A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (30 page)

 
“You’re cooking a goose?” The disbelief in Michael’s voice was evident. Then, straying from the point as he often did, “Why not turkey?”

 
I considered my feathered friends, now making their leisurely way toward the marsh that bordered The Birches. They
strolled
the grounds of our Wethersfield, Connecticut condominium community daily and roosted in the surrounding trees at night. Before I’d come to live here, I hadn’t known that turkeys can fly. Now I regularly watched them helicopter up to their favorite branches as the sun slipped beneath the horizon.

 
“Too much like pets, I guess.” Truth be told, I wasn’t much looking forward to roasting a goose either. The things we do for our children. “So the situation is that I’m entertaining Emma’s steady on Thursday evening, and three days later, I’m throwing a wedding.” I sighed again. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, and it was for Jeff and his absolutely darling fiancée Donna, whom he had been dating since high school.

 
I could almost hear the grin of relief breaking across Michael’s amiable face. “I’m telling you, this caterer is incredible. You won’t have to lift a finger, Kate. He and his staff will do everything … food, flowers, music, photographer. They bring everything in and take everything away afterwards. Sheila’s friend Millie used him for her daughter’s wedding last summer.”

 
The headache teased behind my eyes again, and I interrupted Michael’s rhapsodic litany. “Okay, okay, I get it. I won’t have to do a thing.”
Yeah, right.
“So send out the invitations, and let’s get it done,” I said rashly. “Now can I go to work, please?”

 
“You bet, sure! Thanks a million, Katie. You’re the best. We’ll talk again in a couple of days.” He was gone before I could take back my words.
Not that I would,
I amended my thoughts guiltily. I swallowed the last of my tepid coffee and watched the turkeys melt into the marsh, becoming one with the colors of the dried undergrowth. Now you see them, now you don’t.
Invisibility has its appeal,
I thought wistfully. At the moment, I was feeling far too visible, not to mention vulnerable, on several fronts.

 
Work was one of them. For the past two years, since meeting at the downtown Hartford law firm where we all worked at that time, my friends and partners Margo
Harkness
, nee Farnsworth, and Charlene “
Strutter
” Putnam, nee Tuttle, had owned and operated MACK Realty in Wethersfield’s historic district. Starting our own business had been an adventure, to say the least, and the hot real estate market had taken us on a wild ride.

 
A couple of months ago, the financial market had crashed, taking real estate and every other kind of sales down with it. Temporarily, at least, MACK Realty operated out of Margo’s dining room, where she and
Strutter
had hunkered down to weather the storm. Our receptionist Jenny had opted to return to
UConn
Law School full time. Because I had administrative and computer skills, I decided to put them to good use in a temporary position in the local office of Unified Christian Charities, situated in Hartford.

 
“We need you!” had been Sister Marguerite’s opening salvo. Sister Marguerite is the CEO of Unified Christian Charities, and she is one smart cookie. Notwithstanding the fact that I haven’t seen the inside of a church in more than a decade, she and I have worked together on
several
 
charitable
endeavors over the years and become firm friends in the process. She is unlike any other nun I have ever met, not that I’ve met many. In fact, her lack of sanctimony and earthy sense of humor have seen me through more than a few dreary fundraising dinners.
 
Almost before the moving van carrying MACK Realty’s office furniture to a storage facility had disappeared over the horizon, the wily sister had left a message on my answering machine, shoring up my wounded ego with a job offer. “Mary Alice is expecting her fourth baby, saints preserve us, and this time,
her
doctor insists that she take to her bed for the last two weeks, although how a woman who already has three little ones manages that is beyond me. So here I am, a rudderless ship sinking fast in a sea of meetings and paperwork, plus the holiday fundraiser at the Wadsworth that’s hard upon us. Can you help me out, Katie? It’s not forever, just for a couple of weeks until the child is born and Mary Alice’s mum arrives to take charge of the household,” she wheedled.

 
I knew I was being manipulated, which was always a good bet when dealing with Sister, but her offer did seem to be the answer to a prayer, no pun intended. Without MACK Realty taking up sixty hours a week of my time, I was feeling more than a little rudderless myself. My housemate and longtime love, Armando Velasquez, had just departed to San Diego on an assignment for his employer,
TeleCom
International. So what with one thing and another, time stretched emptily ahead of me. A temporary assignment would be just the thing to fill the gap, and a little money coming in wouldn’t hurt. What better way to use my time than helping out my old friend Sister Marguerite?

 
Today was to be my first day on the job, and I hurried to get myself together. Without the wild turkeys to offer entertainment, Jasmine trailed after me down the hall to my bedroom. She was missing Simon, her feline companion of more than fifteen years. He had recently succumbed to a combination of health issues rooted in old age, devastating our household. I knew Jasmine was lonely, but Simon had been my devoted old boy, my best buddy. I still grieved for him and couldn’t face bringing a newcomer into the house.
Not yet, but as soon as I can,
I promised Jasmine silently. As I rushed about from bedroom to bathroom to closet, she settled herself on the foot of my bed, where she knew the mid-morning sun would fall, and was soon snoozing. This afternoon, she would return to the living room, where the west-facing windows would make the most of the wintry sunshine on the sofa.

 
After a fast shower and five minutes in front of the mirror with my blow dryer and minimal make-up, I hurried into a navy blue pantsuit and tucked a gauzy scarf with a wild floral print into the neckline. I jammed my feet into low-heeled pumps and blew Jasmine a kiss on my way to the front-hall coat closet, not that she noticed. Two minutes later, I was backing my
Jetta
out of the garage.

