Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (22 page)

I didn’t get much sleep that night. About three o’clock in the morning I sat bolt upright in bed. M.W.M. wasn’t Marty’s initials—it was a wishful monogram on Marie’s part. It stood for Marie Winton Martin. It hadn’t dawned on me before. Mr. Martin was called Marty as a nickname from his last name, not his first, like my uncle who was called Mac because his name was MacBain. Sure didn’t help solve the mystery though.

****

Next morning I went to the office but couldn’t keep my mind on what I was doing. I was drawing up the papers for Mrs. Wright, when Jo Ellen North called. “I just wondered if you’d changed your mind yet about selling me that house yet,” she said, her voice cold.

I might be afraid of her, but I wasn’t going to let her bully me. “No, Mrs. North. I’ll let you know when that house is finished. In the meantime, I have some other houses to show you….”

“I’m not interested,” she cut me off. “You’ll change your mind.” And the phone went dead.

Was that a threat?
It sounded enough like one that, acting on impulse, I called Mrs. Wright. “I’ll have the papers done in about an hour,” I said, “and I’ll bring them by if that’s convenient. And, Mrs. Wright, if you want to see that house on Fairmount, in its current condition, I’d be glad to show it to you—perhaps tomorrow? I have a couple of others for you to look at too.”

“Lovely, my dear. My husband can look at the papers tonight, and I’ll get them back to you tomorrow. Then you can put your sign in our yard—I’ll feel like that’s real progress.”

“What time would be best for you tomorrow?” I asked.

“Let me just look at my calendar—oh, dear, I have a long boring luncheon to attend tomorrow. I suppose two o’clock makes it difficult to pick up your girls.”

“I can have someone else pick them up, I think,” I said. “I’ll check tonight and let you know.”

The papers were ready, but I thought it best to give an hour’s notice. So there I was, an hour on my hands, and nothing but the mysterious Mr. Martin on my mind. Just to get my mind on something else, I decided to call Claire Guthrie and see how they liked the house.

“Oh, Kelly, I’m so glad to hear from you. We love the house. We haven’t done a thing to it; you left it in such perfect shape. We have some remodeling plans on down the road, but we’re very happy. Can’t you stop by for coffee?”

“Now?” I squeaked.

“Well, sure, if you have the time.”

“I have an appointment close to you in an hour, so yes, I’d love a cup of coffee,” I said.

“The pot’s on. Come right over.”

It was weird to walk into the house I’d lived in for so long and see someone else’s furniture and paintings and, well, just everything. The house even smelled different, maybe Claire’s perfume, who knows? It was, subtly, a different house—and being there didn’t make me sad at all.

We settled at the kitchen counter with coffee, and Claire asked how the real estate business was going. I told her about the house on Elizabeth Boulevard and my hopes for a big sale.

“Well, we like it here so much, I’m telling all my friends they should move to Fairmount,” she said. “And I’m recommending you as an agent.”

“I appreciate it,” I said, hoping she meant it and that it wasn’t just empty talk.

As the conversation lagged a minute, I asked, “Do you know a woman named Jo Ellen North?”

Claire laughed. “I know who she is, but she wouldn’t know me from a fly on the wall. She’s way above me socially—or thinks she is.”

“You mean she has pretensions?” I asked with a grin.

“More than that. She
knows
she’s better than anyone else. And I’ve no idea why. I hear there’s something funny in her family background, like her father was in jail for tax evasion or something.” Then she laughed again. “Listen to me, I’m nothing but an old gossip.”

I filed her gossip away in my mind, even as I said, “Well, definitely not old.” I hesitated. “Do you know an older man named Marty?”

She shook her head. “Never heard the name. Who is he?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m still trying to figure out the skeleton business about the house on Fairmount, and his name came up. Mrs. North wants to buy that house. In fact, she wants it so much that it’s scary—and suspicious.”

“Why, Kelly, it sounds like you’re in the midst of a mystery.” She laughed again, and I tried to laugh with her.

We chatted on, exchanging news of each other’s daughters—hers were in high school, and she was dreading the next year when the oldest, Megan, went away to college. “I’m hoping she’ll go to TCU. She might be in the dorm, but at least she’d be close by, and I wouldn’t be as frightened as if I left her on that huge UT campus.”

