A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) by Judith K. Ivie Page A
Authors: Judith K. Ivie
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return. The sisters call us, not the police, because they’re afraid that having a corpse in their basement might be a turn-off to potential buyers for their house. By the way, do we actually have the listing for that yet? Then the police come, but the skeleton has disappeared, right along with the mystery plumber, whom nobody can seem to locate.”
I chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Margo concentrated on her eggs in an effort to tune me out, but I continued. “Next, the body or remains or whatever turn up in the Spring Street Pond. Nobody has a clue about the identity. And oh, yes … coincidentally, I’m being stalked by a guy in a black van, but we don’t know if that has any connection to the Henstock sisters’ skeleton. How’s that for melodrama?” I took a bite of my toast and waved at Sherrie for more coffee, but before she could pour my refill, Margo put her hand over my cup.
“Thanks, Sugar, but I think this girl has had just about enough caffeine.” Sherrie laughed and departed while I pouted over my empty cup. Margo pushed my ice water a little closer. “Try some of that. I think you’re overheatin ’. Now, if we really must have this revoltin ’ conversation, at least let me finish my food first.”
Twenty minutes later, sated with food and conversation, but having arrived at no plausible solutions, we inched our way through the crowd of diner patrons waiting in line at the register to be seated and pushed through the doors to the parking lot.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the second level and ambled toward our cars. “Are you and John doing anything this afternoon?” Margo arched an eyebrow. “Let me rephrase that. Are you and John doing anything else this afternoon?”
Margo giggled. “Why, I don’t know just yet, but if we do, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. How about you? Are you goin ’ over to help Armando finish packin ’?”
“Nope, uh uh , no way,” I said firmly. “Packrats have to pay the price for their hoarding. I know what’s in that apartment. I’ve seen it many times. He has ten years worth of unnecessary papers, every book he’s ever read, and clothes he hasn’t worn since the 1980s. A lot of stuff is in piles on the floor. And I don’t even want to talk about the kitchen. Our deal is that I get the house ready for him to move into, and he sorts out and packs his stuff. Anything that won’t fit into his bedroom, bathroom and the loft area will have to be stored in the basement, neatly and in cartons. He’s on his own with the packing.” We arrived at my car. “I think I’ll give Strutter a call and fill her in on last night. Maybe we can meet for coffee later. I’d love to get her to open up about what’s going on with her lately.”
“Make it a decaf,” Margo advised. “I have a feelin ’ you’re not goin ’ to do much sleepin ’ tonight as it is. You don’t need to be loadin ’ up with caffeine on top of everythin ’ else.” She fumbled in her stylish tote bag for her car key. “And Sugar?”
“Uh huh?”
“Watch out for strange men in black vans.”
* * *
Late that afternoon, Strutter and I ambled along
Old Main Street heading toward the Wethersfield Cove. Somewhat to my surprise, she had agreed to meet me for a before-dinner walk, although she had declined to stop for coffee along the way, citing the ubiquitous “stomach problems.” As overstimulated as I already was, I was glad to take a pass on the caffeine anyway.
We spent a pleasant few minutes poking among the flats of vegetable and floral seedlings at Comstock, Ferre & Company, then crossed the road and headed downhill to the Cove. Basking in the warmth of the sun that had finally decided to acknowledge that it was summer, it was difficult to accept that we had passed the longest day of the year and were already losing a minute or two of daylight each day.
“What’s with the stomach upsets? You seem to be
I chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Margo concentrated on her eggs in an effort to tune me out, but I continued. “Next, the body or remains or whatever turn up in the Spring Street Pond. Nobody has a clue about the identity. And oh, yes … coincidentally, I’m being stalked by a guy in a black van, but we don’t know if that has any connection to the Henstock sisters’ skeleton. How’s that for melodrama?” I took a bite of my toast and waved at Sherrie for more coffee, but before she could pour my refill, Margo put her hand over my cup.
“Thanks, Sugar, but I think this girl has had just about enough caffeine.” Sherrie laughed and departed while I pouted over my empty cup. Margo pushed my ice water a little closer. “Try some of that. I think you’re overheatin ’. Now, if we really must have this revoltin ’ conversation, at least let me finish my food first.”
Twenty minutes later, sated with food and conversation, but having arrived at no plausible solutions, we inched our way through the crowd of diner patrons waiting in line at the register to be seated and pushed through the doors to the parking lot.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the second level and ambled toward our cars. “Are you and John doing anything this afternoon?” Margo arched an eyebrow. “Let me rephrase that. Are you and John doing anything else this afternoon?”
Margo giggled. “Why, I don’t know just yet, but if we do, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. How about you? Are you goin ’ over to help Armando finish packin ’?”
“Nope, uh uh , no way,” I said firmly. “Packrats have to pay the price for their hoarding. I know what’s in that apartment. I’ve seen it many times. He has ten years worth of unnecessary papers, every book he’s ever read, and clothes he hasn’t worn since the 1980s. A lot of stuff is in piles on the floor. And I don’t even want to talk about the kitchen. Our deal is that I get the house ready for him to move into, and he sorts out and packs his stuff. Anything that won’t fit into his bedroom, bathroom and the loft area will have to be stored in the basement, neatly and in cartons. He’s on his own with the packing.” We arrived at my car. “I think I’ll give Strutter a call and fill her in on last night. Maybe we can meet for coffee later. I’d love to get her to open up about what’s going on with her lately.”
“Make it a decaf,” Margo advised. “I have a feelin ’ you’re not goin ’ to do much sleepin ’ tonight as it is. You don’t need to be loadin ’ up with caffeine on top of everythin ’ else.” She fumbled in her stylish tote bag for her car key. “And Sugar?”
“Uh huh?”
“Watch out for strange men in black vans.”
* * *
Late that afternoon, Strutter and I ambled along
Old Main Street heading toward the Wethersfield Cove. Somewhat to my surprise, she had agreed to meet me for a before-dinner walk, although she had declined to stop for coffee along the way, citing the ubiquitous “stomach problems.” As overstimulated as I already was, I was glad to take a pass on the caffeine anyway.
We spent a pleasant few minutes poking among the flats of vegetable and floral seedlings at Comstock, Ferre & Company, then crossed the road and headed downhill to the Cove. Basking in the warmth of the sun that had finally decided to acknowledge that it was summer, it was difficult to accept that we had passed the longest day of the year and were already losing a minute or two of daylight each day.
“What’s with the stomach upsets? You seem to be
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