A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (12 page)

Before I got a chance to call her, Margo phoned me. “Well, hey, Sugar. You’re sounding all bright-eyed and bushy tailed for this hour on a Sunday
mornin
’, especially after all the excitement last night. What did that man of yours have to say about your adventure?”

“Some adventure! And if you think I gave him anything except the barest outline of what happened here last night, you’re crazy. How about meeting me at the Town Line for a bodacious breakfast?”

No one would guess by looking at her svelte figure, but diner breakfasts were one of Margo’s favorite things in the world, and the Town Line Diner in Rocky Hill served up her very favorite farmer’s
omelette
. “You’re on. See you there in half an hour.”

Thrashing my way out from under Simon’s bulk, I dashed for the shower and jumped into my weekend jeans and shirt. Make-up consisted of two swipes of mascara and one of lipstick. On my way through the bedroom, I yanked the sheets off my bed and dropped them into the washer in the hall. A little detergent and fabric softener, a few dial twists, and I headed for the door. As I opened it, I heard the phone start to ring. Instantly, I knew it was Armando, having rethought my sketchy account of the previous evening’s activities and wanting to dig deeper. I slammed the door and ran down the garage steps to my car. Another five seconds, and I wouldn’t have heard the phone ring, I rationalized.

Despite my speedy preparations, Margo managed to beat me to the Town Line. I pulled open the door from the big parking lot and took comfort from the familiar sounds and scents of the diner. Families fresh from church services occupied the many tables and booths, along with young couples who were probably still on last night’s date and an assortment of regulars, of which I was now glad to be one. I was making my way to a booth at the end of the row by the front windows when Sherrie, a regular Sunday morning waitress, pointed Margo out at the end of the long counter.

“So is this a bad omen?” I asked her over excellent coffee. “Sins of omission seem like a bad way to start off this new phase in our relationship.” I had explained my heavily edited version of last night’s visitor during my phone conversation with Armando this morning. Margo took a thoughtful sip of her own brew.

“Frankly, Sugar, I think that’s a young person’s perspective. Those of us with a few more miles on us have a different take on these things.”

“Well, that’s for sure, but what do mean in this case?” I prompted.

“When you’re young, you believe with all of your heart that complete honesty is essential to a
lastin
’ relationship … with friends, men, whoever. Our parents drill that into us so we’ll be truthful with them. But after
dealin
’ with the fallout from all of that frankness and candor over the years, we learn that very often, complete honesty is not the way to go. If a friend asks you if she looks fat, and she does, you’d be crazy to tell her the truth. You make a huge mistake and cheat on your boyfriend with an old flame, and how does
tellin
’ him about it improve things? You feel better because you’ve come clean, but he feels terrible. Much better just to mend your ways, keep your mouth shut and deal with your guilty conscience in silence. Then there are the social invitations you’d rather be shot dead than accept. A kindly fib is the only acceptable way out. You know what I mean.”

Of course, I agreed with her. “But in this particular case, why am I hedging the facts with Armando?”

“Because you know Armando well enough to know that he’d get into a big, macho flap if you told him all the details, and what good would that do? The police are on the case. You and I are grown-up, sensible women and are on the alert. If you think about it, there’s not a single thing Armando can do here to be useful, so why get him all riled up? It would be downright unkind, especially
considerin
’ all of the stress he must already be under today
tryin
’ to get ready for the big
move
tomorrow.”

Just hearing her
say
the m-word made my stomach feel funny. “Speaking of stress …” I stirred my coffee and chewed on a thumbnail.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, are you still
obsessin
’ over this?” Margo slapped my thumb away from my mouth lightly. “It’s perfectly natural to get cold feet at this stage, but we both know you’re
goin
’ to go through with it. In fact, if he called you right now and said he’s lost his nerve and just can’t move in after all, you’d be devastated.”

I ran that scenario through my head and had to agree with her. I would be crushed. “So how do I get rid of these jitters?”

“You don’t. You can’t. You wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t have the willies after all these years of
livin
’ by your lonesome.
Havin
’ all that freedom and privacy was great, but Sugar, this will be great, too. Just put one foot in front of the other one for a few days, and the move will be behind you. You will have had your first spat or two, and kissed and made up, and it’ll all turn out just fine. You wait and see. Now drink your coffee, and let’s order us up an omelet and some home fries.”

My butterflies flew away, and my stomach growled in anticipation. No doubt my misgivings would return, but for the moment, I felt undeniably better. I smiled at my friend and signaled to Sherrie that we were ready to order.

“So what’s the latest on the
Henstock
sisters’ skeleton?” I asked after we had dithered happily for a few moments between bagels or croissants, English muffins or pumpernickel toast.
“Any new developments from the good lieutenant?”
At the mention of John
Harkness
, Margo’s lips curved into a smile. If I didn’t know her love-them-and-leave-them ways so well, I would be tempted to think she was besotted.

“Not much. The forensics report makes the remains those of a woman, youngish, Caucasian. No obvious signs that she was done in with a hammer or a bullet to the head, so cause of death is nearly impossible to identify. The fabric and the dye were aged at about sixty years, which means she went into that closet
thingie
in the basement around 1945, as near as anybody can say.” She shrugged. “Weird to think that gruesome body was right in the house with them all that time. When did you say the Judge died?”

