Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) Page 8

  “Hi, girls.” I tried to sound casual.

  “Hi, Mom,” Maggie flopped on the couch. “Dinner was so good. We went to Joe T.’s.”

  Mexican food, Fort Worth’s classic restaurant. It’s on the North Side, where cowboy culture vies with Hispanic for the local tourist trade. You can sit outside on a flower-filled patio, on a nice night like that, and the prices are reasonable—except you can’t pay with credit cards. I wondered if that was a problem for Tim.

  I should have known Tim would take them there—the owner considered him a friend and always greeted him with a personal handshake. “I’m glad you liked it,” I said, “Joe T.’s is always good and fun.”

  “I didn’t like it,” Em said, crawling into my lap.

  Maggie was scornful. “You just didn’t like Daddy’s girlfriend.”

  My stomach catapulted again, but I waited.

  “She was okay,” Maggie said. “She didn’t fuss over us, but she didn’t ignore us. I didn’t exactly like her, but I didn’t hate her.”

  “I did,” Em said solemnly.

  Theresa chimed in, “Em, you mustn’t hate people. You can dislike them.”

  “Okay, I dislike her.”

  I guessed since we were long divorced, Tim had a right to bring another woman to dinner—but overnight visits would be another matter. I wanted to ask for a description—height, weight, hair color, all that, but I refrained.

  “Theresa, did you enjoy dinner?”

  “Yeah, sure, it was all right.” Theresa wasn’t going to loosen up overnight.

  “Okay, everybody upstairs to bed,” I said, pulling myself off the couch.

  “Me too?” Theresa asked, her sullen expression back.

  “No, of course not,” I said, “but would you get the girls into their pajamas. I’ll be up right away to tuck them in.”

  They all trooped up the stairs, and, my conscience bothering me, I called Joanie. “They’re home. Why don’t you come over in half an hour?” I did not want to wait for Joanie and sit up half the night listening to her. I wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.

  “I’ll be there,” Joanie said.

  I went up and kissed the girls goodnight. Then I stuck my head in Theresa’s open bedroom door to say goodnight.

  “Miss Kelly?”

  “Yes, Theresa?”

  “I don’t trust your husband. He’s no good.”

  I tried to pass it off. “Thanks for the warning. I think I figured that out myself, too.” But inside I wondered what made the girl join the chorus of people who were saying negative things about Tim. Had love blinded me that much?

  ****

  Joanie arrived even a little before the half hour, bearing a bottle of white wine. “For you,” she said. I didn’t want to tell her I’d already had enough wine for one night. “You want some?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Joanie said. “I’m not drinking. I brought some mineral water.” She whipped a bottle out of her bag. “But I’d take ice and lime if you have it…or lemon.”

  “Sure.” I fixed her drink, poured myself just a bit more wine, and cut some cheese for us to nibble on. “So what’s this big news?”

  “I’m going to have a baby.” Joanie cried.

  I was stunned. “You’re going to have it? No abortion?”

  “Absolutely not. I thought about a lot of things, including some of the things you said to me the other night, and I can’t destroy this child.”

  The next question came slowly. “Will you raise it or give it up?”

  Joanie raised her chin. “I’m keeping my baby. I’ve told my folks, and they say they’ll love their grandchild. That’s all they said.”

  I leaned over on the couch and gave her a big hug. “Joanie, I’m so glad…and so proud of you.” To myself, I wondered if Joanie hadn’t gone from one extreme to the other a little fast. She was like a person who has found religion at a revival and is devout for three months. Would the decision last or six or seven months into the pregnancy or, when it was too late, would she regret it?

  Joanie pulled away. “I didn’t know you had an opinion. I mean, I thought you just listened.”

  “I tried to,” I confessed, “but I wanted you to keep the baby. I can’t explain all the reasons…and I know all the arguments people would give you against it, but I think you’re doing the right thing for your baby…and for yourself.” I paused. “I’m proud of you, Joanie. It won’t be easy.” I would, I vowed to myself, be supportive, no matter what else was going on in my own life. I thought about the woman whose baby never made it to life, but this wasn’t the time to think about Miranda, the skeleton.

