“Only six months,” She studied me for a moment. “So, you’re doing some research for a story on teens, huh? That’s an odd coincidence. I assumed you were there because of Preston Saunders’s murder.”
I winced. Sure enough, Karen and Nathan perked up at the word murder.
“Actually, that’s true, but I can’t explain at this time. Did you know Preston well?”
“Only met the man once.” She grimaced and muttered, “That was a memorable encounter. He came for an open house last September. Sat through my fifteen-minute presentation without opening his mouth. He came up to me afterwards and said, ‘People like you shouldn’t be allowed to come in contact with young people.’ Then he turned his back on me and left.” She paused and grinned. “Apparently he objected to my appearance.”
I gave a quick glance to my children, who were giggling at one another’s whipped cream mustaches, paying no attention to our conversation. “That must have infuriated you.”
She shrugged. “I’m used to it. But I’d rather dress as I see fit than try to impress people like the Saunderses.”
“Under the circumstances, I’m surprised you wanted to go to his funeral.”
A momentary look of confusion passed across her features. Then she said, “I would have gone for Tiffany’s sake. Mr. Saunders wouldn’t have had the opportunity to object.”
Nathan now wore a devilish grin and was holding his spoon as if he planned to catapult whipped cream at Karen. I leaned close to his ear and said in my most menacing voice, “Don’t even think about it.” He quickly redirected his spoon into his mouth to polish off the last of his whipped cream. He and his sister still sported white mustaches. “Would one of you please get us some napkins? There’s a dispenser on the counter.”
Karen and Nathan jumped up.
“No racing! First child to reach the napkins loses.” While the children did their impression of a moonwalk through molasses, I said quietly, “So, Deb, I agreed with what you said at the end of class about pornography. I sure wish it would be banned. Do you know of any active anti-pornography groups I could join? One that has a chapter in Carlton?”
She tensed and downed the rest of her cappuccino in one swig. “Sorry, I don’t.”
“You don’t belong to any women’s groups who share your sentiments?”
“I do belong to one women’s group, but I don’t know if they agree with my politics.” She rose.
“Is that something I could audit sometime? I’m fairly new in town, and I’d like to meet more people.”
She chuckled and shook her head, gathering her belongings. “It’s a closed group, and I very much doubt you’d qualify for membership.”
I wouldn’t qualify? Why? She seemed to be getting ready to leave, so I had to ask a more direct question. “Have you heard of an organization called Sisters Totally Opposed to Pornography?”
“No.” Though she met my eyes, I didn’t know if she was telling the truth or not. “I’ve got to run. Nice meeting you, Molly.” She held out her hand, which I shook. She dropped a dollar tip onto the table.
She smiled and waved at her roommate, Marjorie, behind the counter, who winked and returned the smile. Just as Deb pushed out the door, Marjorie called, “Don’t forget the group meets at our house tonight. Seven o’clock.”
What lucky timing for me to overhear, I thought.
“Ready to go, guys?” I called out to the children, who were still only halfway to the napkin dispenser. I rose, grabbed the tab, and gasped when I read it. Fourteen dollars and change. I could have bought prime rib for that amount. Let this be a lesson to me; next time I went on a stakeout with the children, I was bringing a tub of Cool Whip.
“I’m still hungry,” Nathan said and ran up to me, followed by Karen. He’d already used his sleeve as a napkin. At least that was a good sign he was outgrowing his neat-nik phase. “Can I have some more?”
“Not without sacrificing our financial security.”
The waitress barked from across the room. “Wait. I’ll take that up for you.”
“No, thanks. Don’t tucker yourself out on my account.”
I carried my bill to the counter, where Marjorie Shoman stood near the cash register. Her long brown hair was pulled into a ponytail. She had an impish face and a button nose. At a glance, she could have passed for a teenager without any effort.
She gave me a thoroughly engaging smile and said, “I see you know my friend Deb. How was everything?”
