Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (23 page)

“Ms. O’Connell, this is Jo Ellen North.”

I started to say hello, but she cut me off. “I see that you showed that house to someone else. I thought I had an exclusive on it.” Her voice was stone cold.

“I have a client who wanted to see it, and no one has an exclusive. The bidding wars can begin when the renovation is done.” I struggled to sound in control. “Besides, the situation on the house has changed. We’ve had another—ah, setback.” Well, that wasn’t true since this latest breakin didn’t do much damage.

“Don’t you dare sell that house to anyone else,” she said and hung up the phone.

Another threat, albeit vague. I wondered what Mike would say now.

Late that afternoon, I was at home with the girls when Buck Conroy appeared at the front door. “Got any coffee? I got news, and I’ll trade,” he said.

“Give me a minute.” I made him a cup in the single-cup coffee maker.

When I brought it back, he said, “We found your guy.”

My guy?
“How’d you find him?”

“I got contacts on Jacksboro Highway too. Your guy did time for tax evasion, has some shady connections.”

Something clicked in the back of my mind—Claire Guthrie told me she thought that Jo Ellen’s father did time for tax evasion.

“Name’s Robert Martin, lives at 1305 Rivercrest Drive—pretty upscale address. And he admits to an affair with Marie Winton but swears he did not kill her. His story is that one day he went to the house, and she was gone. But she didn’t take anything with her.”

I was impressed. “That’s pretty fast work,” I said. Meantime I was writing down the address, though I had no idea what I’d do with it.

“Yeah, we can do it when we get a lead. And that’s thanks to you. You buy that story?”

“That he thinks she left and didn’t take anything with her? No. No woman does that, and every man knows it.”

“I didn’t think so either. I’ll keep you posted.” He gulped down his coffee and said he had to go.

After he left, I wasn’t sure what to think. We’d solved the Marie Winton murder—or at least were close. Why didn’t I feel what psychologists call “closure?” Because it wasn’t solved. Something was still very wrong.

The next morning, impulsively, I drove to 1305 Rivercrest. It was one of the stately old mansions, probably built in the 1920s, almost southern antebellum in style—white pillars marching across the front, a verandah with French doors on either side of a double front door. It was three stories, with evenly spaced windows, now sporting plantation shutters but probably once draped in heavy fabric. As I drove by I could see the house stood on two lots and beside it was a large garden, with a pool, a greenhouse, and a cabaña—an estate, I thought, not just a house. I circled the block to come around and take another look. I had no idea what knowing where Robert Martin, Marie Winton’s lover, lived would tell me, except that it would satisfy some deep curiosity. On the north side of the house, a driveway led to what looked like a four-car garage, with guest—or servants—quarters over it. Okay, I told myself, one more pass by—and I circled the block again.

This time, as I approached the house from the north, a dark green Jaguar, coming from the south, cut in front of me to turn into the driveway. No signal, no courtesy of the road, no friendly wave. As the car turned, the driver looked at me—and I found myself staring right at Jo Ellen North.

Stunned, I picked up speed to get away, but after a block I slowed down and spun the story in my mind. Robert Martin killed his pregnant lover. Jo Ellen North must be his daughter, and she was trying to save her social position by protecting her father’s reputation. Or something like that.

It made me so tired I wanted to go home to bed at ten o’clock in the morning, I drove with hands so shaky and breath so short, I kept wondering if I could make it home. My instinctive fear of Jo Ellen was right, but I had no idea what to do next. I knew, though, that I had to talk to someone, to have someone tell me it would be all right. Buck Conroy wasn’t that person. Instead, I called Mike and woke him up.

His voice was thick with sleep, and I thought it sounded kind of nice, except I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of nice. I blurted out my story, pausing every once in a while to take a deep breath.

“Kelly, slow down. I can’t follow what you’re saying. Where are you?”

“Driving home from Rivercrest.”

“Okay, first thing. Pull over and put the car in park. Then we’ll talk.”

