Cupboards Full of Skeletons: The Abandoned Wives and Widows Club, #1

By Dorothy M. Fletcher

Mystery, murder and mayhem in New Zealand, with mature women, amateur sleuths trying to discover who-done-it.

 

Lydia's husband of over forty years has died. Her first thoughts are, thank goodness he's gone at last, but whoops – did I help him on his way?

 

On the plus side, for the first time in her adult life she has some friends. They indulge in coffee and cake in a local cafe, and generally misbehave.

 

When there is another death in the family, the police say it is suicide, but Lydia knows it is nothing of the sort. Naturally the group decides to investigate, causing mayhem, especially for the local police force. As they strive to bring justice for a troubled young man and protect a young and innocent life, action, danger and suspense ensues as the inquiry takes them into the darker side of life, and they must decide how far they will go to protect family and friends.

 

A reader says: 'The Abandoned Wives and Widows' Club series is off to a roaring start with this action and emotion packed book.'

 

If you like mysteries with humour and a bite, you will love Cupboards Full of Skeletons.

 

Cupboards Full of Skeletons is the first novel in the Abandoned Wives and Widows' Club series of thrilling, heart-warming, sometimes laugh out loud, and sometimes dark, mystery novels. They relate the mad antics of a group of retired New Zealand women as they delve into the gritty underbelly of life and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorothy M Fletcher
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393667056

Dorothy M. Fletcher

From the outside, Dorothy M Fletcher seems to be a fairly typical New Zealand senior citizen.  But on the inside, she is as young, desirable, and vivacious in spirit as her heroines.  Originally from England, she has lived in both hemispheres of this Earth, and has filled many roles in her life – from taking the curl out of wallpaper, to teaching and acting as the principal of a primary school, to being a wife, mother, and grandmother, and an amateur singer and actress. She now spends her golden years as a passionate author dedicated to fun, murder mystery and romance, in books and theatrical productions that are enjoyed by all. https://www.dorothyfletcher.co.nz/

Book preview

Chapter 1

Money. The root of all evil? Maybe. Definitely delicious when you have it, diabolical when you don’t. Personally, I felt relieved I would soon have money freed up for my own use.

‘Come on, Jack,’ I said out loud, ‘start turning in that grave.’

Then I had a speedy look around to make sure nobody had heard me talking to myself.

I sipped my coffee, savouring the thought of Jack’s response if he was still here, and laughed at his expense.

Despite his best efforts, Jack, my late, unlamented husband, had not been able to leave me in penury. I had cheated him. 

Reaching into my handbag I took out the letter Jack had left with Peter, our solicitor. I had read it many times since Jack’s demise but it still made me feel sick. I had known he would try to leave most of what he counted as his money to our daughter, Jo, but the depth of his cold feelings towards me was still a shock. And the spite he must have felt to cut out his only granddaughter and great grandson. How could he do that?

I was glad I’d done what I had. But were my actions to blame for his death? Surely not. I was a sixty-four year old, respectable lady – not anyone’s first choice for a murder suspect.

On the other hand...

I smiled and lifted my cup to the air in a toast to Jack’s forthcoming cadaverous gyrations and to all the things he had never suspected while he lived and died. Then I toasted my mum who had secretly left me money, which I had squirrelled away so I could shatter his plans. I was still buzzing with the delight of arranging to break one of MY investments.  In only a few days the funds would be released into my very own bank account that only I could access.

I laughed out loud again and then remembered I was still sitting at a pavement table of a local café. I did another quick look round. A couple of people at another table were staring at me. I’d better save celebrations until I got home, otherwise I could find myself comfortably ensconced in the acute mental health ward at the local hospital, complete with straight-jacket, sedatives and a quiet speaking psychiatrist.

I went back to trying to appear normal. Before I’d left home, I’d had to scour the house for cash and was quite surprised at how much I’d found – enough so I didn’t feel guilty indulging in a coffee and a piece of apple shortcake laced with lemon. Delicious. I would have to be careful, though, otherwise my figure would be expanding along with my independence.

I drained the last of my coffee, then carefully ripped up the letter into tiny shreds and dumped them into the empty coffee cup.

