Death Comes eCalling

by Leslie O'Kane

  No one answered the doorbell. My children looked at me as if this were my fault. When we were halfway home, Lauren’s car rounded the bend. We followed her into the garage. I felt self-conscious about intercepting her in her garage twice in the same day. As she got out of the car, I joked, “You’ve got to start shutting your garage faster. Otherwise, all sorts of neighborhood riff-raff might wander in.”

  She laughed and lifted a grocery bag from its perch beside her daughter.

  “Didn’t you just get back from the store?”

  “I forgot the milk. Rachel said I forgot a couple of boxes of double-chocolate chewy something-or-others as well.”

  “Let me give you a hand.” I grabbed the bag from her and widened my eyes to signal that we needed to talk sans children. We made a quick kitchen-garage round trip that included my update and her returning the first email to me. She also graciously offered to keep Karen and Nathan at her house until the officer had gone.

  As I returned home, the sergeant’s last name rang a bell. More like a gong, in this case.

  At the first sound of a car pulling into the driveway, I raced to the front window in time to see the officer climb the front steps. He was indeed Tommy Newton, the runt of my graduating class. Didn’t anyone in this town ever leave? Was I the only one who got out?

  I opened the door. He still had his thick red hair, which poked out from beneath the brim of his cap. In fact, he looked every inch the boy I went through my school years attempting to ignore. He was merely larger, like an image on a balloon inflated by another breath or two.

  Back then, Tommy had a face that attracted dirt. All my recollections of him were with his having a runny nose, but his sinus condition had apparently cleared.

  He nodded somberly at me. In fiat tones, he said, “Hello. I’m Sergeant Newton.” He pointed at my house number. “And this is twenty-twenty.”

  “Very amusing, Tom.”

  He whipped off his mirrored shades and grinned. “Hello, Molly. Long time. Heard ‘bout your husband. You want I should try ‘n’ track him down?”

  What was it with this folksy John Wayne drawl? The man had never stepped a hundred yards outside of upstate New York. “No. I just thought I should report the threats I’m receiving in my business email address.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We went inside and sat at the cherry-wood dining table. I resisted the impulse to offer him something to drink, because young Tommy had been such a klutz, and I was still paranoid about damaging Mom’s furniture. He pulled off his cap and dropped it onto his lap. His cap had left a comical band-shaped impression in his red hair. I handed him the printed threats.

  “Should I show you my computer setup? I’ve got an office downstairs.”

  “Just the fax, ma’am.”

  I grimaced, and Tommy held up his hand, laughing.

  “Been waiting for a straight-line like that for years.”

  “Yes, well. You’re welcome.” But they're emails, not faxes.

  As Tommy studied the two notes, I stared at him in disbelief. What if I needed help from the police to protect my family? He was a sergeant. That meant he had people under him.

  Tommy dragged the back of his hand across his lips, then asked, “So you got both of these this afternoon?”

  “The times I read them are close to times printed on them. It’s a screen shot.”

  He said, “Uh-huh” and nodded. “So you got one at ten after four, and the other an hour later. Got any idea who sent ‘em?”

  “No. But I got this letter from Mrs. Kravett in today’s mail.” I handed it to him, along with the envelope, and while he read it, I continued, “I’m worried that the references to ‘dear lady’ and ‘she’s dead’ mean Mrs. Kravett, and the sender thinks I’m responsible.”

  He finished the letter, set it down, and reread the emails. “Why do you s’pose someone might think that?”

  “Remember the nasty, anonymous poem about her that was published in the school newspaper? I wrote it.”

  His face remained blank.

  “A lot of people figured that out. Including Mrs.Kravett. But anyone who thinks that had anything to do with her death almost twenty years later would have to be crazy.”

  Again he merely said, “Uh-huh” and nodded.

  “There was all that furor when the poem first came out over whether or not she used corporal punishment. Surely that must have died down quickly, though, right?”

  Tommy shrugged.

