Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (4 page)

“Not before I think about it.”

“That’s what I thought. You want me to start tearing out tomorrow?”

“I’ll call you. There’s another property you might go look at. Meantime, you got work?”

“Yeah, I got work. Don’t worry about me.”

“Anthony,” I started, and then let his name hang in mid-air.

“What is it, Miss Kelly?”

I started to tell him about that threatening phone call because now I’d connected it to the fire—I just couldn’t figure out why someone would care so much about the skeleton and that house. But I told myself there was no sense worrying Anthony. “Nothing,” I said. “I thought of something to ask you…but it isn’t important.”

He gave me a puzzled look and turned to go. “You call me if you think of it,” he said.

The adjustor was thorough, slow, and not talkative. I spent the morning on the porch—not wanting to follow him around inside where the smell was overpowering—and felt like I’d wasted the time. I went through the stack of paperwork, made the calls I could on the cell phone, and stared down the street until I’d memorized every house on the block.

The adjustor left about noon, taking with him a small spiral pad of notes that inspired my curiosity. But he said nothing, not even, “Sorry.” I called the office to be sure nothing major happened, grabbed a sandwich from the Grill, and headed for the main public library downtown and the city directories.

Despite my resolve to be methodical, I started with the ’60s, because of the picture in the locket. If I found a resident with the initials M.W.M., I’d have scored a hit, and I could give the locket to the police, along with information about the owner. I didn’t think far enough ahead to figure out what I’d tell the police about having it in my possession without turning it over to them. But it didn’t matter—I didn’t find M.W.M.

Only two people lived in the house in the ’60s, when Fairmount began to lose its solid middle-class footing, turning into rental property. I copied the names: Marie Winton and Lupe Chavez. Marie Winton apparently lived there in 1960, and Lupe Chavez and his family occupied the house in 1968. I backtracked to the `50s and found that Marie Winton moved into the house in 1957. I wished that Marie Winton’s name had been Martin or Montgomery or McAdams. The M.W. fit but not a last name beginning with M. I guessed my next step was to check the City Hall tax rolls. Of course, if Marie Winton had married, those records would be of little help. Still, they might have a clue.

I had to pick up the girls or risk angering the day-care teacher again.

No ballet, no Scouts, nothing scheduled for the afternoon. I sank into the quiet of my house with gratitude. Maggie went off to do homework, complaining that second grade was much harder than first. “I’ll look at it with you when you’re through,” I told her. Em sat watching a video.
She shouldn’t be glued to the screen so much.
But I was too tired to object, too tired to think about dinner.

The next thing I knew Maggie was shaking me. “Mom, you fell asleep. What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”

I shook myself awake. A moment’s hesitation, then, “Hot dogs and custard at Curley’s.” The girls cheered and rushed around to gather shoes and sweaters, while I realized the last thing I wanted was a Hebrew National hot dog. But it was easier than thinking about defrosting in the microwave and cooking something.
Tim would accuse me of not taking good care of them.

Curley’s was basically a drive-through, but it had a small grassy area, nicely planted, with three picnic tables. Frozen custard was the specialty—in several irresistible flavors, though I always hoped for chocolate mint. But you could also get kosher hot dogs, one of the few non-custard items on the menu. The girls ate theirs plain with mustard; I added chili, onions, and pickle relish and then worried about indigestion. But I was surprised at how good it tasted, after my initial hesitation. The custard flavor of the month was pumpkin—appropriate but not appealing, so we all had chocolate. You never go wrong with chocolate, even without jalapeños in it.

It was still warm, the heat of the day lingering, but I could feel the slightest chill creeping into the air. Fall was here, and Texas would soon show us its changeable nature—warm one day and bone-chilling cold the next. We sat at a picnic table, eating with plastic forks from paper containers, and the girls telling me about their days.

“How was your day, Mom?” Maggie asked.

“Busy and boring,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, “I have boring days too. But tomorrow will be better.”

