A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (22 page)

“Tell me again exactly what happened after you and
Lavinia
started down those dark stairs.
Oooh
,” she shuddered delicately. “The thought gives me the creeps.”

I closed my eyes and concentrated, trying to get the sequence of events just right. “Well,
Lavinia
went down first. I was at the top, flipping the switch, but the light wouldn’t go on.”

“And you’re sure Henry was actually in the basement at that time?”

“Yes, because we could hear him. And before I even got down the stairs,
Lavinia
called to him. I remember, because I was shocked when he actually obeyed her and zoomed up the stairs past me.”

“Then where did he go?”

I thought for a few seconds. “I heard him run into the kitchen. I thought he must be having a drink of water, because he got quiet for a while. I don’t remember what he did after that.”

“So you and
Lavinia
climbed back up the stairs, but before you got to the top, the door slammed shut.”

“Yes.”

“And you saw
nothin
’? Heard
nothin
’?”

I squeezed my eyes shut harder. Then I remembered something else. “I actually did hear something, some rustling or clinking, coming from the other side of the door. I thought it must be Henry’s tags. And then I heard what I thought were footsteps farther away from the door, and I knew
Ada
must have gotten home early from playing bingo at the church. I called out to her, and … well, you know the rest of the story.”

Again, Margo was quiet. “How quickly did
Ada
open the door?” she asked finally.

I had to admit I didn’t know, having knocked myself out when I fell backwards over
Lavinia
.

“I’m not sure. I mean,
Lavinia
had to be groping her way back down the stairs to see what had happened to me, and
Ada
might not have heard me the first time I called out. I guess it could have been a few minutes.

“So you can’t be sure the footsteps you heard were
Ada
’s
at all?”

I really didn’t like the sound of that, but I had to concede the point. “Are you saying that someone else came into the house while
Lavinia
and I were in the cellar and deliberately locked us down there?
But why?
And how did he get past Henry?”

“I don’t think he did get past Henry, at least not in the direction you’re
thinkin
’. I think he came into the house right after you did, while Henry was still preoccupied with you and
Lavinia
in the parlor. I think he was in the house the whole time you were, and when you and the dog were in the basement, he saw his chance to sneak out. Henry didn’t come when
Lavinia
called him. He heard someone
walkin
’ around upstairs and ran upstairs to investigate.”

“But he didn’t bark,” I protested weakly, appalled at the scenario Margo was creating.

“Because the intruder was ready with some hamburger or steak or
somethin
’ else that dog just couldn’t resist, and as soon as Henry’s mouth was full, he shoved that cellar door shut and walked out through the kitchen, same way he came in earlier.”

As much as I resisted this line of reasoning, the facts seemed to support it more than the assumption that a fifteen-pound dog, new to the household, had figured out how to close a heavy door and done it for no reason at all. I remembered Henry’s wet kisses and the smell of something on his doggie breath.
“But why?”
I squeaked unhappily now. “If he meant us harm, he had us right where he wanted us. Why would he just leave?”

Margo chewed on that for a while. “Because it wasn’t you or
Lavinia
he was after. It was something that he believes is in that house, something he didn’t get the first time he visited.”

“Do you mean the plumber?”

“Yes, the mysterious plumber, but unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s not really a plumber at all.”

My head started whirling again, and I leaned back against the sofa carefully. “What are you saying? Do you think the man at the
Henstocks
’ house was the guy who’s been following me in the van? Or is the guy in the van our poison pen-pal?”
Or do three entirely unconnected men have it in for me for some reason?
No, that was simply too paranoid to express even to Margo.

“I don’t know what I mean, Sugar. This is all terribly
confusin
’, but I need to call John and tell him about this. I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you later.”

I was sure he would, too. I changed the subject. “Okay, I need to call
Lavinia
, too. Where’s
Strutter
? How is she doing today?”

“She’s fine. She’s
handlin
’ Vista Views again today, if I can get her away from the university’s Web cam site, that is. Ever since Jenny showed us that big,
disgustin
’ corpse flower, she’s been
checkin
’ it every twenty minutes. Talk to you later.” And she was gone.

I remained where I was, phone in my hand, and struggled to put the pieces of this puzzle together. Somewhere, there had to be a connection between two, if not all three, of our tormentors, but I didn’t have enough information to figure it out. I had promised to telephone
Lavinia
, however, so perhaps I could accomplish two things with one call. I retrieved the
Henstocks
’ number from my phone’s memory and punched Redial.
Lavinia
must have been waiting near her phone, because she answered immediately. After assuring her that I had sustained no permanent damage in the previous evening’s mishap, and still flushed with virtue from my morning confessional, I gave her the advice she had requested.

“I really think you should tell
Ada
what you told me last night,
Lavinia
. She already knows that the Judge probably had a lady friend or two after your mother’s death. Besides, secrets always fester.” I had had far too many opportunities to see that for myself over the past few years. “Tell
Ada
exactly what you told me … that you believe that’s what you heard, although you don’t know what it meant. She’s a strong woman. She can take it, and after what happened last night, you need to have her completely aware and on your side.”

