A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (26 page)

I had to admit that it sounded pretty bad, when he put it like that, and I said so.

“What other way is there to put it?” he demanded. “This man means you harm for no other reason than he believes you know the location of some evidence of a past crime. Who knows how this would have ended, had you not gone into your Superwoman mode?” The tic under his eye was becoming more pronounced.

“The good news is that we found out who’s been sending us hate mail,” I said brightly and spewed out the whole story of
Strutter’s
quasi ex-husband. “Now that the police have had a little chat with him, I don’t think we’ll be bothered any more, which is a good thing, because
Strutter
has already had more than enough drama for one week, and I honestly don’t think she could handle anything more.” I became aware that I was babbling and stopped. “Ready for dinner, Honey?”

“Not yet.” Armando turned to face me fully, and I noticed how tired he looked. No, more like
sick
and tired. I realized how great a toll the events of the past week had taken on him. Just moving in with me would have been quite enough for him to handle without having to deal with the stress of recent events in my life. It wasn’t my fault, exactly, but given the present circumstances, who could blame him if he were reconsidering his decision to share my roof. “What is the plan of the police to find this man in the van and to protect you until they do?”

I struggled to reassure him. “Unfortunately, I still could not give them a good physical description, since he was behind me throughout the, um, assault. He was wearing pretty much the same thing as always … jeans, windbreaker, knitted hat. He changed the color of the van and the signs on the doors, and he could do that again. And since I didn’t get a license plate number …” I shrugged. “But an APB has been issued for a blue van with ‘Best Painters’ signs and a broken taillight, just in case he doesn’t have time to do another make-over. And I did some major damage to his left arm, so he may have to seek medical attention. All of the hospitals and walk-in centers have been put on alert. The Wethersfield Police have the Law Barn on regular patrol during office hours.”

“They did that yesterday,” Armando commented drily. “I do not see that it has helped much so far.”

“But now they have more accurate information to go on.” It sounded lame even to me, but what more was there to say? I got to my feet and headed for the kitchen, trying not to limp noticeably, although my ankle was killing me after the day’s workout. “Some hot food and a glass of wine will do us both good.
Back in a jiffy.”

* * *

Saturday morning was clear and lovely enough to serve as an advertisement for summer in New England. For the first time this season, Armando and I took mugs of coffee and the newspaper out onto the back deck to savor the soft breeze and the birdsong that surrounded us. Not for the first time, I was aware that the sounds of the summer birds were distinctly different from those of the starlings, mourning doves, cardinals and crows that stayed throughout the winter. From the wetlands behind our house came the songs of robins, flickers, and of course, the mockingbird with his seemingly endless repertoire. All were busy with the business of feeding the insatiable nestlings that clamored from every treetop.

By the time he was well into his second cup of coffee and the world news, Armando seemed far more relaxed than he had the previous evening. The tic under his left eye had vanished, I was pleased to note. Now if only the police could track down my tormentor, perhaps our lives could get back to normal. Predictably, just as I had settled into lazy consideration of the day’s schedule, the phone rang. I got up once again to answer it. There might be some good news from the police about the investigation.

“Kate here,” I announced, dropping heavily into the overstuffed chair next to the telephone table.

“Margo here,” was the bright reply. Too bright for this hour on a Saturday morning, I speculated, but the reason soon became evident. “How are you today, Sugar?” I opened my mouth to tell her, but she rushed on. “Listen, I have the most incredible idea about the
Henstocks
’ house. It hit me yesterday
evenin
’ when I trotted on down the hall to find the powder room while you were all
sayin
’ your goodbyes, remember? Well, all those old doors look alike, and it’s not like they had a sign posted, so I turned a wrong doorknob or two before I found the
loo
.”

“Okay,” I said warily. “So what did you find? If you tell me another skeleton fell out of another closet, I’m hanging up.”

“Oh, this is much more
interestin
’ than some old bag of bones, Honey. If I’m right, and I usually am about this sort of thing, the
Henstock
ladies are
sittin
’ in the middle of an absolute treasure trove.”

My mind spun busily through what I remembered of the house. “It’s a grand old house, Margo, but honestly, it needs such a lot of work …”

“Not the house, silly woman.
The
furniture
.
If what I saw piled up in those back rooms downstairs is any indication, those little
ol
’ gals have one of the most fabulous collections of antiques I have ever seen.”

I remained skeptical. I have never been one to
oooh
and
aaah
over the uncomfortable old horrors that seemed to populate the few antique stores I had visited in my lifetime. Still, I knew many people who did. I remembered the tufted settees and leaded lampshades in the
Henstocks
’ front parlor. “Do you really think that musty old stuff is worth anything?”

“Stuff?
Stuff
?
Sugar, I personally know two dealers in Atlanta who would cheerfully slap their grandmas for a chance to get their hands on what I saw last night, let alone whatever else is probably in that house.

“Slap their grandmothers? Who would do such an awful thing?”

