Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (6 page)

Mrs. Hunt watched me. Finally, she said, “It’s old-fashioned, I know that.”

“Old-fashioned,” I breathed. “No, it’s wonderful. You’ve kept it just as it was when it was built—and we don’t see that in many of these houses in this condition any more. May I see the kitchen?”

“Of course. Someone will want to redo this, I know.”

“Why?” I asked as we walked through the dining room.

‘There’s no place for the refrigerator. It’s on the porch outside.”

Typical of Craftsman houses.

The kitchen was updated. I half expected to see a porcelain sink on legs with no storage underneath. The double sink was porcelain, but it had enclosed storage underneath; still it had the traditional double windows over the sink and the built-in cupboards had been retained, with multi-paned glass doors, so that the homeowner was almost forced to keep dishes in neat rows. I thought of my ongoing argument with Tim and now saw his viewpoint—well, just a bit. The stove, a marvelous Aga, European and cast-iron, fit right in with the look of the house—and I knew that real cooks, gourmet cooks, prized those stoves. There was no dishwasher, but I didn’t give that a second thought. I was in love with this house.

We toured the three bedrooms, one of which was now a comfortable TV/office, mostly because of the addition of built-in bookshelves, stained to match the original wood of the house
.

Back in the living room, I sank into an overstuffed dark leather couch. Mrs. Hunt offered coffee, which I declined though I did ask for a glass of water. When we were both settled, I said, “The house has been immaculately maintained. Can you tell me its history?”

“I grew up in this house. So did my mother. My grandparents built it. We never saw any reason to change it.”

I smiled at the comforting tradition those words hinted at. “Why,” I asked, “do you want to sell it now?”

She shook her head sadly. “I don’t. I’d like to live here until they carry me out, but Adolph…he wants to go to the Hill Country where his family is. He says we’re old and we need someplace small.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what we’ll do with all this stuff.” Her encompassing gesture took in Oriental rugs, massive furniture, books everywhere. “You think anyone will buy it?” Mrs. Hunt’s voice was tentative, doubtful.

The idea that forming in my mind suddenly sprang forth from my lips. “Mrs. Hunt, I’d like to buy it. Not to sell but for me and my daughters to live in. I’ll pay a fair price, and if you want I’ll take some of the furnishings.” In my mind I was selling a lot of the furniture in my house at a garage sale. This gem of a house, which called out to me, wouldn’t have reminders of Tim—and I could get rid of some of the furniture he’d selected, which never fit into our old house. Someone once said to me, after viewing the modern furniture, “The house isn’t happy.” And I knew it wasn’t. Moving would be like starting life anew. The sale of my house would bring enough to cover the switch to this smaller one.

“You want to live in it? Why?”

“Because I think it’s the most wonderful house I’ve ever seen,” I said honestly.

Mrs. Hunt breathed deeply. “Then I want you to live in it.”

At my insistence, we would make arrangements for another realtor to handle the sale. I didn’t want any suspicion that I was taking advantage. I would, however, sell my own house myself—and I envisioned a wonderful garage sale as I discarded furniture that reminded me of Tim. For a moment, I regretted the expensive front door I’d just bought that day.

I floated out the door. For an hour and a half, I’d forgotten about skeletons and fires and shot-gunned front doors and Tim’s immediate threat. I envisioned the girls and myself in this house. I’d have to tell them about not scarring the walls and all, but then they were past the age of writing on the walls with crayons.
Life
, I thought,
is good.

By the time I brought the girls home, the new front door was in place, gleaming bright turquoise.

Maggie forgot her frequent determination not show any excitement about things. “Oh, Mom,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”

Never wanting to be left behind, Em echoed, “It’s beautiful.”

“I like it too,” I told them. “I think it brightens the house.” Impulsively I asked, “Girls, what would you think if we moved to a new house.” Even as I said the words, something in the back of my mind told me this was a mistake.

“I like our house,” Maggie said. “Why would we move?”

“We could live in a smaller house. And I found one that was lovely. You’ve heard me say that a house reaches out and touches you.”

Maggie nodded grudgingly.

“This one touched me.”

“Is it the house we found, Mommy?” Em asked, clapping her hands in delight.

“Yes, Em, it is.”

“Em’s seen it and I haven’t?” Maggie’s jealousy was almost tangible.

I bent to Maggie and hugged her. “The day Em came home from school because of Sarah and their fight, she and I drove by. She hasn’t been inside, but I’ll take you both inside… maybe tomorrow.”

After supper, I got the girls bathed—Em still needed help—and in their PJs. I didn’t mention their father’s anticipated arrival, though not doing so made me feel like a coward. The doorbell rang a little before eight, and I realized a disadvantage of the wonderful front door. If Jack the Ripper came calling, I had no place to hide. This time, it was Mike Shandy.

“Kelly, I’ve got news. Mind if I come in?”

“Actually, Mike, I’m glad to see you. Want coffee, a beer?”

“I’m on duty,” he said, “so coffee. Thanks.”