So much for Jack and his spite. When I’d been informed he was dead, my initial feelings were relief that he’d gone at last, and, whoops – did I help him on his way. These feelings still dominated when I thought of Jack.

Back to more cheerful things.

Money.

I had money only I could use and no-one to tell me I was a frivolous wastrel. I had money I could control and use to fulfil my needs without fear of having to account for every cent.

Essentials first. I needed a car. Jack had wrapped ours around a telegraph pole. It was a write-off, just like him. After getting used to these facts, I found I missed the car more than Jack. Once I had a car I’d have to prioritise my spending. Couldn’t get too carried away.

A loud electronic squeak from across the street caught my attention. A busker looked around, embarrassed, then bent over his erring amplifier trying to fix it. He had pitched next door to the Café Nouveau and my eyes ranged over the tables and chairs on the pavement where Jack and I had always indulged in our Saturday morning coffee.

The Café Nouveau’s patrons were mostly like Jack and I – middle-aged and older, reasonably comfortably off, and boring – but not all of them. A group occupying one of the pavement tables burst into loud shrieks of laughter, led by a lady sporting grey hair with purple streaks. She was standing demonstrating something involving her rather ample bosom to the other three occupants of the table. I recognised them instantly. It was the group Jack called The Black Widows. They were usually in the café at the same time as we were and Jack said they lowered the tone of the place with their laughter and loud voices. ‘Fancy women in their sixties behaving like that,’ he’d said more than once. I thought they looked quite fun.  

‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ The waitress’s voice jolted me back into the present.

‘No. Sorry. Miles away.’ I automatically stacked the crockery and gave them to the young girl.

Before I could stand, once again I was hit with the enormity of losing Jack. I didn’t love him – at the end I definitely didn’t even like him. However, I was, no, had been totally dependent on him. I’d never had to balance the books or do any of the house maintenance. I didn’t know how to start the lawnmower or line trimmer. I’d have to have a long session with the bills to find out how much we spent each month and see what I could afford – hopefully it would run to someone to do the garden. I liked planting flowers – full stop.

I stared across the road at The Black Widows. They looked so confident, so happy. The fact they laughed most of the time when they were together was probably what irritated Jack most about them. They were obviously enjoying life without a man. Maybe it frightened him to think I might be able to live happily without him. We’d see, early days yet. However, I did decide I would have to go back to the Café Nouveau soon. Now I’d been careless enough, or lucky enough to have lost my husband, their example could be a good one to follow.

THE REST OF THE DAY flew by in the myriad of tasks that are necessitated by the death of a spouse. By evening I was ready for a night blobbing in front of the TV whilst babysitting my favourite man in the whole world – my great-grandson, Tommy.

By the time I arrived at my granddaughter’s home he was already asleep in bed. Sophie and her flatmate Emma were ready to leave so I was soon curled up in an armchair. I turned the TV on to view a light weight murder mystery. A sleepy English hamlet was the breeding ground for homicidal maniacs and dark family secrets. It was easy to keep up with the plot and periodically my mind wandered off to range over the things I still had to do.

On the TV the hero was entering a dark, forbidding house which was set in the middle of nowhere, right out of screaming distance to the next human presence. He crept through the rooms, which were lit only with wavering steaks of shadowy moonlight filtering through closed curtains. He was looking for the murderer, never once taking the simple precautions of turning the lights on or regularly looking behind him. If only characters in TV shows would do these two simple things the death rate in most of them would be cut right down. The viewers were allowed to see a menacing shadow of an arm raised high with a long blade clasped in the hand getting closer to the hero’s back. The music was rising in pitch and speed indicating an impending climactic moment. The stoic hero blundered on, totally blinkered as to what was happening behind him. The arm raised the blade higher, ready for its final downward thrust into the hero’s back. It started to move...

Crash!

The curtains flew out draping on me and the armchair. A stone hit the carpet in front of my feet and the momentum carried it to the far wall. Pieces of broken glass showered the carpet. Luckily the curtains stopped any of them hitting me. A breeze invaded the room, flapping around with the curtains.

I jumped up. Before I got to the front door there was another crash of broken glass and the outside light went off.

