Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery (24 page)

I leaned over
Jenny’s shoulder to have a look at the accompanying photo of the botanical
phenomenon, which resembled a tightly closed, three-foot-tall lily bud. “Now
there’s something only a botanist could love.” I yielded my spot to Margo, who
had joined us on her way to refill her coffee mug. Incredibly, she had risked
wearing white linen to the office, but I had to admit that the fitted sheath complemented
her fair coloring and blonde chignon exquisitely. Rhett Butler, the chocolate
Labrador
Retriever
who was Margo’s constant companion,
nuzzled my ankle, and I obliged with a head
scritch
while his mistress gazed, awestruck, at the corpse flower bud.

“Oh, my,” Margo
gasped. “That is the most phallic flower I have ever seen, Sugar. Why, it’s
absolutely
disgustin
’!” She winked at me behind
Jenny’s back.

“Since when do
you use the words ‘phallic’ and ‘disgusting’ in the same comment?” I countered.
Southern belle though she was, Margo’s avid interest in men made her resemble
Samantha Jones more closely than Scarlett O’Hara. Since last fall, she had been
focusing on Lieutenant John
Harkness
, who headed the
Wethersfield Police Department’s detective division. He was also Ron Chapman’s
boss. To everyone’s amazement, John had abandoned his dour professional persona
and was thriving under the attentions of my libidinous partner. “Who sent us
the clipping, and what’s that scribbling down there on the corner?”

Jenny handed me
the clipping, which was actually a computer print-out of an article from an
internet news website, and took a closer look at the envelope. “There’s no
return address, but it’s postmarked Storrs,” she noted. Do you have a friend at
UConn
, Kate?”

The University of
Connecticut was located in Storrs. “Not that I’m aware of. Why? Was it
addressed to me?”

Jenny inspected
the address again. It had been block printed in blue felt pen. “
Mmmm
, no, it wasn’t. It just says Mack Realty in upper and
lower case, as if the person who sent it doesn’t know that M-A-C-K is an
acronym of the first letters of Margo, Charlene and Kate.” She handed the
envelope to Margo and looked at us expectantly. “What do you think?”

I held the
print-out closer to the lamp on Jenny’s desk. The Law Barn’s loft had windows
and skylights, but downstairs, only the offices at the rear of the first floor
enjoyed natural light. The lobby, which occupied the center of that level, was
always a bit dim, so we kept a variety of table lamps on during the day to
brighten things up. I turned the sheet of paper sideways and peered at the
scribbles in the margin, apparently made with the same blue felt pen that was
used on the envelope. “It is reported commonly that there is fornication among
you,” I read with difficulty and looked up. “A Bible verse maybe?” I had been
raised as a Lutheran, but my adult attitude toward organized religion was
distinctly agnostic, and my remembrance of Bible verses was sketchy.

Margo took a
look. “Sure sounds like one to me, Sugar, if I’m
rememberin
’
all those Sunday
mornins
’ I spent
yawnin
’
at the First Baptist Church of Atlanta correctly. And what’s this last part?
‘And it shall come to pass that instead of sweat … no, make that sweet … smell
there shall be stink.’ Is that a reference to the absolutely
revoltin
’ plant in this news article?”

“I guess,” I
responded doubtfully, “but what does one thing have to do with the other? And
why does someone want to bring fornication and large, smelly plants to our
attention?” We looked blankly at each other,
then
back
to Jenny.

“My guess would
be some religious zealot has it in for one of you,” she announced. “He or she
probably doesn’t like the fact that all of us unmarried females are breaking at
least one of the Commandments on a regular basis.” She smiled
sunnily
. “You know, Kate and Armando … Margo and John …
Emma and Ron … oops! Sorry, Kate. I keep forgetting that you’re Emma’s mom.”

My smile was
thin. “I believe you said ‘all of us,’ which would include you, would it not?”
I said tartly. Margo giggled, and Jenny started to squirm. The telephone rang,
and she snatched it off the hook gratefully.