“The late 1960s, I think.” I repeated what
Ada
and
Lavinia
had told me about their father’s late-night visitors all those years ago. “Do you think the Judge knocked up one of his lady friends, then did
her
in and hid the body in the basement?”

Margo choked on her coffee and dabbed daintily at her lips with a
naplin
, wide-eyed. “Thank goodness there’s so much
chatterin
’
goin
’ on around us that nobody but
me
heard that. You are absolutely sick! Just because a mature, single gentleman feels the need of some, um, companionship from time to time and needs to be discreet because of his position doesn’t make him a monster and a murderer!”

“All right, all right.
It was just a thought. It’s not that I begrudge the poor guy a girlfriend or two. It can’t have been easy to be a single man in the public eye, having to raise two young daughters. But you have to agree, it’s an interesting theory. Or maybe it wasn’t murder at all. Maybe one of the ladies had designs on him, and when he rejected her and refused to marry her, she took an overdose and expired in his study just to make him suffer! And when he found her, he was afraid he’d be accused of murdering her, so he walled her up in the basement one dark night.”

Margo stared at me. “Have you been
watchin
’ daytime television? I cannot think how such a melodramatic solution to this little mystery even occurred to you …”

Fortunately, Sherrie chose this moment to delivery our breakfasts, and I was spared having to reply immediately. For a few moments, we busied ourselves with jam and butter,
then
forked into our omelets ravenously. I waited until Margo had her mouth full to forestall further comment from her. “This situation doesn’t require any additional drama from me. I don’t think even a soap opera writer could come up with this one. A woman’s body is walled up in a local judge’s basement for more than sixty years … oh, no!” I dropped my fork with a clatter. “You don’t think the poor thing was walled in
alive
, do you?”

For the second time in five minutes, Margo choked. “Who puts these ghastly ideas into your head? I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty. No, of course she wasn’t alive. There was a family in that house, which is far from soundproof. And I don’t care what they tell you in those trashy books you must be
readin
’, a few bricks and some mortar are not
goin
’ to silence somebody who’s behind them
screamin
’ her head off.”

“Oh, thank goodness. Where was I? So the body is plastered up behind some bricks in the basement. The judge dies. The little girls turn into old ladies. Some pipes spring a leak, and they call a plumber. He goes down into the basement and rips out some bricks that are blocking access to the leaking pipes, and there’s Skeleton Woman. He freaks and runs out of the house, never to return. The sisters call us, not the police, because they’re afraid that having a corpse in their basement might be a turn-off to potential buyers for their house. By the way, do we actually have the listing for that yet? Then the police come, but the skeleton has disappeared, right along with the mystery plumber, whom nobody can seem to locate.”

I chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Margo concentrated on her eggs in an effort to tune me out, but I continued. “Next, the body or remains or whatever turn up in the Spring Street Pond. Nobody has a clue about the identity. And oh, yes … coincidentally, I’m being stalked by a guy in a black van, but we don’t know if that has any connection to the
Henstock
sisters’ skeleton. How’s
that
for melodrama?” I took a bite of my toast and waved at Sherrie for more coffee, but before she could pour my refill, Margo put her hand over my cup.

“Thanks, Sugar, but I think this girl has had just about enough caffeine.” Sherrie laughed and departed while I pouted over my empty cup. Margo pushed my ice water a little closer. “Try some of that. I think you’re
overheatin
’. Now, if we really must have this
revoltin
’ conversation, at least let me finish my food first.”

Twenty minutes later, sated with food and conversation, but having arrived at no plausible solutions, we inched our way through the crowd of diner patrons waiting in line at the register to be seated and pushed through the doors to the parking lot.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the second level and ambled toward our cars. “Are you and John doing anything this afternoon?” Margo arched an eyebrow. “Let me rephrase that. Are you and John doing anything
else
this afternoon?”

Margo giggled. “Why, I don’t know just yet, but if we do, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. How about you? Are you
goin
’ over to help Armando finish
packin
’?”

“Nope, uh
uh
, no way,” I said firmly. “Packrats have to pay the price for their hoarding. I know what’s in that apartment. I’ve seen it many times. He has ten years worth of unnecessary papers, every book he’s ever read, and clothes he hasn’t worn since the 1980s. A lot of stuff is in piles on the floor. And I don’t even want to talk about the kitchen. Our deal is that I get the house ready for him to move into, and he sorts out and packs his stuff. Anything that won’t fit into his bedroom, bathroom and the loft area will have to be stored in the basement, neatly and in cartons. He’s on his own with the packing.” We arrived at my car. “I think I’ll give
Strutter
a call and fill her in on last night. Maybe we can meet for coffee later. I’d love to get her to open up about what’s going on with her lately.”

“Make it a decaf,” Margo advised. “I have a
feelin
’ you’re not
goin
’ to do much
sleepin
’ tonight as it is. You don’t need to be
loadin
’ up with caffeine on top of
everythin
’ else.” She fumbled in her stylish tote bag for her car key. “And Sugar?”

“Uh huh?”

“Watch out for strange men in black vans.”

* * *

Late that afternoon,
Strutter
and I ambled along