A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (16 page)

The need for a medicinal glass of wine overcame my growing despair long enough for me to wrestle two cardboard boxes away from the cupboard that served as my liquor cabinet. Carrying a glass of
shiraz
carefully, I picked my way through the debris into the living room. More cartons, two televisions, and several side tables of indeterminate function blocked the couch. I changed direction and padded silently past the laundry closet and the powder room to my bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was closed, and for a moment, I couldn’t think why. Then I remembered Simon and Jasmine. Poor
kitties,
presumably locked up in here all day.

I opened the door quietly and peeked in. Blessed serenity met my gaze. My neatly made bed with its coordinated floral-print pillow shams and dust ruffle looked as cozy as ever. The colors echoed the brushed velvet upholstery of my sofa, faded with age but still elegant under the windows on the back wall. Among the plumped cushions lay my two old friends, who rose sleepily to greet me. The used litter box and empty
crunchies
dish assured me their basic needs had been met, and I sank down on the sofa to stroke them. For several minutes, I sipped my wine in the late afternoon sunshine and savored the orderliness of my familiar space. A choppy purr emanated from first Jasmine, then Simon. The short hallway leading to my bathroom was flanked by closets. It was blissfully free of clutter, and I knew that the bathroom beyond would be as tidy as I had left it that morning before leaving for work.

From the second floor, I heard muffled thuds and curses as Armando struggled with one piece of furniture or another.
Let the adventure begin,
I observed wryly. I thought of the long, upsetting day Armando must have had – was still having, I amended guiltily, and my heart at last went out to him.
This can’t be easy for him either. At least I get to keep my address and phone number, as well as my bedroom sanctuary. He hates change as much as I do, and
he’s having
to change just about everything.
Spotting the open door, the cats lumped off the sofa and went to investigate the interesting noises drifting down the hallway. I followed them back to the chaotic kitchen, where I poured a glass of wine for Armando and ordered a pizza. Then I climbed the stairs to see what I could do to help.

Eight

Despite the chaotic clutter that threatened to derail my civility, I took the first tentative steps toward establishing a daily route when I arose the next morning at my customary 5:30. I tiptoed into the kitchen, where I brewed a small pot of my half-
caff
coffee, fed Jasmine and Simon, and set out some frozen chicken breasts to thaw for dinner. Then I retraced my steps to my bedroom sanctuary, trailed by the beasts. We shared a blissful half-hour back under the covers while I planned my workday in my head. Returning to the kitchen, I poured my second mug of coffee, rinsed out the pot, and made a batch of Armando’s special
Gevalia
brew while one of his favorite cranberry muffins from the Town Line Diner warmed in the microwave.

I readied myself for the office and tidied my bedroom. At 7:00, when I heard his clock radio click on to his favorite oldies station, I poured out his coffee and took it and the muffin upstairs to his room. Simon snored on the living room sofa, but Jasmine followed me curiously as I carried Armando’s breakfast to him. He looked so vulnerable, curled up under his blue plaid
bedspread, that
I leaned over to give him a good morning kiss. My intentions were good, but the poor man almost suffered cardiac arrest when my lips touched his cheek and Jasmine simultaneously jumped onto his stomach.

“
Whaa
…!” he yelped, jolted out of somnolence. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around himself wildly. When his brain processed the reality of his new surroundings, he managed a bleary smile.

“Sorry, Sweetie,” I apologized. “How did you sleep?” I looked around for a place to put down the coffee mug and muffin. The surface of his bedside table was entirely covered by the clock radio, a lamp, a pile of magazines, his glasses, and what looked like a pile of mail. Determined to ignore it—his space, his rules, I perched carefully on the side of the bed, still holding his breakfast.

“As if someone had hit me with a sledgehammer.
And you?” Noticing that my hands were full, he sat up and pushed things around on the bedside table until there was just barely room for me to deposit my burdens, then sank back against his pillows.

Jasmine, enchanted to find her favorite person in the whole world in her house at that hour of the morning, walked up Armando’s chest, purring, and licked his ear. Armando grimaced and scooped her off his chest, where she settled down next to him. “Who invited you here? I don’t want cat hair all over my bed.” Despite his protestations, he reached out to stroke the old cat under her chin. She squeezed her eyes shut in bliss and raised the volume on her purr.

Armando’s eyes drooped shut again, and I decided to make my exit. He didn’t have to leave for his job at
TelCom
for a couple of hours, so why not let him sleep?

“Don’t let your coffee get cold,” I admonished,
then
gave up. I dropped another peck on his whiskery cheek and gave a thumbs-up to Jasmine, now curled within the protective curve of Armando’s arm. I had faith in her ability to train him as completely as she had trained me in very short order.

Walking the circuit of the Broad Street green before work wasn’t any fun at all without Emma, but with weeks still to go before her return, I knew I’d best get used to it. I completed my solitary lap at the Nathaniel Foote memorial monument,
then
headed toward the Spring Street Pond, where my car and camera awaited. I was well aware that
Strutter
was in crisis mode, and Emma was quite properly going about the business of living her own life, but it really was too bad of Margo to desert me during my domestic upheaval. Armando and I had survived our first night under a shared roof reasonably well, due mainly to our joint state of shock. Mutual exhaustion by ten o’clock had ensured a good night’s sleep, which also helped.
One day at a time
, I told myself.

Still, I felt a little pouty as I scanned the reedy perimeter of the pond, Nikon at the ready. It was anybody’s guess if the swan family would be in view this early, but I had promised Emma regular photo updates, so here I was.