Everything? “I didn’t actually have anything to drink, but my chair was perfectly comfortable, and the table didn’t wobble.”
I grabbed my wallet. “Do you take Visa?”
“Oh, it’s no charge. You didn’t get a bill, did you?”
“Sorry,” the waitress said, racing up beside me. She snatched the bill from me and ripped it up. “I must have misunderstood your instructions, Marjorie.”
Marjorie glared but said nothing.
“Thank you,” I told her. “This was really generous of you.” I silently handed napkins to my children. Maybe Nathan could use his to clean his sleeve.
“Any friend of Deb’s is a friend of mine. Stop in again anytime.”
I was lost in thought as I drove home. Neither Deb Nesbitt nor Marjorie Shoman struck me as the murdering sort. But the waitress…that woman I could imagine shooting someone in cold blood for not leaving a tip. She would probably relish the task of scooping dog doo-doo into a box. Maybe she was a renegade member of the women’s club scheduled to meet at Deb’s house tonight. Perhaps their relationship as fellow STOP members explained why she felt she could get away with her brazen behavior to her employers.
I already knew Deb Nesbitt’s address. Now I just had to tell Jim to be sure to be home before seven so I could get there in time.
It was five after seven. Jim was late. This was typical. The man had never been late for a sporting event or a business meeting, but couldn’t manage to get home on time to save his wife. Though I’d tried to plan ahead for this and had called Lauren to watch the children, she wasn’t home.
Finally, at quarter after, I heard the garage door open. I called goodbye to Karen and Nathan upstairs. I was doomed. I had planned to park my car and watch the arrivals, especially keeping my eye out for Attila the Waitress. By this time everyone would’ve already arrived. Now what? Creep along her house and peer through the windows?
For lack of a better idea, I rifled through the coat closet for something black to camouflage me. All I could find was Jim’s navy blue down coat. I always hated that coat. It puffed out between its horizontal stripes of stitching and made anyone wearing it resemble the Michelin Tire Man.
And the thing was so old that little feathers periodically fell from it like a molting chicken.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jim called as he entered. “I got pulled into an impromptu—Why are you wearing my coat?”
“It was the darkest thing I could find. I’m in a dark mood. See you later.”
I chastised myself as I sped to Deb’s home. The nylon coat swished every time I moved. Someone was sure to notice a noisy, molting trespasser encased in a hot-air balloon, even if it was a dark color.
I arrived, parked nearby, and quietly got out of my car. The magnitude of my nerviness at peering into a nice pair of women’s home struck me. It would be well worth it if I gleaned any clues to help get a murderer behind bars. But all I could really learn was whether or not a massively unpleasant waitress was here.
I weighed the thought of getting back into my car and leaving. I sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose. I’d tell any witnesses I was looking for my lost dog. That story, of course, wouldn’t wash if Deb Nesbitt spotted me. May as well tell her I was looking for my six-foot-tall invisible rabbit.
If only I owned a dog, I could have stashed him under this silly coat and released him near a window. I decided to name the fictitious dog Soapy, after a springer spaniel that lived in my old neighborhood.
I trekked throu
gh the crested snow alongside Ms. Nesbitt’s house, a modest ranch-style home. There was a well-lit window up ahead, and the curtains were slightly parted. From inside I could hear the muffled tones of classical music. That would no doubt prevent me from eavesdropping on their conversation. At least I could try to see if the waitress was there.
I tiptoed toward the window, wondering if I should start calling: “Here, Soapy” now, or wait till somebody inside screamed upon spotting me.
Chapter 9
Women Do Get Weary
The classical music was so loud that the stereo speakers must’ve been right next to the window where I was crouched, behind some large, prickly bushes. While this hid me from the street, huddling behind bushes spoiled my story about searching for a dog.
I rose slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements that might catch someone’s eye. If anyone happened to be looking at this window, I was in trouble no matter how slowly I moved. Someone would call the police and report a “peeping Tomette.” My husband would turn me in to my parents and never speak to me again.