‘Bitch! Bitch! Filthy lesbian whore, paedophile bitch!’

It had to be Blake and his mates. I didn’t think anyone else wanted to hurl abuse at Sophie. He was Tommy’s father and his mates had created so much trouble for Sophie that she’d had to apply for a restraining order.

As I opened the front door, I could see two young men stomping along the pavement in front of Sophie’s place. They raised each leg in turn until the knee was level with their hips then smashed their feet down onto the concrete paving, arms flailing wildly around in the air as they screamed out abuse. They were facing away from the nearest street lamp and their faces were in shadow.

There was another figure standing further back, yelling at them to stop and piss off – his words, not mine.

The two abusers saw me, probably only as a silhouette with the hall light behind me – obviously not the svelte Sophie. They stopped moving. ‘Who are you? Where’s the bitch. Tell her we want to speak to her now. We want his son!’

‘Can it you two, and get lost. It’s not Sophie,’ the solitary figure said.

‘I’ve called the police,’ I lied. ‘Go away.’

The two yobs ran for it, yahooing and laughing, punching at letter boxes as they ran. The other figure came forward and the light caught his face. It was Blake.

‘Thank you for getting rid of them,’ I said. ‘I don’t want Tommy woken up.’

As I was speaking, just loud enough for him to hear me, I gradually edged forward, not looking at him directly and making sure my body was angled slightly away from him. No direct confrontation; a trick I’d learnt in my scant few years volunteering to help kids in the local school.

‘Sophie’s not here. I’m Lydia – her grandmother. Do you remember me? The last time we met was at the picnic last year. You went on your hands and knees giving Tommy rides on your back and he laughed and shouted horsey over and over. He wanted so many rides your knees were giving way and you got scratches on your palms from the stones. Do you remember?’

By this time I was nearly at the end of the drive. No further, my brain screamed at me and I willingly obeyed.

‘Where’s Sophie?’ he shouted. ‘Now those idiots have gone she needs to come out here and talk to me.’ He walked uncertainly towards me. ‘I need to see my son!"

‘Blake,’ I wanted to shout but knew I must keep calm. My heart was still racing from the confrontation with his yobbo friends. My stomach wanted to throw its contents violently over the drive and my knees were shaking so hard I feared I might fall over before I was sick. ‘Sophie isn’t here. I’m babysitting for her.’

‘Now. Get her out here now!’

I locked my knees, straightened my back and tried to look imposing – hard to do when I was still wearing my fluffy bunny slippers. Well, Tommy liked them. It’s amazing what stupid details fly through the brain at moments of crisis. Prickles down my back psychically alerted me to the curtains twitching along the road, residents wondering what was disturbing the peace of their Friday night.

‘Blake. I can guarantee the neighbours have already called 111. If you choose to keep shouting you’ll be here when the police arrive to arrest you, or you can choose to accept Sophie isn’t here and go away quietly before they arrive.’ Another trick from school – bad choice / good choice. I took some deep breaths and prayed it would work as well on Blake as it usually did on kids.

He stopped directly in front of me, so close I could feel his breath on my face. I still refused to look him in the eye. No confrontation. Please don’t let him realise there’s another choice – flatten me and take off with Tommy. He could do it and be gone long before the cops got here.

I had to consciously move air in and out of my lungs as my heart thumped and my brain threatened to explode.

He took a step back.

I held my pose. I could sense him relaxing slightly. Once again I was starting to see the proud father who had gently cradled his new born son.

‘I believe you are allowed supervised visits with Tommy at his day care?’

He nodded. ‘Monday,’ he muttered.

‘Would you like to talk to Sophie then – neutral ground is always a bit easier.’

There was a long pause and I worked on breathing.

‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘You come too. Make her listen to me.’

‘Good idea, as long as you agree to go now and not make a scene in front of Tommy.’

‘Okay. Sorry about the window. They got carried away – think they’re helping, but they make things worse. Tell Sophie I only want her to listen to me.’

I heard a siren in the distance. ‘I believe you, Blake. You better clear off out of here before you get arrested.’ He hesitated. ‘Go!’ I insisted.

He ran off in the opposite direction to the sirens and in the light of a street lamp I saw him disappear into a near-by park. I was still trying to calm down enough for my knees to unlock so I could walk back into the house.

