A Skeleton in the Closet (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (31 page)

 
“Wow, do you mean you’ve actually been robbed?”

 
She shrugged.
“A couple of break-ins.
Nothing at gunpoint or anything.
I’m Shirley, by the way. Please hang your coat over there on the rack. Coffee’s fresh. I’ll tell Sister you’re here.” She waved in the general direction of a coat rack and a tiny kitchenette behind it where a coffee urn and mugs stood waiting on the counter. I hung my parka on a hanger and decided against more coffee. Instead, I admired Shirley’s impressive array of potted plants, which thrived in the sunshine streaming through a window beside her desk.

 
Although small and somewhat cramped, the reception area had a friendly feel to it. The murmur of Monday-morning conversations among congenial coworkers met my ears, a poignant reminder of other Monday mornings at MACK Realty. I quickly turned the page on that thought and perched on one of the three chairs which, along with a small corner table, constituted the anteroom’s entire furnishings. I struggled to get myself into a serene frame of mind, suitable for interaction with these kindly, gentle people who were about to become my temporary colleagues.

 
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

 
My mouth dropped open, but Shirley didn’t turn a hair at this surprising outburst from some interior office. Sister Marguerite appeared from behind a door at the end of a short hallway. She shoved it open energetically and hustled out to greet me. “What kind of a knucklehead takes up busy people’s time on a Monday morning trying to sell them things over the phone, I ask you?”

 
Shirley calmly continued festooning a rather dusty plastic fir tree that occupied the tabletop next to my chair.

 
“Sorry,
m’dear
,” Sister Marguerite apologized to me. “Telemarketers have driven more pious women than I
to
bad language and strong drink. Shirley, how many of these trees have you got in this place, for the love of God? I feel as if I’m suffocating in tinsel.” A twinkle in her eye softened her words. Shirley merely grinned and went on decorating the already overburdened tree.

 
“Come in, come in,” Sister Marguerite urged me and reversed direction. I scrambled after her down the short hallway, which was crowded with filing cabinets and overflowing bookshelves. Sister bustled into her office and addressed her guest chair. “Off with you now.” She made shooing motions, and a fat poodle, which I had mistaken for an overstuffed pillow, lumbered to the floor. “Go to your bed, Aloysius.” The dog wagged his stub of a tail to show there were no hard feelings and made his way arthritically to a snug pet bed behind his mistress’s desk. “I shouldn’t allow him on the furniture, I know, but he’s quite an old fellow now,” Sister explained. “Sit, sit!”

 
I sat. My eyes welled with grief for my own old pet, and I blinked the tears away. Two lines rang simultaneously on Sister Marguerite’s phone, which she ignored. A tiny woman with gray hair stuck her head in the door. “Is this a good time to get some things signed, Sister? Oh, sorry,” she amended, spotting me. “I didn’t see you sitting there.
Another time.”
And she was gone.

 
An hour later, I sat in a cramped conference room with the organizers of the annual UCC holiday fundraising event, a cocktail party and auction scheduled for this very Thursday evening. I had been introduced as Mary Alice’s temporary replacement, warmly welcomed, and promptly buried in an avalanche of logistical details concerning the annual gala to be held at one of the crown jewels of Hartford’s cultural community, the Wadsworth
Atheneum
Museum of Art.

 
The castle-like building was the oldest public art museum in the United States and the largest one in Connecticut. The Museum was particularly beautiful at this time of year. Thousands of additional visitors were attracted to its annual Festival of Trees & Traditions, a huge display of Christmas trees, wreaths, and other decorations constructed by local organizations and individuals and donated to be sold for the benefit of the Museum. That made the UCC gathering a fundraiser-within-a-fundraiser, so to speak.

 
The petite woman who had stopped by Sister Marguerite’s office earlier turned out to be Lois
Billard
, the committee chair. She gave brisk updates on the budget, catering, entertainment, raffle contributions, and RSVPs received to date, which I struggled to take in. My head was spinning. It was clear that this was a major social occasion of the Hartford social season, and despite the downturn in the economy, this year’s turnout was going to be a record setter. As Lois outlined the schedule for the evening, it was apparent that the major players from every segment of the business community would be present, as well as leading clergy from all of the Catholic, Protestant and Jewish denominations in the region.

