Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (8 page)

“I have something to show you.”

I smiled. Anthony could always improve on my plans. In a day when skilled carpenters were hard to find and harder to afford, he was a real jewel.

The girls were cheerful when I dropped them at their schools. “Remember, I have ballet this afternoon. Theresa reminded me to pack my things. They’re in the car.”

And as I walked Em into her classroom, the small hand clutching mine, I said, “Have a good day, Em.”

“You too, Mommy. I think this is a good day.”

I was smiling as I walked into the office. “You win the lottery again?” Keisha asked.

“Almost. All three girls are happy, and I think things are going to improve.”

Alan called a few minutes later, with the appraiser’s report on the house. “I’m going to give it to the Hunts right now. I’ll let you know what they say.”

Waiting, I put pencil to paper, figuring what I’d clear on my house, what moving would cost, and how much I could pay for the Hunt house, calculating monthly mortgage payments, insurance, and taxes. I figured I could afford the appraiser’s estimate plus more if I had to—and still bank some. I was anxious for Alan to call, but he didn’t—and I had a house to show at 10:30.

“If Alan calls, be sure he has my cell,” I said as I left.

The client, Claire Guthrie who wanted a house in good condition, seemed to like the first house, a two-story that had been one of the earliest Fairmount houses redone, but it now needed remodeling again. It was in what I thought of as Lower Fairmount, where the neighborhood begins to edge into the more fashionable Ryan Place.

“I like it,” Mrs. Guthrie said, “and I think my husband will. But three bedrooms. We did want four so each of the girls could have her own room and we’d still have an office that could also be a guest room. Do you have any two-story four-bedrooms to show me?”

I thought a minute. I’d just put the sign up in my yard, and I hadn’t straightened this morning—breakfast dishes were still in the sink. Honesty, I decided, was the best policy. “I do have one,” I said, taking along breath. “It’s my house. But I didn’t straighten up this morning, didn’t even do the dishes. I wasn’t expecting to show it so soon.”

“Oh, bother the dishes. I’d like to see it. If it’s good enough for a realtor, it must be a good house. Why are you moving?”

“I’m moving to a smaller house.” No need to add, “And more charming.”

I took her through the house, room by room. Even with unmade beds and messy girls’ rooms, the house showed well. And I knew how to point out its strong points—privacy in the master suite with its redone, spacious bath and its built-in office space. Claire Guthrie quickly saw that she could make another use of her guest room, and said, “I’ve wanted a separate place to put all my knitting supplies. This would be perfect.”

In the kitchen I pointed to the warming drawer, the separate bar area Tim insisted on, the trendy glass-front cabinets, and the spacious work counter.

“I’m a cook,” Claire gushed. “I’d love to cook in this kitchen. And we’d have to redo that other kitchen. How much are you asking for your house?”

I knew my price from my calculations earlier in the morning, and I gave her a figure, saying, “It’s non-negotiable, and it doesn’t include agent’s fees.”

“When could we have possession?”

“As soon as I hear from the agent who’s handling the purchase of the new house, I’ll be able to tell you.”

We made arrangements for Mrs. Guthrie to bring her husband back at five that evening. After she left, I flew around the house, straightening the kitchen, making beds, fluffing pillows on the couch. Then I went and bought bouquets of fresh flowers to put in the living room and the kitchen.
If they don’t buy the house, I’ll still enjoy the flowers.

When my cell rang, I answered it eagerly. But it was Christian, saying he’d fax the title search to me. But he read it, and I knew he’d pretty much found was what I’d about the house on Fairmount. “I think,” I said, “Martin Properties, Inc., holds the clue. Ever hear of them?”

“Nope.”

“Know where to look?”

“Nope.”

“Big help you are,” I teased. “And I was about to have a closing for you.”

“Kelly, don’t hold out on me,” he said. “What house?”

“Mine.”
“Yours? I haven’t seen an MLS listing for it. You’re not leaving, are you?”