When the police arrived I managed to convince them they were random yobs looking for trouble and they’d taken off in the direction of a nearby foot bridge that lead to the high school.

Why did I lie? Although I would quite happily set the police on the other two, I guess I felt sorry for Blake. It must be awful not to be able to see your own son when you want to – even if it is your own fault. And nothing was going to be solved by Blake being locked up – in fact, it would probably make things worse. I sent up a few frantic pleas to the ether to let me know I was doing the right thing.

I needed something to help me stop shaking. I realised what a fool I’d been. If they’d been on P, or whatever it was they used, they could have taken me to pieces without knowing they’d done it.

The considerate policeman had given me the glass repairer’s after-hours number so I called them before I searched the cupboards for some Dutch courage while I waited. I found a bottle of ginger wine, poured myself a large wineglass full and collapsed in my armchair. I downed half of it, forgetting ginger wine is more like spirits than wine. The burning of my oesophagus and stomach caused my breathing to cease momentarily as I grabbed my throat and tried to cough my lungs up.

I was definitely not cut out to be a boozer. 

‘THANK YOU. YOU’VE DONE a great job,’ I told the repairman as he finished vacuuming up the last splinters of glass – at least, I hoped it was the last. I paid him and saw him out. My watch read 11.30, way past my bedtime but my heart was racing, blood pumping and my muscles were ready to run a marathon – that’s if I ran, of course. A guilty conscience and a brush with possible broken bones will do that for you. I was, however, a firm non-believer where running was concerned – against my religion, like most exercise. I couldn’t sit still, though, and a quick look round the kitchen revealed jobs which needed doing, so I pitched in. I emptied the dish washer and put the dishes away, folded the clothes from the clothes drier, sorted out Tommy’s toy box and put together the puzzles scattered in the bottom.  By the time I heard the taxi draw up outside I was about to start on the kitchen floor – good job they arrived – I hated washing floors.

They poured through the door.

‘Shhh,’ Emma tried to whisper but her voice was loud enough to be heard three doors away.

‘I am shushing,’ replied Sophie, hanging onto the door jamb so she didn’t fall down.

I laughed. ‘Come on, girls. Bed.’

I propped Sophie up, and manoeuvred her Emma’s room and left her sprawled on the duvet. When I went back into the hall Emma had curled up on the floor. I managed to push under her left arm and shoulder, waking her up enough to get her to stand and half dragged, half carried her to lie alongside Emma. It took a few minutes to get them settled. In the end I was satisfied they were both securely on their sides, safe from choking if they vomited, and both comfortably asleep. I got the spare duvet from the airing cupboard and covered them – there was no way I was going to try to get them undressed.

After all the exercise the adrenaline in my system had been neutralised. Before going to bed myself in Sophie’s room, I peeked in at Tommy. He was sound asleep and had kicked the bedclothes off. He murmured as I covered him and bent down to kiss his cheek. The soft scent of his breath and the delicious downy feel of his skin set my maternal instincts racing.

I whispered, ‘I sincerely promise I will do everything within my power to ensure you will grow up in a happy environment, and you’ll never be made to feel guilty for things beyond your control, like your mother has.’ I stood up. ‘Huh. Fine sentiments, Lydia Thompson, but you haven’t got a good track record so far!’

JACK WAS BACK. I KNEW he wouldn’t leave me alone forever. He was standing in his office, his face contorted in the rage I’d seen so often over the years. He was screaming, accusing me of his murder. There was movement to my left and I turned to see my daughter, Josephine. She was laughing manically, pointing a finger, yelling, ‘Murderer!’  Both of them walked slowly towards me. Closer and closer. Louder and louder.

Sophie and Tommy were behind me crying. They were looking at me in disgust. They knew what I’d done.

Then I was out on the pavement looking at what had been my home. My personal things were scattered around, skittering in a sudden, strong wind. It blew everything away. Sophie and Tommy screeched in their desperation to hang on, and although the wind blew them away too, it left me untouched. 

