Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) by Judy Alter Page A

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 out 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.
    I stared at Anthony, who was grinning. Then I leafed through the book—pages of neat handwriting, dated entries. It was Marie Winton’s diary!
    “You gonna give it to the cops?” he asked.
    “Not until I read it,” I answered without hesitation. “And maybe not then. We’ll see.”
    I clutched the book to me, as though it were worth a fortune. “Thank you, Anthony. What made you look there?”
    “I sometimes get tired of working on the kitchen, and I explore the house, getting ideas for what I can do to other rooms. I’m going to make these closets bigger, easier to get too—so I was testing the walls, and I found….” He looked sheepish. “Another dead space.”
    I wanted to rush home, lock myself in the bedroom, and read every word of the diary, but I had to pick the girls up and then the Guthries were coming. When I had Maggie and Em both in the car, I said, “We have to go right home and straighten things up. People are coming to look at the house at five.”
    Em asked, “What people? Why are they looking at our house?”
    Just as I was about to say, “Because they might want to buy it,” Maggie interrupted with, “Mom, I have ballet today.”
    I’d forgotten entirely. Ballet was from four to five. My mind raced. Maybe I could drop her off and find another mother—one I