Danger Comes Home (Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (6 page)

I would see Lorna tomorrow, I vowed.

Claire called almost as soon as I got to the office the next morning. “Lunch plans?” she asked. “I want to talk to you about something that’s bothering me.”

“Sounds good.”
All I need is for Claire to have a problem. I hope it’s not the girls.
“Want to meet at the Yucatan Taco Stand? It’s pretty good.”

“Hmmm. Haven’t been there. Is it on Magnolia?”

I assured her it was and said it was on the south side of the street, past Lili’s…where the hamburger place used to be.

“Sure, I’ll see you there at 11:30. Bring your thinking cap.”

I returned a few Monday morning phone calls, leafed through the new listings on Multiple Listings Service, and picked up my purse. Keisha looked up with a question in her eyes.

“Going to see Lorna McDavid…one more time,” I said cheerily.

“Don’t eat anything!”

I had told her about the time Lorna served me cookies that she had shellacked to make them look pretty. “Not even coffee,” I replied. Probably not a danger. I doubted hospitality would be offered.

As I got out of my car, parked across the street from Lorna’s house, I stopped to stare. Hers was what they call a four-square—a two-story square box with several Craftsman-inspired decorative touches, such as a small horizontal attic window, banked windows on the second floor, and a long verandah across the front. It was also called a “shirtwaist” because of its horizontal siding on the first floor and shingles covering the upper half. It was a classic, and I hated to see it fall apart. Now, though, the paint, once a lovely taupe with maroon trim, was faded and peeling. Wood rot was evident in some windowsills and the wooden banister across the front porch. Her so-called yardman hadn’t done a good job with the front yard—overgrown bushes bordered a patchy bit of grass with a straggly border of monkey grass. Two huge fountains of Pampas grass flourished on either side of the walkway, in spite of their lack of care.

As I mounted the stairs, I wondered what one old woman was doing rattling around alone in this house.
Shouldn’t she be in assisted living? I bet half the rooms are closed off.
I’d never been past the parlor before and didn’t expect to get any farther this time.

A hand-lettered sign in neat printing told me the bell did not work. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I knocked again. After the third time, I tried the door and almost fell into the entry hall as it gave way in my hand. Just then Lorna descended the stairs.

“What are you doing in my house?” she demanded, her voice imperious.

“Ms. McDavid, it’s Kelly O’Connell. I came to talk to you about your house.”

She reached the bottom landing, two steps above me, and stared down at me, a position that gave her power and almost made me timid. Tall, she wore her silver white hair swept on top of her head and held at the back with a tortoise shell comb. Her turquoise dressing gown was embroidered silk, with a dragon motif, just like the one Anthony had described. “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s not for sale.”

“Could we sit for a moment? In fact, might I ask for a glass of water?” Surely water would be harmless, and that ruse had once before gotten me access beyond the front room to another house in another strange situation.

She looked angry but said tersely, “Follow me.”

I did. We passed a dining room with an ornate mahogany table set for two. A quick glance told me the china was good and the flatware sterling. A built-in buffet, with typical Craftsman intricate woodwork, displayed a collection of what looked to be collectible early Chinese dishes. I was beginning to suspect Lorna had an eye for the Oriental.
I know of a house for lease with beautiful Japanese landscaping. Wonder if….

“Young lady, are you going to gawk or do you wish a drink of water?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your china collection is so impressive….”

“It’s not for sale either,” she said drily.

“I see you like Oriental things…your china, your gown. Did you spend much time in the Orient?”

As she took a glass from a cupboard and turned on the tap, she loosened up a bit. “I did. I lived in China for several years, Peking, in the 1950s, before Mao Zedung took over and turned the city into Beijing. We lived in the old walled city, smoked opium, and pretended there was no revolution coming. They were glorious days.” She almost got a faraway look in her eyes.

Now there’s an unexpected revelation! I wonder how accurate her history was—or maybe she’s older than I thought, if she lived there before Mao Zedung and remembers glorious days. I think I’m seeing a lonely woman who wants company, wants to relive her supposedly glamorous past.
Aloud, I said, “Fascinating. No wonder you love your beautiful things.” Sipping my water, I wandered over to a window overlooking the back yard. To my surprise, a small vegetable garden flourished inside a wooden fence. Leafy green tomato plants just shooting up, little rows of tiny green things sprouting that would become who knows what.

Like a turtle crawling back into its shell, she retreated from that brief glimpse she’d revealed of the person inside the iron façade. “Enough gazing out my window, Ms. O’Connell. My house is not for sale.”

I turned slowly to face her. “Ms. McDavid, your house is falling down around you. It suffers from what we not-so-lovingly call deferred maintenance—peeling paint, rotting wood. Who knows? Maybe you have termites? Rats in the attic? Have you heard noises? Soon the house will be beyond the state where it can be repaired, and it will go on the demolish list. I don’t want to see that happen. It’s a beautiful house.” I had gained ground with my flattery of her knowledge of things Oriental, but just as quickly I lost it and was back to square one.

She turned away from me, but not before I saw her bite her lip. “Yes, it is a beautiful house. I am very happy here. The outside world rarely intrudes on me.” That was a dig at me, and I knew it. “Jaime and Lucinda take good care of me. I trust the house will remain standing as long as I do. Then I do not care what happens to it.”

