Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (7 page)

I called my lawyer. Karen explained the procedure for filing a request for a restraining order, said it would take at least a week for a judge to issue even a temporary order—and that wasn’t good until it was delivered to the person named. “I can fax the form to you, you fill it out, send it back to me by courier,” —I wondered why I couldn’t just deliver it to the office, about a mile away; lawyers, I decided, made things complicated— “and I’ll file it this afternoon.”

The form, when it came, was intimidating, asking for evidence of abuse, photos, and all that sort of stuff. I had none. I had only my word that Tim threatened me, never paid child support, and hadn’t seen the girls for over a year. I filled it out with a sinking heart—I wasn’t going to get a restraining order in time to prevent Tim from taking the children. I was sure if I let him take them even to lunch, I’d never see them again. I called Karen back.

“I think you may be dramatizing, Kelly,” the lawyer said bluntly. “The chances of him getting away with them are slim. The divorce decreed that he had visitation two weekends a month and we can’t get that changed in the blink of an eye. I’d say try to work with him right now.”

That is easier said than done. I considered a new lawyer, but I knew that would be shooting the messenger
.

There was no way I could concentrate on work. I managed to call Alan, a colleague with his own realty firm. He knew the Fairmount area and whistled softly when I told him about the house I wanted to buy. “You’ll steal it at any price,” he said. I told him I wanted to pay fair market value, and he promised to contact Mrs. Hunt right away, get an appraisal, and move things ahead.

I collected the girls and went to the Fairmount house, where Anthony was supervising the work of Black Brothers. Workers were spraying something on the walls and then wiping them down. It looked to me like a lot of the soot was coming off, but the burnt smell was still overpowering. Anthony opened all the windows, and the October air blew in, but I thought it would have to blow a lot to get rid of the smell. I gave the girls chalk to make a hopscotch, and they skittered off to the front sidewalk, Maggie saying, “It stinks in there, Mom.”

Anthony looked at me as we stood on the front porch watching the girls. “Miss Kelly, something’s very wrong. What?”

Anthony was one of the people I trusted. I told him about Tim’s visit and my inability to get an instant restraining order. “I’m afraid he’ll take them to lunch and they’ll end up in California,” I said.

“Miss Kelly, I have a solution for both of us. I talk to Theresa last night. She’s lonely, she misses her momma, and, yes, she’s running with a bad crowd. She admits it, but they pay attention to her and that’s what she needs now. I want to take a strap to her, but I remember what you said. So I talk, I talk about how I love her, how you think she’s a good girl, how whatever she does now can make a big difference in the rest of her life. For right now, she listens. But,” he shrugged, “who knows? Why don’t I send her to you as a nanny. We give her responsibility for the girls, and they don’t go nowhere without her. I’ll pick her up in the mornings for school and bring her back in the afternoons.”

I was surprised he knew about such an idea. “And she’d be glued to the girls, every minute?”

“Yeah. She’s not scary, but Mr. Spencer might not want to have to deal with taking a seventeen-year-old or beating her to get the girls away or something like that. She change the balance. And she be away from those friends.”

I hugged him. “Anthony, I think it’s the best choice we have. Is she at school today?”

He shook his head. “No. I left her at home. I pray to God she’s still there.”

“I’ll go get her. Do you want to come too?”

“No. I stay here and watch. I don’t trust these people. They take shortcuts when I’m not watching. And I’m looking—who knows, we may find another locket.”

It was lunchtime when I collected a sullen Theresa. “Your dad will bring you some things,” she said. “I need you to stay with the girls.”

“What about school?”

“You can go to school while the girls are in school. Otherwise I want you with them like glue. I’ll explain later.”

When Theresa and the girls were back in the car, I said, “How about lunch?” I named one of those pizza places with various rides and games and puzzles but not very good pizza, groaning inwardly even as I said it.

