Second Honeymoons Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 6)

by Susan Santangelo

  I started to giggle. I couldn’t help it. The image of us in the kitchen of a fancy private club like The Admiral’s Table, up to our arms in soapy suds because we didn’t have the money to pay for lunch, struck me as hilarious.

  “Better yet, maybe we could sell the aprons and rubber gloves on eBay,” Claire countered.

  “That’s a great idea, Claire,” I said. “Jim is always reminding me that we’re on a fixed income since he retired. Any way I can earn extra bucks would make him happy.”

  “Not any way, Carol,” Claire corrected me. “I’m sure there are a few ways that are off limits.”

  That set us all off.

  By this time, the three of us were pretty much out of control. To the extent that most of the other diners were staring at us.

  A wave of Chanel Number 5 announced the return of our hostess, who was jabbering non-stop into her phone. Nancy slid into her seat and gave us all a huge smile. “I owe you one, Claire. You did me a huge favor.”

  Say what? Sometimes Nancy’s mood swings were a little tough to keep up with.

  Even Claire looked confused. “I thought you were mad at me for what I said before. I apologize. I was way out of line. And what huge favor did I do for you? I seem to have missed something.”

  Nancy’s eyes sparkled. “Wait’ll I tell you,” she said. “You won’t believe it.” She beamed at the rest of us.

  “Come on, Nancy, give,” I said. “I’m hungry, and the suspense is making me hungrier.”

  “Well,” Nancy said, clearly drawing out her news for maximum effect, “I had turned my phone to ‘mute’ when we sat down for lunch. I think using an electronic device is so rude in a public place.” She took a deep breath. “After our little tiff, Claire, I walked out to the parking lot and checked my messages. I had one from a buyer who’s been on the fence about a very expensive property on Fairport Beach. He’d finally decided to buy it, but only if I could get the seller to agree to the price and sign the contract in one hour. Which, of course, seemed impossible. And, of course, I did.”

  Nancy paused to take a sip of water, then continued, “So you see, Claire, if we hadn’t had our argument, I wouldn’t have gotten the message in time. I’m getting a hefty commission on the deal, so lunch is on me. And maybe, by the time we get to dessert, you’ll tell us what’s really bugging you.”

  Chapter 5

  My husband suggested I donate my mouth to science when I die. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.

  “For heaven’s sake, Carol, quit wiggling your head. Unless you want one side of your hair cut shorter than the other. That look went out years ago.”

  “Sorry, Deanna,” I said, willing my body to be still so my favorite hairstylist and close friend could work her magic on me. But I couldn’t get thoughts of yesterday’s lunch out of my mind. I kept replaying it, over and over, the way Lucy or Ethel would gnaw on a favorite chew toy. Something was up with Claire, and I had absolutely no idea what it was. I sighed deeply and shifted my weight in Deanna’s chair.

  “Okay, Carol,” Deanna said, turning my chair around so we were now face to face, “what’s on your mind? And don’t try to deny it. I know you too well. Is it Jim? Jenny and Mark? Mike? No matter what it is, you know you’ll feel better if we talk. So, spill it.”

  Normally, any trip I took to Crimpers, the Fairport hair salon that Deanna owned and operated, was a guaranteed mood-brightener. (To say nothing of a hair brightener.) But not today.

  I sighed again. “It’s Claire. Has she been in to have her hair done before she and Larry leave for Florida?”

  Deanna nodded. “She came in two days ago. She told me that they’re planning on being away until Memorial Day, and asked me for a referral to a Florida hair salon. Why do you ask?”

  “Memorial Day!” I said. “That’s a lot longer than they usually go for. She didn’t tell us that yesterday at lunch.” I was lost in thought, a frequent occurrence. “I wonder why.”

  “I don’t do cryptic well, Carol,” Deanna said with a trace of impatience. “And I have another client coming in soon. If you have something you want to talk about, I repeat, spill it.”