  It was midnight before Joanie left, and I crawled to bed, exhausted. I’d checked on the girls, and they were sleeping. Theresa, too, was asleep, with the guest room TV still on. I turned it off and went to bed, where I collapsed in a deep sleep.

  The phone woke me at four. When I mumbled, “Hello,” a male voice—obviously Hispanic but trying too hard to disguise its youthful qualities—said, “Forget about the skeleton. Quit talking to that cop about it.”

  It gave me cold shivers. Then, I got out of bed, paraded barefoot down the hall, and looked at Theresa, sleeping in her bed. She looked young, innocent, like a seventeen-year-old should look. Was she connected to the call? No, that was a foolish thought.

  From four to six, I went back and forth in my mind—should I call Mike Shandy? Should I forget it and hope it would go away?

  At six, I knew there would be no more sleep. Sliding my feet into slippers, I padded downstairs and into the kitchen, where I turned on the early news, read the paper, and sipped coffee. What I need right now is a loyal dog who would lie at my feet and tell me with his eyes how wonderful I am. Maybe he’d be a guard dog. Followed by, a dog? All I need is one more living creature to take care of.

  I woke all three girls at seven, urging them to hurry, fed them breakfast. Okay, Keisha, it’s eggs and toast with jelly, plus orange juice—that’s healthy. Theresa seemed in good spirits, almost hand-feeding Em her eggs and smiling at me. When Anthony came to pick her up for school, Theresa gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek, and he, surprised, hugged her.

  The girls were on time, and in spite of the fact that I felt eighty years old from lack of sleep and too much wine the night before, I was optimistic—Tim brought the girls back, Joanie was going to keep her baby, and Theresa was lightening up. Life looked good. I could go back to worrying about who Miranda really was and who killed her. I was being stubborn, and I knew it, but that skeleton had a hold on me, as though it was calling out to me for justice. I couldn’t bear to think of a young woman, about to have a child, shot to death and hidden away so coldly. If I didn’t help find out who killed her, I wasn’t setting an example of compassion and responsibility for my girls—and I wasn’t living up to who I liked think I was. The police? I thought they’d forget about it in a few days, and I couldn’t let the murder lie unsolved as it had all these years.

  At the office I found a message that the tax records I requested were in the city clerk’s office for review. I answered a few phone messages and then, as I headed for the city clerk’s office, told Keisha I was out for most of the day.

  “So what else is new?” Keisha asked with a grin. “I’ll keep the business running. Don’t you worry.”

  I threw a wadded up piece of paper at her and left.

  The tax rolls were dull and pretty much corresponded with what I found in the city directories. The same people owned the house lived in it until up to the mid-1980s, when it seemed to have become rental property. From 1984 until 2004, it had had a succession of owners, though I remembered an even more rapid turnover of tenants. But then in 2004, the Whiteheads, the young couple I bought it from, had purchased the house. So that was the record of ownership. The only interesting thing it told me—and I chewed on this—was that from 1957 to 1968, the house was owned by Martin Properties, Inc. What was Martin Properties? Forty years later, it wasn’t an
existing player in the real estate market in South Fort Worth.

  I had a red flag. I just didn’t know what to do with it. After scribbling notes, I thanked the clerk and told her I would not need the records any longer. At least not now.

  Then I left, arriving early to pick up Maggie. I sat in the car and pondered how I’d find Martin Properties, Inc. Even if I found the company on other deeds, there would be no personal information, no way to track anyone involved. And to find that, I’d have to comb thousands of records. I could try Google, the city phone book, and old city directories, but I held out little hope for either. Somehow I suspected Martin Properties didn’t want to be found, and a company like that—one existing only as a paper front—could easily hide its existence. At least from me. Maybe some high-powered, expensive private investigator could trace them, but I couldn’t and I doubted the police would.

  ****

  That night I made cheeseburger meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, and the girls ate heartily. “This is really good, Miss Kelly,” Theresa said. “My dad, he cooks for us, but he uses so much Greek spice…I get tired of it. I like plain food.”

