Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (24 page)

Her face turned purple with rage, and it occurred to me she might have apoplexy—whatever that was—or a stroke or something before she could try to force me into the car. “My father did not kill that woman,” she screamed.

Keeping my voice soft, I asked, “No? Then who did?”

She was out of control—a frightening thought. “My mother,’ she screamed. “She found out he planned to leave her, and she killed the bitch. I was there. Six years old, and I saw the whole thing. I helped put her in that box. It’s haunted me all my life.” She took a deep breath and calmed down. “Now, it’s time for us to go.”

I was searching in my mind for another stall, something, anything. Just as I was about to say, “Wait. Let me get the diary for you,” Em appeared in the archway that led to the bedrooms. Before I could scream, she said, “Mommy, is that bad woman yelling at you?”

It was just enough. Jo Ellen North turned, distracted, and I lunged and kicked, maybe given strength by desperation to protect my child. I don’t know where the strength came from, but in that fleeting moment I wished I’d studied tae kwon do. The gun flew from Jo Ellen’s hand, as I screamed for Theresa. Jo Ellen lunged for the gun, but another kick that caught her in the face prevented that. She went down on her knees, and I was on top of her.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Theresa take in the situation and grab the gun. Meantime, Jo Ellen and I were embroiled in a macabre wrestling match, first one of us on top, then the other. I fought desperately, for myself and for my girls. Even though I was fueled by rage and anger, she too was strong and she too was filled with rage. If I’d had time to think about it, I’d have realized we were like two primitive animals, not a sight for my girls to see. But I had no time to think, only to fight back with what strength I had. For a moment the world around us didn’t exist. I felt her fingernails rake across my face. I grabbed her hair and pulled back hard, so that she was forced off me, and I rolled to sit on top of her. But her weight—she did outweigh me, which was slim consolation at that point—threw me off balance, and she was soon on top of me again, this time with her hands around my throat, squeezing—hard. I couldn’t breathe. How long is it before unconsciousness came from cutting off breath? And now death seemed all too real to me. I fought back with more strength than I knew I had, bringing my arms up under hers and forcing hers apart with all my might—and desperation. Her hands flew apart, but she was too quick for me, or I was too weak by then. She had me by the throat again. I fought to get a breath. Spots danced before my eyes, against a backdrop of black. The more I struggled, the harder Jo Ellen squeezed. I just didn’t have the strength left to fight back.

Suddenly, Jo Ellen North went limp, sprawling on top of me. I lay still for a moment, breathing hard. Then I pushed her off and saw Theresa standing over us, holding the gun by the handle.

“I hit her,” she said. “Did I kill her?”

Rubbing my throat, I whispered, “I don’t know, and I don’t care. But give me the gun, and go get the cord from my bathrobe—it’s in the bathroom.” I saw my girls, standing wide-eyed and pale in the doorway. Maggie was sobbing and Em just stared in amazement.

Jo Ellen was out but who knew for how long—as I rolled her onto her stomach and pulled her arms behind her—convenient for a hammerlock, if needed. She began to stir and moan. “Maggie,” I said, “call 911. Right away. Give them the address. Tell them whatever they ask.” I had no idea how I could think that rationally, and I knew the minute that a cop came through that door, I’d turn into a blithering idiot. But until then, I hung on. “
Em
, go unlock the front door and open it.”

Theresa returned with the cord—it was silk, like the bathrobe, and I knew I’d never wear it again, but it would be strong and wouldn’t stretch. We tied Jo Ellen’s hands behind her back, just as she began to stir and move about and threaten—loud and long. “You can’t do this. I’ll kill you and your children. Let me up this instant.”

“Jo Ellen,” I said, “feel this? It’s your gun, and it’s pointing at the back of your head. I were you, I’d lie still.”

She collapsed in a heap. Of course, she had no way of knowing I didn’t know from square one about guns. Did I have to cock it or whatever, or could I have just shot her? I didn’t want to do that, and I prayed she would stay still.

She did. She began to sob, great wracking sobs from deep within. When she managed to speak, she cried, “My father…he’s everything to me. My mother has Alzheimer’s, and Dad’s protecting her. But I can’t let him go to jail. He’s too old and too frail. Damn you.” She began to get her grit back, and I nudged the gun against the back of her head, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t go off by accident.

“I never had a happy family life. My parents hated each other after that, and I blamed everything on that woman. I know she kept a diary. She taunted Mom with it, just before Mom shot her. I…I had to find it. Protect my father.”

The girls still stood in the doorway. It wasn’t a scene I wanted them to see or hear—their mother holding a gun on another woman who was confessing to all sorts of horrid things—but I couldn’t put down the gun and go to comfort them. “Girls, go to the front door and watch for the police. Maybe Mike will come.”

It seemed an eternity that I sat there, listening to Jo Ellen North sob on and on about how Marie Winton ruined her childhood, how she’d resented her mother and loved her father.
Was I a therapist? I didn’t want to hear this.
Although it seemed hours, it wasn’t more than five minutes before I heard sirens.

Mike was not the cop that burst through the front door. It was Buck Conroy. “Okay, Kelly,” he said. “You can get up. And give me that gun, handle first.” His gun was trained on Jo Ellen, but she lay still.

Other cops stormed in, got Jo Ellen to her feet, removed the cord (I saw one of them grin), and cuffed her.

Then Mike burst through the door, made beeline for me, and enveloped me in a huge bear hug. I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. I sort of sank into his hug and would have fallen to the floor, if he hadn’t held me up. He led me to one of the huge chairs, sat in it, and pulled me onto his lap, oblivious of the looks he was getting from his fellow officers.

“Tell me about it.” His voice was ever so gentle.