Theresa just shrugged, but the girls both shrilled in excitement. Theresa seemed to brighten and went off with the girls to try out the entertainment. The girls loved the video games and simulation things—cars they could drive in place,
etc.
They had a sea of plastic balls that kids could dive into, and I shuddered every time the girls did, thinking how dirty those balls were. The only food they served was pizza and what was supposed to pass as a salad. While the girls played, I chewed on pizza that tasted like cardboard. On the way home, Em fell asleep in the car, and Maggie looked drowsy. Once home, I carried Em upstairs and urged Maggie to climb in her bed with her book. Not twenty minutes later, both were sound asleep.

Maggie came downstairs about four. “Mom, you said you’d take us to see that new house today.”

I’d forgotten. “Mag, we went to lunch instead.”

“I want to see the house,” the child repeated.

“Okay, I’ll call Mrs. Hunt and ask if we could maybe come in an hour. Em ought to wake up by then. Where’s Theresa?”

“Upstairs watching TV.”

Probably something I don’t want the girls to see. I’ll have to see if I can get her interested in reading.

Mrs. Hunt was cordial and said anytime at all, but I didn’t want to land at the house at dinnertime. “My youngest daughter is asleep, and as soon as she wakes up….”

“I’m awake, Mommy,” Em said, coming downstairs.

“Oh, she’s awake. Okay if we’re there in about twenty minutes? We won’t be in your way long.”

“That’s fine, dear,” Mrs. Hunt said. “You stay as long as those girls want to.”

Inside the Hunt house, Theresa stood, unsure of herself and her role. Em walked right in as though she lived there, testing the overstuffed leather chair, feeling the wood paneling, peering out the paned windows. Maggie was silent as we walked through the rooms, until we got to the bedrooms.

“Which one will be mine?”

“You and Em will share that big one,” I said as lightly as I could.

“Share a room with Em? No way.”

“Maggie, you practically share a room with her now. It won’t be that different…and it’s a big room. We’ll figure out a way to make it work.”

Maggie crossed her arms in front of her, frowned, and said, “You get two rooms.”

“Well, I need an office….” I began to rearrange in my mind. I didn’t need much of an office. Maybe I could have a desk in a corner of the living room—a wonderful old roll top, as though I could find one and afford it when I did. I resorted to that age-old phrase, “We’ll work it out, Maggie.”

I thanked Mrs. Hunt, who looked a little uncertain, and we left. In the car, Em said, “I love it, I love it. Mommy, it’s the perfect house for you.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “It is for me. But what if it isn’t perfect for you girls?”

Quietly Theresa said, “It’s a good thing I won’t be with you too long. Only until you don’t need a nanny any more. There’s no place for me.”

Stunned, I said, “Theresa, there’s always a place for you. Don’t even think that.” If I hadn’t been driving, I’d have grabbed the girl and hugged her.

I wanted a glass of wine as soon as I got home, but the phone was ringing.

“Kelly,” Tim said, “I want to take the girls to dinner. Nothing fancy, and I’ll have them home whenever you say.”

Here it is—the test.
Keeping my voice as natural as I could, I said, “Sure, Tim. They’ll be ready in half an hour. I’d like to have them home by eight—they missed school today and can’t do it again tomorrow.”

“No problem,” he said.

“Oh, and Tim? They have a nanny who goes with them. That’s the deal.”

“A nanny? How the hell can you afford a nanny?”

“It’s Anthony’s teenage daughter, and it’s too long a story to go into now. But Theresa will be going to dinner with you too.”

“Anthony,” he fumed. “Never did like that old man. I suppose he can’t control his daughter, so he’s given her to you.”

“Tim, do you want to take the girls to dinner or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

He was only twenty minutes late to get the girls. Em protested, but Theresa carried her, saying softly, “I’ll bring you back to Mommy real soon. I promise.”

Tim gave them both a disgusted look and held his hand out to Maggie, who refused to take it but walked along beside him.

