A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) by Judith K. Ivie
Authors: Judith K. Ivie
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anticipation. No doubt my misgivings would return, but for the moment, I felt undeniably better. I smiled at my friend and signaled to Sherrie that we were ready to order.
“So what’s the latest on the Henstock sisters’ skeleton?” I asked after we had dithered happily for a few moments between bagels or croissants, English muffins or pumpernickel toast. “Any new developments from the good lieutenant?” At the mention of John Harkness , Margo’s lips curved into a smile. If I didn’t know her love-them-and-leave-them ways so well, I would be tempted to think she was besotted.
“Not much. The forensics report makes the remains those of a woman, youngish, Caucasian. No obvious signs that she was done in with a hammer or a bullet to the head, so cause of death is nearly impossible to identify. The fabric and the dye were aged at about sixty years, which means she went into that closet thingie in the basement around 1945, as near as anybody can say.” She shrugged. “Weird to think that gruesome body was right in the house with them all that time. When did you say the Judge died?”
“The late 1960s, I think.” I repeated what Ada and Lavinia had told me about their father’s late-night visitors all those years ago. “Do you think the Judge knocked up one of his lady friends, then did her in and hid the body in the basement?”
Margo choked on her coffee and dabbed daintily at her lips with a naplin , wide-eyed. “Thank goodness there’s so much chatterin ’ goin ’ on around us that nobody but me heard that. You are absolutely sick! Just because a mature, single gentleman feels the need of some, um, companionship from time to time and needs to be discreet because of his position doesn’t make him a monster and a murderer!”
“All right, all right. It was just a thought. It’s not that I begrudge the poor guy a girlfriend or two. It can’t have been easy to be a single man in the public eye, having to raise two young daughters. But you have to agree, it’s an interesting theory. Or maybe it wasn’t murder at all. Maybe one of the ladies had designs on him, and when he rejected her and refused to marry her, she took an overdose and expired in his study just to make him suffer! And when he found her, he was afraid he’d be accused of murdering her, so he walled her up in the basement one dark night.”
Margo stared at me. “Have you been watchin ’ daytime television? I cannot think how such a melodramatic solution to this little mystery even occurred to you …”
Fortunately, Sherrie chose this moment to delivery our breakfasts, and I was spared having to reply immediately. For a few moments, we busied ourselves with jam and butter, then forked into our omelets ravenously. I waited until Margo had her mouth full to forestall further comment from her. “This situation doesn’t require any additional drama from me. I don’t think even a soap opera writer could come up with this one. A woman’s body is walled up in a local judge’s basement for more than sixty years … oh, no!” I dropped my fork with a clatter. “You don’t think the poor thing was walled in alive , do you?”
For the second time in five minutes, Margo choked. “Who puts these ghastly ideas into your head? I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty. No, of course she wasn’t alive. There was a family in that house, which is far from soundproof. And I don’t care what they tell you in those trashy books you must be readin ’, a few bricks and some mortar are not goin ’ to silence somebody who’s behind them screamin ’ her head off.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Where was I? So the body is plastered up behind some bricks in the basement. The judge dies. The little girls turn into old ladies. Some pipes spring a leak, and they call a plumber. He goes down into the basement and rips out some bricks that are blocking access to the leaking pipes, and there’s Skeleton Woman. He freaks and runs out of the house, never to
“So what’s the latest on the Henstock sisters’ skeleton?” I asked after we had dithered happily for a few moments between bagels or croissants, English muffins or pumpernickel toast. “Any new developments from the good lieutenant?” At the mention of John Harkness , Margo’s lips curved into a smile. If I didn’t know her love-them-and-leave-them ways so well, I would be tempted to think she was besotted.
“Not much. The forensics report makes the remains those of a woman, youngish, Caucasian. No obvious signs that she was done in with a hammer or a bullet to the head, so cause of death is nearly impossible to identify. The fabric and the dye were aged at about sixty years, which means she went into that closet thingie in the basement around 1945, as near as anybody can say.” She shrugged. “Weird to think that gruesome body was right in the house with them all that time. When did you say the Judge died?”
“The late 1960s, I think.” I repeated what Ada and Lavinia had told me about their father’s late-night visitors all those years ago. “Do you think the Judge knocked up one of his lady friends, then did her in and hid the body in the basement?”
Margo choked on her coffee and dabbed daintily at her lips with a naplin , wide-eyed. “Thank goodness there’s so much chatterin ’ goin ’ on around us that nobody but me heard that. You are absolutely sick! Just because a mature, single gentleman feels the need of some, um, companionship from time to time and needs to be discreet because of his position doesn’t make him a monster and a murderer!”
“All right, all right. It was just a thought. It’s not that I begrudge the poor guy a girlfriend or two. It can’t have been easy to be a single man in the public eye, having to raise two young daughters. But you have to agree, it’s an interesting theory. Or maybe it wasn’t murder at all. Maybe one of the ladies had designs on him, and when he rejected her and refused to marry her, she took an overdose and expired in his study just to make him suffer! And when he found her, he was afraid he’d be accused of murdering her, so he walled her up in the basement one dark night.”
Margo stared at me. “Have you been watchin ’ daytime television? I cannot think how such a melodramatic solution to this little mystery even occurred to you …”
Fortunately, Sherrie chose this moment to delivery our breakfasts, and I was spared having to reply immediately. For a few moments, we busied ourselves with jam and butter, then forked into our omelets ravenously. I waited until Margo had her mouth full to forestall further comment from her. “This situation doesn’t require any additional drama from me. I don’t think even a soap opera writer could come up with this one. A woman’s body is walled up in a local judge’s basement for more than sixty years … oh, no!” I dropped my fork with a clatter. “You don’t think the poor thing was walled in alive , do you?”
For the second time in five minutes, Margo choked. “Who puts these ghastly ideas into your head? I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty. No, of course she wasn’t alive. There was a family in that house, which is far from soundproof. And I don’t care what they tell you in those trashy books you must be readin ’, a few bricks and some mortar are not goin ’ to silence somebody who’s behind them screamin ’ her head off.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Where was I? So the body is plastered up behind some bricks in the basement. The judge dies. The little girls turn into old ladies. Some pipes spring a leak, and they call a plumber. He goes down into the basement and rips out some bricks that are blocking access to the leaking pipes, and there’s Skeleton Woman. He freaks and runs out of the house, never to
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