  His lack of response was getting to me. Did he remember that blasted poem after all these years? Was his silence geared at tempting me to say more? He might be a good policeman after all. “Tom, I—”

  “Call me Tommy.”

  “Tommy, I’ll understand if you can’t answer this, but is there any chance Mrs. Kravett’s death wasn’t simply a heart attack?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Could she have been murdered?”

  “Nope. It was a heart attack, all right. Had a weak heart. Shoulda quit teaching long ago.” He stared at the first email as he spoke. “This line here says, ‘You think no one knows you’re guilty.’ You got anything to feel guilty about? ‘Sides the poem, I mean.”

  “I’m a mother. I feel guilty by definition.”

  “Pardon?” He studied my eyes.

  “Do you have kids, Tommy?”

  “Got two teenage boys.”

  “Don’t you worry that something you’re doing too much or too little of is going to warp them for life?”

  “Can’t say as I ever worried about that.”

  “Well, ask your wife. I’m sure she’ll know what I mean.”

  He lowered his gaze. “Can’t. My wife died last year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” How awful! She must have been only about my age. Her children were left without their mother. At least his sons were older than twelve. “Lemme take these for evidence.” He picked up my letter from Mrs. Kravett, too.

  “Could I have… Please be sure to return the letter to me.”

  He nodded, stood up, and slipped his cap back onto the groove in his hair. “Call the station next time another of these here threats arrive. Be sure ‘n’ ask for me.”

  “Do you have any advice for ways I can keep from getting more of them?”

  He shrugged and said, “You could turn off your computer. Course, I don’t suppose you’d get any emails that way.”

  “Can you trace my computer email? See where these are coming from?”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “On our budget? For two nasty messages? We’re not exactly talkin’ a matter of national security here. You s’pose they’re from your ex?”

  “I don’t have an ex. My husband and I are still happily married. He just happens to be overseas.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  That “uh-huh” of his was as annoying as a hangnail.

  “He’s in Manila on business. He…makes envelopes.”

  “Uh-huh. Well. Great seeing you again, Moll. Let me know if I can be of any assistance again.”

  Again. As if he’d actually done something. None the less, it was nice of Sergeant Newton to come all the way out to my home, and I thanked him sincerely as he left.

  I fetched my children who, so far, were unaware of my current troubles, though that wouldn’t last. Five minutes at home proved sufficient time for them to get into a fight. I told them if they wanted to pick on someone to throw rocks at the rabbits in our gardens. That horrified them into temporary silence, and I set out to drown my sorrows in a sea of lime Jell-O.

  Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again, provided you don’t want to. All of this trauma was giving me the same feeling of claustrophobia I’d lived with during my teen years.

  The doorbell rang. It was Steve Wilkins, plus Lauren and Rachel. Steve was a large person. With his pale complexion and white-blond hair, he looked a bit like a polar bear. Though I’d liked him from the moment we’d met, he was stingy with his laughter and often wore a f
urrowed brow. At the moment, he looked frazzled. Lauren smiled at me as she stood beside him, but their body English hinted at some marital discord.

  As soon as the children had run off to play, Steve said, “Lauren already filled me in about your unwanted correspondence. Do you have any idea what this could be about?”

  I shook my head. “I hope it’s just some sort of joke someone from our class is pulling.”

  “Lauren and I haven’t gotten any threats,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m also doing a consulting job for a company owned by the husbands of two of your classmates. They didn’t report anything of the sort. I’m going to go down and tinker with your software, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, go ahead. Thanks.”

  He was already down the stairs by the time I’d finished speaking. I glanced at Lauren, who was staring into space. We sat down. She declined my offer of iced tea or lime Jell-O. I asked, “Whose husbands are he referring to?”

  “Stephanie’s and Denise’s.”

  “Denise stopped by a while ago. Is she divorced?”

  “No, but I’ve lost track of how many times she’s called to ask me if her husband’s having an affair. She thought since he and Steve were working together I’d know. As if Steve would tell me something like that, even if he was privy to it.”