  I don’t know about the rest of you, but my hairstylist and I have a very close relationship. I know I can tell her pretty much everything and count on her to keep her mouth shut and not betray my confidence. Our bond is even stronger now, since I cleared her of suspicion in the mysterious death of her long-time boyfriend.

  Not that I’m bragging about that. I’m just mentioning it in passing to jar your memory. And I didn’t clear her all by myself. (Almost, though.)

  Deanna glanced at the clock on the wall. “Yikes. It’s later than I thought. You can talk, but you have to keep your head still at the same time so I can finish your hair before the next client comes. If you move your head one tiny bit, no more talking allowed. It’s up to you.”

  I gave Deanna a dirty look. “You know that’s no choice at all. I can’t not talk.”

  Deanna laughed and picked up her scissors. “That’s what I thought. So, what happened yesterday? The abbreviated version, please.”

  “Well,” I began, making an effort to hold still as ordered, “Nancy decided it would be nice to treat Claire to a farewell lunch at The Admiral’s Table. We don’t go there very often, and you know us. Any excuse to have a meal we didn’t cook ourselves.”

  “Turn a little to your left, Carol,” Deanna said. “And lift your chin.”

  I complied, then continued, “Lunch started out fine. We were getting caught up on each other’s lives. And then I happened to mention that Jenny and Mark’s first wedding anniversary was last month, and that I thought it would be a great idea for them to have a joint celebration with Jim and me. A family trip for the four of us. Claire jumped down my throat and told me that was the stupidest idea I’d ever had. I was really hurt.” My cheeks burned at the memory.

  “And then she started talking about the Florida condo, and mentioned that she and Larry have rented the same one for years. Well, that was all Nancy needed. She suggested that, in her professional opinion as a Realtor, it was time for Claire and Larry to buy a place in Florida, and offered to help them. Claire really let her have it, and Nancy got up and left the table in a huff. It was terrible.”

  I was silent, waiting for Deanna to comment. But she didn’t.

  “You know, Deanna, this may be a terrible thing to say about one of my oldest friends, but I’m glad Claire will be in Florida for such a long time. It’ll be a relief to get a break from her constant criticism. And she acted yesterday like she couldn’t wait to leave town.”

  The more I thought about our lunch yesterday, the madder I got. “Claire’s always been supercritical, even when we were kids. But now that we’re older, she’s gotten even worse. I don’t know how Larry puts up with it.”

  Without commenting on my ongoing rant, Deanna picked up a hairdryer and prepared to put the finishing touches on my hairdo.

  “Before you blast away,” I persisted, “don’t you agree that Claire was way out of line yesterday? What was wrong with my idea about Jim and I going along with Jenny and Mark on an anniversary celebration? Even Mary Alice called Claire out on her behavior, and you know that she never has a negative word to say about anyone.”

  I admit it. I’m basically an insecure person. I needed the opinion of someone I trusted—and if a woman can’t trust the person who has the power to turn her hair green, who can she trust? Plus, I was sure that Deanna would agree with me.

  Which just goes to show that anyone—even me—can be wrong.

  “I can’t believe you’re serious about this idea,” Deanna said. “Jenny and Mark are still on their honeymoon, for heaven’s sake. It would be a huge mistake for you to horn in on what should be a very special and romantic time. And I can’t believe that Jim would go along with it.”

  I wasn’t sure that he would, either. Not that I was prepared to admit that to anyone. I had yet to plan my campaign strategy to convince him t
hat this was one of my best ideas ever.

  “Are you siding with Claire?” I asked in a hurt voice.

  Ever the diplomat, Deanna replied, “I’m not siding with anyone. Maybe the way Claire phrased her reaction wasn’t tactful, and she hurt your feelings. But I agree with her message. All I’m saying is that Jenny and Mark have the right to celebrate their wedding anniversaries on their own.”

  Humph.

  “And as far as Claire is concerned,” Deanna continued, “what makes you think that she’s so thrilled about being in Florida for such a long time?”