“I can’t even imagine the day,” I said. “I’m still dealing with day-care, for heaven’s sake.”

“It’ll go by before you know it,” she warned, and I knew she was right.

As I left, we promised we’d get together for lunch soon. Driving the short distance to Elizabeth Boulevard, I realized that neither of us mentioned her husband. I wondered if he liked the house as well as she said he did.

I handed Barbara Wright the papers without going past the front door and then promised I’d be back at two the next afternoon, unless she heard otherwise from me.

I looked at my watch. It was noon. I went to the Grill, ordered a cheeseburger, and then before the check was written changed that to a Caesar salad with chicken. Keisha would be so proud. I ate my salad at one of the tall tables in the front room, where you sat with your legs dangling from chairs that are barstool height. It is a great place for watching the people who come in, but nobody I knew came that day.

That night I called Theresa to ask if she and Joe could pick the girls up from their schools the next day and stay with them until I finished an appointment. “I can do it, Miss Kelly, but Joe, he has a job interview tomorrow afternoon. He’s going to the YMCA in Wedgwood, where they have lots of after-school programs and such for young kids.”

“Theresa, I know you can take care of the girls alone, but how will you get them from school without a car if Joe’s busy?”

“I’ll take Joe to his appointment and then get the girls. Joe can take a bus—or wait for me, his choice. He won’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Miss Kelly, I’m sure. You go on to your appointment, and don’t worry.”

“I’ll leave Em’s car seat at the office for you and tell Keisha to expect you.”

I told the girls Theresa would pick them up, which elicited from Maggie the comment that Theresa was more likely to be on time than I was and from Em a question: “Isn’t Joe coming too? I want him to. I like Joe now.”

Fickle woman.
“Joe may come by later.”

****

Anthony called the next morning, but I wasn’t worried. The days of Anthony calling to report bad things were over. Wrong.

“Miss Kelly? Someone broke into the house last night.”

I thought I might cry, just put down the phone and sob. Had Joe been playing me for a fool? And Theresa? “How bad is it?” I asked and almost put my hands over my ears so I wouldn’t hear the answer.

“This was something different,” he said. “This was a professional, someone looking for something. He picked the lock on the back door and was methodical about going through the house. Pried panels off the fireplace, left the spice rack swung out so I know he looked there. But it wasn’t vandalism—it was a deliberate search.”

The diary. Of course, someone was looking for the diary. Before I could say anything, Anthony asked, “You still got that diary?”

“Yes. It’s in my closet. With the move and all, I just sort of moved it and forgot about it.” Well, I didn’t forget, but I tried not to think of it because I didn’t know what to do with it.

“You should have given it to Mike,” he said sternly.

“I know, I know. But it’s such a personal thing. I hated to hand it over to the police and have it tagged as evidence and thrown in a bin. Now…well, if I give it to them now, Mike will be furious. And, honest, Anthony, there’s not one helpful thing in there.”

“I’m afraid, Miss Kelly. Whoever wants that diary, wants it bad. And they might come after you next.”

“Or you, my friend,” I said. But it was a disturbing thought. As I hung up, I remembered Jo Ellen North’s extreme interest in the fireplace. It all fit together, but I wasn’t getting the picture. I was missing something, and I didn’t know what.

I went home to check that the diary was still hidden and considered putting it in a safe deposit box. I’d think about that tomorrow.

At two that afternoon, I picked up Barbara Wright. She was dressed in stylish pantsuit, brightened by a floral silk scarf that I knew came from Neiman Marcus. Her shoes were Ferragamo and her bag, Louis Vuitton. Barbara Wright may have been comfortable in sweats, but she knew how to dress right when the occasion called for it. I was glad I had worn a bright red embroidered jacket from Coldwater Creek and sueded silk taupe pants, even though I still had on my serviceable loafers.

We started with the other two houses, both of which I’d shown Jo Ellen North—the charming Victorian with three bedrooms, a modernized kitchen, and that English garden, although in November the garden didn’t show well; and the brick cottage on College with its open, airy rooms and its ’50s St. Charles kitchen. “I like the feel of the house,” she said, “but I’d need a newer kitchen. St. Charles was the thing in its day, but I cook too much—and entertain in the kitchen. We’d have to do major remodeling here.”