  Perhaps I’d just found a motive, albeit bizarre, for a classmate to send me hate mail.

  There was a weighty pause. Lauren was chewing on her lower lip, a nervous habit whenever she was upset. She was probably just frustrated with the long hours Steve put into his work, but this wasn’t the time for me to inquire.

  “Are you going to the PTA meeting tomorrow night?”

  She smiled faintly. “No, I avoid those things like the plague. But I’ll watch the kids while you go. Be sure and say hi to Jack Vance for me.”

  “I can’t get over the thought of Jack Vance as a principal. Bet that keeps attendance among mothers pretty high at meetings.”

  “What do you—” Lauren stopped, then chuckled. “You haven’t seen him in a while. Well, I won’t spoil it for you.”

  “Uh-oh. He’s not drop-dead handsome anymore?”

  She gave me a sly grin. “He’s not exactly bad-looking. He’s just not the Vance. Too bad, too. He’s single again.”

  Lauren hopped to her feet as Steve trudged up the stairs. “I’ve got a couple of possible IP addresses for the computers that might have been used to send the emails. Let me look into it, and I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  He still hadn’t cracked a smile. Lauren and he seemed to be avoiding any eye contact. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that I used to get as a child whenever my parents argued.

  “Listen, Molly,” Lauren said, “you’ve had a big shock. How about if we watch the kids for a couple of hours?”

  “Thank you. That’s really nice. I’ll send them over after dinner.”

  They left, and I set about fixing supper. Meal preparation was one advantage to having an absent husband. My culinary skills had diminished to nonexistent once my children’s vocabulary expanded to include the word Yuck. That had been my son’s first word. At least with Jim gone I didn’t have to witness his attempts to mask his disappointment over dinner.

  We ate pork chops, macaroni and cheese, and lime Jell-O so I wasn’t depriving my children of their greens. As I ate, I sketched an idea for an employee-departure card: a cigarette-smoking black cat wearing a collar labeled Socks, his white paws banging away at a typewriter as he thinks, “I’m at least as talented as the former First Dog.” The caption read: Best of Luck in Your Future Endeavors.

  Nathan balked at the idea of going to Rachel’s house a second time in the same day, complaining the girls always played Barbie and he was sick of the role of Ken. Karen promised this time they’d play Mommy, Daddy, and Baby Trucks, and that won him over.

  I wasted my hard-earned “unwind” time grocery shopping. While struggling to learn the layout of the unfamiliar store, I stumbled upon the greeting card section. Time to play the plagiarism game, a monthly exercise in self-torture to find out if I’d accidentally copied someone’s design and was about to be sued. My technique was to scan the cards while squinting, to check for any designs that looked like mine without actually reading any.

  That accomplished, it occurred to me that inviting my old school chums for dinner was a good way to squish myself out of the Carlton grapevine and get a feel for who might be my one-way poisonous pen pal. I decided to stock up with manicotti ingredients for a dinner party.

  During the short drive home, it hit me that school started in the morning. My youngest child would be going to kindergarten. Only yesterday he was a chubby, giggling baby. My eyes instantly misted, blurring my vision.

  Something was wrong. I was sure I had turned onto Little John Lane. But that couldn’t be Lauren’s house.

  I slowly realized my mind wasn’t accepting what I was seeing. In Lauren’s driveway were two police cars, lights flashing.

  Chapter 4

  Into Each Life…

  The first person I saw as I burst into Lauren’s house was Carolee, our neighbor from across the street. “Everything’s fine,” she told me. “The burglar alarm went off. Someone tried to break in by prying open a window in back.”

  I leaned against the wall momentarily, trying to force my breath and heart rate into some semblance of normal.

  “Where are the children?”

  “With Lauren in the basement. She took them down there to keep them away from all the excitement. Steve’s out back with the officers.”

  I nodded, grateful that Lauren’s parenting instincts matched my own.

  “Maybe you should sit down.” Carolee reached for my wrist, and I could tell by the way she was aiming her thumb she was hoping to check my pulse. Once a nurse, always a nurse.