“Yeah, it will.”

I got the girls in bed soon after we came home and settled down with that novel I was still trying to read.

****

The next few days were uneventful. Mike Shandy called to say that the police removed the yellow crime scene tape from the house, and Anthony could begin work again. “I’d do what Coconauer said and call Black Brothers first,” he said.

“I will. I was just mad the other night that they were already there, like vultures—or ambulance chasers!”

He laughed. “I know. I saw the sparks in your eyes. Glad you didn’t try to deck that so-called insurance mediator. I’d have had to arrest you for assault.”

I remembered being alone when the sleazy man approached me. “How did you know about that?”

“I was watching you. Wanted to make sure you got to your car okay. But I didn’t figure you’d want a police escort right at that moment.”

“Thanks,” I said, “You were right.”

“Kelly, you call me if you need me. Got my card?”

“Somewhere.”

“Thanks,” he laughed again. “That makes me feel important. I’ll drop another one off at the office.”

So, Mike Shandy is watching out for me. Interesting. I should tell him about that phone call.

Good as his word, Mike dropped the card off later that day, when I happened to be out of the office. When I came back, Keisha said, “That cop, the one who’s sweet on you, came by, left this for you.”

I took the card and turned away so Keisha wouldn’t see me blush.

The next day, I blanked the office out of my mind and went to City Hall to check tax records, only to learn records that old were on microfiche in storage and would have to be retrieved from their archives. I filled out a request form and was told I’d be notified when the records were available. There was a microfiche reader in the office, and I would have to read the film there. But the files would only be held in the office for one week—if I didn’t read them within that time, they’d be returned to storage.

“I’ll read them,” I said with determination.

Back at the office, I found myself doodling, writing the initials “M.W.M.” over and over on my notepad. Who was Marie Winton, and did she know M.W.M.? She lived in the house from 1957 to 1968. She was beautiful, and she looked sophisticated. She must have been single. How did she support herself? By then, Fairmount wasn’t an expensive place to live, but still…

A client called wanting to know why her house didn’t sell. I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “Because you refuse to fix it up, and it’s overpriced for its current condition.” I asked for a meeting to talk about lowering the price. The woman was now near enough desperate I could reason with her, I figured. Being extra pleasant with clients usually worked—my mother taught me that a teaspoon of sugar caught more flies than a cup of vinegar—but some people tried my patience. Tim, I know, would have been a lot blunter. Then another woman called wanting to buy an old house in Fairmount but one in good condition. “We have very few of those on the market,” I said, “but I’d be glad to meet with you and take your information.” Her name was Claire Guthrie, and, just over the phone, I got the impression of sophistication.

By the time I finished both phone calls, I was almost late—again—for picking up the girls. As they got into the car, each complained about being cold. An early norther came through, and the temperature dropped dramatically, as it can do within minutes in North Texas. “We’ll go get sweaters, and then we’ll go to the Grill for turkey burgers. How’s that?” In truth, I was once again too tired to cook—but then, when wasn’t I?
I’ve got to get better organized so I can feed them at home. Keisha would have a fit, except that turkey burgers are better than hamburgers.

The Grill is a wonderful, comforting place. For long years, it was a bar called The Locker Room, but Peter, the new owner, had transformed it into a friendly, down-home café. You ordered at the counter, where a blackboard listed the day’s specials, and then a wait person brought your dishes to you. We were regulars, so Peter and his crew knew us and greeted us, always with a special word for the girls. It was sort of like going home to your mom’s kitchen.

The girls split a turkey burger and ate every last one of the fries, while I forced myself to be content with a grilled chicken salad. Maggie chatted about second grade and the boys she thought were cute—
omigosh, already?
—and Em talked more solemnly about the project she was working on, “a s’prise for Mommy.” They were so good and so dear that I drove them by Braum’s for ice cream cones on the way home.