I threw off the nightmare. Sweat poured from every pore of my body, adrenaline coursed through my system making my breathing swift and shallow and my heart raced.  I sat up in Sophie’s bed and concentrated on pulling air in to fill the bottom of my lungs, actively using my stomach and lower ribs to breathe deeply. Several slow breaths and my system started to come down from the dream induced high.

I got out of bed and changed my sodden nightie for a one of Sophie’s baggy t-shirts. By the time I’d done this I knew I was wide awake so there was no point in going back to bed. I grabbed a thick dressing gown and made my way to the kitchen. Camomile tea – it usually calmed me down enough to sleep. Sophie always kept some in for me. As I waited for the jug to boil, I filled in the time flipping through some papers gathered in a wicker basket on the bench. Most of it was junk mail but there were a couple of unopened letters, ordinary letters everybody gets. They looked like a power bill and a credit card statement addressed to Sophie. Up till now I’d never received mail like that. Everything coming to our house was addressed to Jack. My name hadn’t appeared on any account or bill. In taking control of every aspect of our life together, it was as if Jack had tried to make me into a non-person. I only existed as his wife, not as myself.

I smiled. ‘Not any more, Jack, my boy. I’m going to learn how to be me. Bit late, but I’ll get there.’

‘I’M OFF,’ EMMA CALLED as she pushed her bicycle out of the front door after the both girls had breakfasted on dry toast and paracetamol.

‘Okay,’ Sophie closed the fridge door, ‘don’t forget to get milk and bread on your way back from the Farmers’ Market.’

‘Okay,’ and I heard the front door close.

Sophie picked up Tommy’s breakfast plate and absentmindedly went to finish the last bits of Marmite toast, then screwed her face up in distaste – she was never keen on Marmite.

Tommy came and held onto his mother’s leg. ‘Can I play with my train now, Mummy?’

‘What’s the magic word?’ Sophie asked him.

‘Please.’

Sophie smiled. Tommy took it as a yes and ran off towards his bedroom. I picked up the dirty cereal bowls and helped her pack the dishwasher.

‘Did you have a good night out?’

‘Yes. Suffering for it now,’ she said as she rubbed her temple. ‘Marnie’s parties are always out there. Was I very drunk when we came in?’

‘Not paralytic. You were pretty far gone, though.’ I couldn’t stop myself moving into preacher mode. ‘Be careful, won’t you. There’re lots of sleaze balls out there and when you’re drunk...’

She stopped rinsing the cutlery and put her arms round my neck, landing a kiss on my cheek. ‘I know, Nan. Mere doesn’t drink so she always keeps her eye on us. I only let myself get drunk if she’s there.’

‘Sensible girl.’

She put the cutlery in the machine, closed the door and picked up the jug. ‘Another coffee?’ I nodded. ‘Did you enjoy your evening, Nan?’

I took a deep breath and tightened my stomach muscles. ‘Blake came.’

She hung onto the sink. ‘I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have gone if I thought...’

I took the jug off her and carried on where she’d left off – difficult conversations need a cup of something to sip from. By the time I had two cups of steaming coffee ready she was sitting at the table, head in her hands, so I put one of the cups in front of her and sat opposite with mine.

‘I have to tell you before the neighbours do,’ I said in my fake calm voice, ‘his mates were with him and they broke one of the lounge windows. He tried to stop them being stupid and made them go away. The repair man did a good clean up job but you might want to check to make sure there are no shards left.’

‘Nan, I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I coped fine.’ Best not to mention about the fact I was very near the panic stage when I confronted them. ‘When he was making sense, he said he only wants to talk to you. He said he’ll stop coming if you’ll talk to him on Monday when he meets Tommy at the child care centre. He’d like me there too. I guess he either wants me to mediate or protect him from a steamed-up mum.’

Her face screwed up in a quizzical expression. ‘Who?’

‘You, silly. It’s a well-known fact the scariest person on this Earth is a mum when she feels her child is threatened.’ Nana’s can be pretty scary, too.

Sophie smiled. What a beautiful sight. ‘Okay, Nan. I know I need to talk to him and I’d love you to be there, too.’

‘Done. Monday it is.’

‘I’ll let Trish at Pukeko Kids know what’s happening and hopefully she’ll let us borrow a quiet room where we can