by Lois Winston
Eventually I slept, huddled in a knot in the middle of the bed between my girls. But it was not a restful sleep.
Next morning, I was up early, tired but too restless to sleep. I scanned the newspaper. In the “Local Briefs” there was a short piece about the body of an Anglo male, thought to be in his forties—Tim would hate that! He was thirty-eight—found in Trinity Park. The man had been shot, and announcement of his identity was pending notification of relatives. The kind of thing you read in the paper all the time. Feeling ghoulish, I clipped it—the girls should have it someday. Meantime, I’d keep it, maybe laminate it, and hide it away.
But the local TV news had a different story. The victim as identified as Tim Spencer, formerly of Fort Worth and O’Connell & Spencer Realty. I felt a sense of foreboding when I heard that, though I don’t know why. “Mr. Spencer had been back in Fort Worth for about two weeks, though the nature of his visit to the city is unknown. Police report no leads at this time. Anyone with information about Mr. Spencer is asked to call Fort Worth Police headquarters.”
Not a call I’ll be making, I thought. And then, somehow, I thought of Pam Spencer, sitting alone in the Days Inn on West I-30, the freeway. I should have called her last night. Imagine being in a strange town and learning that your husband, the only person you know in the city, is dead. Before the girls were up, I found the number to the Days Inn on the west freeway, dialed it, and asked for Mrs. Spencer. The voice that answered was leaden.
“Pam? It’s Kelly.”
“Oh, Kelly.”
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. Surprised. Scared. Angry. I…I took something to make me sleep, but it didn’t really work.”
That explains the thickness in her voice. “Pam, have you eaten breakfast…or dinner last night?”
A pause. “I ate Taco Bell last night, but after I heard, it didn’t sit well on my stomach. And this morning, I…I couldn’t eat.”
“I’m coming to get you. We’ll have breakfast.”
“No. I couldn’t eat.”
“Eating and talking are what you need. You get dressed,” I said firmly.
I wakened Theresa and asked her if she could watch the girls. “Don’t let anybody in,” I cautioned.
“I know. Not Joe. But my dad? Or Mike?”
I softened. “Only those two. And here’s my cell phone number. Tell the girls I’ve gone to take care of Pam.”
On Sunday morning, the freeway was empty, and I was at the motel in less than fifteen minutes. Pam Spencer was still fumbling with her clothes when I knocked on the door. She opened it hesitantly and then invited me in. The room was messy, with open suitcases and clothes thrown about, the television blaring mindlessly, the curtains drawn against the daylight. I suspected it would have been messy anyway but a police search hadn’t helped, and I could see traces of white powder that I assumed were from dusting for prints. The room also smelled strongly of stale bourbon, and I knew how Pam Spencer soothed her fears and made the frightening time pass. It wasn’t medication—it was bourbon or, God forbid, both.
Pam was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, no makeup, her hair roughly combed. She was younger than me by a good bit but not the pretty young thing I thought Tim would choose. Her eyes were red and her face puffy but that could have been from crying or bourbon, either one. Be fair, Kelly. She hasn’t fixed herself up. She probably usually looks a lot better. Aloud I said, “How about Ol’ South? I know you’ve been there with the girls, and the grease would probably do you some good.” I always heard that grease helped a hangover.
I ordered a German pancake, with all its lemony goodness, while Pam ordered corned beef hash with eggs and two sausages. I tried hard to sit back and let Pam do the talking, but talk wasn’t forthcoming.
“Pam,” I said tentatively, “you’ll have to make some arrangements. Have you called Tim’s mother?”
She looked blank. “No. I thought you’d do that.”
I’m not married to him. You are. “His mother blames me for the divorce. I think the call might come better from you.” Tim’s father had been dead many years, and his mother doted on her only son. Naturally since he could do no wrong, the divorce was all my fault and I stole the girls from him. Bernice Spencer criticized me when we were married, and no doubt the pattern accelerated after the divorce.
