Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (21 page)

I followed and found myself seated at a round cherry table, the distressing subtle enough to show that the table a genuine antique and not something bought at store that featured faux antiques. The tea was English, and with it Mrs. Wright served wafer-like chocolate and vanilla cookies. I decided I’d like to live this way.

“How much did you want to ask for your house, Mrs. Wright?”

“My dear, you tell me. But you must call me Barbara. I’m not used to such formality. As for the house, we’ve lived here since 1960. Raised four children. But now it’s time for us to downsize. My husband isn’t able to keep up the yard and all—he’s a lawyer, and he’s tired, ready for an easier life. We’d like to stay in the neighborhood—another reason I called you. I’ve my eye on a house you’re redoing at the corner of Fairmount and Allen. One-story. I think that just might suit us, and it looks comfortable, substantial. I’d like to see it.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s still being renovated and we’ve had some setbacks. It’s not ready to show.”
That house is jinxed. How can two rich people want to buy a house where a skeleton was found?

Mrs. Wright waved a hand. “That’s not a problem. We’re not in a hurry. We’re just thinking ahead. But back to this house. We bought it for a song, and I don’t know what it’s worth today. If I don’t like what you say, I’ll get a second opinion.”

I love meeting easy clients. “I think you should. I would put this house on the market at $795,000.”

The other woman raised her eyebrows. “You would? That much?”

“Well, then you could be prepared to come down a little, but, yes, I’d start there.”

After another sip of tea, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was time to get the girls. “Mrs. Wright, I have to run get my daughters from school, but I’ll run comps on sales on Elizabeth Boulevard, just confirm my price estimate. Then I’ll draw up a realtor’s agreement and bring it by tomorrow morning, if that’s all right. I generally ask a client to stay with me a minimum of three months. I wouldn’t want you to expect the house to sell the first day I put a sign up—this house is special and will need just the right buyer, who can also afford it.”

“I know, dear,” she said, patting my hand. “We’re not in a hurry. Now run get those girls. How old are they?”

As I crossed that huge entry hall, I told her about Maggie and Em and that I was a single parent.

“Oh, my,” she said. “Well, I hope their father helps out some.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “He can’t. He got shot last week,” but I thought better of it.

Her last words were, “Think about showing me that house.”

The idea of showing Mrs. Wright the house scared me, and I knew why—I was afraid of Mrs. North. That instinct came from deep within me. I’d met other society women who perhaps intimidated me, made me feel shabby or awkward or something but never anyone who made me afraid. I was afraid of Jo Ellen North for myself and, even more, for my girls. I drove a little faster to get Maggie from school.

Of course, Maggie was perfectly safe, waiting impatiently for me. Once she was in the car and we headed toward Em’s day-care facility, I asked how her day was.

“Actually,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “it was pretty dull. I can read better than anyone in the class, and I get bored listening to them.”

The corners of my mouth twitched. “Perhaps you could ask Miss Benson to give you extra work… or maybe you could help some of the other children. Why don’t you talk to Miss Benson about it?”

Maggie stared at me. She expected reproof; instead she got encouragement, and she was a bit uncertain what to do next.

Em claimed her day was wonderful. “Look,” she said, waving a large piece of paper, “I drew our new house.”

She captured some of the feel of the house—the pillars on the porch, the curving walk, and the bushes, all of course in primitive terms.

“Why, Em, that’s wonderful. I’ll put it on the refrigerator.”

“No, Mom. It’s so good it needs a frame,” she declared.

“Of course,” I murmured, vowing to hang it in my bedroom.

The girls didn’t ask about my day, which was good, because I didn’t want to tell them about going to court with Joe. The thought of Joe made me rethink Tim’s California connection. Joe could have called Tim. He knew him from working with Anthony, but why would Joe call?

That night I called Theresa, ostensibly to ask how she was.

“I’m okay,” she said. “Joe told me what you did today. Thanks.”