“It’s just an expression, Hon, sorry. I keep
forgettin
’ how literal you Yankees are. The point is
,
the
Henstocks
’ house may be
fallin
’ down around their ears, but that furniture is an undiscovered gold mine. I know because antique
collectin
’ was just about Mama and Daddy’s favorite thing to do in the world. Daddy’s idea of a Sunday drive was a tour of the local antique shops, and instead of
Little Red
Ridin
’ Hood
, Mama
read
to me from
The Bulfinch Anatomy of Antique Furniture.
I believe they’re on a first-name basis with every dealer east of the Mississippi. I can identify periods and designers at fifty paces, and my hunch is
,
these old gals have
nothin
’ whatsoever to worry about.”

My initial skepticism was followed by a wave of elation. I realized how fond I had become of
Ada
and
Lavinia
and how worried I had been about the financial future. If what Margo said was true, and it never occurred to me to doubt her, they would be all right even if we didn’t succeed in selling their house.

“But that’s wonderful!” I exulted. “Have you told
Ada
and
Lavinia
yet?”

I could hear the smile in Margo’s voice. “No, Sugar. After
everythin
’ you’ve been through on their behalf, I thought you might like to help me
do that
. Of course, we need to convince them to let us bring one or two dealers through the house to inventory what’s there and put a value on it. But wait. I haven’t told you the best part.”

“There’s more? Tell me, tell me.” I was suddenly greedy for more good news.

“This part was
Strutter’s
idea. She was
feelin
’ so blue last night about that dreadful Reggie person and his not even
givin
’ a damn about his own son that I followed her home. Her hubby and Charlie went out to pick up pizza, and I told her about my discovery at the
Henstocks
to distract her from the general awfulness of the day. It worked.”

Margo chuckled with satisfaction. “I could see the wheels just
turnin
’ and
turnin
’ behind those gorgeous eyes of hers. Then she said, ‘I’ll bet the right investor could turn that house into the antiques showcase of New England. You know how the collectors flock to this part of the country. Wethersfield is a huge draw already. Just imagine that house fully restored to its original glory and completely furnished with authentic period pieces. It could be a bed-and-breakfast, just the way you thought. But this one would be especially for antique lovers, and every stick of furniture would be for sale … for the right price, of course.’
How about that for an idea?”

“Wow. It sounds wonderful, but the initial investment would have to be enormous …”

“Oh,
pish
, tosh,” Margo dismissed my practical concerns. “There you go
worryin
’ about money again. I’ve already told you, one call to Atlanta, and I’ll have dealers lined up on the ladies’ doorstep
competin
’ with each other to submit a proposal. All we have to do is sell the idea to
Ada
and
Lavinia
. Do you think they’d be
willin
’ to consider it?”

I considered the question. The

“It’s an incredible idea, Margo. It could absolutely be the answer, but can
Ada
and
Lavinia
accept the idea of losing their house and most of their belongings, too, in exchange for financial security? I just don’t know. All we can do is lay out the idea and see what they say. How is
Strutter
doing, by the way?”

“By the time I left her last night, she seemed more like her old self than I’ve seen her in a long time. I think it did her good to have
somethin
’ else to think about for a while. I know it picked me right up,” Margo confirmed. “What with one thing and another, this has been one of the most
depressin
’ weeks I can remember. It’s about time the tide turned.”

I agreed. “Maybe the police will find the lead they need among those documents John took away last night, and it will help them get Van Man out of the picture. If they do, and we can all go back to our routine business, I swear I’ll never complain about having a boring day again. Have you heard anything from John yet?”

“Not yet, but I’m
expectin
’ him to call any minute now. I’d like to have good news for the ladies about the investigation before we talk to them about our idea. Talk to you later, Hon.” And she was gone.

I replaced the phone in its cradle in better spirits than I could recall enjoying in some time. Maybe Margo was right. Perhaps her discovery at the
Henstocks
’ house was a sign that things were beginning to go in our favor. I got up with a smile on my face and went back outside to tell Armando the good news.

* * *

Thanks to my partners’ creative thinking and Mother Nature’s dazzling display of early summer weather, my mood improved steadily throughout the morning. As is the case for most women who work outside the home, Saturdays were reserved for the domestic tasks and errands that accumulated during the week. At least I didn’t have soccer practice and Cub Scout field trips to contend with any more, I comforted myself as I slogged through the third load of laundry and pushed the vacuum cleaner around the downstairs rugs.

Upstairs, Armando wrestled with his electronics, setting up his complicated stereo system and hooking up his computer and printer in the loft that overlooked the living room. Just a few years ago, when I had moved into The Birches, he had served as my volunteer electrician and done the same things for me. It seemed kind of silly for us each to have our own audio and computer systems, not to mention separate phone lines, but that appeared to be the situation when middle-aged people merged households. After years of having everything exactly the way we wanted it in our individual abodes, it took the edge off our anxieties about living together if we didn’t have to share absolutely everything. Presumably, we would adjust to this new state of affairs and be able to operate in a more blended environment in time.