While the single cup was brewing I came back into the living room. Mike stood by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. “We heard from the coroner today. Your skeleton—“

My skeleton?

“—was a female, between twenty and thirty, about five foot six, probably not overweight.” He paused. “Here’s the surprise: she was about six months pregnant. And, she was shot in the head, almost execution style.”

I sank down on the couch.
Pregnant. Someone killed a baby as well as the mother.
“Why would anyone kill a pregnant woman?” Then I remembered a line from a mystery I’d read—love, hate, and greed. Those were the reasons for killing someone. And which was it here? “DNA won’t be much help will it? I mean you could get DNA from the fetal skeleton, couldn’t you?” I hated those words even as I said them.

“Not really. DNA won’t show us much, though we’ll run it. The victim’s DNA might help us identify her, but DNA wasn’t much used in the early ’60s, so it’s unlikely hers would be on file. What we need is a lucky break to identify her and then match the DNA to something she wore or used or touch. As for the guy who did this, there isn’t anything left to take DNA samples from that might indicate identity—you can shoot a person from a distance, and that wouldn’t leave DNA. And suppose there was something—semen, or whatever—if the killer had a DNA sample on file, which is unlikely, the DNA was run years after this event, so we’d have to identify the person first. Long story short, it isn’t going to help us.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “She didn’t have a wedding ring on. We’d have found that.”

“So you think the father of the baby killed her?”

“It’s a place to start. But we haven’t any idea who he was.”

“How do we find out?” I asked.

“
We
don’t.” His tone was firm, and so was the look on his face. “Homicide does. I’m just a patrol cop, and you’re a civilian. We’re both out of the loop from now on. And I want you to remember that. You’ve already been threatened, Kelly, by someone who’s not afraid.”

“They’re not afraid of what? I think they’re afraid of what we might find out, and that’s making them desperate. It makes me all the more anxious to find out what’s going on so this will be over. I want that skeleton identified and given a proper burial…and I want to finish that house and sell it.”

“I know you care about the skeleton, Kelly, but you’ve got to detach yourself. And the sooner you let us handle it, the sooner you can sell that house. I don’t know why a forty-year-old murder means so much to someone today, but since it does, you’ve got to let professionals handle it. Believe me; it’s dangerous—for you and the girls.”

I thought about the door, and the girls, and Tim swearing to keep them safe. “I don’t want any part of danger,” I said, as though that concluded it. But I didn’t tell him about my request for tax records. What if homicide requests the same rolls and finds out there’s a prior request? I’d cross that bridge when I came to it, but I made a mental note to check the next day and see if the microfiche records were in the office.

Mike finished his coffee and took the cup to the kitchen. “I best be going. I’ve got patrol tonight. Anything else, Kelly?”

I shook my head.

“Why do I think something’s bothering you that you should tell me about?” He smiled at me, and for an instant I thought the smile was almost paternal, as though he knew more about me than I wanted him to. Then again, a big something was bothering me—a something named Tim.

“It’s not your problem. My ex-husband is flying in from California tonight. He wants to take the girls and protect them. Said he’s coming straight here from the airport.”

He moved back into the room but not too near where I sat on the couch. “And you don’t want him to?”

“Of course I don’t. He hasn’t seen them in over a year, hasn’t paid child support….” My voice was sharp and ugly in my ears, and I hated myself.

“Will he take no for an answer in a polite way? In other words, do I need to alert whoever’s on guard?”

“No,” I sighed. “I don’t think he’s violent. Just angry and manipulative. Trying to scare me with words will be his tactic.”

“You get that alarm installed?”

”I reactivated it right after you told me, and got that little hand-held thing. Let me go see if I can find it.”

His voice was exasperated. “If you don’t keep it near you, it does no good. Let me see the control panel.” I led him to the kitchen, where the panel was on a wall, at a point midway between the front and back doors.

“You know how to call the police on this thing?”

I nodded. “The technician showed me.” I pawed around in the drawer under the counter and held up the panic button.

“Good. Keep that with you all the time, and don’t hesitate to use it. This is the last night of the patrol—we don’t have the manpower to guard you for long. But I’ll come immediately if you call for help. And I’ll tell the guy on watch tonight to be a little more obvious—like right in front of the house. Okay?”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said. I was grateful that the girls and I were safe, but I felt dependent on other people, in a way I hadn’t felt even when I was married. I wanted to take care of the girls by myself. It made me angry to have to deal with police and alarms and all. Life had once been simpler.

As he turned to leave, Mike said, “Oh, another good thing to do. Sleep with your car keys beside your bed. Where do you park your car? Garage?”

I laughed. “The garage is too full of Tim’s stuff. I couldn’t get the car in there. It’s in the driveway.”

“Good. Your keys should have a panic button. You get scared, you can always hit that and it will alert someone, even if it’s just the neighbors, and it’ll scare whoever’s around. Lights flashing, horn honking, all that.”

Mike left, giving me a smile and a salute. “Cheer up, Kelly. We’ll find out who your pregnant lady was.”