Momentarily
stumped, we left the article and its envelope on Jenny’s desk and headed for
the coffeemaker. Along with the photocopier, it stood in a little alcove to the
left of the lobby. Rhett Butler kept us company, no doubt hoping for a handout
from the jar of dog treats that sat next to the coffeemaker. “So what’s on
everybody’s agendas today?” I inquired as I slid a pre-measured filter pack
into the plastic basket and poured water into the top of the machine. Making
coffee for the junior associates had been one of Margo’s duties at the Hartford
law firm where she, Charlene and I had worked before we joined forces to open
the realty office, and she flatly refused to do it again outside of her own
kitchen. I didn’t blame her.

“I’ve got
showings scheduled from nine-thirty on at Vista View,” she began, referring to
the new active adult community for which we served as rental agents. “Then a
quick manicure at one o’clock.”
She
tsk-ed
over the state of her fingertips. They looked fine
to me, but when it came to the fine points of personal grooming, Margo’s
standards were higher than mine. “After that, it’s paperwork and more paperwork
unless …” hope brightened her expertly made-up face, “
Strutter
comes in with a new
listin
’, as I frankly expect she
will.”
Strutter
was the nickname of our third
partner, Charlene Putnam. Recently remarried and the mother of a young son from
her first, long-ago marriage,
Strutter
was a
drop-dead gorgeous native of Jamaica. Soft curls fell to her shoulders, and
eyes the color of the Caribbean sparkled in her beautiful, brown face, which
topped a figure to die for and legs up to here. No one who had ever seen Charlene
strut her stuff ever questioned the sobriquet.

 
“Where is
Strutter
anyway?” I questioned, filling Margo’s mug and then my own. I pointed at the
dog treats and raised an eyebrow. Margo shook her head, and we carried our coffee
down three steps to the Mack Realty office off the lobby at the rear of the Law
Barn. I sat at the desk, and Margo arranged herself on the comfortable sofa and
fired up her laptop. Rhett flopped at her feet, sighed once, and fell instantly
asleep. He wasn’t as young as he once was, and he needed his naps so that he
could keep a properly watchful eye on the back yard when Margo took him out to
his spacious pen.

“I saw her
checkin
’ the phone messages earlier,” she said now,
squinting
a little as she scrolled through her emails. She
resisted wearing her stylish computer glasses, even though I had pointed out
the little frown line forming between her exquisitely groomed eyebrows. “There
was one from
Ada
Henstock
—you
know, one of those
darlin
’ little
ol
’
gals who live over on the Broad Street Green. She wanted our advice on
somethin
’ to do with that enormous house
she
and her sister own near the Anderson Farm … the French Second Empire with the
mansard roof.”

Known locally as
The
Henstock
Girls at the age of eighty plus, the
Misses
Ada
and
Lavinia
Henstock
were fixtures in Old Wethersfield. The story went
that although both sisters had been quite appealing in their youth, they were
spinsters by choice. They had spurned the advances of many a prospective suitor
upon the advice of their dear papa, who had never felt that any of the local
gents were quite good enough for his little girls.

The Honorable
Reuben
Henstock
, Esq., widowed shortly after his
second daughter was born, had been a tartar of a man who had first served in
the Connecticut State Legislature, then been appointed to the bench. He had
never remarried, leaving the day-to-day care of his children to a succession of
housekeepers, and had presided over trials right up until the day of his death
in the late 1960s, when he had gaveled the day’s court business to a close and
collapsed untidily across his bench.

Since then, the
sisters, who were known for their ability to stretch a dollar, had shared their
home with a scrawny cat or two, but men seeking their company had been unilaterally
turned away.

“Huh!” Emma and I
just walked right by that house. What kind of advice?”