  “Thanks, Theresa. I’m glad you like it.”

  “I’ll go get the girls ready for bed,” she volunteered, “and I can help Maggie with homework, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That would be great. I’ll do the dishes, and we can all turn in early. But if you have homework of your own, I’ll work with Maggie.”

  “I did mine this afternoon,” she said.

  It should take longer than that to do the homework of a senior in high school, but I wasn’t about to raise that issue. Choose your battles, Kelly.

  The three of them went cheerfully upstairs, and I cleaned the kitchen, laid out cereal bowls and glasses for o.j. for breakfast, got things ready to assemble the girls’ lunches, and felt quite efficient. Maybe having Theresa with us was a good thing.

  Pretty soon, Em straggled back downstairs. “Mom? Did you forget that it’s almost Halloween? I don’t have a costume, and we don’t have a pumpkin.”

  Halloween. Of course I forgot. “Oh, Em, I did forget. But I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I’ll get the pumpkin, and… do you remember the year Maggie was a princess? I bet that costume would fit you—I’ll find it and see what shape it’s in.”

  “What will Maggie be?”

  “Let’s go ask her.”

  Maggie’s answer was instant and emphatic. “I want to be Hermione from Harry Potter.”

  I hadn’t read the Harry Potter books and had no idea what would be required to transform my darling daughter into Hermione. “What would the costume consist of?”

  Maggie had thought this all out. “I could wear jeans and a plaid scarf—it has to be plaid—and v-neck sweater—I might have to borrow from you, but then I’d need a Hermione cloak, and a wand and a lantern.”

  “Not just any wand and lantern?” I thought I had the plaid scarf, but the wand and lantern were definitely not in my closet.

  A firm shake of the head. “No. Hermione. I’m sure you can get them.”

  I sighed. Shopping endlessly for specific items is not one of my favorite things. To my mind, it’s wasting time. “Maybe I can get them at a drugstore,” I said with a faint hope.

  As it turned out, I spent three hours locating the items and standing in line. Next year, I’m going to plan ahead.

  The next morning, when Anthony came to pick up Theresa, she was cheerful and greeted her father affectionately. Over the girl’s head, Anthony smiled at me. Aloud he asked, “You come by the house later?”

  “I will,” I promised. ”I want to see how you’re doing.”

  “I have something to show you.”

  I smiled. Anthony could always improve on my plans. In a day when skilled carpenters were hard to find and harder to afford, he was a real jewel.

  The girls were cheerful when I dropped them at their schools. “Remember, I have ballet this afternoon. Theresa reminded me to pack my things. They’re in the car.”

  And as I walked Em into her classroom, the small hand clutching mine, I said, “Have a good day, Em.”

  “You too, Mommy. I think this is a good day.”

  I was smiling as I walked into the office. “You win the lottery again?” Keisha asked.

  “Almost. All three girls are happy, and I think things are going to improve.”

  Alan called a few minutes later, with the appraiser’s report on the house. “I’m going to give it to the Hunts right now. I’ll let you know what they say.”

  Waiting, I put pencil to paper, figuring what I’d clear on my house, what moving would cost, and how much I could pay for the Hunt house, calculating monthly mortgage payments, insurance, and taxes. I figured I could afford the appraiser’s estimate plus more if I had to—and still bank some. I was anxious for Alan to call, but he didn’t—and I had a house to show at 10:30.

  “If Alan calls, be sure he has my cell,” I said as I left.

  The client, Claire Guthrie who wanted a house in good condition, seemed to like the first house, a two-story that had been one of the earliest Fairmount houses redone, but it now needed remodeling again. It was in what I thought of as Lower Fairmount, where the neighborhood begins to edge into the more fashionable Ryan Place.

  “I like it,” Mrs. Guthrie said, “and I think my husband will. But three bedrooms. We did want four so each of the girls could have her own room and we’d still have an office that could also be a guest room. Do you have any two-story four-bedrooms to show me?”

