A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (14 page)

“’Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen,’” she read aloud,
then
turned to look at me. “I don’t get it, do you?”

“Well, this one doesn’t sound particularly Biblical, at any rate. Maybe our pen pal is branching out into secular sources. He or she does still seem hung up on this corpse flower, though, and the business about foul odors.
Listen,
don’t touch this one too much.” I held out a fresh zip-lock freezer bag that I had brought for the occasion. “Just drop it in here along with the envelope it came in. Did you find the first two, by the way?”

A worried frown settled on Jenny’s pretty face. “Yes, they’re here. What’s this all about, Kate?” She pulled open her top drawer. Handling the previous letters by their corners, she added them to my pouch, and I slid it shut without touching them.

“I wish I knew.” I gave her an edited version of Saturday night’s attempted break-in, as I had for Armando, but law student Jenny was not to be fobbed off quite so easily.

“So the police are assuming that there’s a connection between these letters and the intruder.”

“Not assuming, exactly. They’re just trying to get a handle on this guy, and these letters are a place to start. There may not be a connection at all,” I told her.

“What about the situation at the
Henstocks
’ house?” she persisted. “Could the fact that
Strutter
saw the skeleton have something to do with the attempted break-in?”

“I don’t see how
Strutter
seeing the remains could result in someone following me. That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“But you were there later. In fact, it was you who brought the police into it.”

“Well, technically, it was Margo who called them, but yes,
Strutter
and I showed up with John
Harkness
in tow. If someone was watching the house …” I trailed off, not wanting to dwell on that possibility. “Anyway, I’ll get these over to the police department, and we’ll see if they offer any clues. Is
Strutter
in yet?” I was anxious to see what her state of mind was this morning.

“No, but Margo came in about half an hour ago. She’s in the office.”

I gave Jenny a reassuring wink and went to collect a mug of coffee before heading down the half-stairway to the MACK Realty office. Despite the early hour, Margo was a picture of pulled-together perfection in a lime green linen
capri
pantsuit. She was curled up on the sofa, high-heeled taupe sandals standing neatly on the floor next to a matching tote. As usual, she was multi-tasking, talking earnestly to a client on the phone while her manicured fingers tapped busily at her laptop. She waggled a hand at me in greeting and brought her conversation to a close as I powered up my desktop computer and began checking emails.

“How did it go with
Strutter
yesterday? Did she fess up to being with child yet?”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that.”
I took advantage of
Strutter’s
absence to fill Margo in on
Strutter’s
dilemma while I zipped through my Outlook inbox, deleting junk mail as I went. I finished my recitation and looked up. I was surprised that Margo had made no comment, but when I saw her face, I grew truly alarmed. She stared unseeingly out the windows behind me, her face a frozen mask of distress. “Margo, what is it?”

She dragged her eyes back to my face. “
Strutter’s
not serious about …
terminatin
’ her pregnancy,” she said finally. Her face was chalky.

“I’m very much afraid that she may be,” I reported. “She is clearly miserable at the prospect, but she seems to believe that an abortion may be the only way to salvage her relationship with John.”

Margo sprang to her feet and paced the carpet without bothering to slip into her shoes. “But …
doin
’ that would most definitely ruin their relationship, doesn’t she see? John would find out one way or another. These things are impossible to keep secret. And even if he agreed with her right to do it, he would look at her differently from that moment on. The damage would be irreparable. She has to tell him, let him help her make the decision, and let the chips fall where they may.” She stopped pacing and demanded, “Where is she now?”

“I’m not sure. At home, I guess. Why?”

Margo reseated herself abruptly, thrust her feet into her sandals, then grabbed her tote bag and jumped back up.
“Because she and I are going to have a conversation right now.”
Halfway up the stairs, she turned back. “Sorry, Sugar, but you’re not invited this time. She needs to have this chat with someone who’s been there and done that and can tell her what she would be
lettin
’ herself in for.” And she was gone.

I sat for a moment, allowing the full implication of her words to sink in.
Poor Margo, poor
Strutter
,
I thought. It’s a choice no woman should have to make. Margo had never shared with me what had to have been a very personal and distressing experience, but it was clear that she was about to confide in
Strutter
. For all of Margo’s exterior
bravada
, she was as tender as a marshmallow on the inside. I knew she could only be doing this in an attempt to spare
Strutter
pain that she herself had already experienced.

The ringing phone reminded me that it was time to get back to running our business, but I had one errand yet to do. I ran back up to the lobby and told Jenny to man the phones as best she could. I needed to get our hate mail into John
Harkness
’ hands, and I wanted to see what, if
anything,
was new on the investigation of the
Henstocks
’ skeleton. The thought of the impoverished old ladies sitting in that great house, worrying about their financial security, was more than I could bear.

On the drive to the Wethersfield Police Station, I allowed the idea I had had a couple of nights ago, but hadn’t had time to explore, to resurface. I had seen only the first floor of the
Henstock
house, but that had been enough to reveal a once-elegant residence. The rooms were high ceilinged and delightfully proportioned. Windows and light were plentiful. Much of the woodwork and molding was still exquisite, not to mention the brass fittings on cupboards, closets, windows and exterior doors.
A variety of hardwood flooring and still-gorgeous, albeit threadbare, Oriental carpets enhanced every room.
The
porte
cochere
and carriage house added exterior interest to a beautifully landscaped property, or at least, it would be beautiful if it got the attention it needed.