It was dark when we pulled onto our street. We arrived to confusion. A police car in front of the house, a knot of neighbors outside, and a shattered front door.

Mike Shandy greeted me as we pulled into the driveway. I was so angry at this violation of my home that I shouted at him, “What happened?”

“Neighbors saw it,” he said, unruffled by my anger. “A car drove by, and a guy fired a shotgun blast at the front door.” He shook his head. “Not even dark yet. They get bolder and bolder.”

I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t the skeleton house; it was my home; the home where I kept my daughters safe, or so I thought. Why would someone target this house out of all those on this street? Something told me my house was the specific target, and that both scared me and heightened my anger and determination. No one was going to scare me. “What did the neighbors see?”

He shrugged. “Old car. Indeterminate model. Looked like three or four guys inside, teenagers or young men.” He hesitated a minute. “The shooter for sure was Hispanic.”

“Gangs? Why would some gangers shoot up my house?”

“No reason at all that I can think of,” Mike said. “But it wasn’t random vandalism.”

“Thanks,” I said wryly. “I figured that out. But why my house?” I wished I’d told him about the threatening phone call. Maybe this was all linked to the skeleton and the Fairmount house, but how could that be? How would people even know where I lived? Indignation mixed with confusion, and I thought seriously about screaming.

He looked straight at me. “Yeah, I didn’t want to scare you. But all this is no coincidence.”

So then I told him about the call. “All this over a skeleton? It makes no sense. But it makes me mad. The shooter could have killed the girls.”

“And you,” Mike said. “Kelly, this is getting serious. I tried to find you this afternoon to talk about last night. Now it’s urgent. We have to talk”

The girls were in the backseat, Em crying for her mother and Maggie asking over and over, “What happened to our front door?”

“Mike, I’ve got to get them settled. They’re scared.”

“For the time being, there’ll be an officer on duty ’round the clock. I’ll take the first shift. You get the girls settled, and then we’ll talk.”

A policeman guarding my house? What kind of insanity was this?

The girls had questions. “Who did this, Mommy?”

“Why would anyone want to tear up our front door?”

“Mommy, what’s happening to us—everything seems wrong. There was the skelton”—Em reverted to her own pronunciation—“and then you left last night. Now….” She raised her hands in that age-old “I-don’t-know” gesture and for just a moment I smiled.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, girls, but I know one thing: you’re safe. You go to sleep. I’ll be here, and so will a police officer. No one will hurt you.”

“Is someone trying to hurt you, Mom?” Maggie asked, hugging me tightly.

“I think they’re trying to scare me, Mag. But I promise I’m not scared.”

Just as I was tucking them in, the phone rang. Joanie. “Hi, Kelly? What’s going on? I was kind of blue, and I thought maybe….”

I know my voice was too short. “Not tonight, Joanie. We’ve had a bad night. Someone blasted the front door with a shotgun.”

“Omigosh.” Her astonishment was loud in my ear. “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but the police think it has to do with the skeleton in that house I’m redoing. I…I just can’t think right now, Joanie, and the police are waiting to talk to me.”

She sounded let down. “Okay. We’ll do it another night.”

“Yeah, we will.” But I knew I didn’t sound enthusiastic. It had nothing to do with Joanie—and I wanted to support her right now—but I was just too confused by what was going on in my own life.

Tired, so tired, but after I got the girls tucked in bed—they both insisted on my bed, of course—I opened the door and waved to Mike Shandy, who was parked in front of the house next door in a battered and old Honda Accord. I waited while he came up the walk to the house.

“Everything okay with the girls?”

“They’re scared. And I’m angry.”

“Good. You should be. Somebody’s out to get you. Somebody doesn’t want the truth found out about that skeleton—and they know or at least they suspect you’re looking into it.” He paused a minute. “You aren’t trying to do police work, are you? We can take care of it.”