 
All things considered, I was feeling pretty chipper. Armando might be gone for a week or so, but I had never minded solitude. Part of me was looking forward to having some of it for a while. Still, it was good to have somewhere to go and useful work to do. Now that I was once again gainfully employed, however temporarily, I would be alone only in the evenings, and there was always the telephone. Armando has a wonderful telephone voice, a warm baritone touched with a Spanish accent. In the early days of our relationship, some six years ago, I had looked forward eagerly to his evening calls. Now that I knew all of the other sexy qualities that went along with the voice, I found myself smiling in anticipation once again.

 
The drive into Hartford on I-91 wasn’t quite as frightening as I had remembered. Perhaps the truly suicidal commuters got on the road earlier in the morning. For whatever reason, I was allowed to lollygag along at a mere ten miles per hour over the posted speed limit without being harassed, which gave me an opportunity to absorb the changed city skyline. The Travelers tower, which along with the Old State House had been Hartford’s most identifiable structure during my growing-up years, had been encircled by newer, taller structures. These included the Phoenix Insurance building, an oddly boat-like structure; the Gold Building, which housed United Technologies and more than twenty additional floors of corporate offices; two buildings of pink stone that overlooked the Connecticut River; and the newest additions to the city scene, a modern convention center and adjoining Marriott Hotel. Several blocks removed from this cluster, but still tall enough to be seen from the highway, were
CityPlace
, whose slanted green roof resembled a beret, and the CIGNA building at the corner of Church and Trumbull Streets. Standing cheek-by-jowl with the old brownstones and more conventional downtown structures, the new additions had transformed a fairly humdrum skyline into one that invited admiration.

 
I eased off the highway onto the sharply curved ramp that led beneath an overpass bearing the image of the Charter Oak, then swooped into

Pulaski Circle
with the rest of the traffic. As Sister Marguerite had instructed, I swung around the circle to
Elm Street
, which ran between Bushnell Park and the block anchored by the Bushnell Memorial Theater. It was a place that held magical memories for me and most other Connecticut theater-goers, as well as visitors who came by the busload. Armando and I had shared many wonderful evenings there together.

 
Pausing at the light, I gazed straight ahead at the gleaming dome of the State Capitol. The Legislature must be in session, I surmised from the packed parking lot and plethora of Capitol Police in the area. No doubt the lawmakers were in a last-minute flurry, trying to get pending legislation passed before the lawmakers could adjourn for the holidays.

 
The light changed, and I swung left past the Capitol building and right onto Capitol Avenue, which I followed several blocks past the State Library, Legislative Office Building, and assorted residential and commercial structures. A right onto

Flower Street
took me up the grade leading to
Farmington Avenue
and the area of Hartford referred to by the locals as Asylum
Hill. It had been so nicknamed for the
Asylum for the Education and Instruction of Deaf and Dumb Persons that had commanded the hill until around 1920. Then the institution was moved to West Hartford and more appropriately renamed the American School for the Deaf.

 
Today, the king of the hill was The Hartford Insurance Group.
No, it was now The Hartford Financial Services Group,
I reminded myself. It was one of the many huge insurers, including The Travelers and
Aetna, that
had given Hartford its national identity as the Insurance City.

 
Another lengthy traffic light gave me a chance to check out the current landscape of the Hill. I had never really paid much attention before, but now I took note of the churches that competed for pride of place. Among the older edifices
were
Emanuel Lutheran, which I had already passed on

Capitol Avenue
, Asylum Hill Congregational, and Trinity Episcopal, but there could be no question that The Cathedral of St. Joseph dominated the area.

 
When the light finally changed, I headed west toward the small building in the shadow of the Cathedral, which housed the administrative staff of United Christian Charities. The organization was entirely ecumenical, Sister Marguerite had hastened to assure me, and served people in need throughout the region without regard to religious affiliation “or not,” she had twinkled at me, well aware of my lack of religious convictions. “We welcome even the heathens among us, Katie, so fear not.” Although she had spoken in jest, I wondered if that was how she secretly thought of me.

 
I parked and locked the
Jetta
up tight, mindful of Sister Marguerite’s warning that this was no longer the safest of neighborhoods, and made my way to the back entrance of the humble building that had once been a two-family house. I pressed the electronic doorbell and faced the monitor, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. “Can I help you?” a woman greeted me in a British accent that not even this system could distort completely.

 
“Kate Lawrence here to see Sister Marguerite,” I offered obediently. “She’s expecting me.” I was promptly
buzzed through the outer door and climbed a half-staircase to the interior door, where I paused, suddenly weary. Here I was, facing yet another new job in a new location, my third such transition in as many years.
It could be worse
, I told myself firmly.
I could have nowhere to go and nothing to do.
Sister Marguerite needs my help, and at this particular moment, that feels pretty darned good.
I took a deep breath, plastered a smile on my face, and turned the doorknob. Nothing happened. Then more buzzing led me to understand that this door, too, was locked electronically and had been similarly released by the receptionist.

 
“Goodness,” I joked, approaching her desk. “I must be pretty shifty looking to require all these security precautions. I’m Kate Lawrence. I believe Sister Marguerite is expecting me this morning.”

 
“It’s not you,” the pleasant-faced brunette apologized. “It’s become an unfortunate fact of life that we have to keep both doors locked at all times, whether we’re in the building or not. Too many bad experiences, I’m afraid.”