  I thought a minute. I’d just put the sign up in my yard, and I hadn’t straightened this morning—breakfast dishes were still in the sink. Honesty, I decided, was the best policy. “I do have one,” I said, taking along breath. “It’s my house. But I didn’t straighten up this morning, didn’t even do the dishes. I wasn’t expecting to show it so soon.”

  “Oh, bother the dishes. I’d like to see it. If it’s good enough for a realtor, it must be a good house. Why are you moving?”

  “I’m moving to a smaller house.” No need to add, “And more charming.”

  I took her through the house, room by room. Even with unmade beds and messy girls’ rooms, the house showed well. And I knew how to point out its strong points—privacy in the master suite with its redone, spacious bath and its built-in office space. Claire Guthrie quickly saw that she could make another use of her guest room, and said, “I’ve wanted a separate place to put all my knitting supplies. This would be perfect.”

  In the kitchen I pointed to the warming drawer, the separate bar area Tim insisted on, the trendy glass-front cabinets, and the spacious work counter.

  “I’m a cook,” Claire gushed. “I’d love to cook in this kitchen. And we’d have to redo that other kitchen. How much are you asking for your house?”

  I knew my price from my calculations earlier in the morning, and I gave her a figure, saying, “It’s non-negotiable, and it doesn’t include agent’s fees.”

  “When could we have possession?”

  “As soon as I hear from the agent who’s handling the purchase of the new house, I’ll be able to tell you.”

  We made arrangements for Mrs. Guthrie to bring her husband back at five that evening. After she left, I flew around the house, straightening the kitchen, making beds, fluffing pillows on the couch. Then I went and bought bouquets of fresh flowers to put in the living room and the kitchen. If they don’t buy the house, I’ll still enjoy the flowers.

  When my cell rang, I answered it eagerly. But it was Christian, saying he’d fax the title search to me. But he read it, and I knew he’d pretty much found was what I’d about the house on Fairmount. “I think,” I said, “Martin Properties, Inc., holds the clue. Ever hear of them?”

  “Nope.”

  “Know where to look?”

  “Nope.”

  “Big help you are,” I teased. “And I was about to have a closing for you.”

  “Kelly, don’t hold o
ut on me,” he said. “What house?”

  “Mine.”

  “Yours? I haven’t seen an MLS listing for it. You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “No. I’m buying the most wonderful Craftsman-style house you ever saw. At least, I think I am.”

  “You got a buyer for your house already?”

  “Keep your fingers crossed. I’ll know tomorrow.”

  Almost as soon as I hung up, the cell rang again, and this time it was Alan. “The Hunts want to sell it to you at the appraised value,” he said, satisfaction filling his voice.

  “Oh, Alan. I’m prepared to pay more. I figured it this morning, and I can go higher.” I was blabbing, and I could feel my heart racing.

  “Kelly,” his tone cut me off. “You don’t raise the asking price. Never. I won’t allow a client to do that.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Want me to draw up the papers? Any specifications?”

  “Yes, draw up the paper and no, no specs, except that the Hunts are welcome to visit whenever. Can I call her and arrange to go through the house with her again?”

  “Sure, you call. I’ll bring the papers by tonight for you to sign.”

  “Did she say when they wanted to close?”

  “Standard thirty days,” he said.

  I figured that would give me time to clean out my house and, I hoped, sell it.

  My evening was getting crowded. I remembered Anthony and hurried over to the house on Fairmount.

  “I thought you forgot me,” he said.

  “Never. But I think I just bought a house…and sold mine.” He had looked at the Craftsman house but didn’t know I’d made an offer nor that I’d found a possible buyer for mine, so I told him the whole story.

  “Terrific, Miss Kelly!” He grabbed me and danced me about the empty living room, laughing all the while. Then, abruptly stopping, “Now, my find.” Leading the way to the kitchen, he said, “I find this in the bedroom closet, behind a fake panel.” He handed me a small leather-bound book, with a gold-leaf page ribbon running through to mark a page. A gold clasp held it closed, and there was a place for a key—but no key. I pressed the clasp, and it sprang open.