Needless to say, everything would benefit from a healthy infusion of cash to make necessary repairs and cosmetic improvements. If only it could house a business of some sort. Maybe it could be a catering establishment that could also host weddings and fundraising events. I had heard that there was a ballroom on the top floor and imagined a small orchestra playing waltz music while elegantly attired dancers circled the floor. The house had once been the
grande
dame
of the neighborhood. She had fallen on hard times, but it was plain to me that the old girl still had good bones.

The irony of that observation under the present circumstances struck me funny, and I started to giggle—that is, until I glanced into my rearview mirror at a traffic light and saw a dark van with a tinted windshield close behind me. The laughter died in my throat, and I gripped the wheel tightly, hardly daring to breathe. I was on the

Silas Deane Highway
, just two long blocks from the police department. The light turned green, and with difficulty, I restrained myself from stamping on the gas pedal. Instead, I accelerated smoothly to a moderate rate of speed, and as the police department driveway came up on my right, I put my blinker on and turned in. Would the van follow?
No, of course not,
I chided myself. If
this were
the man in question, and I had no evidence that it was, this was not a destination to which he would follow me.

The van slid on by the driveway. I eased into the first available parking space and jumped out of the car. By craning my neck, I could just make out the rear of the van, which had been caught in heavy traffic at the next light. I couldn’t read the license plate, but I was almost certain that the left rear taillight had only a partial cover. Or was I imagining that? I squinted into the morning sunlight, but a city bus blew by, totally obscuring my view.

I abandoned the effort and trudged into the police department. A young woman at the desk took my name and punched John
Harkness
’ extension number into her phone. After a few murmured words, she hung up and reported that Lieutenant
Harkness
was unavailable at the moment, but Sergeant Fletcher could see me if I took the elevator up to the second floor.

As the elevator doors slid open, I was greeted by a beaming Rick Fletcher. I had always been fond of Rick. He had been in high school with Joey and Emma, and as a young officer with the WPD, he had helped me out of more than one tight spot. “Sergeant Fletcher, is it now?” I twitted him. “And when did this promotion take place? Not that I ever had any doubt that you would one day get the recognition you deserve.”

“About a month ago, Ms. Lawrence, thanks. Come on down to my cubicle. The Lieutenant is out trying to track down that plumber who found the body at the
Henstock
house, but he said you would be coming by with some letters. Are these the ones?”

I handed over my freezer bag and took the chair next to his desk. “Yes, and we added another one to our collection this morning.” I filled him in letter number three. “Today’s quote didn’t seem to be Biblical, but I’m not much of a student of the good book, so I can’t be sure. I also have no idea if these letters and my would-be intruder are connected in any way. It’s entirely possible that we’re contending with two crazies here.”

Reluctantly, I told him about the black van behind me on my way here. “But honestly, Rick,” I concluded, I don’t know if it was the same van. With one thing and another, I’m so on
edge,
I’ll probably be seeing black vans around every corner for a few days. It seems as if every workman in New England drives one.”

“
Mmm
.”
He looked up from his examination of the accusatory clippings, which he handled carefully with some sort of
tweezer
device he pulled from a desk drawer. “Well, it’s a long shot, but we’ll try to lift some fingerprints off these and run them through the system. I don’t hold much hope, but we have to try. And without a plate on that van, we’re pretty much dead in the water there. The broken taillight is purely anecdotal evidence, since that wouldn’t be recorded anywhere.” Noting my crestfallen expression, he quickly added, “But who knows? Maybe the Lieutenant will come up with the
Henstocks
’ plumber, and he’ll turn out to drive a black van with a broken taillight.”

“…
who
used to be a priest and has an odor phobia,” I chimed in. “Yes, that would be perfect, wouldn’t it? Now if only he turns out to have a
record,
and his fingerprints are in the system!” Rick’s phone started to ring, and I got to my feet. “Thanks, I’ll keep in touch. No, no, I’ll see myself out.” I flashed him a smile and headed back to the elevator to face the rest of my day. As it turned out, it had only just begun.

 

* * *

Late that afternoon, the phone rang for what seemed like the hundredth time. Neither Margo nor
Strutter
had appeared, leaving Jenny and me to fend for ourselves. As much as I sympathized with
Strutter’s
dilemma, I couldn’t help feeling abandoned and resentful. I was having a bit of a day too, after all. My stomach had been in turmoil for hours as I contemplated what was happening at my formerly orderly abode and what I would have to face there this evening. Being left to hold the MACK Realty fort was the last straw. I snatched up the phone. “MACK Realty.
Kate speaking.”

“Oh, Kate, I’m so glad you’re still there,” blurted a voice that could only belong to
Ada
Henstock
.” I looked at my watch and saw that it was past four o’clock.

“
Ada
? Yes, the office is still open, although not for long. Actually, I had no idea that it was so late. No wonder I’m hungry. What can I do for you?”

Ada
lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It’s
Lavinia
. Frankly, I’m becoming quite concerned about her. All of this business about the skeleton in the basement, you know. She’s become quite agitated, worrying about what’s to become of us if we are unable to sell the house. I wonder …” She paused.