Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “But, Mom—” The garage door rumbled up. Rex, our rottweiler—who might look intimidating, but had a sweet temperament and would slobber all over anyone who’d let him—shot through the kitchen, scrambling across the tile, then the wood floor, legs flailing. He met Mitch at the door with his typical enthusiasm, wiggling and whining a greeting. Livvy hopped off her bar stool and gripped Mitch’s waist to hug him and Nathan flew into the kitchen shouting, “Dad’s home! Dad’s home! We’re going to get a pizza!”

  Mitch hugged the kids, scratched Rex’s ears, and gave me a kiss, all while setting down his lunch box and leather jacket. He told the kids to get their coats on while he changed out of his flight suit. A few minutes later, he was back in the kitchen in a rugby shirt and jeans, reaching over my shoulder for a carrot stick. “Looks good in here,” he said.

  I was shaking red sprinkles over the cookies before the frosting set, but I paused and glanced into the living room and the dining room. Sweeps of evergreen garland dotted with tiny white Christmas lights, red bows, and creamy white magnolias decorated the mantel of our gas fireplace. The Christmas tree stood in the corner of the dining room by the window with an assortment of gleaming ornaments interspersed with the homemade ornaments that the kids had made at school. Fat vanilla and cranberry candles in islands of evergreen were scattered over the tables and a potpourri of tiny pine cones, holly, and evergreen scented the air. “It does look good,” I said, half surprised. “I’ve been so focused on checking off each item from my to-do list that I haven’t stepped back and taken in the whole picture.”

  “Imagine that. You, focused on a to-do list,” Mitch said, and I swatted his arm with the dish towel.

  He dodged the flick of the towel as I said, “It looks great because I focused on that list.” Mitch had some . . . issues with my listmaking habits. He preferred the looser, more relaxed approaches to life. I liked to know exactly where I was going and what I had to do to get there.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Right. You’re right. Without the list, we’d be lost.”

  “That’s right,” I said, smiling because I knew he was humoring me.

  He grinned back and let the subject drop. We’d been married long enough that we both knew that neither of us was going to change our outlook on life. Agree to disagree, that was our motto—at least it was our motto where to-do lists were concerned.

  He bit into a cookie, then asked, “Tell me again why you’re hosting this thing? I thought you’d sworn off squadron parties after my promotion party.”

  I cringed. “Don’t remind me,” I said grimly. That promotion party was a squadron legend. “I said I’d host this party in a moment of weakness. Amy was supposed to do it, but her mom went into the hospital.” I squared my shoulders. “This party is going to be different from the promotion party—nice and normal. Dull, even. Just good food, conversation, and presents.”

  “No flaming turkey fryer?” Mitch asked with a straight face. I rolled the dish towel again and he moved out of my range.

  “No,” I said as I went back to arranging the cookies on a platter. I transferred the platter to the dining-room table. Mitch followed me and began massaging my shoulders.

  “I’m sure it will work out fine,” he said, all teasing gone from his tone.

  “Thanks.” I felt my shoulders relaxing under his fingers. I wasn’t a natural hostess. I worried too much and spun myself into knots. His arms closed around me. It felt so good to lean into his sturdiness. Five more weeks, I thought, then immediately banished the thought. Mitch’s turn for a deployment was coming up in January and I was doing my best to avoid thinking about him leaving—I hated when he had to leave for months on end—but the deployment was always there in the back of my mind.

  I heard the kids coming down the hall and twisted around for a quick kiss. “Y’all better hit the road. The spouses will get here soon and I still have to change,” I said, lifting my shoulder to indicate my flour-spattered sweatshirt and worn jeans.

  “I could help you with that,” Mitch said with a wicked gleam in his eye.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Livvy standing in the kitchen, attempting to juggle her mittens. Nathan was running in circles around Rex, who was patiently watching him despite having his stubby tail stepped on.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. With a significant glance at the kids, I lowered my voice. “I doubt that would speed things up.”