I wanted to say, “Yeah, while my house gets shot up, my girls terrified, and my work on the Fairmount house stopped. And besides, who’s worrying about that skeleton that deserves identification and a decent burial. And maybe family notified.” But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I asked, “Coffee?”

“If it’s made, I’d love it.”

“I have a single-cup coffee maker. I can make it in no time. Black?”

He nodded. Going to the kitchen to make coffee gave me time to think, but thoughts tumbled in my head. Carrying Mike’s coffee into the living room, my hand shook.

“Why would gangers be interested? That makes no sense.”

He leaned back, comfortable on the sofa, coffee cradled in his hands. “Somebody's got connections and hired people to do their dirty work. The question is, how did they know about everything so quickly? Whoever is so worried about the secret of that house isn’t the kind for drive-by shooting. I can’t figure why it happened, but I know it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. So maybe someone has hired some gangers to frighten you—or worse.” His voice dropped.

Mike’s theory held true if the skeleton was there a long time—years ago the families in Fairmount were upper class, respectable, and they would want a secret kept. But if it only been there since the ‘60s, no telling.

I took a deep breath. “I have something to show you.” I went to my briefcase and pulled out the locket. “Anthony gave this to me this morning. I was going to call you about it in the morning.” Okay, a small white lie.

“Like the phone call you didn’t tell me about. You were right. I would have dismissed the phone call as a wrong number, but now I’m sure it wasn’t.” He shook his head.

“I…I went to check city directories this afternoon. I thought I might find something that matched.”

“Kelly, you’ve got to start telling me everything. You can’t solve this…and it’s dangerous for you to try.”

“Nothing dangerous about city directories. I was saving your guys some time. I’m going to check titles at City Hall too.”

He rolled his eyes. “Kelly, if whoever’s behind this finds you’re even scratching the surface, it will make them more determined.”

“Mike, there are a couple of things here. One is…oh, I don’t know…compassion, whatever. I don’t want that woman to go to a nameless grave, and I’m afraid it would be too easy for you guys to let that happen.” I took another deep breath. “The other is pretty crass and commercial. I want to sell that house. I don’t want any potential buyer thinking it’s jinxed or dangerous or whatever.”

“I think the first one is what’s bothering you.”

I shrugged. “You may be right.” Then, “Look in that locket—there’s a picture of a woman that I’m pretty sure was taken in the ‘60s. Hairdo, makeup.”

He opened the locket and looked. “Yeah, I expect you’re right. Looks like my mom.”

“Mine, too,” I said. I told him what I’d found in the city directories, even dragging out the notes I’d made, which he copied into a small spiral that he carried.

“I’ll check it out, but I don’t expect much. It’s the worst kind of cold trail. I don’t suppose you’d take the girls and go somewhere?”

I shook my head. “No, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my girls safe.”

“You have an alarm system?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I never use it. I guess I better start setting it at night.”

“And get an emergency alarm button that you can keep in your pocket or someplace handy all the time.”

“Yessir,” I replied. I was tempted to salute, but I didn’t think he’d find it funny.

“We’ll keep all of you safe,” he said, but I wondered how he could be sure.

****

Tired as I was, sleep wouldn’t come. The shattered door kept reappearing before my eyes and so did the skeleton in its box. And then, as I slept fitfully, the skeleton walked through the shattered door, trailing a chiffon-like gown in a floral pattern, bony hands pushing at the broken panels of the door. This time the brown hair was in an upsweep, as though she were going to her senior prom. I woke in a cold sweat.

“Mom?” Maggie cuddled close to me. “You were making a funny noise.”

Guilt. Now my children were scared. I threw back the covers. “I had a bad dream.” As I drifted off to more peaceful sleep, I thought,
This is the way it is—the three of us against the world.
Little did I know.