“I’ve never met her,” Pamela said dully.
Incredulous, I asked, “How long have you been married?”
“Three weeks. This is our honeymoon...uh, was.”
I wanted to ask the next logical question: how long have you known him? But I didn’t. “Do you have family you can call to be with you?”
“My sister. I guess I can call Ellen.”
“Why don’t you do that? I’ll call Tim’s mom. I’m sure she’ll want him buried in Arkansas. You don’t object do you?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know what else to do.”
In the end, it all worked out, though not in what I would call a pleasant manner. Pam perked up after breakfast and looked enough better that I took her back to the house. Pam called Ellen, and I called Bernice. It was worse than I anticipated. Bernice dissolved into great sobs and demanded to know what he was doing back in Fort Worth and why I was involved. Finally, I assured her I would have the detectives call her and when Tim’s body was released they would send it to the funeral home of Bernice’s choice.
“Released? From what?”
“It was a violent death, Bernice. There will have to be an autopsy.”
“Oh, my poor boy.” More sobs, then a pause. “The girls will come to their father’s funeral.”
I took a deep breath. “No, I don’t think so. It would be too hard on them, and Tim’s been out of their lives for so long, except the last couple of weeks. I won’t bring them, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be there. But Pamela will come.” I prayed that was true.
“I don’t know her,” Bernice sniffed. “But I guess she can come.”
When Bernice hung up—slammed the phone really—I wondered how great a sin it was to have a glass of wine before noon. The girls wandered downstairs and were sitting on either side of Pam, as though trying to comfort her. Their stepmother—odd term that— reached out an arm around each of them, but she apparently didn’t know how to cuddle.
“My sister will be here by noon,” she said.
“Noon? Where does she live?”
“Plano.”
The sister lived an hour away, give or take, and Pam hadn’t called her? I was dumbfounded.
Ellen, a bright, well-dressed woman who oozed capability, indeed arrived about noon. After a glance at Pam, she said to Kelly, “I’ll take care of her. She’ll be fine.” I sensed that Ellen was the in-charge one and Pam was the black sheep of the family. Indeed, this might not be the first time Ellen had “taken care of”’ Pam.
I gave Ellen the information about Tim’s mother and Buck Conroy’s name and number, and Ellen gave me her business card, hastily scribbling the home address and phone number. Then she swept her sister out the door. Over her shoulder, Pam managed, “Thanks, Kelly. You’re a…a good person. Tim was wrong.”
What a note to leave on. I suspected that I’d never see Pam Spencer again, never talk to Bernice Spencer, and Tim Spencer was out of my life once and for all. But what a way to go. I hated the violence, but I felt a deep sense of relief.
ELEVEN
Monday morning early, Buck Conroy showed up at the office. Without a by-your-leave, he sat in the chair opposite my desk and said, in an almost accusing tone, “Pam Spencer has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeah. Guys talked to her Saturday night, then yesterday, late, we went back to talk to her again. She’s checked out of the motel, left no forwarding address. I don’t suppose you know where she is?”
Was that sarcasm I heard? “As a matter of fact I do. Her sister from Plano came to get her yesterday about noon.”
“And you were in
volved how?”
“I went to get her because I was worried about her. Took her to Ol’ South for breakfast—she didn’t eat dinner or breakfast, and she’d had a bit too much to drink Saturday night to calm her nerves.”
“Yeah, I bet,” he said. “You got contact information for the sister?”
I dug out name, phone number, and address.
“What else do you know about your ex’s wife?”
“Nothing. I told you I didn’t think they were married. Oh, I do know they’d only been married three weeks, and this was their honeymoon. And she’s never met his mother. I’m sure all of that is a big help.” I can be sarcastic too.
“Well, the guys told her not to leave town, so I can’t believe she skipped.”
“She didn’t exactly skip. She needed support, and she went where comfort was offered.” I did wonder just how comforting the ever-efficient Ellen was.