Both houses, she said, interested her in one way or another, and she was glad she didn’t have to decide that day. “Now let’s go to Fairmount.”

I told Anthony I’d be bringing a client through, and he straightened as much as possible. The house was still in the early stages of renovation. “We’ve had some setbacks,” I said, not wishing to be specific.

“I’ve read about the house in the paper and heard the neighborhood gossip,” Barbara said. “It doesn’t bother me, and I can see beyond a mess.”

As we toured from room to room, she was quiet, thinking, assessing.

“I know it’s hard to tell now,” I apologized.

“No, no, it’s fine. I can see you’re doing a good job of renovation, doing many of the same things I’d do myself. I think it would fit us. Let’s go back again and talk about plans for the kitchen—that’s probably most important to me.”

So we stood in the midst of the kitchen, and I showed her, without a pang, Anthony’s pull-out cupboards and the spice door.

“Is this where the skeleton was?” she asked.

I gulped, said yes, and tried to move on.

“It would make such wonderful dinner party conversation,” she said. And then immediately, “How heartless of me. What is it they say on emails? Barbara Wright would like to recall that last message.”

I liked this lady a lot.

We discussed counter tops and color schemes, and she made some good suggestions. I’d end up, I thought, tailoring the house to her—but she wasn’t pushing me.

I let her take her time, but after about forty-five minutes, she turned to me and said, “Thank you, Kelly. I’ll go tell Glenn about this, and we’ll talk and think. Meantime, keep an eye out for other houses for us. We won’t buy until we sell ours—no bridge loans for us in this economy—but we’d like to have some ideas.”

“I’ll do it,” I said.

As we walked out the front door and down the steps, I saw a green Jaguar pull away from the curb and round the corner onto Allen Street far too fast.

My heart jumped into my mouth. Was Jo Ellen North stalking me or keeping watch on the house? Either way, it scared the living you-know-what out of me.

When I got behind the wheel of my car and reached to start the motor, my hands were shaking so that I struggled to put the key in the ignition.

“Kelly? Are you all right?” Barbara’s face showed real concern, but I didn’t want to tell her the reason I was shaking.

“I think I should have eaten lunch,” I said. “It just came over me all of a sudden.”

“You young people just don’t pay attention to your bodies,” she said. “Come in and let me fix you something.”

“Thanks, but I have to get home to relieve the babysitter. I’ll eat some peanut butter at home.” Okay, I crossed my fingers at the white lie, but by then the shaking stopped. I was still scared.

I drove Barbara back home. When I got to my house, Joe was there, and they were all working jigsaw puzzles. Joe worked on a simple one with Em, letting her place the pieces and praising her when she got it right, helping her when she didn’t. She crowed with delight every time a piece went into place. Theresa and Maggie were bent over a much more difficult puzzle of a mountain scene and barely looked up when I came in. The tranquil scene made me forget Jo Ellen North for a minute.

“Joe, how was the interview?” He still wore a starched white shirt, tie, and nice slacks. His sports coat was thrown over a chair.

“I think okay. They said they’d call in a day or two. They need someone from two-thirty until nine at night, which suits me fine.”

Theresa added, “I could drop him off and pick up the girls for you every day if you want.” She hesitated. “I’d like to do that.”

“Theresa, I’d have to pay you. I wouldn’t let you do it for nothing.”

“No, Miss Kelly. You have done so much for us. I want to help, at least for a while.”

“Well, we’ll see if Joe gets the job. Then maybe we could do that two or three days a week. You still have to take care of your family, Theresa.”

“I know. I can juggle both.”

After Theresa and Joe left, I got the girls fed, worked on homework with Maggie and more puzzles with Em, and got them to bed. Then I got ready for bed myself, but of course sleep wouldn’t come. It was too early for one thing, but I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I couldn’t settle down to read or even think about the office. And every time I shut my eyes, Jo Ellen North appeared in front of me, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Something was out of whack—Mr. Martin was the villain here. He killed his lover, Marie, and yet I had no inkling of a threat from him. But I was terrified of Jo Ellen North, and I wasn’t sure why.