“Is Joe okay with it?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s grateful to you, says he’s going to make you proud of him and glad that you did what you did.”

“I hope so,” I said. Then with a guilty feeling of using Theresa I said, “Why don’t you bring Joe to supper tomorrow night? Just to show that there are no hard feelings and get us off on a better footing.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know…I can’t tell my dad I’m doing that.”

This time I was honest. “Theresa, I’ll tell your dad. It’s time you stopped hiding your relationship with Joe. I’ll explain the whole thing to Anthony tomorrow.”

And I did. I lectured that sweet old man up one side and down the other. When I said Theresa loved Joe, he put up his hands in protest, but I talked right on. I told him what Theresa had told me about Joe being ignored as a child, and what I’d done in court.

“I don’t care,” he said. “She ain’t goin’ to see him.”

“Yes, she is, Anthony. If you don’t approve, she’ll sneak. Why don’t you try inviting him to dinner, getting to know him? Maybe he’s changed since all this trouble.” I took a deep breath, “Anthony, when you were young, did anyone ever give you a second chance?”

He looked surprised, and then his face softened. “Yeah,” he said. “My pop did. After I’d done everything in the book wrong, he told me he loved me and had faith in me.”

“And it made a difference?”

He looked at me. “Okay, Miss Kelly. You win. She can go out with Joe. I may not be ready for dinner with him yet, but I’ll work on it.”

“They’re coming to my house for supper tonight,” I said and turned away before he could roar.

“Who’s coming for supper?” Maggie asked as I set the table for five.

“Theresa and Joe.”

“I don’t like Joe. I don’t want him to come to our house anymore.” She was determined. “He did bad things.”

“I don’t want him either,” Em chimed in.

“Girls, he’ll be a guest, and you will be polite. Joe is sorry for the things he did, and he’s making up for it. And he’s special to Theresa. You love Theresa, don’t you?”

They nodded.

“Then for her sake you’ll give Joe another chance, won’t you?”

“Okay,” Maggie said, “but if he ever does anything bad again….”

“Okay,” Em echoed.

I decided to do oven-fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and make a salad. On the way home I’d bought a half-gallon of cookies ’n cream ice cream, the girls’ favorite. “If you’re pleasant and polite, you can have ice cream with chocolate sauce for dessert.” I didn’t even feel bad about bribing them.

Joe and Theresa arrived right at six, and Joe was a different person already. The pony tail was gone, and the baggy pants were replaced by well-fitting jeans over which he wore a plaid, cotton shirt. I stared just a minute and then winked at him. I swear he smiled.

Since I wasn’t about to offer them a drink before dinner, as I would have Mike, we went right to the dinner table. They were both quiet, but I’ll give Maggie credit. She tried.

“So, Joe, how was your day?”

Joe looked a little nonplussed. “It was okay,” he said. “I went looking for a job.”

“What kind of a job?”

He shrugged. “Just about anything I can do.”

“Would you work at McDonald’s?” she pursued.

I groaned inwardly.

“If I had to,” he said, looking down at his plate.

It went through my mind to offer him a job working with Anthony, but then I dismissed that as one of the worst ideas I’d had for a long time. I’d already meddled enough.

“Joe likes kids,” Theresa said. “I thought he might apply to the YMCA or something like that, maybe the Boys and Girls Club.”

“Good idea,” I said.

Joe seemed to get more in the spirit of things. “So, Maggie, how was your day?”

“Bor-ing,” she said and told him how bored she got listening to others read.

Joe had no idea what to say to that, but Theresa said, “Be patient, Maggie. I was never good at math, and I appreciated it when some of my friends helped me.”

Maggie looked at her. “I’m no good at math either.”

Em didn’t want to be left out. “Joe, do you want to see the picture I drew at school today? Mom’s going to frame it.”

“Sure I do,” he said, and he was appropriately enthusiastic about her art. I could see that Em changed her mind about Joe, and Maggie was beginning to.