A few geese caught the early sunshine on the bank nearby. A splotch of white caught my eye at the far side of the pond. I stood motionless for a full minute and was rewarded by the first viewing of the day of the swan flotilla. The proud cob led the way—or was it the pen? It was difficult to tell the male from the female unless they were in close proximity. Then his slightly larger size was evident. Anxiously, I counted the
fuzzies
paddling furiously in their parent’s wake. I was fearful that the snapping turtles might have dispatched one or more of the young cygnets, since the duckling and gosling population seemed to have been seriously depleted during the past week. Two … three … four, and the remaining parent brought up the rear. I sighed with relief. I had heard from others that the swans made excellent parents, but until recently, I hadn’t been sure why their young survived far more often than the other waterfowl. Then I had witnessed their dad in action.

One afternoon, as the swan family lolled in the sun on the grassy bank, a foolish goose had wandered over to investigate a crust of bread or some other detritus left by some well-meaning human who didn’t realize how bad the stuff was for the birds. Intent on his trashy snack, the goose had come too close to the dozing cygnets. Papa swan, whose turn it had been to remain vigilant while his missus napped, sprang into action.

In two seconds, he was on his feet and had morphed into a monster swan, puffed out to twice his normal size. He had advanced on the luckless goose in full hiss, wings arched and neck stretched forward menacingly. The transformation stopped the goose cold. He backed off very, very slowly, his prize forgotten. When an appropriate distance had been re-established between the swan brood and the interloper, the cog offered a final hiss, then deflated and returned to preening his feathers as if nothing whatever had happened.

Now I smiled to myself, remembering the scene. Whatever the species, we parents were all alike. If someone or something threatened our babies, we were all capable of throwing an impressive hissy fit. I reminded myself that my baby was expecting an update photo of the swans and hurried to snap one to send to Emma later.

As I passed through the Law Barn’s lobby a few minutes later, I was pleased to hear from Jenny that our disapproving correspondent had apparently decided to skip a day. That was a welcome surprise, as was the sight of Margo curled up in her usual spot on the sofa, checking e-mails on her laptop, as I entered the MACK Realty office.

“Well, hi there, Sugar!” She looked up from her task, the hated reading glasses on the end of her nose, and greeted me
sunnily
, but I was still miffed. “Are you and the Colombian
feudin
’ yet, or are you still protected by cohabitation shock?”

I deposited my purse and coffee mug on my desk and busied myself changing from my walking shoes to office pumps. Hell would freeze over before I would ask about her dramatic exit of the previous morning or how her conversation with
Strutter
had gone. If they chose to keep secrets from me after all we had been through together, then so be it.

But Margo was no fool. Sensing the chill in the air, she promptly set aside her laptop and padded over in her stocking feet to wrap both arms around me where I sat. “Poor Kate,” she murmured consolingly, “abandoned by her nearest and dearest friends on one of the most traumatic days of her adult life. I’m so sorry, Sugar.” She released me long enough to spin my chair around to face her. “You know I’m just
dyin
’ to hear all about it. Give.” She wiggled her impeccably groomed eyebrows at me and crossed her eyes.

I thawed immediately, unable to resist Margo’s silliness, and launched into a full account of the previous evening. Within minutes, we were laughing together about everything from the unbelievable clutter to Armando’s naïve pronouncement about allowing no cat hair on his bed. Margo found that especially hilarious.

“Oh, that is too funny,” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “I give Jasmine two weeks to have that man totally under her spell.”

“One,” I countered, and we were off in another gale of laughter. “Well, this has been very therapeutic,” I sighed when I could speak again, “but now it’s your turn. Anything you’d like to tell me?”

Margo’s expression quickly turned pensive, but she met my eyes steadily. “Honey, you know I’d tell you absolutely
anythin
’, but the fact is
,
you may not want to know this about me. It’s not
somethin
’ I’m proud of.”

“You had an abortion at some point,” I said, careful to keep my tone neutral. “I already figured that out.” I gathered my thoughts and leaned forward to be sure I had her full attention. “Margo, do you have some twisted notion that I’m going to judge you for that? Any woman who came of age during the sexual revolution and
didn’t
get pregnant was either plug ugly or damned lucky. I was lucky. Many of my friends weren’t. Luck of the draw.”

Margo’s shoulders, which had been slightly hunched as if to ward off a blow, sagged with relief. “I should have known better. I
did
know better than to think you’d go all sanctimonious on me, but I’m still very glad to hear you say it.” She dropped back onto the couch and began searching in her handbag for her compact, which she used to make some minor repairs to her eye make-up. Satisfied, she snapped it shut. “
Strutter
knows that, too. After all, she confided in you before me, remember.”

I had to admit that was true.
“So why all the secrecy?”
I couldn’t help but ask.

“Force of habit, I guess. You weren’t raised in a particularly religious family, and your mama and daddy were nice, ordinary, middle-class people. It was easy for you to keep your adolescent escapades private, whatever they may have been. But for
Strutter
and me, it was different.”

“What do you mean?
Different how?”

Margo thought for a moment. “
Strutter
was the daughter of a Baptist minister. From the moment that baby girl could toddle, she was watched like a hawk by every self-righteous member of her daddy’s congregation, just
hopin
’ to catch her
doin
’
somethin
’
embarrassin
.’” She shrugged. “That’s just human nature. You’d better believe that girl was married before Charlie was conceived.” Charlie was
Strutter’s
twelve-year-old son by her first husband, from whom she had long been divorced. “As for me, you know I was married to the mayor of Rome, Georgia’s son in my impetuous youth.
I’ve already told you about his skirt-
chasin
’ ways and how I took my revenge by
havin
’ affairs of my own, to my daddy’s
everlastin
’ disgust.
What I haven’t told you is that a much earlier fling resulted in a very unwanted pregnancy.”