A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (27 page)

By early afternoon, we were ready to tackle the most pressing of the weekend errands. We set out to do the grocery shopping at the local Stop ‘n’ Shop and managed to get that done fairly amicably. I had long ago learned to split up the list and take separate carts so he wouldn’t be hovering over me and second-guessing my every choice. It wound up being a little bit more expensive, since we might wind up getting both black and Spanish olives, instead of one or the other; but at least we didn’t have to stand there debating our preferences in the aisle before one of us deferred to the other.

We loaded up the car and considered lunch options. A sandwich at the diner now, or a trip to visit the swan family at the Spring Street Pond, followed by coffee and Italian cookies at Modern Pastry on Franklin Avenue? We opted for the latter and headed for the pond.

“There they are!” I leaned forward eagerly, camera at the ready, as Armando drove slowly along the sandy road next to the grass verge. The splendid weather had brought easily a dozen visitors to the pond this afternoon,
who
were busy ignoring the “Do Not Feed the Animals” sign and pitching all sorts of bread, popcorn and other dreadful stuff to the waterfowl.
At the very
leas
they could put down cracked corn,
I fumed silently, but there
was apparently no convincing people
that they were doing more harm than good with their offerings. I shook off my irritation and concentrated on capturing the entire swan brood in one photo, but the cygnets wouldn’t cooperate. Along with the ducks and a few geese, they kept lunging for the limp bread and other garbage that would gum up their digestive tracts and keep them from foraging for the pond greens and other nutritious natural food available to them.

“They are becoming little beggars, are they not?” Armando, too, looked sad. “I do not like to see them so dependent on, how do you say it, handouts?
Especially when this food is not good for them.”
He opened the door on his side of the car. “Give me the camera,
Cara
. Your ankle needs a rest. Perhaps I will have more luck from outside the car.”

Although my ankle wasn’t bothering me, I was happy to turn over photography duty to Armando. As he tried to get a better angle, a jogger with a large, golden retriever on a leash ran by the group of spectators. Predictably, the excited dog began to bark, and the water fowl on the bank immediately dispersed.

The large cob went into defense mode, raising his wings and back feathers while lowering his head. An ugly hiss was directed at the retriever, regardless of the fact that he and his master had passed by without incident, while the pen herded their young ones back into the water. The little flotilla was soon foraging peacefully by the far bank, and Armando snapped two pictures for Emma’s weekly swan report. “Did you see how the littlest one tips up like a teapot when he feeds underwater instead of just dipping his neck down like the others?” I commented as he got back into the car.

Armando smiled. “I thought you would notice that. Yes, he has to do things a little differently than the rest of them. Perhaps his neck is not yet as long as theirs are, but he will catch up. In the meantime, he will do what he must to survive.”

As we watched, the mother swan and three of the cygnets dipped their heads below the surface, where a particularly lush growth must be. The fourth youngster dunked his head, as well, but in order to reach the greens, he went from horizontal to vertical, tail feathers waggling. His parents seemed entirely unconcerned by his unconventional approach to dining, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Among water fowl, as among human beings, adaptability and compromise seemed to be important keys to
survival,
I told myself and grinned at my mate.

“Italian cookies or
cannoli
for lunch?”
I asked, and we were soon on our way to the famous

Franklin Avenue
bakery, where we enjoyed fresh coffee and delicious pastry. As always, we shared space at the homey, old-fashioned counter with a cross-section of the neighborhood, including a young couple and their infant son, who kept us entertained with his cheerful
gurglings
. After a pleasant half hour or so of coffee and conversation, we paid our ridiculously reasonable check and made our farewells to the other patrons.

“Do you suppose Emma or Joey will ever make us grandparents?” I wondered aloud as we got back into the car for the trip home.

“Unless we are married, you are the only one who will become an
abuela
,” Armando responded, ever the stickler for accuracy. “But should that day ever come, at least I will know where to order the wedding cake.”

The ride home passed in companionable silence. Our satellite radio was tuned to the symphony channel, and I was thrilled to be treated to one of my all-time favorite pieces, the “Bach Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.” The transcription for large orchestra had its charms, but nothing gave me goose bumps like the original composition for the organ.

We pulled into the driveway, lost in the final, thundering chords. Armando pushed the remote garage door opener and pulled the
Altima
inside. “Just worry about getting yourself safely up the stairs, and leave the groceries for me to unload. I will go and check the mail.” So saying, he let himself out of the car and headed back down the driveway to the mailbox.

Still glowing from the music, I gathered my purse and pushed myself out of the passenger seat, awkward in my
aircast
. From out of nowhere, Van Man materialized in front of me. I was minimally aware that it must be he from the way he was dressed. He wore the same windbreaker and jeans as he had the day before, although the knitted cap was noticeably missing. He also seemed to be much older than the
Henstocks
had estimated.

The majority of my brain cells failed to make the switch from contentment to alarm. It seemed so improbable to be confronted by my assailant in my own garage in the middle of such a lovely afternoon. And where was the van? I frowned at him vaguely.

“Please,” he said. His face, haggard and unshaven in the daylight, was ashen, and his left arm hung limply at his side. He made no move toward me, but his eyes sought mine. “Please,” he said again.