After dinner, they both pitched in to help clean the kitchen, and it was done in no time. “Theresa,” I said, “would you take the girls to the back? I want to talk to Joe.”

Joe looked like a deer caught in the headlights as I led him to the living room and motioned for him to sit in one of the big comfortable chairs. He perched on the edge of it, not enjoying its comfort.

“Joe, don’t worry. You’re not in more trouble, and I’m not going to get angry. I just need to figure something out.”

He looked at his hands.

“Before my former husband came back to Fort Worth, he knew all about what was happening here, and I want to know how he knew.”

Joe looked at me and took a deep breath. “I called him. He paid me to tell him.”

“How did you know to call him?”

“Some guy I know up on Jacksboro Highway, he asked me to do it. He knew where Mr. Spencer was and that I knew him from having worked for him.”

This was getting confusing. “What guy? What’s his name?”

Joe shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. There are some mean people around, and I don’t want them to think I ratted on them. But I’ll tell you that they said a Mr. Martin wanted your ex to let him know what was happening with that skeleton house.”

Martin.
Bells pealed in my brain in a wild cacophony of sound. “Who’s Mr. Martin?”

“I have no idea,” Joe said. “All I know is the name. Does that help?”

“Yes, I think it does. And Joe, this is between you and me. I’ll never tell where I learned that name. As a matter of fact, it’s a name I already know, but you’ve sort of tied it together for me.”

“I don’t understand, Miss Kelly, but you be careful. You’re messing with some people who won’t stop at nothing.”

“Anything,” I corrected before I thought. I looked at him. “You be careful, Joe, if you’re involved with these people.”

He grinned. “Not me, not anymore. I gotta show Theresa’s father I’m good enough for her. I think my wild days are over—and I’m glad. I thank you, Miss Kelly, for what you did for me, in spite of everything.”

Part of me wanted to reach out and hug him; the other part wondered if this was like a three-month conversion to religion. “I’m proud of you,” is all I said, “and you let me know if I can help. I want you to make it.”

I almost thought he I saw a tear in the corner of one eye. I don’t think anyone ever believed in him before, except maybe Theresa.

After Joe and Theresa left, I kissed the girls and tucked them in, then ran for the phone book, turning to the pages for Martin, remembering that there were pages and pages of Martins. But now I started with the M listings, looking for M. Martin or Marty Martin. There were at least twenty-five people whose first initial was M. It was hopeless.

Now what, Kelly?
I sat at my desk for over an hour, my thoughts tangled. Marty Martin was bound to be M.W. Martin or “Marty” of Marie Winton’s letters home—I was convinced of that, but I had no proof. And he was older than Marie—judging from the picture in the locket he was maybe mid-thirties in the late fifties, which would put him in his early eighties now.

That Mr. Martin would want to know what was going on at the house was believable. Probably he hadn’t worried all the years it was in private hands, but once someone—specifically me—began to tear it apart for renovation, he knew the secret was out. And then, of course, it was indeed out—in the newspapers, on TV. He couldn’t do anything, but he must have known it would start an investigation. I guess no one is ever sure how safe their secrets are.

My mind spun out a tale. Martin wanted Tim notified because he thought Tim could stop me. Tim, knowing me too well, knew he couldn’t stop me by asking—or ordering—so he employed Joe, who was eager for an easy dollar.

The right thing, I knew, was to tell all this to Buck Conroy, but I also knew I wasn’t going to do that. He’d laugh at me for spinning theories in the air. I could hear him say, “Conjecture, Kelly, all conjecture. We can’t go anywhere with that. Doesn’t prove Martin killed Marie Winton.” And, of course, it didn’t. It just meant I was getting closer.

Maybe I should tell Mike—but he’d lecture me again about getting involved where I shouldn’t and putting myself in danger. In a way, if Martin was that desperate and had such bad friends as Joe implied, I really was in danger. That thought sent me down the hall to check again on my sleeping daughters.