Joanne's face told me that no explanation was necessary.
"You got anything stronger under that table?" she teased.
"No such luck," I said. "Jeremy Philbin cured me."
Her eyes lingered on me a minute, formulating her thoughts. "He checked into rehab this afternoon. I drove him over."
"Oh, Joanne, how tactless of me. I'm sorry."
"Forget it. After what you've been through, you're entitled to say anything you please."
"Just not in front of a reporter."
We exchanged soft smiles. "Thanks for everything, Hank," I said, quickly turning away before I got teary.
Although I'd slept away great chunks of the days since the fire, my emotions were like Hawaiian weather, sudden cloudbursts that just as quickly disappeared.
"Cute outfit," she remarked. I wore black slacks and a multi-colored sweater, hand-me-overs from the Bryn Derwyn Community's "Barnes Family Relief Drive." As early as Monday, Joanne had collected great heaps of donations, which had filled and refilled a bin in the school lobby all week.
An only child, I had never been comfortable wearing other people's clothes; but now I regarded each item as an embrace. Unfortunately Chelsea, the self-conscious pre-teen, refused so much as a used shoelace. An emergency run to the mall had taken care of essentials for her and business clothes for Rip. To Garry, wearing borrowed, broken-in stuff was like throwing a pig into slop.
Music squawked over the loudspeaker then hummed down to a more listenable volume. Didi had brought her brother's collection of oldies tunes. Her initial selection was "Sea of Love."
"How's your mom?" Joanne asked over the maudlin melody.
"Very glad we found a house."
"Already?"
"We were motivated." With one guest bedroom at my mother's and four guests, we had all begun to feel like sardines.
"Where?"
"At the end of Beech Tree Lane. It's a real handyman's special." Garry's pronouncement that it was "Right up my alley," had produced yet another Hawaiian shower; he’d said the very same thing about the campus house.
"You're happy about that?"
"Very. If I'm going to get up close and personal with a toilet tank, I need it to be my toilet tank, if you know what I mean."
"No, thank goodness, I don't." She was dainty, with perfectly styled gray hair, professional nails, and yet another immaculate knit dress. What made me think she would understand the joy of wielding a wrench? I wouldn't even try to explain how much I was itching to refurbish the eclectic odds and ends of furniture we'd been offered.
"We only put a bid in this morning, but already it feels like home."
Joanne nodded. That she understood.
Much to my relief, the fire marshal, David Smith, had pronounced the fire accidental, clearing the way for an insurance payment to the school. Part of that would go toward helping us with a down payment on our own home, but most would be put toward constructing the gym—on the site of the burned down house. Boards of Directors were nothing if not logical. Most of the time anyhow.
I poked an elbow toward the clusters of teachers, who for all I knew were grimly discussing their most irksome students. "This looks about as promising as grass on a ski slope," I told Joanne. "Better see what I can do."
I approached Rip and waited for him to finish whatever he was saying to the librarian.
"What?" he asked, his brow creased by the depressing statistics on overdue books.
"This party needs resuscitation."
Rip glanced around. "They're probably taking their cue from us," he decided.
It figured. Our party, our mood.
"Be right back," I said. "Don't go away."
I ducked behind the curtain to the corner where Didi had set up the sound system. She was chewing a nail, frowning at a pile of CDs. She wore red overalls over a green striped turtleneck. Her blonde hair was clipped to the top of her head.
"What do you think, Gin. 'Santa Baby?' or some Elton John?"
"Rock 'n roll and keep it moving."
Didi's eyes sparkled. "'Wake Up Little Suzie'?"
"That's the idea."
I was back at Rip's side in time to see the eyebrows jump when Didi hit the switch on the Rolling Stones, who still couldn't get any satisfaction.
My husband, the beleaguered headmaster, barked with laughter and pulled me onto the fold-out dance floor. Beaming with mischief, Didi took Kevin Seitz's hand and began to demonstrate exactly how sensuous a pair of red overalls can be.
While the four of us giggled and cavorted like deranged teenagers, I could sense the straightjackets dropping off the faculty's backs one by one. A few began to dance. Most just smiled over our silliness, tolerant parents enjoying their kids.
Or vice versa. Whatever.
#
Dear Reader—
I hope you had fun looking over Gin’s shoulder as she solved her very first murder. If you did, a brief review at the online bookseller of your choice would be very much appreciated.
AND, if you haven’t already joined my email list (FREE book involved), you can do that HERE. I only send info I’d want to receive myself, so I don’t email often. BUT when you do hear from me, I promise it’ll be something good.
Cordially,
Donna
––––––––
The next Ginger Barnes Main Line Mystery:
FINAL ARRANGEMENTS: Achieved #1 in Kindle store for Mysteries and Female Sleuths Fierce competitor Iffy Bigelow gets herself strangled at the world-famous Philadelphia Flower Show, and if she ever wants to hear the end of it, Ginger Barnes must dig through hundreds of suspects to unearth whoever killed her mother’s dear old friend.
Acknowledgments
My most sincere thanks to those who generously shared their expertise whether it was convenient or not: Helen and Ian Ballard, Calvin Bonenberger, Ralph Brown at Wolfington, Mariandl Hufford, Don Nypower, Dorinda Shank, and Dr. Ken Zamkoff.
Also, I’m especially grateful to my trusted “first” readers: Terri Anderson (who isn’t a relative), and Robynne Graffam, and Hench Murray (who are).
–Donna Huston Murray
About the Author
Donna Huston Murray assumes she can fix anything until proven wrong, calls trash-picking recycling, and—although she should probably know better—adores Irish setters. Her 7 cozy mysteries (originally with St. Martin's Press) feature a woman much like herself, a headmaster's wife transplanted to an upscale neighborhood by her husband's job. Murray’s new heroine, Lauren Beck, doesn’t resemble her author much at all.
Donna and husband, Hench, live in the greater Philadelphia, PA, area.
Read more at Donna Huston Murray’s site.
The Main Line Is Murder Page 23