“No. I’m buying the most wonderful Craftsman-style house you ever saw. At least, I think I am.”

“You got a buyer for your house already?”

“Keep your fingers crossed. I’ll know tomorrow.”

Almost as soon as I hung up, the cell rang again, and this time it was Alan. “The Hunts want to sell it to you at the appraised value,” he said, satisfaction filling his voice.

“Oh, Alan. I’m prepared to pay more. I figured it this morning, and I can go higher.” I was blabbing, and I could feel my heart racing.

“Kelly,” his tone cut me off. “You don’t raise the asking price. Never. I won’t allow a client to do that.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Want me to draw up the papers? Any specifications?”

“Yes, draw up the paper and no, no specs, except that the Hunts are welcome to visit whenever. Can I call her and arrange to go through the house with her again?”

“Sure, you call. I’ll bring the papers by tonight for you to sign.”

“Did she say when they wanted to close?”

“Standard thirty days,” he said.

I figured that would give me time to clean out my house and, I hoped, sell it.

My evening was getting crowded. I remembered Anthony and hurried over to the house on Fairmount.

“I thought you forgot me,” he said.

“Never. But I think I just bought a house…and sold mine.” He had looked at the Craftsman house but didn’t know I’d made an offer nor that I’d found a possible buyer for mine, so I told him the whole story.

“Terrific, Miss Kelly!” He grabbed me and danced me about the empty living room, laughing all the while. Then, abruptly stopping, “Now, my find.” Leading the way to the kitchen, he said, “I find this in the bedroom closet, behind a fake panel.” He handed me a small leather-bound book, with a gold-leaf page ribbon running through to mark a page. A gold clasp held it closed, and there was a place for a key—but no key. I pressed the clasp, and it sprang open.

I stared at Anthony, who was grinning. Then I leafed through the book—pages of neat handwriting, dated entries. It was Marie Winton’s diary!

“You gonna give it to the cops?” he asked.

“Not until I read it,” I answered without hesitation. “And maybe not then. We’ll see.”

I clutched the book to me, as though it were worth a fortune. “Thank you, Anthony. What made you look there?”

“I sometimes get tired of working on the kitchen, and I explore the house, getting ideas for what I can do to other rooms. I’m going to make these closets bigger, easier to get too—so I was testing the walls, and I found….” He looked sheepish. “Another dead space.”

I wanted to rush home, lock myself in the bedroom, and read every word of the diary, but I had to pick the girls up and then the Guthries were coming. When I had Maggie and Em both in the car, I said, “We have to go right home and straighten things up. People are coming to look at the house at five.”

Em asked, “What people? Why are they looking at our house?”

Just as I was about to say, “Because they might want to buy it,” Maggie interrupted with, “Mom, I have ballet today.”

I’d forgotten entirely. Ballet was from four to five. My mind raced. Maybe I could drop her off and find another mother—one I knew and trusted, of course—to bring her home. But when I got to the ballet studio, the only mother I saw was Sarah’s—mother of the girl Em tangled with. No, that wouldn’t do. I searched my brain—and then my purse for my notebook with Mrs. Guthrie’s number in it. Frantic, I dialed.

Claire Guthrie answered with her usual enthusiasm. When I explained, she agreed it would be no problem to move the appointment to five-thirty. In fact, it might be more convenient for Mr. Guthrie.
That’s what she called him
,
Mr. Guthrie. I never ever referred to Tim as Mr. Spencer.

Rather than get more flustered by rushing around, I sat and watched the lesson. But Em squirmed and wiggled, clearly bored. “Mommy, I have to peepee.” I took her to the restroom. “Mommy, I’m thirsty.” I got her a paper cup of water from the dispenser. “I didn’t want water. I wanted juice.”

“Em, please be quiet. You’re disturbing the lesson. If you’re good for this and the Guthrie’s visit, I’ll get you whatever you want—well, almost.”

