Motherhood Is Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  Both cousins nodded. They’d had enough encounters with foul play to know about various murder methods.

  “If only you could reach his doctor,” Renie said, glancing nervously at the increasing number of guests.

  “We’ve tried his cell phone,” Woody responded, “but apparently he’s out of range just now.”

  Renie started to edge back toward the church entrance. “At least he’s due back tomorrow, right?”

  Woody nodded as he and Sondra and Judith also walked out of the cloister. “In fact, we may be able to reach him sooner. The hospital told us that doctors rarely get out of range because of emergency calls.”

  That made sense to Renie. But she had to put murder—or at least the possibility of murder—out of her mind. It was one minute to five. She greeted more guests on her way into the vestibule where Bill, looking vexed, waited for her.

  “Where’ve you been?” he demanded in a low tone.

  “I’ll explain later,” Renie retorted. “Just keep your eye out for the mystery man.”

  Bill scowled but said nothing further. Almost all the guests had been seated, including Judith and Joe. Cathleen, along with her attendants, appeared from a side door. The future Mrs. Tony Jones looked lovely, her brown hair curled into ringlets and the pink tones on the bodice of her pearly white gown heightening the color in her usually pale face.

  Mike approached Renie. “Okay, my favorite aunt, they’re playing our song. Let’s rock.”

  Renie took Mike’s arm. “Aren’t you tired of showing me to my seat?”

  Mike grinned. “I’m kind of tired, period. Mac and Joe-Joe are beginning to fray around the edges. I told Kristin to pop them a couple of baby Valiums.”

  “Save them for yourself,” Renie murmured as they entered the church proper.

  Anne, Heather, and Odo, still wearing their own wedding finery, sat in the front pew with Renie and Bill. Deb and Gertrude’s wheelchairs had been placed in the far aisle. Tony and Tom stood on the Epistle side of the altar. Tony looked nervous; Tom, his ordeal over, seemed more relaxed. Renie watched Cathleen’s bridesmaids come down the aisle with the groomsmen, but her glance flitted around the church.

  “See anything?” asked a whispered voice behind Renie.

  She turned slightly to answer Judith. “Not yet. Have you?”

  “No. That is,” she amended, “nobody I haven’t already seen two other times today.”

  Cathleen’s sister Margaret was the maid of honor. She was wearing a deep pink gown and looked a trifle tense. At last, the congregation rose as Cathleen glided down the aisle between her parents. Martin Forte seemed smug; Tess looked as if she’d swallowed a pickle.

  The familiarity of the ritual calmed Renie. Father Hoyle, handsome and eloquent, performed the liturgy with his usual devout flair that bordered on the dramatic. Cathleen’s uncle managed to keep his hearing aids quiet, though during the Consecration, he fumbled a bit with the paten and pyx.

  And then it was over. Father Hoyle and Father Jim presented the newlyweds to their family and friends. Applause erupted. Tony, looking vastly relieved, grinned at his parents as he escorted his bride up the aisle. Tess Forte clasped her hands in prayer and raised her eyes to the far reaches of the nave. Mac and Joe-Joe McMonigle kept clapping after everyone else had finished. Aunt Deb sniffed daintily into a lace-edged handkerchief. Gertrude informed Judith that she’d kill for a cigarette. Bill nudged Renie, who was feeling numb. My baby, she thought, my baby grew up.

  “Boppin’,” Bill murmured.

  Renie exited the pew to follow the rest of the bridal party out of the church. She took one last look in every direction.

  There was no sign of the dark-haired man.

  Shortly before ten, the reception had become quite raucous. While the younger generation danced to salsa music and the older generation made yet another pass at the open bar, Bill announced that it was time to leave.

  “Thank God,” Renie said under her breath.

  Exchanging hugs and kisses with the three newly married couples, as well as the Flynns, the Fortes, the Rankerses, the Manns, the Prices, the Twobucks, and all of the Grover and Jones clan, Renie and Bill loaded Aunt Deb and her wheelchair into the Camry and headed across Heraldsgate Hill.

  By the time they had settled Renie’s mother into her apartment just off Heraldsgate Avenue, they arrived home shortly before eleven. Bill fixed his snack of cereal and herbal tea. Renie drank an entire can of Pepsi in under five minutes.