My heart was in my mouth. Should I call Mike Shandy? Joanie? The airlines to check flights to California? I poured myself a glass of wine instead, went for my secret stash of that chocolate with jalapeños, and sat, hands shaking, in the living room.

When the phone rang a little before eight, I jumped. I was on the couch with my second glass of wine and no food. I thought about my advice to Joanie the night she’d come over, and I knew I should eat but my nerves made my stomach say no to food.

“Hello?” My voice was tentative, because I was scared down to my toes, sure that it was Tim saying they were boarding a flight for California, and I would hear the girls screaming for me in the background.
Kelly, get a grip,
I told myself.

“Kelly, its Joanie. I have something big to tell you. Can I come over?”

“Not right now, Joanie. It’s a bad time. Tim took the girls to dinner, and they’re due back any minute.”

“Tim? What’s he doing here?” Was I imagining it or was there an odd tone, maybe a moment’s hesitation, in Joanie’s voice?

“Too long a story to tell right now, Joanie. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Okay, but I really have big news, and I want to share it with you.”

I sighed. “Not now. Maybe after the girls are home and in bed. I’ll call you.”

“Promise?”

My head was beginning to pound from stress, wine, and no food. “Yeah, I promise.”

Tim was only fifteen minutes late bringing the girls back, but to me it was an eternity. I was ready to start checking airline departures for California, calling the police, running out in the street and shouting, when suddenly there was his car. He didn’t come in. Through the door, I saw Maggie reach up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and Em allow him to hug her. He nodded at Theresa, who thanked him for dinner, holding out her hand. He ignored it. Then the girls came in, and Tim left.

“Hi, girls.” I tried to sound casual.

“Hi, Mom,” Maggie flopped on the couch. “Dinner was so good. We went to Joe T.’s.”

Mexican food, Fort Worth’s classic restaurant. It’s on the North Side, where cowboy culture vies with Hispanic for the local tourist trade. You can sit outside on a flower-filled patio, on a nice night like that, and the prices are reasonable—except you can’t pay with credit cards. I wondered if that was a problem for Tim.

I should have known Tim would take them there—the owner considered him a friend and always greeted him with a personal handshake. “I’m glad you liked it,” I said, “Joe T.’s is always good and fun.”

“I didn’t like it,” Em said, crawling into my lap.

Maggie was scornful. “You just didn’t like Daddy’s girlfriend.”

My stomach catapulted again, but I waited.

“She was okay,” Maggie said. “She didn’t fuss over us, but she didn’t ignore us. I didn’t exactly like her, but I didn’t hate her.”

“I did,” Em said solemnly.

Theresa chimed in, “Em, you mustn’t hate people. You can dislike them.”

“Okay, I dislike her.”

I guessed since we were long divorced, Tim had a right to bring another woman to dinner—but overnight visits would be another matter. I wanted to ask for a description—height, weight, hair color, all that, but I refrained.

“Theresa, did you enjoy dinner?”

“Yeah, sure, it was all right.” Theresa wasn’t going to loosen up overnight.

“Okay, everybody upstairs to bed,” I said, pulling myself off the couch.

“Me too?” Theresa asked, her sullen expression back.

“No, of course not,” I said, “but would you get the girls into their pajamas. I’ll be up right away to tuck them in.”

They all trooped up the stairs, and, my conscience bothering me, I called Joanie. “They’re home. Why don’t you come over in half an hour?” I did not want to wait for Joanie and sit up half the night listening to her. I wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.

“I’ll be there,” Joanie said.

I went up and kissed the girls goodnight. Then I stuck my head in Theresa’s open bedroom door to say goodnight.

“Miss Kelly?”

“Yes, Theresa?”

“I don’t trust your husband. He’s no good.”

I tried to pass it off. “Thanks for the warning. I think I figured that out myself, too.” But inside I wondered what made the girl join the chorus of people who were saying negative things about Tim.
Had love blinded me that much?

****

Joanie arrived even a little before the half hour, bearing a bottle of white wine. “For you,” she said. I didn’t want to tell her I’d already had enough wine for one night. “You want some?” I asked.

