Read Online Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) by Judy Alter - Free Book Online Page A

enough for the girls, why would Anthony let his daughter stay there?
    He shook his head. “Okay, no strap. I’ll talk. I’ll let you know what happens.”
    We picked a classic door, twelve panes, beveled glass, good and thick.
    “This will look great when I get it painted,” Anthony said. “What color you want?”
    The old door was brown, to blend with the cream brick of the house. “Turquoise,” I said. “Beautiful, bright turquoise.”
    Anthony smiled. “You got it. I’ll get paint today.”
    Temporarily, both of us put the troubles of the day aside.
    I went back to my office.
    “Your latte is cold, and your doughnut is hard,” Keisha said without looking up. “Don’t send me on a fool’s errand again.”
    “Sorry,” I muttered. “I had to find Anthony in a hurry.”
    “He fix that door?”
    “He’s fixing…Keisha, how did you know about the door?”
    “Mr. Spencer called.” She waved a phone message at me.
    I wondered again how Tim knew about everything—the skeleton, the fire, the door? I read the brief message, “Arriving 9:00 flight. Will come straight to the house.”
    “What’s that sorry excuse coming back here for?” Keisha asked scornfully.
    Boy, there was a side to Tim I didn’t see when he was in the office . The people who worked for him didn’t like him. Aloud I said, with some irony, “He’s going to protect me and the girls.”
    “Yeah? You best get yourself a gun—and use it on him first.”
    I called Dave, the insurance agent, who said, “What? Again? Kelly, this has got to stop.”
    His voice told me he didn’t know about the door, so he wasn’t the one who called Tim.
    “Someone’s trying to scare me, Dave. I can’t help it if they do property damage.”
    “They do too much,” he predicted, “and the powers that be will pull your insurance. It isn’t my call. Meantime, I’ll take care of this one. Send me the bill. The deductible applies, of course.”
    I knew he didn’t mean to frighten me, but he had.
    I made some other calls and then called for an appointment to see the Craftsman house Em and I checked out before.
    “You want to come now? It’s not very clean, but I can tidy up before you get here.” The owners were Mr. and Mrs. Adolph Hunt, and Mrs. Hunt sounded both pleasant and anxious to please.
    “How about thirty minutes? Would that give you time to tidy up?”
    “Yes. That would be fine. I’ll see you then.”
    I went to Nonna Tata, a nearby small and intimate Italian kitchen, ate pasta with pesto, and wished for a good glass of wine to wash it down. Then I appeared right on time at the house for sale—and was immediately charmed. When Em and I made our curbside inspection, I didn’t see the curved brick path that led to the front door—no concrete here—nor the antique rose bushes that lined the path. The landscaping was low key, not showy but natural. That explained what Em saw as untrimmed bushes. The main creed of Craftsman architects was to live in harmony with the natural woodwork and landscaping.
    Inside, the house was amazing, preserved almost intact. The oak woodwork was still natural—-paneling, pocket doors, mullions between long narrow window panes topped with small austere squares of leaded glass. Built-in cupboards in the dining room and the external brackets on doorways gleamed with polish and care. The walls were bare of artwork, which emphasized the beauty of the wood. A tiled living room fireplace was flanked by bookshelves with small leaded glass windows over them; the tile was a rust color that blended with the walls. But decorative, multi-colored floral tiles were inset on either side of the fireplace opening. The hearth was also rust-colored tile. Anthony wouldn’t have to do anything to this house. I could sell it as is.
    Mrs. Hunt watched me. Finally, she said, “It’s old-fashioned, I know that.”
    “Old-fashioned,” I breathed. “No, it’s wonderful. You’ve kept it just as it was when it was built—and