  Twenty minutes later, Bill kissed his wife goodnight and went up to bed. Renie, who was a night owl, remained on the sofa. Oscar, still wearing his tuxedo, nestled in the cushions.

  The house seemed so empty. There was no arrival to listen for. There were no late-night calls from the children’s friends. But there was laundry. Tom, Anne, and Tony had left plenty of that for their mother to wash. Renie got up, collected the piled-high basket from the first landing on the basement stairs, and went down to the laundry room.

  Clarence had retired to his cage for the night. At least they still had the bunny. Renie checked his water and his food dish. As ever, Clarence was well-tended. He had supposedly been the children’s pet, but Renie had ended up taking care of him, just as she had done for a procession of other small animals. Every night she cleaned up after Clarence, keeping the basement fresh and tidy.

  “Maybe,” she said to the bunny as she bent down to look at him lying comfortably in his open cage, “if you could talk, you’d say ‘thank you.’”

  Clarence closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  Having fulfilled her weekly Mass duty with the Saturday night wedding liturgy, Renie slept in until nine-thirty. When she came downstairs, Bill was reading the paper and eating the Sunday waffles that his wife always prepared the previous day. Before heading to the hair salon Saturday morning, Renie had made a triple batch as part of the post-nuptial brunch. Still in her morning fog, she began mixing egg dishes, carving ham, and baking coffee cake. She was taking bacon out of the refrigerator when she realized that Bill hadn’t wished her Happy Mother’s Day. The fog of sleep was replaced by a cloud of resentment.

  As she was heading into the dining room to berate her husband, the phone rang.

  “Oh, good,” Judith said, “you’re up. I’ve got news.”

  “Like what? My imminent demise?” Renie shot back.

  “Coz,” Judith said with a smile in her voice, “cheer up. You did a great job. Everything went off beautifully. Besides, it’s after ten, and you should be feeling somewhat chipper.”

  “I feel like bird doo,” Renie retorted. “What’s your news? Make it snappy. I’m creating a mammoth brunch for our ungrateful brats and their equally gruesome spouses.”

  “Woody called about an hour ago,” Judith responded. “Knowing your penchant for sleeping late, he was afraid he’d wake you. In going through Wheezy’s film, they didn’t find any more shots of the mystery man. But what they did find was a business card from someone named Edgar Alfonseca of the Carlisimo Group in New York City.”

  “So?” Renie interjected, separating rashers of bacon and putting them in a skillet.

  “The business card has Alfonseca’s picture on it,” Judith replied. “It’s a head-shot, and Woody says it’s a match to the Polaroid of the dark-haired man.”

  “No!” Renie dropped a slice of bacon on the floor, picked it up, and ran it under the faucet. “Alfonseca? The Carlisimo Group? Could that possibly be…?” She let the sentence trail off.

  “Just because those are Italian names doesn’t mean they’re mobbed up,” Judith said. “Besides, I don’t think hit men carry that kind of calling card. Still, it sounds kind of strange, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” Renie paused, thinking. “It might explain Wheezy’s remark about the olive oil racket. Gosh, could this all go back to ’Nam, where he may have met Alfonseca?”

  “Woody’s tracking down Alfonseca,” Judith said. “He called the number on the card, but only got a record
ing that stated the Carlisimo Group was closed on weekends and to call back during business hours. Naturally, he’s in touch with the NYPD.”

  “Has he heard anything?” Renie asked.

  “Not yet,” Judith answered, “but he’ll call us as soon as he does.”

  “I suppose he’s checking local hotels and motels to see if this Alfonseca is registered,” Renie remarked.

  “Of course.” Judith apparently turned away from the phone. “It’s almost ready, Martin. I’ll be right there.”

  “The Fortes?” Renie said.

  “Yes.” Judith’s voice was barely audible. “They asked me to put up a big picnic lunch for their Mother’s Day cruise. I’ve got to run.”

  Once again, Renie started for the dining room to tell Bill about Woody’s discovery. But after a couple of steps, she stopped. To hell with Bill. He was reading the paper and didn’t want to be interrupted. What was worse, he’d forgotten about Mother’s Day.