“He was killed by a .38,” he said, watching me.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a small gun—about six-and-a-half inches long. Fits in a lady’s purse. And it’s lightweight. Under a pound.” His look was still calculating.
“Does that mean you think I did it?”
“You and the wife are the only ones on the list at the moment, but as I said, no, I don’t think you did it.”
“What kind of a gun killed Marie Winton?” I asked.
He smiled. “.38. Ballistics will have to tell us if it was the same gun. I kind of doubt it.” He got up to leave. Then he stopped and looked at me. “Something going on between your ex and that friend of yours that was there Saturday night?”
“Joanie? No, of course not,” I tried to laugh it off, but I don’t know how successful I was. On the other hand, I couldn’t see that it would do Buck Conroy any good to know that Joanie was pregnant and Tim might be the father. Joanie did not kill Tim—I knew that for sure.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Conroy said. “I thought her reaction was sort of funny. Interesting lady, though,” he mused as he turned to leave.
“Nice fellow,” Keisha said, after Conroy was gone. “I’d sure not be takin’ him home to Mama.”
Keisha was right. Buck Conroy was too rough around the edges.
~*~
Tuesday was closing day, ten o’clock on the Hunt house and two in the afternoon on mine. I was nervous about closing on the Hunt house four hours before the Guthries closed on mine. I knew a deal wasn’t a deal until it closed, and if something happened—heaven forbid—in those four hours, I’d own two houses. Another thought I kept batting out of my mind. Claire Guthrie wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way of owning the house in Fairmount.
Closing with the Hunts went easily. They were as always charming and almost touchingly grateful to me for buying their house. “We know you’ll love the house,” Mrs. Hunt said, “and all we ask if that you write us about it—and you and your family—from time to time.”
I grabbed her hands. “Oh, you must come visit when you are in Fort Worth. I’ll want you to see how much we love living in the house.” I really meant it, and I didn’t plan to change a thing about the house.
Mr. Hunt, more taciturn than his wife, grunted, “We won’t be in Fort Worth much, if at all.”
Mrs. Hunt patted his hand affectionately. “Adolph, we might just come to see Kelly and the girls…and our house.”
“It’s not our house anymore,” he said stubbornly.
Mrs. Hunt smiled gently. “Oh, yes, it will always be my house.”
“It really will,” I said, “and I want you to feel that way.”
The Hunts’ movers were coming on Thursday, and they would be totally out of the house by Thursday night. “You’re welcome to bring things over that evening,” Mrs. Hunt said, even though I didn’t officially get possession until Friday. I thanked her and said I just might do that. I thought I’d bring one significant item—I wasn’t sure yet what—to put in the house and signify possession. Maybe my grandmother’s soup tureen that I kept on a high shelf so it wouldn’t be broken. Now it would go on the top of the built-in buffet, with the mirror behind to reflect how lovely and ornate it was.
Closing with the Guthries was not nearly as pleasant. “I suppose you’ll leave the alarm system on,” Jim Guthrie said.
“Only for a week. I notified them of the change a month in advance or else I’d pay for the full year. I’ve transferred service to my new house, but they’ll allow a week of doubling up.”
“Then you’ll have the code to our house” he asked, while his wife laid a gentle hand on his arm and said softly, “Jim.”
“I have to look after my family,” he said curtly.
“You can change the code any time you want, but there is a charge,” I said just as curtly.
Then he asked, “What if something goes wrong? Say the hot water heater breaks down Saturday night?”
By now, I was fed up. “Then it’s your hot water heater. Mr. Guthrie. The house was inspected by one of the best in the business, and it got a perfectly clean report. None of us can predict when an appliance is going to suddenly go on the blink, but it’s unlikely in this case and if it does happen, it won’t be because of poor maintenance.”
He signed without saying another word, though he cast a glowering look at his wife, who smiled and said, “Jim, you’re going to love living there. And we’ll have room for the children to visit in years to come.”
He looked like maybe that wasn’t an advantage.
