I’d rather stay here.”
“Em….” I gave her a long look and then a smile.
“Oh, okay,” Em said. “But I won’t have fun.”
She’s too young to tell her that life—or even dinner—isn’t always fun.
When Tim came promptly at five, Em greeted him with, “We want to go to Ol’ South.”
Taken aback, he said, almost harshly, “Wait a minute. I’m taking you to dinner. I get to say where we’re going.”
Maggie gave him her sweetest smile. “No, Daddy, we’re going to Ol’ South.”
Over their heads, Tim gave me a dark look as though I’d put them up to this. All I could do was shrug and explain, “They want pigs in a blanket.”
I stood in the door and watched them go down the walk, Em’s hand firmly clasped in Theresa’s, the other woman waiting in the car. I felt a momentary twinge for Maggie, who held no one’s hand.
Mike arrived at six, bearing veal scaloppini, a wonderful fresh salad, crisp garlic bread, and a bottle of pinot grigio. He explained the dinner demanded a light white and could we save my pinot noir for another night. I readily agreed. The table was set, though I avoided candles, thinking they were too obvious and instead slightly dimmed the chandelier over the table. Lamps gave a soft glow to the living area of the room. Miraculously, as least to me, I managed to change into black stretchy pants and a soft ivory silk shirt, with my turquoise hishi necklace with its Navaho fetish symbols draped around my neck. It was a treasure from my only trip to Santa Fe, and I saved it for special occasions. Mike whistled softly, almost under his breath, and I blushed slightly. Actually I felt awkward about this encounter.
“I have some good seasoned goat cheese,” I said. No need to tell him I’d taken the time to make a trip to Central Market. And I’d gotten some more of my chocolate bars while I was there. Hmm. Would I share those with Mike? “Shall we have that and a glass of wine before dinner?”
“Sure,” Mike said. “Give me glasses and a corkscrew, and I’ll pour while you get the cheese.”
When we were settled, we talked idly of nothing, breaking the ice. I learned that he grew up in East Texas on a farm. “Not the dirt poor farm you always think someone’s going to tell you about,” he laughed. “Dad was quite prosperous, but still I couldn’t wait to get away. I studied law enforcement at East Texas State University. Dad always thought, to his dying day, that I’d go on to law school, but law enforcement is what I want to do.”
“On patrol?” I asked curiously.
“Oh, no. I’ll move up to detective someday, but I’m in no rush. I really like working here in Fairmount.”
In turn I told him sketchily and briefly about growing up in suburban Chicago, where my dad was a lawyer and my mom a housewife. “She never had any interests outside the house, but my dad was my best friend. He encouraged whatever I wanted to do, including some hair-raising athletics. He’d be proud of me today.” And I told him how it broke my mother’s heart that I decided to go to the University of Texas—”the University at Champagne/Urbana is perfectly fine,” I mimicked. Then I recounted meeting Tim, moving to Fort Worth, and going into real estate. I didn’t go into details about the divorce.
Over dinner, Mike said casually, “Your girls are lovely. I’m sure raising them alone is hard.”
“No,” I replied, “It’s a lot better having them to myself. I guess in a normal marriage that wouldn’t be true, but it is in my case.”
He was silent, cutting his veal, rolling the pasta against his spoon expertly—a skill I never mastered and much admired. My last comment must have stumped him, so finally I asked, “Mike, what did the detectives find?”
He swallowed and looked relieved. “Seems a woman named Marie Winton lived in the house from 1958 until 1967. They think she’s probably the skeleton. They’re tracking relatives right now to find out if she really disappeared. If she did, they’ll get something for DNA tests.”
I wasn’t sure how to proceed, but the word cautiously came to my mind. “I know about her from city records,” I said. “And during the time she lived there, a company named Martin Properties, Inc. was the owner on the tax records.” I certainly wasn’t going to tell him about Marie Winton’s diary, and I didn’t feel a bit guilty—well, maybe a smidgeon. But I figured whoever made those midnight calls had no idea the diary existed, let alone that it was in my hands.