“I care,” I said with more passion than I meant to. “And your neighbors care. I’m anxious to preserve this neighborhood and that means houses like yours. I can make you a good offer, enough for you to live in a small apartment or perhaps an assisted living facility.”
Oops. I knew I shouldn’t have said that. But I was beginning to believe she was indeed older than I thought.

“That’s an insult. I think it’s time for you to leave me in peace.”

I’d blown it again, and I knew it. “Here’s my card, Ms. McDavid. If you ever need anything, please call me. It doesn’t have to be about selling your house, though my offer remains open.”

She took the card stiffly, and I said, “I’ll see myself out.” Which I did. I didn’t even hear her footsteps behind me.

****

Claire was talkative at lunch, raving about her roasted tequila lime chicken, wishing it weren’t a workday so she could have a margarita. But then she turned solemn. “I want to help Mona Wilson. I’ve never seen a woman more in need of a hand up—unless it was once me. I think she’s like me. There’s strength there, but she has to be taught to use it.”

Startled, I groped for words and played with my iced tea glass. “I want to help her too…but I think in the end Mona’s going to have to help herself. And I got the sense that she may do it for Jenny.” I wasn’t going to tell her yet what Keisha’s theory was or what Mike had said which was, essentially, “Stay out of it!”

Claire waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t give me that ‘help herself’ crap. However bad Tim Spencer was, he didn’t beat you, did he?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I’ve been an abused wife, and I know what it’s like. You feel like you’re in a trap you can’t escape. He’ll come get you if you leave. The only way out is to kill him—I stopped short of that because there are laws against it and because, angry as I was, I couldn’t see myself killing another human being. And there were the girls to think about.”

Mike needs to hear her say that.
Mike had mostly gotten over it, but I think he still harbored a suspicion that she put the Mickey in her late husband’s drink that caused him to crash his car on the freeway, an accident in which he died. It was all settled in court, and Liz, the daughter who confessed to putting the Percocet in her mom’s pill case, had a clean slate, but it had taken Mike a long time to feel comfortable about Claire.

I was silent for a minute. What could I say? She was right—I’d never walked in Mona’s shoe. And I’d been emotionally abused, though I guess I didn’t realize it at the time—but would I have put up with violence if my girls saw it? I guess we don’t know until it happens to us.

After a long pause, I asked that phrase I hear a lot. “So what’s your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet exactly. But I think I’ll take her to lunch and to get her hair styled.”

“She won’t go. Apparently the husband is particularly fond of long, stringy, shapeless hair.”

Claire laughed aloud. “Kelly O’Connell, you of all people should know that I get what I go after. She’ll go, and she’ll like it, and I’ll build up her self-confidence.”

Glad that Mike isn’t hearing this conversation. This woman had once helped save my life and another time been my rock in a crisis, and yet I was seeing a determined side of her I hadn’t always seen. I both admired it and worried about it.

“What about Jenny?”

“The only way to save Jenny is to save the mom. I only regret that I didn’t save my girls from Jim Guthrie sooner.” She saw my look. “No, no. I would never have killed him…but I would have gotten the girls away from him. I’ll make this work, Kelly. Watch my dust.”

I believed her. God help me, I really did. We hugged and parted in the parking lot, and as I turned away, I thought that between Lorna and Claire, I had an awful lot to tell Mike Shandy when we were alone late at night.

****

Mike says I have a small bird that perches on my shoulder and whispers common sense into my ear, except, according to him, the bird doesn’t visit often enough, and I don’t listen hard enough. That night at the supper table, I listened. I withheld my story of Claire’s new mission for Mike’s ears only. Because of Jenny’s part in the story, the girls would have been all ears and full of questions, suggestions, and—perhaps—advice.

But I did launch into the tale of my visit to Lorna McDavid.

“You went to see that crazy old lady?” Maggie asked. “Weren’t you scared?”

“She’s not harmful, Maggie. She’s just peculiar,” Em said in her matter-of-fact tone.

Mike suggested I tell them all about it, and I did, stressing that I’d gotten all the way to the kitchen this time instead of being blocked in the parlor. “It’s strange. Her front yard is pretty unkempt. But she’s got a small vegetable garden in the back. Of course, nothing much is up now except the tomatoes.”

“Tomatoes?” Mike echoed. “It’s kind of early, Kelly, unless they were planted early as plants and not seeds.”

“How would I know when and how they were planted?” I was getting a bit impatient here. “I just know what I saw.”

“Is her house awful?” Maggie asked.

“On the outside, yes. But it’s in better shape inside, like maybe that Lucinda, her maid or whatever, oils the wood and takes care of things. Ms. McDavid has lovely antiques and valuable dishes. And she floated down the stairs wearing an embroidered gown—from old China, I suspect. She told me she lived there in the fifties, before the revolution and Mao Zedung.”

“Who?” Em interrupted.

Mike put his hand over hers and whispered, “Shh. I’ll tell you later.”

“The whole place needs paint and some repair but it has gorgeous woodwork, built-in cabinetry, a marvelous staircase. It’s a wonderful house. I want so badly to get hold of it.”

“Would we move there?” Em asked. Practicality again.

“Oh, no, Em. I love our house.”