I felt like a child who was being chastised, but he was right. I was on Crestline Road, a residential street, and it was easy to do as he said. “Okay. I’m parked.”

“Now, tell me slowly. You saw Jo Ellen North where?”

“At Robert Martin’s house. I think she must be his daughter. And all along she’s been so frantic to buy the house because she wanted to keep his secret hidden.”

“Whoa? Who’s Robert Martin, and how does he fit into this?”

I realized that I hadn’t seen him to tell him all that Buck had told me, so I filled him in on the details.

“So what’s his secret? The skeleton?”

“Yeah. He told Buck he did not kill Marie, but who else would have done it?”

“You’d be surprised. How old was Jo Ellen?”

“Too young. Maybe six, seven, eight. I think she’s trying to protect him. But what will she do now that the police have questioned him?”

I could see Mike shaking his head, trying to wake up enough to puzzle this out. “I don’t know. But don’t make any more appointments with her. And you’ve got to tell Buck Conroy about this. Where are you going now?”

“To the office. I was so upset I thought I’d go home and crawl in bed, but I’m calmer now.”

“Okay. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll come get you for a late lunch.”

“Thanks.” I did feel better. In fact, I had done such a mood swing, I thought I could handle anything. It turned out I was wrong.

I had not been in the office five minutes when the phone rang and Keisha forwarded the call to me, though I noticed she was watching me carefully. When I said, “Kelly O’Connell,” I was greeted with, “You’ve now sent the police after my father. This is too much. You’ll be sorry.”

I managed a weak, “Mrs. North?” My heart was pounding, and my hand got so sweaty I almost dropped the phone.

“You’re damn right,” she said in the coldest voice I ever heard and slammed down the phone.

With trembling hands, I dialed Buck Conroy’s number. When he answered I told him I had to talk to him right away.

“Kelly, it’s gonna have to wait until about four this afternoon. I do have other cases, you know, and I got a break on one that I’ve got to follow up on.”

“Four? I have to get my girls at three, and I don’t want them to be around when we talk.”

“Get someone else to pick them up. Maybe your assistant. Do whatever you can. I’ll be at your office at four.”

“Okay.” I hung up the phone and turned toward Keisha, but she was on the phone again. “Theresa,” she said, pushing the button that sent the call to me.

I managed a cheerful attitude, though I felt anything but. “Hi, Theresa.”

“Miss Kelly, I have good news. Joe got the job. We want to celebrate. I’ll pick the girls up this afternoon, so you can work, and about six or so, I’ll take them with me to get pizza and then pick up Joe. Then we’ll come back to the house and we’ll all celebrate.”

Relief washed over me. There was my solution to the problem Buck Conroy presented. Sometimes I think the Lord really does look after me. “That’ll work great. I have a four o’clock appointment and wasn’t sure what to do about it. I should be home by five.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I have my key. And I’ll come get the car seat.”

“Theresa, if we’re celebrating, do you want to ask your dad to join us and bring the boys? I’ll buy the pizza.”

She hesitated. “No, not yet. One night soon, though. I have to take it slow with Dad.”

I could understand that. “Okay, I’ll see you when I get home. And thanks. Oh, I’ll still pay for the pizza.”

It was not a good day. I fiddled, and I paced, and I twirled my hair—a habit that irritated Keisha. “Did you ever hear that poem by Gwendolyn Brooks about ‘White girls be always fiddlin’ with their hair’? That’s what you be doin’ right now.”

“Well,” I snapped, “I could sit on my hands.”

“Maybe you should,” she said blandly and turned back to whatever she was doing. Trust Keisha to keep me in balance—or at least try.

Theresa called about 3:30 to report that she and the girls were at the house and baking cookies. “For dessert,” she explained. I thanked her, but I couldn’t think about cookies at that moment.

By four o’clock, I had built a hundred stories in my mind, all of them bad and Jo Ellen North the villain in all. When Buck Conroy breezed in, I was ready to jump at him. The minute he hit the door, Keisha said, “Kelly, I got to leave a little early. That okay with you?”

I nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

Buck sprawled in the visitor’s chair by my desk. “Okay, what’s this big news?”

Just as it had in the morning when I called Mike, the story tumbled out of my lips too fast, but I managed to get him to understand that Jo Ellen North was Robert Martin’s daughter, she was so insistent on buying the house because she wanted to hide her father’s secret, and she had threatened me. As close as I could, I quoted the threatening phone calls.

He squinted at me. Then he lit a cigarette—I normally didn’t allow people to smoke in my office, and I sure didn’t have an ashtray. I pushed the wastebasket toward him, hoping he wouldn’t start a fire.

“You may be right. She may be dangerous. Mike’s right. Don’t make any appointments with her. And watch yourself and your girls. I’ll go talk to Mrs. North tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. I wanted him out the door in hot pursuit of her now. “Okay,” I gulped.

He must have seen the look on my face, because he said, “Anything frightens you, call 911. I’ll get the call, and so will Mike.” And with that he was gone, cigarette still dangling from his mouth.
How could Joanie kiss someone who smelled of cigarettes all the time?

I closed up the office and headed home, feeling somehow defeated, and, more than that, vulnerable.

Theresa’s car was on the street. I parked in the driveway and used my key in the front door, so as not to disturb them. When I pushed open the front door, Jo Ellen North confronted me—holding a small blue revolver.

My stomach rose to my throat, my heart pounded, and my knees shook so that I was sure that they would buckle and I’d end up face down on the floor. But I gathered myself by thinking of the girls. “Mrs. North, I didn’t see your car.”
Why was I trying to be pleasant, as though this was a social call?

“That’s because I didn’t park it near your house” Her voice was stone-cold.

“Where are my girls?”

“In the back with the sitter. I told them to stay there.”

I’d have told her she had a lot of nerve telling my girls what to do, but then, she had the gun, and I figured that changed the balance of power, even in my own home. I was sure she could hear my heart pounding against my ribs from where she sat, which, to my mind, wasn’t near far enough away.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, making a real effort to keep my voice strong.

“I want Marie Winton’s diary,” she said. “Beyond that, you can’t undo the trouble you’ve caused. My father will be charged with murder, and it’s your fault. We’re going for a ride. Just you and me.”

I remembered the conventional wisdom that said if you ever get in a car with a kidnapper, you’re dead. I vowed she’d have to shoot me right on the streets of Fairmount before I’d get in her car. Of course, it was winter, and the late afternoon light was fading fast. If she didn’t hurry, she’d have the cover of darkness. Still, I wasn’t about to hurry her.

“Where?” I asked, ignoring the question about the diary. I’d bring it up again if I still could stall for time. I wondered if Theresa would think to call 911, but she had no way of knowing I was being held at gunpoint. And I couldn’t quite call out to her.

She shrugged. “Trinity Park. You might as well die where your ex-husband did.”

I think the word “die” didn’t register. I didn’t believe or my mind couldn’t process that I might die that day—but my body reacted, and I thought I might throw up. “Tim? You killed Tim? Why?” And I thought he’d been shot over a deal gone wrong, gambling debts, something to do with lowlifes from Jacksboro Highway. Instead, this sophisticated—or supposedly so—country-club type killed him.

“He knew about my father and Marie, and he was blackmailing me.”

“You shouldn’t have paid,” I said. Seemed a sensible reply to me, but it infuriated her.

“Don’t you tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done. I should have killed you too about two weeks ago. Then the cops would never have found my father. And I should have found that diary. I sent someone to look for it.”

That last breakin to the house on Fairmount. And her intense interest in the fireplace—she thought it was hidden behind one of the tiles. Stalling for time, I said, “The diary wouldn’t help you. Marie had a locket with the initials M.W.M. on it, she told her family about Marty who was going to marry her, and the house belonged to Martin Properties. How hard is that to put together? The police would have discovered that your father killed her sooner or later. I just pushed them into sooner.”