“I hope so,” I said as I closed the door.

It was nine o’clock. Tim’s plane would be landing. He would be here in an hour. I went upstairs and found that both girls were asleep, Em next to Maggie in her bed, the video still playing in the next room, Maggie’s book thrown on the covers next to her. I leaned down and kissed each of them, praying to God to keep them safe.
They are so precious.

A glass of wine in hand, I was watching out my bedroom window when a taxi deposited Tim in front of the house shortly after ten. Almost disconnected from the scene, I watched him come up the walk, key in hand.
Does he think his key will work? Incredible.
When I heard loud, angry knocking, I went downstairs. Tim stood outside the door, gesturing.

“What the hell? You changed the front door and my key doesn’t work.” he stormed as he came inside.

“Well, you knew the door was shot up. Why’d you think the key would work?”

“The color of that door is all wrong for the house,” he said, not answering the question. He was wrinkled and disheveled, as people are after a long flight. But he was also tanned and trim, in much better shape than the last time I’d seen him. I’d thought he was going to fat just a bit. His attitude, though, got to me. He was self assured, confident …and condescending. I felt like the wife who’d been left behind, and without asking I knew there was another woman, had been all along. I looked out the door—the taxi was waiting.

Pulling my thoughts back to the door, I said, “I like it. And I live here.”

He shrugged as though it didn’t matter to him. “You’ve moved the furniture around. Doesn’t look as good. Why is there a man parked outside just sitting there?”

“He’s a policeman, guarding us.”

“I knew you couldn’t take care of the girls by yourself.”

“Tim, let’s not play games.” I was direct. “You came to get the girls, and you’re not getting them, so go away and call your lawyer.”

He put his hands up, palms out, in an appeasing gesture. “I want to at least see them. I mean, I’ve come all the way across the country….”

“Tim, it’s past ten o’clock. They’re both asleep, and tomorrow is a school day. Go away. I’ll see that you get some time with them tomorrow.”

“Hi, Daddy.” The voice, timid and small, came from the stair landing, where Maggie stood. Em hovered behind her.

“Maggie, my darling. Come to Daddy.”

She came but as though she wasn’t sure. Em made a beeline for me, grabbed one leg, and held on fiercely. Maggie was embraced in a hug, but she didn’t hug back. She just stood there. After a minute, Tim straightened and looked at her.

“Did you miss me?”

Fair enough. “Yes, I did. But you didn’t call or write.”

He waved his hand, as though to brush away that small matter. “I’ve been busy, baby, but I’ve missed you a lot. Now run upstairs and pack your things so you can come with me.”

“Where?”

“Oh, probably to California.”

I clutched the panic button. Maggie came to stand by me. “I don’t want to go to California. I like it here. We’re going to get a new house and….”

“A new house,” Tim exploded. “What the hell is wrong with the house I bought you?”

“You don’t own it now, Tim. I bought you out, and I’m making huge mortgage payments. That’s part of what’s wrong with it. But the girls don’t need to hear this. They need sleep.”

“They’re coming with me,” he said and took a step toward me.

“Not tonight, they’re not. Not ever, unless you get a court order.” Em was squeezing my leg so tight that I thought I’d lose circulation. Maggie grabbed my hand, not the one with the panic button, thank goodness.

Tim took another step toward us.

I held up my hand. “See this? It’s a panic button. I push it and that cop outside will be in here in seconds. You better just go.” I bent to the girls, “You run upstairs, right now. Both of you. Get in my bed.”

Tim looked confused and angry, but he turned toward the door. “I’ll be back with a court order,” he threatened.

With the girls safely out of earshot, I said, “Tim, I’m getting a restraining order first thing tomorrow. You may see the girls, but only in my presence.”

He slammed the door, and I was thankful for the heavy beveled glass.

The girls slept in my bed again that night; each curled tight on one side of me, and it was hard to quiet them. Maggie sobbed, her heart broken by the father she’d once adored, and Em was afraid. “He’s a bad man,” she said.

“No,” I said, “he’s not a bad man. He just has some bad ideas. I think he loves you and wants to protect you.”
How do you let a child think her father is a bad man, tempted though you are?

“I don’t want to go to California,” Maggie whimpered.

“You won’t have to. Ever. I promise you that.”

I lay awake between them all night, but the girls slept soundly. I didn’t wake them the next morning—school be darned. I was keeping them with me all day.

****

We went to Ol’ South Pancake House for breakfast—pigs in a blanket for Maggie, a waffle—mostly untouched—for Em, and eggs and bacon for me. Ol’ South is a Fort Worth tradition, offering everything from standard eggs and bacon to elaborate Dutch babies (pancakes rolled with sugar and lemon) and blintzes. Well after ten o’clock, I dragged the girls into the office, situated Maggie with a book—thank heavens she’d decided that reading was fun—and gave Em with colors and blank paper. Em sat close to Keisha, who talked to her, loved on her, and promised her ice cream.