Read Skeleton in a Dead Space (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) for Free Online Page B

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    The adjustor left about noon, taking with him a small spiral pad of notes that inspired my curiosity. But he said nothing, not even, “Sorry.” I called the office to be sure nothing major happened, grabbed a sandwich from the Grill, and headed for the main public library downtown and the city directories.
    Despite my resolve to be methodical, I started with the ’60s, because of the picture in the locket. If I found a resident with the initials M.W.M., I’d have scored a hit, and I could give the locket to the police, along with information about the owner. I didn’t think far enough ahead to figure out what I’d tell the police about having it in my possession without turning it over to them. But it didn’t matter—I didn’t find M.W.M.
    Only two people lived in the house in the ’60s, when Fairmount began to lose its solid middle-class footing, turning into rental property. I copied the names: Marie Winton and Lupe Chavez. Marie Winton apparently lived there in 1960, and Lupe Chavez and his family occupied the house in 1968. I backtracked to the `50s and found that Marie Winton moved into the house in 1957. I wished that Marie Winton’s name had been Martin or Montgomery or McAdams. The M.W. fit but not a last name beginning with M. I guessed my next step was to check the City Hall tax rolls. Of course, if Marie Winton had married, those records would be of little help. Still, they might have a clue.
    I had to pick up the girls or risk angering the day-care teacher again.
    No ballet, no Scouts, nothing scheduled for the afternoon. I sank into the quiet of my house with gratitude. Maggie went off to do homework, complaining that second grade was much harder than first. “I’ll look at it with you when you’re through,” I told her. Em sat watching a video. She shouldn’t be glued to the screen so much. But I was too tired to object, too tired to think about dinner.
    The next thing I knew Maggie was shaking me. “Mom, you fell asleep. What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”
    I shook myself awake. A moment’s hesitation, then, “Hot dogs and custard at Curley’s.” The girls cheered and rushed around to gather shoes and sweaters, while I realized the last thing I wanted was a Hebrew National hot dog. But it was easier than thinking about defrosting in the microwave and cooking something. Tim would accuse me of not taking good care of them.
    Curley’s was basically a drive-through, but it had a small grassy area, nicely planted, with three picnic tables. Frozen custard was the specialty—in several irresistible flavors, though I always hoped for chocolate mint. But you could also get kosher hot dogs, one of the few non-custard items on the menu. The girls ate theirs plain with mustard; I added chili, onions, and pickle relish and then worried about indigestion. But I was surprised at how good it tasted, after my initial hesitation. The custard flavor of the month was pumpkin—appropriate but not appealing, so we all had chocolate. You never go wrong with chocolate, even without jalapeños in it.
    It was still warm, the heat of the day lingering, but I could feel the slightest chill creeping into the air. Fall was here, and Texas would soon show us its changeable nature—warm one day and bone-chilling cold the next. We sat at a picnic table, eating with plastic forks from paper containers, and the girls telling me about their days.
    “How was your day, Mom?” Maggie asked.
    “Busy and boring,” I said.
    “Yeah,” she said, “I have boring days too. But tomorrow will be better.”
    “Yeah, it will.”
    I got the girls in bed soon after we came home and settled down with that novel I was still trying to read.
    ****
    The next few days were uneventful. Mike Shandy called to say that the police removed the yellow crime scene tape from the house, and Anthony could begin work again. “I’d do what Coconauer said and call Black Brothers first,” he said.
    “I will. I was just mad the other