My heart was pounding as I peered inside. A group of about eight women was gathered around a baby grand piano, which Deb played beautifully. Her roommate played a flute, and everyone else played stringed instruments. Their attention was so focused on their music, no one noticed me.
I ducked back down. Deb was a member of a chamber orchestra. No wonder she didn’t know if her “women’s group” shared her political views.
Still hunched over, I dashed to my car, throwing in a whispered “Here, Soapy” for good measure, and drove home.
Deb Nesbitt was a dead end. She was at the school at the time of the second shooting. She had ample reason to dislike Preston Saunders, but so did most discerning people. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t rationalize tailing Deb to see if she was lying about not belonging to STOP.
Besides, there was a better way to learn about that particular group. Jim would approve of my plan, since it ostensibly had to do with resolving my contract dispute with Between the Legs.
We attend church regularly, provided, that is, Jim was in town since he was the staunch Catholic and I a staunch-less Protestant. I groaned when I spotted the bald-headed, elderly priest making his way to the pulpit. His sermons tended to wander, as did my attention. This time, though, his homily about the love-thy-enemy commandment had me enthralled, especially when he spoke about how “the most dangerous enemy is often ourselves.”
In one of the readings, Jacob was quoted as warning that “anger locks a man in his own house.” Fear, I thought, was quite a prison warden as well. Ironically, the song during Mass was the beautiful and stirring hymn “Be Not Afraid.” Too choked up to sing along, I could only mouth the words.
Later that morning, during my return trip from dropping the children off at a birthday party, I was alarmed to see Tommy’s police cruiser in Lauren’s driveway. Lauren had nothing to do with Preston’s murder. If Tommy was there to arrest her I’d punch his lights out. Then she and I could share a cell. The heck with “love thy enemy;” forced to choose, I was going with “love thy neighbor.”
Though I mentioned my concern to Jim, all he had to say on the subject was, “She’ll probably call later and let you know all about it.” I didn’t want to have Jim catch me being nosy, and I certainly couldn’t call Lauren to ask what was going on with Tommy still there. Because the window over the kitchen sink happened to give the best view of Lauren’s house, I hand washed every dish in the house. Twice. A set of glasses was now on its third washing. I had all but scrubbed off the painted design. Finally Tommy emerged from the house, followed by Lauren.
“Oh, no, Jim,” I cried. “Tommy’s taking her someplace! I knew it! I knew he’d arrest her!”
Jim, who was watching a basketball game on TV, called out, “He’s probably just—”
“Never mind. She’s waving goodbye to him. He’s driving off alone.”
“Sure you don’t want to chase after his car?” Jim grumbled.
That remark gave me pause. Had the children told him about Ms. Nesbitt’s VW? If he found out I was still “on the case,” I’d better stock up on sunblock.
I waited and waited, but Lauren didn’t call. Finally I could stand it no longer. I had to sneak next door and talk to her. I ran upstairs, put on my jogging suit, and came back downstairs.
“I’m going for a run.”
It was my bad luck that a furniture commercial happened to be on, so be gave me his full attention. “Why? You haven’t jogged in years.”
“I know, but I’ve been meaning to take it up again for a while now.” After all, the last ten minutes counted as “a while now.”
I left promptly and jogged to Lauren’s house. I used the sidewalk instead of cutting across the lawn, took a lot of extra steps, and raised my knees really high so as not to have lied to Jim. She answered the doorbell and greeted me breezily, ushering me inside.
“I saw Tommy over here and was worried. Was he asking you about the murder?”
“Actually, it never came up.” She casually shook her hair back from her shoulders. She wore a school-girlish grin as she leaned back against the wall of her foyer. “We were just chatting. We sort of…agreed we’d like to see each other.”
My heart skipped a beat en route to my throat. “You mean ‘see’ as in date?”
“Yes. Why are you so surprised?”