  I lifted my hands. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Her blond hair was neatly curled and she wore her usual perfect makeup. Her new, white tennis shoes had green markings. She must have run across the lawn to get here. I heard a dull scrape as someone opened the sliding glass back door.

  “…probably spotted the computers through my office window,” Steve was saying.

  Steve and Tommy Newton rounded the corner, followed by two uniformed officers.

  “We meet again,” Tommy said, grinning at me. “Can’t remember the last time I’ve taken two calls in the Sherwood Forest subdivision the same day. Must be havin’ you back in town, huh, Moll? Brought us some excitement.”

  Carolee laughed as if Tommy’s greeting were witty. She seemed to be eyeing him with considerable interest. No accounting for taste. Tommy touched the brim of his hat and smiled at her, to acknowledge a mutual interest perhaps. Like me, Carolee was in her mid-thirties. She was very attractive from the waist up, but had the skinniest legs imaginable, now hidden in aqua-colored sweatpants.

  Steve said, “It’s nothing, Molly. Some creep tried to break into my office. He ran before we got a look at him, but there are crowbar marks on the windowsill. I’m sure whoever it was just figured he could sneak in and out of my office window and not get caught. Probably assumed we didn’t have an alarm or wouldn’t have it activated when we were home.”

  Steve’s suggestion made sense. His office was stocked with the latest in expensive equipment, including notebook computers that could be swiped swiftly. Yet my intuition wasn’t buying a word of it. Death threats followed by an attempted break-in at the house where my children were. What the hell was going on?

  Steve wasn’t meeting my eyes. There was something he wasn’t telling.

  My sleep was troubled, interrupted by nightmares and fears that every little noise might be a prowler. Even the serenade of crickets and katydids sounded ominous. Morning finally arrived. That meant the first day of school.

  My daughter, Karen, had thus far been blessed with exceptional teachers and wonderful school experiences. Her luck was still holding, f
or she was in Rachel’s class, and Lauren had assured me their teacher was the best in the entire school. Karen insisted on taking the bus with Rachel. That allowed me to wallow fully in my apprehensions for Nathan.

  He didn’t say a word during breakfast and barely touched his Rice Krispies. I suggested he wear his bright green baseball cap, which was his personal security blanket. Between that and his yellow T-shirt and purple pants, he was at least going to be easy to spot.

  We drove to the school. Nathan’s silence was killing me. I spewed so many positive statements at him I sounded like a videoed aerobics instructor. We pulled into the lot and got out of the car. His warm little hand held tightly to mine as I led him across the kindergarten playground toward his classmates. They were lined up against the outside of the brick building behind their white-haired teacher.

  The teacher greeted Nathan warmly and instructed him to take his place in line, and asked me to join the group of wan-faced mothers a short distance away. Then she started the line moving into the building. The sight of my little boy trying to be stoic, his protruding lower lip trembling as he followed his classmates, was gut-wrenching.

  Just as he was about to enter the room, he turned and yelled, “I wanted to ride the bus, Mommy!” Then he disappeared inside.

  A couple of mothers laughed.

  “My son loves public transportation,” I said to no one in particular. I went home and tried to concentrate on the newspaper.

  There was a lengthy obituary for Phoebe Steinway Kravett. She had no children and her husband had died five months ago. The only survivor listed was a sister in Seattle. The funeral was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

  Now I was thoroughly depressed.

  I decided to use my current emotional state to design a cheer-up card. My new design showed people at a bus stop staring at a woman in their midst being drenched by her own personal rain cloud. The caption was: Into Each Life, a Little Torrential Rain Doth Pour.

  Later, I joined the anxious mob of mothers outside the school, automatically standing in the same spot the teacher had assigned to us at the start of the day. Nathan was the tenth child out the door, his cap now in his hand. I knelt and he rushed into my arms crying, “Mommy.” He wrapped both arms and legs around me, and I reveled in the warmth and scent of his little body.