When I went to get the paper, I gave a sort of half-wave to the man who sat in front of the house in a car, this one a new Toyota Camry. He didn’t even look my way. I supposed being invisible was one of the policeman’s responsibilities. Or maybe he wasn’t police but someone else watching the house. I was getting paranoid. Settled in the kitchen with coffee, I busied myself with the paper. Drive-by shootings often make the news but only if death was involved. Shattered front doors don’t make it, and I was relieved that there was no mention of the incident.

The phone rang. A tentative, “Hello?”

“Kelly, what in the world is going on down there?”

“Hi, Mom. How are you?”

An indignant voice. “Well, I’m worried about you. My goodness, I told you not to stay in Texas once what’s-his-name left. You should have come back to Illinois, where it’s safe.”

Sigh. No sense pointing out that crime was a lot worse in suburban Chicago than inner-city Fort Worth. My mom has been a worrier since the day I was born and before. When she fretted that I would “take cold,” my dad always said, “Let the child be.” As a youngster, I longed for brothers and sisters, just to take some of Mom’s attention off me. Now, at thirty-six, I still had her full attention, especially since Dad died ten years ago. “How did you know something was going on, Mom?”

“That neighbor of yours, the one I liked so much—I can’t remember her name….”

I could see Florence Dodson, the eighty-something-year-old who lived three houses down the street and complained that the girls picked her flowers, when I knew that my girls were too well trained to do that.

“Did Florence call, Mom?”

“Yes, she did, and it’s a good thing. I can’t rely on you to tell me a thing.”

“There’s not much to tell. We found a skeleton in a house, and then someone set the house on fire.”

“And shot up your front door. Florence called early this morning.”

That’s an understatement—it’s barely after seven now.

“And she told me you had policemen outside your house all night.”

If Florence Dodson recognized the policeman, so did the bad guys. So much for their cover.

“Mom, it’s nothing. It’ll blow over in a day or two.”

“Nothing, my foot. I’m getting the first plane reservation down there I can.”

My backbone stiffened. “Mom, you can’t do any good, and you might only make things worse. I don’t want you to come. Wait till Christmas when you can enjoy the girls.” Cynthia O’Connell, alone at sixty-eight and bored with a widow’s life, was always looking for some diversion. Too often, she looked to me, an only child. Tim’s leaving sent her careening to Texas in a disaster of a visit, Cynthia crying all the time until the girls were edgy and tearful and I was so irritable that I became short with both the girls and my mother. Since then, in spite of begging, I never took the girls back to Chicago, and my mom visited only twice. But this year, she was scheduled to come for Christmas, a visit that loomed big on my horizon until the last two days.

I used to be afraid to make Mom worry, especially if she took to her bed with a headache. But since I’d flown the nest and then I married Tim, I’d gotten more independent. These days, I stood up to her. I didn’t want her worrying over me, and I didn’t want her scaring the girls.

“If you’re still alive by Christmas,” she sniffed.

In the end, I prevailed, as I usually did with my mother. “I’ll keep in touch, Mom. Don’t worry, and don’t listen to Florence. She needs to get a life.”
And so do you.

The phone rang again, just as Maggie wandered into the kitchen. I know my, “Hello,” was short in tone.

“Kelly? What’s going on?” It was Tim.

Tim’s voice was friendly, caring, and for a moment I was taken back to the days when a call from Tim was the highlight of my day. I remembered how he could make me laugh, how I treasured his concern, how pleased I was when we planned things together, from a special dinner out to a much-anticipated bedroom rendezvous. Then I told myself,
that was then, this is now.

“I’m fine, Tim,” I said in a careful voice. “How are you?” I couldn’t resist adding, “Where are you?”

He laughed. “I’m in northern California. But this isn’t about me, Kelly. It’s about you. What’s going on?”

Caution crept into my mind and my voice. It was what? Five in the morning in California? Why would he be awake, let alone calling? “What do you mean?”

“I hear you’re having trouble—arson in one of your houses, our own front door shot up. I’m coming to Fort Worth. I’ll bring the kids back to California, so you don’t have to worry about them.”