A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (21 page)

I also knew that he was capable of maintaining his chilly reserve for days. He was a
sulker
. I tended to flare and cool in rapid succession, but Armando could nurse the coals of his anger for quite a while. Frankly, it was one of his less attractive traits. When we had lived apart, it was easy enough to tolerate his pouting. I just went about my business and waited for the thaw. Living under the same roof made things more difficult.
Too difficult?
I wondered.

A glance at the clock on my night table confirmed that it was only quarter past ten o’clock, the shank of the evening for those under thirty, so I did what I often did when I felt abused and abandoned. I picked up the telephone and punched the speed dial code for Emma. Within moments, I had the comfort I needed, with Emma laughing so hard that she had to go find a tissue for her streaming eyes. She knew Armando well, too.

“I can just picture you going ass over teakettle down those stairs and Armando’s face when he heard you’d gotten yourself locked in that creepy cellar,” she gasped. Then, more soberly, “I’m sorry you’re banged up and hurting, but Momma …”

I waited for her to express concern that I might well have broken a hip, but no.

“…
you
might have killed poor old
Lavinia
!” And she was off in more gales of laughter.

“Thanks for your concern,” I said when she came up for air, “but poor old
Lavinia
is a lot tougher than she looks. It’s that dog who was in danger of my murdering him.”

“How on earth did he manage to shut the door anyway? You said he’s not very big.”

I gave it a moment’s thought. “I’m not sure. He was so excited about his basement
adventure,
he was running around like crazy. I actually thought he had gone into the kitchen for a drink of water, because he seemed to quiet down, but then the door slammed shut. I mean, it had to be Henry. There was no one else in the house. Or maybe a breeze from the open window in the parlor blew down the hall and caught the door just right.”

I stopped as two unwelcome memories surfaced. The first was my wrestling the parlor window shut just before
Lavinia
and I had headed for the basement. The second was the image of the kitchen door standing open to the evening breeze when I had arrived at the
Henstock
house. I decided to keep silent until I could consider the implications with a clearer head.

“Anyway, bad luck, Momma. So what else is new?”

Our conversation wandered into the more familiar territory of speculation about Joey’s budding relationship with Justine and Emma’s chafing under the never-ending surveillance of Officer Ron. Like mother like daughter, I supposed, amazed yet again at the characteristics that seemed transmittable via the gene pool. On that disquieting thought, our conversation ended, and I slipped into as deep a sleep as my aches and pains would allow.

Eleven

As always happens with fall injuries, I awoke before dawn the next morning hurting in places I hadn’t even known I had before my fall. Not only were my head, elbow and ankle throbbing as excruciatingly as expected, but new twinges in my hip and back had joined the chorus of pain. I groped for the bottle of ibuprofen next to the bed and washed down three tablets with a mouthful of cold tea, then lay still to await whatever relief they might provide.

By some miracle, I fell back to sleep, or perhaps I passed out. Whatever the cause, the respite was welcome, as was the mug of hot, strong coffee Armando brought me at seven-thirty.

“Thank you, thank you,” I gushed gratefully, struggling to sit up. He set down the mug, grabbed me under both arms, and hauled me to a sitting position, none too gently. “Thanks again,” I said dryly as he pushed pillows into place behind me and handed me my coffee.

I had expected him to stalk coldly from the room after performing these duties, but he surprised me by sitting down next to me on the bed. “Now,” he said, “perhaps you will be good enough to let me know what the hell has been going on.”

Before last night, I might have been tempted to go on with my little white lies of omission, as I thought of them, but one look at Armando’s face made me give it all up. No, he would not understand why I hadn’t told him about the man in the van and the fright he had given me the weekend before Armando moved in. Yes, he would obsess over my once again being embroiled in some sort of intrigue involving a religious lunatic who had apparently taken issue with something that Margo,
Strutter
or I had done that offended him. And possibly, he would not forgive me for not telling him about everything that had occurred over the last week. Armando was Armando. We didn’t think the same way about everything, and I didn’t always love what he did, but I loved him, and he loved me. If we were to make a life together, such secrets would not do. It was time to tell it all and let the chips fall where they may. So, I did.

Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. The words poured out of me as I unloaded all of my frustration about being the possible target of yet another unbalanced stranger with a thing for a flower that smelled like
roadkill
, my fears about Van Man, who might or might not be stalking me, and my angst over the
Henstock
ladies and what would become of them if we couldn’t solve this mystery and sell their house for them.

After a while, Armando held up a hand and took my coffee mug back to the kitchen. He returned with a refill and a mug for himself and resumed his seat at the side of the bed, but by the time I finally ran down, he had moved to the other side of the bed and lay next to me, his head cushioned with the sham-covered pillows that matched my floral bedspread. He lay quietly with his half-empty mug of cold coffee on his chest, and the expression on his face was inscrutable.
Probably wondering how quickly he can get the movers back here,
I guessed miserably, but he actually looked more thoughtful than angry.

“So?” I couldn’t help but prompt him.
Best to get the fireworks about my various deceptions over with.