About nine-thirty I called Mike’s cell phone. He answered with a curt “Officer Shandy.”

“Mike? Are you on duty? It’s Kelly.”

I could hear the grin in his voice. “Yeah, Kelly, I know it’s you. Aside from your voice, which doesn’t sound like you tonight, I have caller ID What’s up?”

I hesitated, stammered, wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh, I just…well, I wanted to talk to you, but if you’re on duty…”

“I can take a break in about ten minutes. How about you put the coffee on and I’ll come over.”

“Great.” Mike wasn’t going to solve my problem, and I knew it, but I was happier that he was coming over than I thought I would be. I put the coffee on.

“What’s up?” Mike asked again when he was settled with his coffee.

“I don’t know how to begin,” I said. “I…you can’t tell this to Buck Conroy.”

“Kelly, you can’t tie my hands like that. I could face charges for withholding evidence if you tell me something and I don’t report it.” He looked stern, and I was for a moment sorry I’d called him. But I had to tell someone.

“I don’t have anything concrete, any evidence, anything you could prove.”

Now he was impatient. “Kelly, tell me the story.”

“I know who owned Martin Properties and who M.W.M. was. His name is Martin, and I think M.W.M. was the monogram Marie thought she’d have when they married.”

He looked skeptical. “How do you know about this guy named Martin?”

“Well, we assumed Marty was his first name, but it must have been a nickname.

Joe told me about Mr. Martin. Honest, Mike, I think he has changed, and when I asked he told me everything he knew.”

“But he doesn’t know anything more about Martin than his last name, right?”

“Right. I figured I could look in the phone book, but there are lots of M. Martins. No way to tell who it is.”

“And, that’s Buck Conroy’s job. But you’re right—you don’t have enough to go on yet. Still you need to call Conroy first thing in the morning. Promise?”

“Okay,” I said, knowing that I hadn’t told the whole story yet.

“I gotta get back on patrol,” he drained his coffee cup and stood up.

“Mike, there’s something else.”

He turned and looked at me, waiting, his posture clearly impatient.

“This woman that wants to buy the Fairmount house, Jo Ellen North…I think she’s stalking me or something.”

“Why?”

“Well, she’s been pressuring me to sell her the house right away, as is, and I’ve said no. The other day she made it sound like a threat. Last night, someone broke into the house again, but Anthony said it was a professional—they picked the back door lock and didn’t vandalize but tore out some things that made it clear they were looking for something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” Okay, I lied, but I just didn’t figure telling Mike about the diary would do anything but make him furious at me—and I didn’t want that.
Could I be prosecuted for withholding evidence?
. I rushed on. “And today, when I came out of the house, after showing it to someone else, Mrs. North drove away really fast. But I recognized her green Jaguar.”

“Kelly, the breakin is serious, and you have to tell Conroy. But that business about this Mrs. North—it’s odd, but it’s nothing you can report. Tell Buck, but don’t expect much. If it happens seven or eight times, yeah, you can. But right now you don’t have anything. Just call Conroy about Martin.”

“Okay.” I walked him to the door and just sort of stood there while he gave me a goodnight hug. I wasn’t sure if he’d helped me a lot or not.

I called Buck Conroy the next morning first thing after I got to the office.

“Martin?” he said skeptically. “How do you know?”

“I just know. From Joe.”

“Oh, yeah. That punk. As though you’d trust him.”

“At this point, I trust him,” I said, trying to convey my displeasure with his reaction.

“I guess we can have someone check all the Martins in the phone book, but for what? To see who has the nickname Marty?” He paused a moment. “You got time to do that?”

“No.” Now I was angry. “I don’t. And it’s not my job. Mike keeps telling me that. But if it’s any help, this man has connections on Jacksboro Highway.”

“Isn’t exactly the den of thieves it used to be, but there still some rough types out there. We’ll keep it in mind. Meantime, you listen to Mike. He’s right.”

I almost slammed the phone down.

I was working away when the phone rang and Keisha got that funny look on her face again. “For you. You better take it.”

By now, I never knew what that meant, so I answered with as perky a “Kelly O’Connell” as I could manage.