 
The plan was to gather everyone in a prominent location, dazzle them with ambience, mellow them out with heavy hors d’oeuvres and spectacular wines donated by some of Connecticut’s finest eateries and vineyards,
then
begin the auction. “Liquor them up and get those wallets open,” was Lois’s candid plan of action. “Then, just when they may be feeling they’ve overspent a tad, we’ll bring in Santa Claus to distribute
the goodie
bags filled with gift certificates and enough electronic toys to thaw the tightest wad among them.” She grinned at the assembled committee members, who chuckled appreciatively. Obviously, these people were not nearly as strait-laced as I had imagined them to be.

 
I had to admit that I quite looked forward to Thursday evening. “Who plays Santa?” I couldn’t help asking. Sister Marguerite was quick to reply.

 
“Why, our very own Santa, of course,” she smiled, gesturing to the bespectacled, middle-aged gentleman beside her who had sat quietly throughout the meeting and resembled Kris
Kringle
not at all. “Meet James
O’Halloran
, our chief financial officer, Kate. He’s been playing Santa for us for nearly thirty years now.
Says it makes a nice change from counting our beans the rest of the time.”

 
“After all these years, I’m beginning to look the part,”
O’Halloran
joked along, patting his flat belly as if it were round. “I believe I know one of your business partners, Ms. Lawrence. My wife and I bought a house in Wethersfield a couple of years back, and she had the listing. Cheryl?
Sharmaine
?
Anyway, a delightful lady.
Made the experience relatively painless, as I recall.”

 
“Charlene Putnam,” I smiled, “and yes, she is.”

 
“James’ wife Mary is a mainstay of the Wadsworth
Atheneum’s
Women’s Committee, which was how we managed to book that amazing space for our most important fundraiser of the year—and during the Festival of Trees, no less,” Sister Marguerite beamed. “Of course, it took even Mary two years to pull it off,” she added wryly, and everyone chuckled.

 
On that note, the meeting adjourned, and the staff quickly scattered to pursue their various last-minute assignments. Mine was to keep track of all of the other assignments and serve as the focal point for all gala-related communications in addition to answering Sister Marguerite’s phone, screening incoming requests, and assisting with the daily business of the UCC, which was helping local people in need to cope with their current crises.

 
With Connecticut’s unemployment rate threatening to become the highest in history, the stream of requests for help continued unabated throughout the afternoon, which whirled by in a blur. Just before five o’clock, the steeple bell of Asylum Hill Congregational Church rang out.
“Two minute warning!”
Sister Marguerite called out cheerily, and the staff members scurrying in and out of each other’s offices and cubicles heaved a collective sigh of relief. “Quitting time, don’t you know,” Sister explained, “but that bell is a little off.”

 
“Does it ring all day?” I asked in amazement. Until this moment, I had been unaware of it.

 
“Every hour on the hour,” she assured me, “and two minutes early for every blessed one of them. Well, that’s it for me, Katie girl. Come along, Aloysius, you spoiled dog.
Time for us to get our supper and see if we can still manage a little walk between us.”
The poodle,
who
had been waiting patiently by Sister’s briefcase, thumped his stubby tail on the carpet and creaked to his feet. She snapped a leash on his collar and picked up the briefcase, which bulged with paperwork to be attended to after dinner, no doubt. “Thanks for everything,
m’dear
,” she said, patting my shoulder in passing as they headed for the door. “Can we expect you back tomorrow?”

 
“I’ll be back,” I assured her.

 
I let myself out into the parking lot, making sure that the door locked firmly behind me, as I had been instructed to do. The early darkness never failed to surprise me on these December evenings, but the lot was well lit. I joined the other going-homers in the late afternoon traffic and crept from traffic light to traffic light, reflecting on the events of the day.

 
Now that I had the time to notice, I realized how weary I was. A few days ago, I had been sitting in my recliner planning my next career move. Now I was orchestrating a Martha Stewart Christmas Eve for Emma’s new beau, hosting my nephew’s holiday wedding, and juggling the myriad details of the UCC’s gala fundraiser. It wasn’t surprising that I felt as if I were drowning in Christmas.

 
What I didn’t know was that I was about to go under for the third time.

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