  “That’s the whole idea. Speed is overrated,” Mitch whispered before he glanced up at the sprigs of mistletoe I’d hung from the chandelier with red ribbon, then gave me a lingering kiss.

  “I see your point,” I said. “We’ll have to finish this . . . discussion . . . later.”

  “Yes we will,” Mitch said before herding the kids out the door to the car.

  I hurried off to change into my favorite deep green sweater with the oversized turtleneck collar and a pair of tailored pants. I managed to get through the rest of my to-do list before my best friend, Abby, arrived.

  “Don’t panic,” she announced, opening the front door. “I’m early. Here.” She handed me two poinsettia plants. “I have more in the car.” She spun around, her dark, curly hair flying over the fuzzy edging of the hood on her coat.

  She’d brought ten plants, which we spaced around the house for the final touch of festiveness. Once those were in place, she made a final trip to her car and returned with a present and a peppermint cheesecake. “I’m so looking forward to this,” she said, stripping off her coat and gloves. With her generous smile and curvy figure, she looked spectacular in a white sweater, black pencil skirt, and high-heeled boots.

  I deposited her gift under the tree along with my hastily wrapped present and asked, “The third-graders are getting to you?” Abby taught at the nearby elementary.

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and managed to look both worn-out and guilty at the same time. “They’re so sweet, but eight hours of knock-knock jokes? And then when I get home, all Charlie wants to talk about is how much better front-loaders are than dump trucks.”

  “Is Jeff out of touch again?” I asked. Abby’s husband, a pilot like Mitch, was currently on a deployment to an unnamed location in the Middle East. Communication between the deployed location and spouses at home was generally pretty good. There were morale calls, which were usually filled with static and an annoying time delay that made conversation challenging, but it was always good to hear that familiar voice on the phone. And now online video made staying close so much easier, but there were often stretches of time when the guys couldn’t communicate for days, maybe weeks, at a time, depending on what they were doing.

  “Yeah. I haven’t talked to him for four days. There’s nothing going on—no bad news, so I know he’s just on a mission.”

  I nodded. You became quite good at reading between the lines of newscasts when you were a military spouse. “Tonight should be a good break for you. I promise there won’t be one knock-knock joke. Come on, you can stir the cider and talk about anything you want while I light the candles,” I said, leading the way to the kitchen.

  “Enough about me, for now. This smells divine.” Abby leaned over the simmering saucepan. “What’s going on with you?”

  I picked up the candle lighter from the counter and flicked it on. “I didn’t get the organizing job for the schools.” I’d heard through Abby that the North Dawkins school district was looking for an independent contractor to create and implement paper saving strategies throughout the district to help them cut costs.

  “Why not?” Abby asked. “You’re the best organizer in North Dawkins. How could they not hire you?”

  I focused on the small explosion of flame around the wick of one of the candles as it lit. “No, up until a few months ago, I was the only organizer in North Dawkins. That doesn’t mean I was the best.”

  Abby gave the cider a vigorous stir that sent it sloshing around the pan. “You’re the best. I know how hard you work. And you’re
good. Don’t get down on yourself. They probably had to delay the decision, or they lost the funding for it in the budget cuts—that happens all the time.”

  Another wick flared. “Gabrielle Matheson got the job.”

  Abby sucked in a breath. “No! How do you know? She didn’t call to gloat, did she?”

  I moved to the candles in the living room. “No, I don’t think even she would be that tacky.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Abby murmured.

  Freshly divorced and with two kids in college, Gabrielle had supposedly moved from Atlanta to North Dawkins for a fresh start. I knew her sister, Jean Williams, through the squadron spouse club. Jean’s husband had retired from the air force, but Jean still attended some spouse club events—“the fun ones, anyway,” was how she put it with a smile. Gabrielle had told everyone that she’d moved to North Dawkins so she could be near her sister, but I knew there was another reason. Atlanta was thick with organizers, but there was only one professional organizer between Macon and Valdosta—me. Or, there had been only one until Gabrielle arrived.