“Nope,” Joanie said. “I’m not drinking. I brought some mineral water.” She whipped a bottle out of her bag. “But I’d take ice and lime if you have it…or lemon.”

“Sure.” I fixed her drink, poured myself just a bit more wine, and cut some cheese for us to nibble on. “So what’s this big news?”

“I’m going to have a baby.” Joanie cried.

I was stunned. “You’re going to have it? No abortion?”

“Absolutely not. I thought about a lot of things, including some of the things you said to me the other night, and I can’t destroy this child.”

The next question came slowly. “Will you raise it or give it up?”

Joanie raised her chin. “I’m keeping my baby. I’ve told my folks, and they say they’ll love their grandchild. That’s
all
they said.”

I leaned over on the couch and gave her a big hug. “Joanie, I’m so glad…and so proud of you.” To myself, I wondered if Joanie hadn’t gone from one extreme to the other a little fast. She was like a person who has found religion at a revival and is devout for three months. Would the decision last or six or seven months into the pregnancy or, when it was too late, would she regret it?

Joanie pulled away. “I didn’t know you had an opinion. I mean, I thought you just listened.”

“I tried to,” I confessed, “but I wanted you to keep the baby. I can’t explain all the reasons…and I know all the arguments people would give you against it, but I think you’re doing the right thing for your baby…and for yourself.” I paused. “I’m proud of you, Joanie. It won’t be easy.” I would, I vowed to myself, be supportive, no matter what else was going on in my own life. I thought about the woman whose baby never made it to life, but this wasn’t the time to think about Miranda, the skeleton.

It was midnight before Joanie left, and I crawled to bed, exhausted. I’d checked on the girls, and they were sleeping. Theresa, too, was asleep, with the guest room TV still on. I turned it off and went to bed, where I collapsed in a deep sleep.

The phone woke me at four. When I mumbled, “Hello,” a male voice—obviously Hispanic but trying too hard to disguise its youthful qualities—said, “Forget about the skeleton. Quit talking to that cop about it.”

It gave me cold shivers. Then, I got out of bed, paraded barefoot down the hall, and looked at Theresa, sleeping in her bed. She looked young, innocent, like a seventeen-year-old should look. Was she connected to the call? No, that was a foolish thought.

From four to six, I went back and forth in my mind—should I call Mike Shandy? Should I forget it and hope it would go away?

At six, I knew there would be no more sleep. Sliding my feet into slippers, I padded downstairs and into the kitchen, where I turned on the early news, read the paper, and sipped coffee.
What I need right now is a loyal dog who would lie at my feet and tell me with his eyes how wonderful I am. Maybe he’d be a guard dog.
Followed by,
a dog? All I need is one more living creature to take care of.

I woke all three girls at seven, urging them to hurry, fed them breakfast.
Okay, Keisha, it’s eggs and toast with jelly, plus orange juice—that’s healthy.
Theresa seemed in good spirits, almost hand-feeding Em her eggs and smiling at me. When Anthony came to pick her up for school, Theresa gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek, and he, surprised, hugged her.

The girls were on time, and in spite of the fact that I felt eighty years old from lack of sleep and too much wine the night before, I was optimistic—Tim brought the girls back, Joanie was going to keep her baby, and Theresa was lightening up. Life looked good. I could go back to worrying about who Miranda really was and who killed her. I was being stubborn, and I knew it, but that skeleton had a hold on me, as though it was calling out to me for justice. I couldn’t bear to think of a young woman, about to have a child, shot to death and hidden away so coldly. If I didn’t help find out who killed her, I wasn’t setting an example of compassion and responsibility for my girls—and I wasn’t living up to who I liked think I was. The police? I thought they’d forget about it in a few days, and I couldn’t let the murder lie unsolved as it had all these years.

At the office I found a message that the tax records I requested were in the city clerk’s office for review. I answered a few phone messages and then, as I headed for the city clerk’s office, told Keisha I was out for most of the day.