  I laughed. “Anyone with half a brain would want to avoid going through another New England winter like the one we had last year. It started with a snowstorm on Thanksgiving and didn’t let up until Easter. Jim and I were marooned in our house for days, while Claire and Larry were having the time of their lives in Florida.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” Deanna said. “Claire told me that Larry spends all his time on the golf course when they’re in Florida. And when I asked her what she did, she said she reads a lot of books. Not a very active social life, if you ask me.”

  Deanna gave my hair a final spritz of hairspray. “I think Claire’s bored to death in Florida. And lonely. But she’d never admit it. Especially to her oldest friends. Like you.”

  Chapter 6

  Be careful what you wish for. It may come true and bite you right in the patootie.

  Deanna had given me a lot of food for thought, and since that kind of food is non-fattening, I was tempted to ignore it. After all, as the old saying goes, everything that’s fun is usually fattening or a sin.

  But by the time I turned onto Old Fairport Turnpike in the direction of our beautiful antique home, I’d come to the conclusion that both Deanna and—I’ll admit it—Claire, were right. Jenny and Mark should make their own plans for their anniversary celebrations, with no interference from me.

  In an effort to cheer myself up after my double-date anniversary idea had crashed and burned before it even got started, I reminded myself that, with their busy schedules, it was doubtful the kids could have planned a trip without lots of lead time. And Jenny had dropped some hints that they were saving to buy a house, so they wouldn’t want to spend money on a lavish celebration.

  Of course, that’s where Jim and I could be helpful—bankrolling the trip. Oh, well. We’d certainly give the kids some cash toward any potential house purchase. Which would be exciting. And fun. Just not the kind that required flashing my about-to-expire passport.

  I sat in my driveway and began to plan a new vacation strategy that would take us to some exotic locale. One that Jim was sure to fall for. I mean, one that Jim was sure to love.

  Think, Carol. What does Jim like to do these days? Besides follow you around the house and critique everything you do?

  I knew he loved writing his weekly newspaper column, “State of the Town,” where he tells the good citizens of Fairport what the town officials are doing (wrongly) with their tax dollars. But that idea led me nowhere. Jim’s column was only about what was happening in Fairport itself. That wasn’t going to inspire him to get out of town and, even more importantly, go somewhere that would give me a stamp in my passport.

  I remembered one friend from high school talking about how she and her husband flew to England, Ireland and Wales to play golf on several famous courses. I pondered that for about a millisecond and discarded it because, before we made a trip like that, we’d have to learn to play golf. Unless we could go as geriatric caddies.

  I shook my head. Nah. Too much work carting those heavy golf bags around. I’d end up throwing my back out, and who knows what other body parts that I use on a regular basis.

  I continued my musings. Jim did spend a lot of time at the computer these days, and not just writing his column. He’d become totally enthralled with researching his family history.

  Hey, that could be the key. Our ancestors came to the United States from somewhere else. All I had to do was feign some interest in Jim’s genealogical research, suggest he pick a foreign country to do some in-person investigating, and voila! We’d be on our way to…somewhere.

  Okay, it wasn’t a perfect plan. It wasn’t even one of my best plans. But it was all I could come up with, so I took a deep breath and heaved my body out of my ice-cold car.

  Courage, Carol. You can do this. It’s going to be great.

  I burst into the kitchen, ready to plant a big smooch on Jim and start the wheels turning. But the only ones who greeted me were Lucy and Ethel. Not that I wasn’t glad to see them, of course. But seeing to their needs wasn’t my primary goal at the moment.

  “Where’s Jim?” I asked Lucy. I didn’t expect her to out-and-out tell me, in case you think I’m really nuts. But, like most canines, she’s pretty good at dropping hints. She turned toward our stainless steel refrigerator and stared at it. Then turned, stared at me, and repeated the process.

  And there it was, on a bright orange Post-It: “Got a surprise call from Gibson Gillespie. Mack Whitman wants me to come back to work. I’ve gone to the city for a meeting. Not sure when I’ll be home.”