And it all spilled out, how frightened I’d been, her confession, how enraged I became when I thought Em was in danger. I looked for the girls. They stood a few feet away, staring at us.

I held out my arms. “Come here,” I said. “You are both the heroes of the day. I am so proud of you.”

Maggie was still sobbing, though softly now. “Is it okay? Is the bad lady going away?”

“Yes, she is. We don’t have to worry any more. Nothing’s going to happen to us, our house, the house on Fairmount. It’s all over.” I felt the relief wash over me, and then the tears came. My sobs were as wrenching as Jo Ellen’s.

“Don’t cry, Mommy,” Em said solemnly. “You were very brave too.”

I thought about it for a minute and then, through tears, said, “Yeah, Em, I was, wasn’t I?” I didn’t know that I could ever do it again, but I’d been brave. I was alive, and my girls were alright.

Buck Conroy came into my line of vision. “Gun’s a .38,” he said. “I’m betting it’s the same gun that killed Tim Spencer.”

“She told me it was,” I said.

He looked at me. “I should have listened to you this afternoon,” he said. “Sorry.”

That was all?
I was astounded.

“I’ll question her at headquarters and let you know what we find. Oh, and I’ll call Joanie and tell her what happened.”

You do that. Not high on my priority list right now.

The police took Jo Ellen away, though by then she’d recovered her usual spirit and was trying to order them around, threatening them for manhandling her, swearing her lawyer would have each of them kicked off the force.

“I’m calling in to take the rest of the shift off,” Mike said. “What’s for dinner?”

Theresa yelped. “Pizza. I forgot. And Joe will be waiting at the Y.”

“Find my purse for me, Theresa, can you? I’ll give you money for pizza.” I did, and she left, with no mention of taking the girls with her.

I sat in the chair with Mike, and the girls clustered about us, but none of us said much. We were content to be safe and quiet. Mike ran his hand through my hair and softly touched the scratches on my face. I found that comforting. The girls clung to me, each holding a hand tightly. I forecast nightmares for some nights to come, but I couldn’t worry about that.

Joe and Theresa came back in about forty-five minutes. Joe was full of bluster about what he’d have done if he’d been here, but Mike quieted him with, “I’m glad you weren’t. It wouldn’t have sat well with your probation officer. And Kelly proved very capable.”

We ate pizza almost in silence. There just wasn’t much to say.

Jo Ellen North confessed to killing Tim Spencer and attempting to kidnap me. After a long trial, she was sentenced to twenty-five year to life for first degree murder—she still didn’t seem to realize she could have gotten the death penalty—and to ten years for the attempted kidnapping, served concurrently. If she lived that long, she’d be in her eighties when she got out, I figured, at the least.

Her mother, Elizabeth Martin, was beyond confession or charging. The court decreed that she be put into an Alzheimer’s facility, and she went to the best, most expensive facility in Fort Worth.

Robert Martin was a broken man. Frail to begin with, his health went downhill during the court proceedings. By the time his daughter was sentenced, he needed fulltime health care in his home. I knew the past would haunt him for whatever days he had left.

Marie Winton’s family did not come to the trial. Phyllis Winton served as spokesman and told me the family was content that justice was served. They saw no need to put themselves through a trial, and I applauded them for that. I sent them Marie’s diary, along with a note explaining that I hid it because I felt it was too personal to turn over to the authorities and contained nothing that would benefit the investigation. To my surprise, Phyllis wrote me a gracious note, thanking me for my consideration.

****

The rest of us went on with our lives. Maggie and Em did have nightmares, and they slept in my bed more nights than not. Mike was around the house a lot more, seeming to sense that he almost lost someone he valued. Whether he too wanted to spend the night in my bed was not discussed, but I knew it would come up eventually.

Theresa began to invite Anthony and the boys to dinner with Joe and my family, and Anthony, after some bluster and a lecture from me, began to accept Joe. Anthony finished the house on Fairmount, and it was a beauty. When I put it on the market, Barbara Wright was one of the first to see it and to make an offer. But that is another story.

THE END

Author’s Note

The Fairmount Neighborhood in Fort Worth, Texas, is very real, as are several places mentioned—The Old Neighborhood Grill,
Nonna
Tata,
Lili’s
Bistro, and others. But the plot of this novel never happened, to the best of my knowledge, and the characters are fictional. This is a work of the imagination.

I was inspired, if that’s the word, by a dead space in my own kitchen—a narrow spice cabinet between a deep pantry and a deep oven and storage above and below—and by a house under renovation in Fairmount that suddenly gave me the idea of a skeleton in a dead space. I now am pretty sure there’s an old brick chimney behind my dead space—it may be holding the roof up for all I know. But there’s no skeleton there. That’s from my imagination.

About Judy Alter

Judy has written fiction and nonfiction for adults and young adults. Her historical fiction titles feature such strong women as Elizabeth Bacon Custer, Jessie Benton Frémont, Lucille
Mulhall
, and Etta Place, of Hole in the Wall gang fame.

Skeleton in a Dead Space
is her first mystery and is the first in a projected series.

Recently retired as the director of a small press, Alter raised four children as a single parent and has seven grandchildren, with whom she spends as much time as possible. Judy lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with an Australian shepherd, an aging but affectionate cat, and a brand new Golden Doodle puppy.

http://www.judyalter.com/

http://www.judys-stew.blogspot.com/

Watch for more Kelly O’Connell Mysteries,

coming from Judy Alter in 2012

No Neighborhood for Old Women

If you enjoyed Judy
Alter’s
Skeleton in a Dead Space,

you might also enjoy these mystery/suspense authors

published by Turquoise Morning Press:

Bobbye
Terry, author of The Briny Bay Mysteries

Lynn Romaine, author of
Night Noise

Cat Shaffer, author of
No Safe Place

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