“So what else is new?” Keisha asked with a grin. “I’ll keep the business running. Don’t you worry.”

I threw a wadded up piece of paper at her and left.

The tax rolls were dull and pretty much corresponded with what I found in the city directories. The same people owned the house lived in it until up to the mid-1980s, when it seemed to have become rental property. From 1984 until 2004, it had had a succession of owners, though I remembered an even more rapid turnover of tenants. But then in 2004, the Whiteheads, the young couple I bought it from, had purchased the house. So that was the record of ownership. The only interesting thing it told me—and I chewed on this—was that from 1957 to 1968, the house was owned by Martin Properties, Inc. What was Martin Properties? Forty years later, it wasn’t an existing player in the real estate market in South Fort Worth.

I had a red flag. I just didn’t know what to do with it. After scribbling notes, I thanked the clerk and told her I would not need the records any longer. At least not now.

Then I left, arriving early to pick up Maggie. I sat in the car and pondered how I’d find Martin Properties, Inc. Even if I found the company on other deeds, there would be no personal information, no way to track anyone involved. And to find that, I’d have to comb thousands of records. I could try Google, the city phone book, and old city directories, but I held out little hope for either. Somehow I suspected Martin Properties didn’t want to be found, and a company like that—one existing only as a paper front—could easily hide its existence. At least from me. Maybe some high-powered, expensive private investigator could trace them, but I couldn’t and I doubted the police would.

****

That night I made cheeseburger meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, and the girls ate heartily. “This is really good, Miss Kelly,” Theresa said. “My dad, he cooks for us, but he uses so much Greek spice…I get tired of it. I like plain food.”

“Thanks, Theresa. I’m glad you like it.”

“I’ll go get the girls ready for bed,” she volunteered, “and I can help Maggie with homework, if you want.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That would be great. I’ll do the dishes, and we can all turn in early. But if you have homework of your own, I’ll work with Maggie.”

“I did mine this afternoon,” she said.

It should take longer than that to do the homework of a senior in high school, but I wasn’t about to raise that issue
. Choose your battles, Kelly.

The three of them went cheerfully upstairs, and I cleaned the kitchen, laid out cereal bowls and glasses for o.j. for breakfast, got things ready to assemble the girls’ lunches, and felt quite efficient. Maybe having Theresa with us was a good thing.

Pretty soon, Em straggled back downstairs. “Mom? Did you forget that it’s almost Halloween? I don’t have a costume, and we don’t have a pumpkin.”

Halloween. Of course I forgot.
“Oh, Em, I did forget. But I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I’ll get the pumpkin, and… do you remember the year Maggie was a princess? I bet that costume would fit you—I’ll find it and see what shape it’s in.”

“What will Maggie be?”

“Let’s go ask her.”

Maggie’s answer was instant and emphatic. “I want to be Hermione from
Harry Potter.”

I hadn’t read the Harry Potter books and had no idea what would be required to transform my darling daughter into Hermione. “What would the costume consist of?”

Maggie had thought this all out. “I could wear jeans and a plaid scarf—it has to be plaid—and v-neck sweater—I might have to borrow from you, but then I’d need a Hermione cloak, and a wand and a lantern.”

“Not just any wand and lantern?” I thought I had the plaid scarf, but the wand and lantern were definitely not in my closet.

A firm shake of the head. “No. Hermione. I’m sure you can get them.”

I sighed. Shopping endlessly for specific items is not one of my favorite things. To my mind, it’s wasting time. “Maybe I can get them at a drugstore,” I said with a faint hope.

As it turned out, I spent three hours locating the items and standing in line.
Next year, I’m going to plan ahead.

The next morning, when Anthony came to pick up Theresa, she was cheerful and greeted her father affectionately. Over the girl’s head, Anthony smiled at me. Aloud he asked, “You come by the house later?”

“I will,” I promised. ”I want to see how you’re doing.”