  At five to eleven, Renie ran upstairs to get dressed. No Celine, no Neiman-Marcus, no Saks Fifth Avenue for her today. She’d return to her usual wardrobe of tattered slacks and frayed Tshirts. She was, after all, just another grunt.

  She was coming downstairs when Tom and Heather arrived. “Man, are we hungry!” Tom announced. “Did you make Swedish pancakes?”

  “Not yet,” Renie replied through clenched teeth. “Take a seat and help your father finish reading the paper.”

  “I can help you,” Heather volunteered.

  “Good.” Renie’s expression softened. “You can take the three quiches out to the buffet. The plates and utensils are all set up. As soon as the others get here, I’ll start bringing out more of the hot stuff.”

  Anne and Odo arrived two minutes later; Tony and Cathleen were right on their heels. Cathleen also asked if she could help. Anne poured herself a cup of coffee. Maybe, Renie thought as she whipped up a batch of Swedish pancakes, daughters-in-law were better than daughters. Or sons.

  But after the first gestures of assistance, Heather and Cathleen began piling up their plates along with Odo and the rest of the Joneses. Renie stood in the dining room doorway, watching her enlarged brood wolf down everything from little pigs to large eggs.

  But they’re happy, she told herself as she went back into the kitchen. That’s what counts. Leaning against the sink, she was taking a bite of ham when a knock sounded at the front door. She started toward the hallway, but heard Bill call out that he’d answer it.

  Greeting duties usually belonged to Renie, if only by default. Curious, she watched Bill come out of the living room into the entry hall. The morning sun blinded her so that she couldn’t see who was at the door.

  “Mom!” Anne called. “We’re going to open the Surprise Box! Are you ready?”

  Renie went into the dining room. “How’s this going to work?” she asked. Reserved for birthdays, the usual ritual involved the honoree being blindfolded and given thirty seconds to dig and delve through the Styrofoam packing. Items—always unbreakable, always humorous—would go flying around the room. Whatever was left in the box was reserved for Christmas.

  Bill came back from the front door. “This is a little different,” he said.

  “Whoa!” Renie held up a hand. “Who was that on a Sunday morning?”

  Bill shrugged. “Somebody from out of town who got lost. I told him the address he wanted was on the other side of Heraldsgate Avenue.”

  “Oh.” Renie waited for her husband’s instructions regarding the big gold box.

  But Bill didn’t get a chance to start. The phone rang again. “I’d better get that,” Renie said, dashing back out into the kitchen. “It might be Judith or Woody.”

  It was indeed Woody Price, who sounded unusually upbeat. “I’ve got some good news,” he said, then altered his voice to its usual sober baritone. “That is, Mr. Paxson is still dead, but he probably died of natural causes. We got hold of Dr. Borg, who told us that his patient suffered from angina and was taking Persantine. Unfortunately, Mr. Paxson was one of those people who believed that if one pill helped, two or three would really improve his health. He’d overdosed twice before this, but not enough to do him any lasting harm.”

  Renie had walked into the dining room where she could let the rest of the family hear her end of the conversation. “So Wheezy wasn’t murdered?”

  “No,” Woody replied, “that’s what I’ve been telling you. His prescription bottle was found about twenty feet away from his car, in a dark corner. He probably dropped it when he collapsed. The bottle rolled out of sight. It was empty, so he must have finished off the tablets on the spot. Persantine acts very fast.”

  Renie remained puzzled. “But who stole his photography equipment?”

  “A couple of drug addicts,” Woody responded. “They’ve been working the downtown hotel garages for several weeks. They were caught red-handed this morning at the Westwind. Now it’s just a matter of recovering the film he took, assuming the dopers can remember who they sold the equipment to.”

  Losing the photographs from the pre-nuptial celebrations would be a blow. But Renie could fuss about that later. At the moment, she was mainly relieved that poor Wheezy hadn’t been the victim of a terrible crime.

  “Do you know if Wheezy was alive when he was robbed?” Renie asked.

  Woody said he wasn’t. “Or so the thieves insist. They must have come along right after Mr. Paxson expired.”

  “That’s a blessing,” Renie said. “I’d hate to think that in the last minutes of his life, Wheezy would have to encounter a couple of drugged-out crooks.”