On his way back to the garage to get the groceries, Armando saw the stranger and stopped dead, the mail unheeded in his hand. It took him two seconds to replay the events of the past twenty-four hours in his head, conclude that this must be my attacker, and charge to my rescue. He dropped the mail and tackled Van Man from behind, wrapping both arms around his throat.

Still cushioned by disbelief, I watched the scene unfold. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to fumble for my cell phone in my purse. If one of us was about to get shot, it seemed prudent to call 911; but Van Man made no move to produce a weapon. In fact, he put up no struggle whatsoever and began to totter in Armando’s unwilling embrace. Before I could decide whether to call the cops or try to help Armando bring him down, the intruder made the decision for me. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell backward in a dead faint, bringing Armando down with him on the garage floor.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” commented our neighbor Mary. She stood in the open doorway holding our dropped mail in one bony hand. “It’s always something with you two. Who’s this guy now?”

“We’re not positive, but we think it’s the same man who tried to break in here last weekend,” I responded automatically. “Do us a favor and call 911, would you, Mary? I need to help Armando.” I handed her my phone and crouched down next to him. “Are you all right?”

“Ouch,” he said succinctly.

 

* * *

“Hey,
hombre
, how’s it going?” The young Latino EMT who had checked me out earlier in the week greeted Armando on the way into our condo twenty minutes later. Sitting in the overstuffed armchair with an
icebag
held against the impressive lump that had bloomed on the back of his head, Armando lifted a hand briefly in acknowledgment. As I stood in the front hall surveying the group assembled in my living room, I wondered sourly how many other people in town were on a first-name basis with fully half of the police force and several of the volunteer paramedics. As grateful as I was for their help, it wasn’t a distinction I relished.

Once again, our driveway was crowded with emergency vehicles, red lights
strobing
. I could only imagine the entertainment we were providing the neighbors. Based on Armando’s Colombian ethnicity, some of them probably assumed we were running a drug cartel out of our kitchen. A few of the more intrepid spectators were gathered across the street with Mary, who obviously delighted in her role as first-on-the-scene. Well, I sighed inwardly, at least she could set them straight on the drug thing.

I turned away from the front door and backed into the kitchen to make way for the EMTs, who were negotiating the hallway with Van Man strapped onto a gurney. He had recovered consciousness only briefly after Armando had thrashed his way out from under him in the garage. In perhaps the most surreal sequence of the afternoon, we had found ourselves helping the assailant up the stairs into our house, where he sagged into unconsciousness once again on the living room sofa. Whatever his actions had been earlier in the week, he was clearly unarmed and on his last legs this afternoon. Simple humanity required us to offer him minimal assistance until the professionals arrived. Although I had acted purely to defend myself, I couldn’t help having a twinge of conscience when I realized how badly the man’s arm was hurt and how great a toll the pain had taken on him.

At least it hadn’t taken long to give the police my statement this time. After turning over the suspect to them, what was there to say? He had appeared from nowhere, said “please” twice, and passed out, taking Armando down with him. “Please what?” asked the young officer taking careful notes.

“I have no idea,” I replied honestly. “That was the extent of his conversation. When he came to, we got him into the house and onto the couch, and he passed out again. He offered no resistance and absolutely no information.”

“And he didn’t threaten you or Mr. Velasquez?”

“Not me, certainly, and I don’t think you can count passing out on top of Armando as a threatening move. Of course, Armando may feel differently about it.”

The look Armando threw me might have qualified as life-threatening, but he kept silent. I missed John
Harkness
and Rick Fletcher, whose senses of humor had humanized former such sessions. This fellow was as buttoned-up as they come. He finished writing and slapped his notebook shut. “Thank you, Ma’am. We’ll need you to come down to the station to sign your statement and formalize the charges against this man.”

Strangely, considering the events of the past week, a reluctance to file charges overcame me. What had this man actually done to me, besides frighten me half to death? Now that I had seen his face and witnessed him lying unconscious on my sofa, he had become more of a person to me than an assailant. My fear of him had been replaced by curiosity about what had made him behave so menacingly. For the moment, however, I kept my misgivings to myself, not at all sure that this officious youngster would understand them.
John would,
I thought sadly.
Rick would.
And then, affectionately,
Armando will.

“What will happen to him now?” I asked the officer.

“The
perp
?
He’ll receive medical attention at Hartford Hospital and probably go into a secure infirmary. When he’s
compos mentis
, he’ll be informed of the charges against him, arrested, and have an opportunity to contact an attorney.” He got to his feet. “We’ll be in touch.”

The officer and his partner, who had been across the street taking Mary’s statement before the interested crowd, followed the emergency medical van out of the driveway in the gathering dusk. I gave Mary
a thumbs
up and closed the front door firmly. I had had all the visitors I could stand for one afternoon. I trailed back down the hall to where Armando still sat in the living room. “So?” he said conversationally.

“So what?”
I responded forlornly.

“So what is going on in that head of yours? I know it is something. Spit it out.” He punched up the icepack and returned it to the back of his head.

I couldn’t help smiling at how well he knew me.
“
Muy
macho, eh hombre?”
I twitted him. “It’s not every man who can take having a two-hundred-pound assailant pass out on top of him. You are definitely my hero.”