  Gabrielle had called to introduce herself. Networking, she’d said. Her southern accent had oozed through the phone line, “Us professional organizers have to stick together.”

  I’d jumped at the idea, thinking it would be great to have someone in town to knock around ideas with. I’d even pitched my latest service to her, consulting with new organizers and helping them set up their businesses. I’d hoped this new venture would take off and I could eventually transition to full-time consulting so that when our next move came, I wouldn’t have to start over from scratch again with zero clients. So far, I had two “newbie” organizers in two different states that I was working with long distance, via e-mail and social networking.

  “Oh, honey,” Gabrielle had said with a throaty laugh. “I don’t need your help. I’m an old hand at organizing.” She’d immediately switched to a new topic. “I think we should start a local chapter here,” she had said, referring to the national association of organizers that we both belonged to. “Since you’re so busy with your established clients—and I know you have little kids, too—I’d be happy to be president. Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of everything.”

  She’d signed off quickly and I’d been left with my mouth open and a dial tone buzzing in my ear. In the two months since she’d moved to North Dawkins, Gabrielle had managed to vacuum up quite a few of my new client leads and she’d also poached one of my most affluent regular clients, Stephanie, who, at one time, had my number on her speed dial. Two weeks after Gabrielle moved to town, Stephanie had called to let me know she wouldn’t need me anymore.

  “That’s three jobs now where she’s beat me out,” I said, exasperated, as I returned to the kitchen and pulled mugs out of the cabinet for the cider.

  “Here. Let me do that. You don’t want to chip anything,” Abby said. “How did you find out you didn’t get the school district job?”

  “Candy called me.” I’d met Candy when I created storage solutions for a nonprofit group where she worked. She was in her forties, wore huge hoop earrings that always matched her clothes, chomped on gum nonstop, and had a bossy, tough-love kind of personality. She’d left the nonprofit and was now working in the school district office as an administrative assistant. “All she could say was that the director didn’t pick my proposal. She asked me to call her back tonight, but I don’t think I’ll have time.” I glanced at my watch. It was almost six.

  “Oh, go. Call her. I’ll get the door if anyone comes while you’re on the phone,” Abby said.

  Candy answered on the first ring. She sounded slightly out of breath. “Just walked in the door from work. Now, you didn’t hear this from me, and I can’t say much, but I thought you should know what’s going on. You’re a good sort, the kind to get run over in a thing like this, so . . . officially, Gabrielle got the job because she has more hours available to work each week. Theoretically, she can get it done faster and she had a reference from a school in Peachtree City, which never returned my calls, so I couldn’t verify she’d worked for them. She supposedly ran an organizing seminar for the teachers and revamped the school’s workroom, which counted as more suitable experience than the organizing you’ve done for individuals.”

  “But even if I don’t have experience organizing for a school—”

  “I know, honey, I know. I’ve seen you work. You would have known exactly what to do. Anyway, that’s all neither here nor there. What really made the difference was as soon as Gabrielle came in the office she schmoozed old Rodrick. That first morning, she just happened to have brought an extra latte, vanilla and skim milk, no less.”

  Rodrick Olsen was the superintendent. Candy’s voice took on a gushy tone. “And wasn’t that the biggest coincidence in the world? That she’d brought Rodrick’s favorite? And didn’t Rodrick look sharp in his pinstripe?” Her voice lost its sickeningly sweet exaggerated southern drawl. She was spot-on in her imitation. Back in her normal, rather gruff voice, Candy said, “Gawd, it was sickening. And he ate it up, let me tell you. She suggested lunch at The Grille, so she could completely understand all his needs.” There was a clanking, which I assumed was Candy’s big hoop earring clattering against the phone in her agitation. “So there you are. Just wanted you to know what you’re up against—flirty schmoozing.”

