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

knew and trusted, of course—to bring her home. But when I got to the ballet studio, the only mother I saw was Sarah’s—mother of the girl Em tangled with. No, that wouldn’t do. I searched my brain—and then my purse for my notebook with Mrs. Guthrie’s number in it. Frantic, I dialed.
    Claire Guthrie answered with her usual enthusiasm. When I explained, she agreed it would be no problem to move the appointment to five-thirty. In fact, it might be more convenient for Mr. Guthrie. That’s what she called him , Mr. Guthrie. I never ever referred to Tim as Mr. Spencer.
    Rather than get more flustered by rushing around, I sat and watched the lesson. But Em squirmed and wiggled, clearly bored. “Mommy, I have to peepee.” I took her to the restroom. “Mommy, I’m thirsty.” I got her a paper cup of water from the dispenser. “I didn’t want water. I wanted juice.”
    “Em, please be quiet. You’re disturbing the lesson. If you’re good for this and the Guthrie’s visit, I’ll get you whatever you want—well, almost.”
    I hustled the girls out the door and into the car, and we were home by five-ten. I rushed around, straightening things that I’d already straightened once that day. But when the door chimes rang, I felt I was ready. The girls were settled in the kitchen, with Theresa helping them bake cookies. I thought that bit of domesticity might add to the charm of the kitchen for the Guthries. Besides the smell of baking was famous as a subliminal factor or whatever in selling a house.
    The walk-through went well. Claire Guthrie was so eager to point out the amenities to her husband that I sat back and let her take over. He seemed impressed, though I found him hard to read—inscrutable was the word that came to mind.
    “May I offer you a glass of wine?” I asked, and both nodded their acceptance.
    We settled in the living room, and I asked if they had any questions about the house, its history, its upkeep. Mr. Guthrie—I thought his name was Jim—asked about utility bills and all those practical matters, while Claire said, “You know, Jim, this just feels right to me.”
    I was seeing a sale within my sights and could barely contain my excitement. But just then the front door flew open, and Tim Spencer burst into the room, his face red with anger. “You cannot sell this house,” he yelled. “I put too much into it. You cannot sell it.”
    The Guthries sat shocked, staring at him, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Em peek around the corner.
    I said the only thing I could think of. “My ex-husband does not come with the house,” I assured them. I thought it was clever, but no one laughed, and Tim said, “Quit trying to be smart, Kelly.”
    “Maybe we should finish our talk another time,” Jim Guthrie said, rising and looking at Tim.
    Feeling foolish, I performed the introductions, and the two men shook hands perfunctorily. Claire looked as though she’d rather touch a snake.
    Just as they started toward the door, which Tim had left open, Mike Shandy, in full uniform, appeared in the doorway. He looked at the strange assortment of people, looked again at me, and said, “Sorry. I’ll come back another time. I just wanted to tell you that the detectives think they’ve got a lead on the identity of that skeleton.”
    While Tim roared, “Skeleton?” the Guthries left without another word. I watched them go with sinking spirits. There was a sale gone sour.
    “Sorry,” Mike said. “Did I interrupt something?”
    I tried to smile at him, but it didn’t work. “Nothing that was going very well. Mike, this is my ex-husband, Tim Spencer.”
    Mike, ever friendly, held out his hand. “Mike Shandy. I’m the neighborhood patrol officer. Been keeping an eye on Kelly and the girls.”
    “I’m sure you have,” Tim said, ignoring the proffered hand. “What the hell are you talking about—a skeleton?”
    I knew this was an act for effect, and Tim knew about the skeleton—I remembered that