A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (6 page)

 
“I wonder if she even knows it
yet?
” I giggled.

“Probably just
decidin
’ when the best time would be to tell her
unsuspectin
’ partners that she’s got a bun in the oven,” Margo opined. “I want to know if her shiny new husband has been clued in.” We exchanged grins, thinking how ecstatic John Putnam would be at the news, though the new couple had been married for less than a year. “Well, at least this day ended up better than it started.”

I had to agree. I stuffed the empty Diet Coke can into my voluminous handbag, and we went to fetch Rhett from his luxurious pen. One of the many fat squirrels who routinely raided our trash cans taunted him from a low-hanging tree branch, but Rhett had eyes only for his mistress. I
scritched
his head, and we parted company for the night.

* * *

As I washed up my few dishes in the kitchen of my condominium a couple of hours later, the events of the day spun through my head. I was usually quite content in my solitude, but tonight I longed for Armando’s calm presence. As if he had read my mind, he phoned just as I was drying my hands.
“Hi, Handsome.
How are things going?
Everybody in a bad mood because they have to work late?”
I could picture the scene well, as I had lived through it on a monthly basis for several years.

“No worse than usual,” he reassured me in his exquisitely accented baritone. “At least the computer system is
es
-still up and running.” Despite his reassuring words, his use of the Spanish “
ess
” betrayed his fatigue. “How was your day,
Cara?”
Knowing how busy he was, I covered the events of the past twelve hours as succinctly as possible. When I ran down, he chuckled softly.
“So just another day at the office, eh?
You have been abandoned by your daughter, discovered yet another deceased person, and learned that your dear friend
está
en
cinta
. It is, how
do you
say it, the life cycle in a nuthouse.”

Since English was not his first language, I usually let Armando’s mangled idioms pass, but this time I burst out laughing. “I think you mean nutshell, but in this case, nuthouse is probably more accurate. The inmates were definitely running the asylum for the better part of it. So where are we having dinner tomorrow night?”

“I was hoping for
paella
in your kitchen, after my late night tonight. Would that be all right with you?”

I assured him that it would be very all right with me, and he blew me a kiss and disconnected after promising to bring extra shrimp for Jasmine and Simon, my two ancient and very spoiled cats. I knew that Jasmine especially would be as pleased to see Armando as the shrimp, since she had appropriated him as her personal property shortly after Armando and I started seeing each other. I kept telling her that he was too big to be her kitten, but she remained steadfast in her role assignment. Simon, on the other hand, just wolfed down whatever largesse Armando proffered, then returned to my side.

Too wound up to read or sleep, I considered going into my office upstairs and checking my e-mails. Then I remembered the swan pictures on my digital camera and dug it out of my shoulder bag. With the help of the software installed on my computer, it would take only a few minutes to download the best shots, which I could then edit and send electronically to Emma, as promised. I should also send them to myself at the office so that Margo could have a look at the ugly babies tomorrow, although she hadn’t been wildly enthusiastic about that idea. Maybe talking about the swan babies would encourage
Strutter
to confide her news, too.

The first couple of images showed the mature swans clearly, but the cygnets swimming between them were an unrecognizable blur. I had zoomed in for the next shot, focusing on the baby swimming nearest to his dad, and he showed up nicely against the green marsh grasses that tufted behind them. Something blue stuck in the reeds provided further contrast, and I used the cropping and enlarging tools to achieve the clearest possible image. Pleased with the result, I punched a button and waited for my little HP to grind out a photographic quality print-out. While it did so, I thought about Armando’s life-in-a-nuthouse analogy. Idiomatically correct or not, he had certainly gotten that right.

I examined the print-out under my desk lamp and thought about my girl in Boston and my trucker son, driving through the night somewhere out there.
Sleep well, be safe,
I wished them silently. Not knowing exactly why, I peered more closely at the blue flotsam against which the cygnet contrasted so nicely. The material was darker than denim and not so vivid as a royal blue, but so what? It was just a piece of cloth, a rag, much like the one John’s flashlight had revealed on the floor of the
Henstock
girls’ basement that morning.

My head swam as I stared, transfixed by what appeared to be a leathery, claw-like hand protruding from the remnants of a dark blue sleeve.

Three

“This absolutely cannot be happening again,” I wailed to Margo over the phone the next morning. My shocking discovery of the previous evening had been duly reported to the police, who had promptly dispatched an officer to take my statement and the revealing photograph. According to John
Harkness
, the mummified remains of a woman, age unspecified, had been retrieved with great difficulty from the marsh surrounding the Spring Street pond at first light this morning. Two officers in a small rowboat had rowed to the site and somehow managed to get a net around the decaying remains, hampered considerably by a large, male swan that flapped his wings threateningly and hissed at them throughout the proceedings. The officers persevered, however, and towed their gruesome bundle to shore, where it was placed in a body bag and transported to the medical examiner’s office in Hartford for forensic investigation.