“Kelly, you’ve been doing what I told you not to,” Mike’s voice was stern, but he didn’t explode.
“Just investigating old records. I’m surprised your detectives didn’t do it sooner. But I’ve sworn off. I’m leaving it up to the police.” And the story of that last call, threatening my girls, came tumbling out.
“Kelly, these people mean business. You not only have to quit prowling around, you have to watch your every step and take extra precautions with the girls. I don’t want them scared, let alone hurt. I’m not even sure Theresa is enough protection. I don’t trust your ex one bit.” He looked so serious, I almost defended Tim.
“Mike, he’s the girls’ father. And he says he came here to protect them. He won’t let anything happen.” I wished I was as sure as I sounded. Changing the subject, I asked, “Hasn’t this been sent to the cold case division?”
He snorted. “Division? It’s two guys, and they have probably 400 cases, lots of them newer than this. It’s on the back burner for them.” He saw the expression on my face and said, “I know, Kelly. And I’m sorry. But that’s how it is.”
I toyed with my veal, until he asked, “What’s Martin Properties?”
It was my turn to shrug. “Darned if I know. I don’t have any idea how to find out who was behind that. All I know is they’re not in business today, nobody in real estate has heard of them, and I don’t know where to go next. But I have a lot of questions.”
“Such as?” He put down his fork and looked at me warily.
“Why would punks, as Anthony calls them, be interested in frightening me away from that house? Especially since it’s already public knowledge that the skeleton has been found. I can see someone wanting to keep it a secret, but now…it doesn’t make sense. Anthony says someone’s paying them, but why?”
“He’s probably right. Maybe if we knew more about Marie Winton, we’d know who’s behind this.”
“Like who killed her?”
“Well, yeah, especially that. But maybe there’s something else in the house you haven’t found yet. Letters, bank statements, some kind of paper trail.”
My mind jumped to the diary that I was determined not to mention. “I can’t take those plaster walls back to studs, and I’m not sure where else to look. But what if I found a diary?” I was sort of testing the waters.
�
�Kelly, leave it to the cops.”
I pushed my pasta around. “I will. I’m scared now, for the first time, really scared.” I paused a minute, the salad speared on my fork frozen in space. “Did you realize Tim already knew about the skeleton the other night when he tried to act so surprised?” Just because I wasn’t digging into the mystery didn’t mean I couldn’t ask questions.
Mike lost his wary attitude and became my co-conspirator. “Yeah, I did. His expression was fake, and he talked too loud about it.”
“And too long. What if it’s the skeleton that brought him back to town pretending to fear for the girls’ safety? I don’t know who told him, but more important why did he make such a fuss about it the other evening?”
“Because I was there?” Mike asked.
“Maybe,” I said thoughtfully, “or maybe to scare the Guthries away from buying my house.”
“I don’t follow. Why would a skeleton in another house scare them away from this one?”
She pushed her plate aside. “Or away from dealing with me.”
“Kelly, don’t get paranoid about this.” Then, changing the subject, “Tell me about your new house.”
I fell for the diversion, describing the wonderful details of the Hunt house.
“I hope I’ll be invited to see it,” Mike said.
“Of course,” I replied, but I wondered just where this relationship was going. So far, I didn’t feel a spark—or maybe with Tim newly resurfaced, I was scared off relationships. But, I told myself, you’re not twenty anymore. You know that relationships grow and develop. The days of instant head-over-heels love are over. I thought fleetingly of Joanie, still searching for that kind of romance.
~*~
Tim actually brought the girls home before eight, but he didn’t come near the house. Instead he let Theresa walk them in. Mike and I were in the living room, sipping coffee.
“How was dinner, girls?” I asked as they both hurtled themselves at me, landing in my lap and sliding to the floor in a jumble.