“Frankly, we
couldn’t make much sense of
Ada’s
message. You know
how reserved she is, how reserved they both are, when they aren’t
finishin
’ each other’s sentences, but
Ada
was practically
pleadin
’ for one of us to come by and
let her know how
somethin
’ or other might affect the
value of their property. She seemed real upset, and you know how tenderhearted
Strutter
is. She picked up her purse and ran right on over
there to put Miss
Ada’s
mind at ease.”

I couldn’t help
smiling as I imagined
Strutter
walking her
distinctive walk up to the front door of the
Henstock
house and lifting the big brass knocker. The ladies would be peeking from
behind the lace curtains at one or the other of the big front windows. They
knew Margo and me by sight, since we had sold a house in that neighborhood
while
Strutter
and John were on their honeymoon, but
what they would make of
Strutter
was anybody’s guess.
It was safe to say that the elderly sisters’ experience of black women had been
limited to peremptory exchanges with their dear papa’s kitchen help when they
were growing up. What they would make of a stylishly clad black businesswoman
rapping on their front door, I could not think.

“Well, this has
been some Thursday morning so far. I saw the baby swans about an hour ago. They
look rather like vultures at this stage, did you know that? Emma is taking off
this afternoon for six weeks in Boston, and I’m not at all sure how I feel
about that. Some religious fanatic seems to have taken exception to the way we
conduct our personal lives, and the
Henstock
girls
are having the vapors.
Anything else?”
I grinned at
Margo as I picked up my phone.

I had learned
over the past year that once the phone started ringing, it rarely stopped, and
by nine o’clock, the day was officially launched. One call followed another,
and I did my best to field inquiries about listed properties, refer buyers to
the back-up law firm that was covering while Emma and Isabel got ready to open
their doors, and soothe jittery sellers who were anxious to move their
properties. A major advantage of having a real estate brokerage in Old
Wethersfield is that all of the property that can be developed under current
zoning ordinances has pretty much been developed. It’s an extremely desirable
community, located west of the Connecticut River and south of
Hartford,
and almost any residential property that comes on
the market generates a flurry of interest. Even a house with an in-ground
swimming pool and no garage will sell in this community, despite our short
summers and long winters. I know, because we’ve done it. As we tell people over
and over again, it’s just a matter of matching the right buyer with the right
property, and if it takes a little time, well, the deal will be that much
sweeter when it’s done.

As Margo was
preparing to leave for her first appointment, we heard the front doors of the
Law Barn crash open.
Strutter
rushed through the
lobby and skittered down the half-staircase to the office, almost falling in
her haste. She burst through the doorway looking about as pale as it’s possible
for a black woman to look. “The
Henstock
sisters have
a skeleton in their closet,” she announced.

“Don’t they
always?” murmured Margo, still focused on her computer screen, “and it’s the
primmest old gals that usually have the wickedest secrets.” She giggled
delightedly. “I can hardly wait. Let’s hear it.” She punched
Save
,
crossed one elegant leg over the other, and gave Mack Realty’s third partner
her full attention. I stopped making notes to myself at my desk and did the
same.

“No, really,”
insisted
Strutter
. She collapsed onto the sofa next
to Margo and looked from one to the other of us wildly. “Kate, Margo, listen to
me. There’s a skeleton behind a false wall in an old closet in the
Henstock
sisters’ basement.
Literally.
It had clothes on, or at least, it used to.” She clutched her briefcase to her
chest and swallowed hard. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Instinctively,
Margo leaned away and pulled her Jimmy
Choos
out of
harm’s way. I leaped up, wastebasket at the ready, but
Strutter
waved me away.

“No, no, I’m not
really going to hurl. I just feel queasy, and so would you, if you’d seen what
I just saw.” She flopped back on the sofa and stuck her legs out in front of
her. “I need coffee. No,” she amended hastily, holding one hand to her stomach,
“make that water. Please,” she added feebly, eyes closed.

“You bet, Sugar.”
Margo practically leaped to her feet, causing Rhett Butler to snap to
attention. She hurried out to the water cooler and returned in seconds with a
filled paper cup.
Strutter
sat up and sipped
carefully, holding the cup between hands that trembled.