  Now, I’m going to be totally honest with you. And, unlike many politicians, I really mean what I say. A part of me (a large part—being totally honest, remember) wanted to jump in the air, pumping my fist, and yelling, “Wahoo! Yes! Yes! This is fabulous! Jim’s going back to work and he’s not going to be my shadow anymore! I’ve got my life back at last!” And I’m betting lots of wives with retired husbands would react in exactly the same way.

  Except…the timing couldn’t be worse. I was on a crusade for us to take a second honeymoon/anniversary trip to some exotic locale. And if Jim was back at his office, the only trip in his future would be on a commuter train chugging into Grand Central Terminal.

  Plus—more of me being totally honest—there were some positive elements to Jim’s retirement. Give me a minute. I’m sure I’ll think of one.

  Oh, yes. The coffee. Jim got up every morning ahead of me and made the coffee. And his coffee tasted better than mine. I’m sure there are a few others. I just can’t remember any right now.

  I sank into a kitchen chair, and wailed, “Rats, rats, rats. Why does Jim have to go back to work now, of all times?”

  It was at that point that I heard Lucy snicker. Of course, I can’t swear to it, because she’d turned her head and focused her attention on Ethel. But she uttered a sound that wasn’t a bark, and it wasn’t a whine. Yep, it was a snicker, all right. One canine companion was laughing at me. And Ethel joined in. Traitors.

  Well, I couldn’t blame them. They were among the few people (okay, they’re dogs, but you get the idea, right?) who knew that I had started a novena two weeks into Jim’s retirement that he go back to work. In the future, I’d better be more careful what I pray for.

  Chapter 7

  I owe, I owe. So off to work I go.

  I was a nervous wreck all afternoon, waiting to hear what Jim was up to. I was so upset that I almost vacuumed the entire downstairs just to pass the time. Fortunately, I stopped myself before I went totally crazy.

  The house seemed so empty without Jim. After years of his commuting to the city and coming home at all hours, or taking frequent business trips to heaven knew where to do heaven knew what for the varied clients of Gibson Gillespie Public Relations, I’d grown accustomed to his popping home, unannounced, scrounging in the refrigerator for something to snack on, and generally bugging the heck out of me. Like Professor Henry Higgins said about Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, I’d grown accustomed to her (his) face.

  I didn’t even feel like checking my email, which shows how depressed I was. I always think there’s an exciting message waiting for me to read. And researching more potential exotic trips was now a complete waste of time. So much for my brilliant strategy for Jim to discover his ancestral roots through international travel.

  I did, however, decide to cook an actual meal for that night’s dinner, instead of
relying on take-out food from local restaurants that I frequently passed off as my own. Don’t get too excited about that, though. It wouldn’t be a gourmet feast. More like throwing a meal together using whatever leftovers I could find in the refrigerator. I hope you give me points for creativity.

  I was just unscrewing the top off a jug of wine (we’re on a fixed income, as Jim keeps reminding me, so no corkscrew wine for us anymore) when the newly resurrected breadwinner-in-chief burst into the kitchen, quivering with excitement. Much like the dogs when they’ve just discovered something really terrific in our back yard.

  Jim pulled me toward him and crushed me in a strong embrace. “Put that bottle down and give me a big kiss,” he demanded, then proceeded to give me a big smooch. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he dipped me backwards the way dancers do, and planted another smooch.

  I nearly fell on the floor. Literally.

  “Jim,” I said, regaining my balance and trying to catch my breath, “what the heck is up with you? Why are you acting this way?”

  “Aha, woman,” Jim said, “that’s for me to know, and you to find out. But not here. Change into something classy. We’re going out to dinner. And don’t take too long. We don’t want to be late.” And he waltzed off into the bedroom, whistling. Leaving me speechless.

  Hey, there’s a first time for everything, right?

  Chapter 8

  I love dogs. It’s people that annoy me.

  “All right, Jim,” I said, settling myself into our car and wrapping my coat around me for warmth until the heater kicked in. “I’m in my dressiest outfit and my hair looks great, thanks to a trip to Crimpers today. I have no idea what you’re up to, or where we’re going. Or why. And the suspense is killing me. When are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Patience, Carol. Patience,” said my darling husband. “All in good time.”