I hustled the girls out the door and into the car, and we were home by five-ten. I rushed around, straightening things that I’d already straightened once that day. But when the door chimes rang, I felt I was ready. The girls were settled in the kitchen, with Theresa helping them bake cookies. I thought that bit of domesticity might add to the charm of the kitchen for the Guthries. Besides the smell of baking was famous as a subliminal factor or whatever in selling a house.

The walk-through went well. Claire Guthrie was so eager to point out the amenities to her husband that I sat back and let her take over. He seemed impressed, though I found him hard to read—inscrutable was the word that came to mind.

“May I offer you a glass of wine?” I asked, and both nodded their acceptance.

We settled in the living room, and I asked if they had any questions about the house, its history, its upkeep. Mr. Guthrie—I thought his name was Jim—asked about utility bills and all those practical matters, while Claire said, “You know, Jim, this just feels right to me.”

I was seeing a sale within my sights and could barely contain my excitement. But just then the front door flew open, and Tim Spencer burst into the room, his face red with anger. “You cannot sell this house,” he yelled. “I put too much into it. You cannot sell it.”

The Guthries sat shocked, staring at him, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Em peek around the corner.

I said the only thing I could think of. “My ex-husband does not come with the house,” I assured them. I thought it was clever, but no one laughed, and Tim said, “Quit trying to be smart, Kelly.”

“Maybe we should finish our talk another time,” Jim Guthrie said, rising and looking at Tim.

Feeling foolish, I performed the introductions, and the two men shook hands perfunctorily. Claire looked as though she’d rather touch a snake.

Just as they started toward the door, which Tim had left open, Mike Shandy, in full uniform, appeared in the doorway. He looked at the strange assortment of people, looked again at me, and said, “Sorry. I’ll come back another time. I just wanted to tell you that the detectives think they’ve got a lead on the identity of that skeleton.”

While Tim roared, “Skeleton?” the Guthries left without another word. I watched them go with sinking spirits. There was a sale gone sour.

“Sorry,” Mike said. “Did I interrupt something?”

I tried to smile at him, but it didn’t work. “Nothing that was going very well. Mike, this is my ex-husband, Tim Spencer.”

Mike, ever friendly, held out his hand. “Mike Shandy. I’m the neighborhood patrol officer. Been keeping an eye on Kelly and the girls.”

“I’m sure you have,” Tim said, ignoring the proffered hand. “What the hell are you talking about—a skeleton?”

I knew this was an act for effect, and Tim knew about the skeleton—I remembered that he mentioned it in that first phone call. But now I was too stunned to think clearly.

Mike said, “I guess Kelly will have to tell you that. Kelly, there’s no more surveillance, but you if you need me you have my number.” With a telling look at Tim, he asked me, “Okay with you if I go about my business now?”

“Sure, Mike. I’ll be fine. Thanks. Maybe we can talk about the report in the morning.”

“Sure,” he said. But then, “Why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night? I’m off, and we could talk about the whole case.” His look at Tim was calculated, and Tim responded, looking indignant.

“I’d like to Mike, but the girls….”

“Theresa can keep the girls.”

“I can take the girls to dinner,” Tim said. “You two just go on and solve your mysteries.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

My heart sank. I didn’t want the girls with Tim, but until the courts settled things, I had no choice. “Okay, thanks, Tim.” That was an effort to be gracious. “Theresa will have to go with you, of course….”

“Of course,” Tim said sarcastically. “I can’t see my girls alone. You’d think I was a pedophile.”

“Tim,” I said, “that’s not it, and you know it. I want them to have the comfort of someone familiar.”

“I’m familiar, for God’s sake. I’m their father.”

“Em doesn’t know you, and she’s scared of you. Theresa will go, and they have to be home by eight because it’s a school night. And before you go, I need to know where you and your friend,”—my voice lingered on the last word—“are staying.”

“The Worthington,” Tim said curtly, naming one of Fort Worth’s nicest hotels, and stalked away.

He must be doing better than I thought.