He cut his eyes sideways at me and handed me his mug, which I deposited alongside mine on the bedside table. He rolled onto his side to face me and propped his head on his fist. I turned gingerly to face him, wincing as both ankle and elbow protested this movement. To my astonishment, Armando’s eyes glittered not with anger but with amusement. “So it appears that I am living with Miss Nancy Drew, or how do you call her, the busybody who lives in Cabot Cove, Maine, and finds bodies wherever she goes?”

The comparisons rankled a bit, but I opted not to push my luck. “Jessica Fletcher, who writes mystery novels and must be well into her
sixties
. And I am not a busybody.”

“I see. In your case, the mysteries come to you, not the other way around.”

“Well, yes.”
Mostly
.

“Then it must be part of your cosmic destiny to solve these puzzles, is it not? And I must do what I can to help you,” he added, knocking me completely for a loop. Just when you think you know someone.

I stared at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Armando?”

He lay next to me in his Mickey Mouse tee-shirt and plaid boxer shorts, his customary sleeping attire. His hair was a mess, and he hadn’t yet shaved. In my eyes, he had never looked sexier, and I heartily regretted the injuries that prevented my acting on that thought. Eyes still twinkling, he replied, “I know you very well. You are stubborn and independent, and you will do what you will do. Whatever that is, I will be on your side.” He pulled me close to him and whispered into my ear. “But
Cara
, if you ever conceal from me such a thing as an intruder who may wish to do you harm, I will lock you in a closet and push your meals under the door for a month.” So saying, he reached around me and administered a sharp whack to my backside.

“Hey!”I protested, but secretly, I was somewhat relieved at this return to normalcy. For a while there, I was afraid he had undergone some sort of personality transplant. “Deal,” I agreed, smiling into his eyes.

Abruptly, he released me and bounded to his feet.
“Now what?”
I asked with some alarm.

“Now I’m going to stick your head in the sink.”

“Is that some sort of kinky punishment thing like locking me in a closet?”

He smiled broadly.
“An appealing thought, but no.
I am going to help you wash your hair. There seem to be cobwebs in it.”

* * *

 
“Few things make a girl feel more attractive than having black toes.” Armando had finally gone to work, but only after double-checking the locks on every door and window in the house. We had decided that more than my hair needed washing, so he had helped me in and out of the shower, then into a soft
sweatsuit
that pulled easily over my battered elbow and ankle. For the moment, I was without the
aircast
on my ankle, since I had it packed in
icebags
for the prescribed twenty minutes. It was too warm for socks, so I was stuck looking at my grossly discolored foot. To pass the time and distract myself from the throbbing pain, I was on the phone with Margo, filling her in on the events of the preceding evening.

“Sounds lovely, but it probably serves you right.” I was beginning to resent the distinct lack of compassion I was receiving from my friends and loved ones. “With the secrets you’ve been
keepin
’ from your man, you’re lucky you don’t have two black eyes to match ‘
em
.” I had also told her about my morning confessional.

“Is that some sort of ethnic slur? Because I have it on good authority that only eighty percent of Latino men beat their women,” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Lucky you to have one of the others.
But
gettin
’ back to the matter of last night, why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I was unconscious.”
I could picture Margo rolling her eyes, but she refused to rise to my bait.

“If your phone had been in your pocket, instead of in your purse …”

I had heard that litany one too many times. “So where’s your cell phone?”

“What do you mean, where’s my cell phone? I’m
talkin
’ on it! How big a bump is on that head of yours anyway?”

Damn. “You know I meant where do you keep your cell phone, generally speaking?”

There was a pause during which Margo decided whether to lie like a rug or tell the truth. Since she knew I was perfectly aware where she kept her cell phone, she opted for the latter. “In my purse, as you well know … but when I leave my purse behind, it goes right into my pocket. What good is an emergency phone if it isn’t with you in an emergency, I’d like to know?”

“Okay, okay, you win, but I wasn’t expecting an emergency,” I finished lamely.

“Nobody ever does, Sugar. That’s exactly my point.” Wisely, she changed the subject. “Are you absolutely certain it was that yappy little dog that pushed the cellar door shut?
I can’t imagine my
darlin
’ Rhett
doin
’ such a silly thing.”

I had to admit that I was not at all certain, and since I myself had closed the parlor window before the door incident, the theory about the breeze having caught it didn’t really work either. I mentioned the kitchen door through which
Lavinia
had admitted me, then left open to the evening air while we drank too much sherry in the parlor. Margo got quiet, and I could hear the unpleasant alternatives bouncing around in her beautiful head.

“So after
goin
’ to all the trouble and expense of
havin
’ the locks changed,
Lavinia
just left one of the most easily accessible doors on the first floor wide open, is that it?” I admitted that it was, but in her defense, she wasn’t alone in the house. I had been with her the whole time, as had Henry.

“Judging from the commotion he raised when I came to that door, I can’t imagine that he would have been any less alert to another, uh, visitor. He would have barked his head off, just as he did when I arrived.”