Obviously as sleep-deprived as I was, Margo yawned unabashedly in my ear. “Well, the good news is that
Strutter
and the
Henstock
gals have been validated in the eyes of the police. Even John had trouble
swallowin
’ their story about a body in the basement at first, but he stopped
scoffin
’ right quick after he saw that scrawny arm
stickin
’ up out of the grass.” She chuckled. “Good thing you noticed it before you emailed that picture off to Emma. Those baby swans were enough to turn her stomach without
addin
’ a
decomposin
’ corpse to the scene.”

I winced at Margo’s forthright description. “Speaking of
Strutter
and the
Henstocks
, do they even know about this development yet?”

“
Mmm
hmmm.
John told
Strutter
on the phone last night, but he let the ladies sleep through all the hoop-de-doo at the pond this morning, then stopped by to tell them in person. I think he just wanted another cup of Miss
Lavinia’s
tea.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “See you later, Sugar.”

“Later,” I agreed and slouched over to the coffee maker for a refill. At least I’d be able to get a decent night’s sleep tonight, I comforted myself. Then I remembered that I’d promised Armando
paella
for dinner. Groaning, I went to check the contents of my pantry cupboard.
Rice, chicken stock, saffron, garlic, sweet onions.
So far, so good.

I pulled open the refrigerator.
Two decent tomatoes and a green pepper.
The turkey kielbasa in the meat drawer wasn’t chorizo, but it would do. I pulled frozen peas, some chicken, and
a
a
few
ciabata
rolls out of the freezer to thaw in the refrigerator. It looked as if the shrimp Armando had promised to pick up at City Fish after work would give me the final ingredient. I didn’t care for mussels, which were included in most traditional recipes, but Armando and I both preferred shrimp. Jasmine and Simon wouldn’t object either, I felt sure. I just
hoped
I didn’t fall dead asleep in my plate. I rinsed out my coffee mug and trudged off to shower and dress.

Arriving at the Law Barn at a little after nine, I found
Strutter
and Jenny huddled over the mail at the reception desk once again. “Don’t tell me.
Another clipping?
What’s this one about … how women should be seen but not heard?” I waited for a laugh, but I didn’t get one.

Jenny held up a second envelope addressed in blue block letters to “Mack Realty,” upper and lower case just like the first one. “There’s another clipping about that stinky corpse flower getting ready to bloom at the University, but I don’t think the quote is from the Bible this time.” She handed over a piece of paper to which a clipping from the
Hartford Courant
had been taped. Scrawled in the margin were the words, “The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike.”

“Lovely sentiment, but it doesn’t ring a bell.” I handed it back and looked at
Strutter
, who stood silent and frowning. “Mean anything to you?” My casual inquiry produced an explosion.

“Now why would you think that?” she demanded, hands on hips, taking two steps toward me, the better to get in my face. “Was it addressed to me personally? Or are you just assuming someone is making these wild accusations against me?”

I recoiled, eyes wide. “What accusations?” I protested. Then I remembered that
Strutter
may well be operating under a hormonal handicap. I made a weak stab at defusing her anger. “As far as I can tell so far, these stupid letters aren’t directed to anyone in particular. Somebody just thinks we smell bad. Collectively,” I added with a smile for good measure and tried to pat her shoulder, but she slid away from me.

“Sorry. Just didn’t have my coffee yet. This business with the
Henstocks
still has my stomach in an uproar.”
Strutter
dropped her eyes and placed one hand over her abdomen, somewhat protectively, I thought. “I’ve got to get on over to Vista Views anyway. It’s my turn to play rental agent this morning.” Snatching
up
her purse and her briefcase, she charged toward the back door of the Law Barn without going anywhere near the coffee pot, I noticed. She nearly ran into Margo, who was just coming in. Jenny and I stared after her.

“What was that all about?” Jenny asked in confusion.

“Yes, what
was
that all about?” Margo agreed, staring after
Strutter
, “And what’s got
Strutter
all riled up? She about knocked me over.”

Jenny and I filled her in on
Strutter’s
reaction to this morning’s mail.

“Huh. Seems to me someone is
takin
’ this foolishness a
scootch
personally, don’t you think?” She patted her French twist back into perfection and smoothed her stylish lavender
capri
outfit unnecessarily. “Now why is that?”

I jerked my eyes meaningfully toward Jenny, who was momentarily distracted by the phone, and headed for the coffee niche.
 
“I haven’t got a clue, but until we find out what’s going on with her, let’s not blow her cover.” I poured each of us a mug of fresh brew, which we took down the half-flight to the MACK Realty office. I plunked mine on the desk and booted up the Dell, while Margo arranged herself decoratively on the sofa and checked her cell phone for messages. “It wouldn’t be the first time some crackpot decided to distribute a little hate mail.”

Margo chuckled, remembering our run-in the previous year with a religious zealot who had harassed the owner of the diner located a few blocks down

“I have no idea. Maybe it’s that old superstition about not telling anyone until you’re three months along so you don’t have to deal with a lot of questions and drama if you have an early miscarriage.” I clicked briskly through my Outlook messages, deleting the garbage emails that grew like mushrooms overnight.

“Seems to me there would be a lot of questions and drama
whenever
you had a miscarriage, so I surely don’t understand that one.”
Margo snapped her cell phone shut and fished in her handbag for a mirror.