The Guthries would take possession on Sunday, and I knew there was no leeway in him. I would have to be out by Saturday night. Goodwill had been called to empty the garage, the movers were coming Friday, and, the Lord willing, it should all go smoothly. By Saturday night the old house would be sparkling clean and ready for new owners. I even hired a cleaning crew to go through it, freeing me from that chore and allowing me to concentrate on the move. I knew without a doubt that I would find a clean house on College Avenue. By Sunday night, I hoped to have Theresa and the girls fairly well settled and be able to get back to work on Monday.
I was a ghost in the office the next few days. “You really work here?” Keisha asked as she handed me a sheaf of messages on Wednesday afternoon when I breezed by about three, on my way to get the girls.
“I have to get us ready to move. Is there anything urgent?”
“Some woman who gives her name as Mrs. North—I guess she don’t have a first name or it’s something awful she don’t want to admit—keeps calling. I told her you aren’t likely to be around much this week, but she said she really wants to talk to you.”
I grabbed the message. “Okay, I’ll call her. Anything else?”
“Nope. Anthony came by for an advance to buy…oh, I don’t know what, but the receipts on your desk.”
I called Mrs. North. A maid answered the phone and said that Mrs. North was unavailable. I told her that I was returning a call but would not be in my office. If Mrs. North needed to reach me urgently, she could call my cell. I left the number. The maid dutifully said, “Yes, ma’am,” and wrote the number down, repeating it back to me.
“Thanks,” I said and hung up the phone. “I’ll be at home if you need me,” I told Keisha. “Unless you’d like to come pack dishes.”
“No, thanks. My mama moved so often I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime. But you have fun. I’ll just stay here and run your business for you.”
I just smiled at her. “Thanks.”
I spent most of Wednesday and Thursday packing boxes. Twice I went back to King’s, the local liquor store on Berry Street where you could go to buy Thunderbird, if you really wanted, or to ask for sophisticated advice for the best wine to serve at a dinner party. They had a huge selection and were free with advice. They were also free with wine boxes, but you had to pick carefully through their discard pile because many were too dirty to use. The clean ones were a good size. Kelly, why don’t you just break down and buy movers’ boxes? Because old, penuri
ous habits die hard. Even habits from the poverty of college and newlywed life.
I showed the girls how to pack their clothes in boxes and made each one pack a suitcase with enough clothes for three days. Each had a bright printed satchel kind of suitcase on wheels, and they thought the whole thing was great fun. The kitchen almost stymied me. I had no idea I owned so many dishes and pots and appliances. I should have sorted better before I had the garage sale. I could sell half this stuff at a second garage sale. Maybe I should donate it to Good Will and take a deduction.
~*~
Buck Conroy interrupted my packing on Wednesday; his first words were an accusing, “You’re not in your office.”
I stared at him. “No, I own the business, and I get to set my own hours. Right now packing to move is a lot more important. What can I do for you?”
“You know Pam Spencer has a record in California? Maiden name’s Martin.”
My ears perked up, thinking of the M.W.M. initials and the lover named Marty. Surely that’s a coincidence. “No, I didn’t know any of that. Why would I?”
“What kind of people was your husband running with in California?”
“I’m sure I don’t know that either. We weren’t in communication very often.”
“Well, so far, it looks like he was dealing with some pretty shady people. I want to check out who he was in touch with here. Subpoenaed the phone records from the motel, but they didn’t tell us much. Couldn’t find a cell phone.”
“He had one,” I told him. Then, “Find out where he was getting money,” I said, “and you may unravel the whole thing, though I don’t know what that would tell you about Marie Winton.”
He shrugged. “Maybe nothing. But you’re right, that might lead us to today’s murderer. Then we can worry about forty years ago.” He sighed in exasperation and turned to leave. “Oh, by the way, the new Mrs. Spencer possessed a .38. We found it in a drawer of undies she forgot to pack. No license, of course, because of her record.”