  My heart sank. “I can’t do flirty schmoozing. And I don’t want to have to do that to get jobs.”

  “Don’t worry, honey, she’s the type of woman that men fall all over themselves for, but women will see right through her, just like I did. What goes around, comes around. Just be aware of what you’re up against when you’re both competing for the same job and the person making the decision is a male.”

  The doorbell chimed. “I’ve got to go. Thanks, Candy.”

  “Sure thing,” Candy said. “You be sweet now.”

  Despite the plunge in my self-confidence, I had to grin at Candy’s signature southern good-bye. “Bye, Candy.”

  Petite, pixielike Nadia, with her short, brown hair and elfin face, followed Abby into the kitchen. Nadia was one of the most intensely perky people I knew, which I figured was an asset for a first-grade teacher. She and Abby taught at the same school. Nadia was carrying a glass pan of fudge and had her camera bag slung over her shoulder. She was the official squadron photographer, but her photographs went way beyond the amateur level. She’d recently sold some of her photos of the local pumpkin patch to a regional magazine. She wore a cranberry-colored boiled wool jacket with black piping over a snowy white shell and black skirt. Personally, I thought she took coordination of her clothing a little too far—she and her two daughters always matched, down to the hefty bows that she placed in their hair. I was sure that if the girls had been with her tonight, they would have been in some sort of burgundy taffeta party dresses complete with matching bows.

  “There’s been another one, did you hear?” Nadia asked as she handed the fudge to Abby and carefully set her camera bag on the counter.

  “Another what?” I asked.

  “Breakin,” she said, clearly delighted to have the scoop on us. I didn’t know how she did it, but Nadia always had the latest news on . . . well, just about everything. I thought she probably would have made an excellent investigative reporter, if she hadn’t liked teaching so much.

  “Another spouse?” Abby said. “Who was it this time?”

  Nadia’s expression turned somber. “Amy. They got in while she was at the hospital with her mom.”

  Tips for a Sane and Happy Holiday Season

  A niche industry has grown up around holiday organization. There are endless plastic boxes and bins designed specifically to hold holiday decorations. The only downside to these organizing aids is the expense involved. Sometimes it seems you can spend just as much on storing your holiday decorations as on the decorations themselves. Here are some cheap and easy storage solutions that won’t break your budget:
<
br />   • Use Styrofoam egg cartons to store small, delicate ornaments.

  • Look for plastic cord wrappers in the hardware section of your local superstore, which will usually be cheaper than the cord wrappers in the holiday section. Use these cord wrappers to wind lights, tinsel, and garland. Or, make your own cord wrappers out of sturdy pieces of rectangular-shaped cardboard.

  • Save original ornament packaging and reuse at the end of the season.

  • Wrap wreaths in plastic trash bags to prevent them from getting dusty, then hang in your storage area.

  Chapter Two

  “How terrible,” I said.

  “That’s low,” Abby said, emphatically. “Can you imagine targeting someone whose mother is in the hospital? Who would do that?”

  Nadia and I exchanged a look. “It has to be someone in the squadron, doesn’t it?” I said, voicing what we were thinking.

  “It could all be a coincidence,” Nadia said, doubt edging her voice.

  “You guys worry too much,” Abby said. “Before this, there have only been two breakins on base and one in North Dawkins. That’s not a pattern. That’s coincidence.”

  “Still, I don’t like it. Robberies don’t happen on base very often. And, how likely is it that each one of those breakins was at a house where the husband was deployed?” Nadia asked with a frown.

  “Not every breakin,” Abby countered. “Amy’s husband isn’t deployed.”

  “But she and Cody were away in Atlanta, with her mom, at the hospital. That means someone knew her house would be more vulnerable, like the others.”

  “It is strange,” I said. “When did it happen?”

  “At night, like the others,” Nadia said, raising her eyebrows. “They drove to Atlanta in the evening. Amy came back the next morning to pick up a few things and found the back door open.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that when robberies usually happen—in the dead of night?”