“No reason, really. It’s just that… he did throw you in jail several months ago. Those kinds of misjudgments generally put a damper on romance.”
“You’re not jealous of me and him, are you?”
“Jealous? Me?” Now I was not only astounded, but affronted. “I’m happily married. I love Jim. Why would I be jealous of you and Tommy?”
“Because it’s nice sometimes not to feel too married. To hang on to an innocent flirtation.”
My first thought was that Lauren should know there’s really no such thing as “innocent” flirtation. Her relationship with Preston Saunders should have proved as much to her.
“I’m too blunt to be any good at flirting, even if I wanted to. I hope he makes you happy. You deserve to be. Think I’ll go get some exercise, seeing as I’m dressed for it.” Then I said goodbye and rushed off.
I thought about the two women joggers who witnessed my argument with Preston. There was a remote possibility of my coming across the women, and if I did, I fully intended to grill them about STOP. A block down from Lauren’s house, I passed a man walking his Golden retriever. I looked him over for small white boxes, but his hands were empty.
Tommy and Lauren. Dating. How weird. My thoughts were in such turmoil that, next thing I knew, I was clear across the neighborhood where the birthday party was being held, almost two miles from my house. My sides were killing me. My organs must have been bumping into one another. The party was scheduled to end in thirty minutes. I tried to decide which would be less painful: hanging around with ten children under the age of nine for thirty minutes till Jim picked up the three of us or jogging home. I turned around.
Using a series of four-letter words as a mantra, I eventually neared my house. Tommy was at Lauren’s again. This time he had driven his personal car. Two redheaded boys, hair the exact shade of Tommy’s, were sitting in the backseat. Tommy was escorting Lauren and Rachel down the front steps, and they all looked up just as I limped past.
“Keep up the good form, there, Molly,” Tommy called, laughing.
I was too breathless to make a snappy retort, even if I’d had one.
Every muscle in my body was sore Monday morning, but I got the family out of the house on time, then called Between the Legs, identifying myself as the Ms. Masters who’d won their cartoon contest, and asked to speak to Butch Blake. A woman with a pleasant speaking voice identified herself as Susan Wolfe, Mr. Blake’s assistant, and asked if she could be of any assistance.
“Your company printed my cartoon without my permission, and we need to get the matter resolved as quick
ly as possible.”
“Without your permission? The cartoon was submitted by your husband and agent, Preston Saunders. If—”
“He’s not my husband. And he was never my agent.”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry. He gave us every impression that he was your agent. In fact, he showed us a signed copy of his contract for representation.”
“He must have forged my signature.” I paused, confused. “How did you know his real name? I thought he’d represented himself to you as Mike Masters.”
Another pause. “He told us Mike Masters was the pseudonym he used for his agenting ventures. Apparently all of us need to sit down and, as you say, get this resolved as quickly as possible. I have Mr. Saunders’s phone number. I’ll give him a call and—”
“Preston Saunders was killed last week,” I interrupted, surprised the police hadn’t contacted them yet.
“Oh my goodness,” she said.
“Could I possibly see Mr. Blake this afternoon?”
“Just a minute.” She put me on hold. Her voice had sounded as if she were quite shaken by my news. Perhaps she had gotten friendly with Preston during their negotiations over my contract. Then again, it was more likely she was understandably concerned about having entered into an illegal business agreement. Her voice was tense when she clicked back onto the line a couple of minutes later and said, “Ms. Masters? I think it would be best if we have our respective legal representatives meet instead. Do you have a lawyer?”
“Yes, but…” That would ruin my opportunity to learn more about STOP. “It seems clear to me that Mr. Saunders misrepresented himself. I don’t consider your magazine culpable whatsoever for printing my cartoon. I’d just like to talk to Mr. Blake face to face and work out a logical, expedient solution, and then maybe pick his brain about some organizational problems I’ve been having.” Such as poking around in murder cases when I should be drawing cartoons for Molly’s eCards.
Death Comes to Suburbia (Book 2 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 10