I had jumped ahead, and
Lavinia
was understandably perplexed. “Do you mean that there’s some connection between what I overheard sixty years ago in Papa’s study and our getting locked in the basement? How could that possibly be?”

“As bizarre as it seems, yes, I think there may be a connection.” I told her Margo’s theory. “We think it’s very possible that an intruder was in the house while you and I were in the parlor, looking for what he didn’t find on his first visit. That is, your plumber may not have been a plumber at all but someone who knew that your father’s private papers were hidden somewhere in the house and was looking for them. Did you ever discover what was stored in that closet, by the way?”

I could almost hear poor
Lavinia
struggling to make sense of all that I had said. “I’m afraid not, my dear. As we told you, poor Clara, our cook, passed away long since, and our faithful housekeeper Agnes went to her reward two years ago, according to her niece, with whom I spoke a few days ago.”

I changed tacks. “I know you found the plumber’s ad in a local newspaper, and he gave you a business card that turned out to be bogus, so those leads have been dead ends. Can you describe what he looked like?” I was eager to see if there were physical similarities between the plumber and the Van Man, as I had begun to think of my stalker. I had only seen him the once, standing on my front porch with his back to me. He had been wearing a dark blue or black windbreaker, jeans, and running shoes, which hardly constituted a memorable outfit. About the only distinguishing characteristic I could recall was his closely shaven head.

“Well, let’s see. He was young-
ish
, but not a child. Middle-aged, I guess you’d say, or maybe older.”

“What was he wearing?”

She considered the question.
“Some sort of dark jacket and denim pants.
And a big tool belt, I remember that.”

So far, so good.
“And what about his hair?
What color was it?” I held my breath and waited.

“Why I don’t know,” she said finally. “He was wearing a knitted cap on his head. I remember wondering about that, because it was such a beautiful morning, much too warm to need a hat.”

My heart sank as once again, the puzzle pieces refused to fit together.

Twelve

The next morning, I felt well enough to struggle in to the office—or perhaps the prospect of another day cooped up with only CNN and two somnolent cats for company was the stronger motivator. In the shower, I carefully palpated the bump on my head and didn’t see stars. When I found I was also able to manipulate shampoo bottle and hair dryer without too great a protest from my elbow, I covered my discolored toes with a clean sock, strapped the air cast back on, and bid Armando farewell.

Even though it was my left ankle that had been injured, and my
Altima
had an automatic transmission, the cast made getting into and out of the car a clumsy undertaking, as loaded down as I was with my tote bag and laptop. The paramedics had left a pair of crutches with me, but I knew from experience that they would be more trouble than help, so I left them behind. The swelling was already down considerably, and I promised Armando I would spend as much time as possible with my ankle propped up.

By the time I made it into the Law Barn lobby, half walking and half hopping, I was predictably pretty winded. Jenny rushed to unburden me and helped me navigate the six stairs leading down to the MACK Realty office, where I
flopped
onto the sofa. To my surprise,
Strutter
already occupied the desk chair, from which she was staring, heavy-eyed, at the computer screen. She glanced up briefly and waved to acknowledge my arrival before returning her attention to the screen.

“Whew! Thanks so much, Jen. I was running out of steam.” I grinned at her reassuringly as she fussed around piling up pillows from the sofa to prop my foot, bringing me coffee, and generally acting on her mother hen instincts. Having settled me to her satisfaction, she disappeared back up the stairs to the lobby. Suddenly,
Strutter
groaned and dropped her head into her hands. I leaned forward in alarm, spilling hot coffee on my hand. “Ouch!
Strutter
, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

Strutter
raised her head, and her expression did nothing to reassure me. Well, pregnancy at her age was no picnic, especially with a full-time job, an active twelve-year-old at home, and a new husband. “The baby’s fine. I’m fine, too, at least so far. Ask me again at the end of the day, and my answer may be very different.” She took pity on my obvious confusion and pointed at the computer screen. Once again, it showed the botanical lab at the University of Connecticut in which the much ballyhooed corpse flower was about to blossom into full hideousness. From the number of people standing in line, it was clear that the thing continued to attract hordes of visitors.

I hobbled over to take a closer look. All I saw was the same huge, ugly specimen, although this morning, the turgid bud seemed to have begun to blossom. I scanned the screen and saw the same, fascinated stink groupies moving slowly by in ones and twos. The Web cam clock continued to monitor the time in the top right corner of the screen. “What’s the problem? I don’t see it.”

“Him,” she amended tersely. “You don’t see him, and neither do I. That’s the problem.” Wearily,
Strutter
rose and pushed me into the chair. “Sit down, fool. You’re the one who should be off her feet.” She took my spot on the sofa. “That guard who’s always standing there on the left, moving people along. He’s not there today.”

“Okay, he’s not there. So what? Why do you care about some university employee?”