  “According to Dr. Borg,” Woody explained, “Mr. Paxson died quickly. He may have felt nauseated or dizzy, but not for long.”

  “Have you told Judith and Joe?” Renie inquired.

  “Not yet,” Woody answered. “I decided to let you know first. I figured you’d be up by now.”

  “Oh, I’m up all right,” Renie said wryly. “Thanks so much, Woody. This really takes a weight off my mind. I guess we can forget about him being mixed up with the Mob and the olive oil racket.”

  Woody chuckled. “Yes, we can. It appears that Wheezy was doing a shoot for a local olive oil company, the Capistrano Brothers. He must have been photographing those big gallon tins in his studio. One of them leaked and went all over the place, probably while he was gone. It was a terrible mess. No wonder the officers who searched his house turned in such a messy report. They didn’t slip up—they slipped in the olive oil and one of them wrenched his knee.”

  Renie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She did neither.

  Upon hearing all the details, Bill requested that everyone join hands and say a prayer for Wheezy’s soul. They’d hardly gotten out the “Amen” when Tom and Tony began shouting for the Surprise Box. Renie ignored them and whispered in Bill’s ear:

  “I’m sure Woody and Dr. Borg are right. But what about the mystery man? We still don’t know how he fits into the big picture.”

  Bill shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t. Anyway, Woody may track him down. Assuming he feels it’s necessary.”

  “But I do,” Renie declared. “I’ll bet Judith does, too. After all, he was hanging around Hillside Manor.”

  “Forget it.” Bill picked up the Surprise Box from the chair next to the buffet and placed it in a cleared space on the table. “If you’ll observe,” he said, pointing to the writing on the gold foil, “this has only one word.”

  “I know,” Renie said. “‘WOW.’ So what?”

  Bill smiled slyly at his wife. “It doesn’t say ‘WOW.’ He turned the box around. “It says ‘MOM’.”

  Renie stared at the three letters. “Oh, my!”

  “This isn’t for the kids,” Bill said. “It’s from the kids.” He beckoned to Anne, who had fetched a dish-towel from the kitchen. “You have thirty seconds,” Bill went on as Anne put the towel around her mother’s head and tied it securely in the back. “Ready, set, go!”

  Renie was in the dark in more
ways than one. She grabbed for the box and began tearing off the gold foil wrapping. The lid was held together by two pieces of flimsy tape that broke easily. Then she began to dig and delve. Her fingers seemed to touch nothing except for the Styrofoam packing. The white bits and pieces flew around the room as the others laughed and shouted encouragement.

  “Five seconds!” Bill called out, eyes fixed on his watch. “Four, three, two…”

  Renie felt a slim sheath of paper. As Bill cried, “…One, stop!” she realized she was holding a letter-sized envelope. Anne removed the dish-towel as the others applauded.

  Renie blinked twice, then focused on the envelope that simply read “Mom.”

  “Open it!” Tom urged.

  With not-quite-steady fingers, Renie ripped at the flap. By the time she’d torn it apart, it looked, as her father used to say, as if it had been opened “…by a bear with a cross-cut saw.”

  “It’s empty,” she announced, glancing from one family member to another and noticing that suddenly they all looked solemn.

  “Well,” Bill finally said, “maybe someone else can help us.” He walked out of the dining room, through the living room, and disappeared into the entry hall. No one spoke a word.

  Renie heard the front door open. A moment later, a dark-haired man wearing a sports coat and slacks appeared.

  “Serena Jones,” the man said in a pleasant voice with a slight New York accent, “I’m Edgar Alfonseca of the Carlisimo Group, publishers of Good Family Magazine.” The newcomer reached out to shake Renie’s hand. “Congratulations. You have been named Mother of the Year.”

  Renie actually felt faint. She swayed slightly, but Bill put an arm around her waist. Edgar Alfonseca was reaching inside his jacket. He withdrew another envelope, not of plain white paper, but a gold-tone that matched the gift wrap on the Surprise Box.

  “This is the actual award,” he said, handing the envelope to Renie. “You have won an all-expenses-paid trip to London, where you will spend one week at Brown’s Hotel and the second week wherever you choose. There is also a cash prize of twenty-five thousand dollars.”