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

by Susan Santangelo

  Kurt flushed. He obviously didn’t like being told what to do by his boss in public. Not that I blamed him. Then, he nodded. Well, what else could the poor guy do?

  I immediately felt guilty, because my big mouth was the cause of Kurt’s embarrassment. And he was right. I had absolutely no experience putting together a television show.

  Sometimes, I’m much too opinionated.

  Okay, often I’m much too opinionated.

  “Carol may have no television experience,” Charlie said, “but she has years of life experiences to draw on. And, let me emphasize, she’s a perfect example of the demographic we’re targeting for our audience. So her opinion counts. I hope everyone here understands that.” He looked around the table, daring anyone to disagree. Of course, nobody did.

  Much later, it dawned on me that I had met a powerful enemy at that meeting. But I was too stupid, and too vain, to realize it in time to save an innocent person’s life.

  Chapter 14

  A recent study has found that women who carry a little extra weight live longer than the men who mention it.

  “Well, this day has certainly been full of surprises,” I said to Jim, who was doing his best to ignore me.

  Oh, dear. Jim was pouting. Not good. But it wasn’t my fault that the producer of The Second Honeymoon Game turned out to be my grammar school classmate. No, not just a classmate. The former Chuckie Krumpelbeck, now Charlie King, had been my regular partner during all those after-school dancing lessons we were required to take in eighth grade. Way back when, I figured he always asked me to dance because I was the only girl in class who was shorter than he was. But today, I found out that wasn’t the reason at all. Well, not the entire reason, anyway.

  Charlie apparently had a major crush on me. A crush he’d never got over. So much so that he and his late wife named their daughter after me. And I had no idea. Go figure.

  I pondered how strange life can be all the way back to Fairport, the return journey made much more pleasant because, instead of riding on a crowded train with the hordes of commuters who regularly toil in the Big Apple, Jim and I were sent home in style in Charlie’s chauffeured limousine. Hey, not my idea, but when the offer was made, it would have been rude to refuse, right?

  Jim maintained a stony silence throughout the entire ride, even when we got stuck in traffic on the Merritt Parkway and sat for half an hour because a truck driver, ignoring the “No Trucks Allowed” sign, had driven onto the highway and gotten stuck under one of the overpasses. Normally, my husband would have come up with several alternate route suggestions for our driver, as he hates sitting in traffic. But not this time. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

  Instead, Jim concentrated on sending and receiving a constant series of texts until the ping noise started to drive me crazy. Part of me really wanted to know what the texts were about. But another part of me was scared silly that they were from Mack, and he and Jim were plotting a damage control strategy after my poor performance at the television production meeting.

  I knew that I had some major bridge repair work of my own to do when we got home. Although, of course, I was absolutely dying to get on the phone ASAP to Nancy, Mary Alice, and Claire, and fill them all in on what had happened to me today. I knew they’d remember Chuckie from our grammar school days. And I was still wearing Nancy’s expensive shoes, which now were pinching my tootsies like crazy. I figured the pain must be a tradeoff for fashion, but I couldn’t wait to reward my feet for brave behavior by easing them into a pair of well-loved bedroom slippers.

  When the limo had finally cruised to a stop in front of our house, I was hoping that Phyllis Stevens would just happen to be glancing out her front window and catch a glimpse of our mode of transportation. I knew that Phyllis thought of that window as her own private viewing area on the comings, goings, and everything in between of everyone on our block. And didn’t hesitate to blast news bulletins around the neighborhood whenever she felt the urge. But today—wouldn’t you just know it?—she wasn’t at her usual post. Darn it.

  I wanted to have the driver, whose name was Nick, take a picture of Jim and me exiting the limo, but when I started to suggest it, Jim silenced me with a look. Oh, boy.

  Once inside the privacy of our own home, after Lucy and Ethel had been tended to, Jim headed toward the home office, still without uttering a word. I stood stock still in the middle of the kitchen and ran through a list of possible response options. I finally decided that none of this was my fault, and if he wanted to behave like an infant, that was his privilege.

  Meanwhile, I would behave in my most adult manner and, instead of slamming pots and pans around the kitchen—which was what I really felt like doing—I would prepare a meal from whatever I could find in the refrigerator. I do like to give Lucy and Ethel examples of proper behavior whenever possible, so that if they’re faced with difficult situations on their walks around Fairport—that German Shepard, Jake, who lives around the corner from us, always gave them a little trouble—they’d know how to act appropriately.

  Fortunately, I found small containers of chili hidden in the dark recesses of the freezer. Jim always believes chili tastes better as leftovers. I was about to test that theory, because only the Good Lord Himself knew how long ago the chili had been originally made. I scraped off any excess freezer burn and defrosted our dinner in the microwave.

  By the way, I have a little trick about leftovers that I figured out years ago. Like most husbands, Jim can’t stand seeing anything go to waste. Especially food. So if there’s a helping (or two) left in the pot, or on the serving platter, he feels obligated to finish it. Waste not, want not.

  What’s my trick? Why, I just portion out what I think is a fair amount for one meal for two adults who should be watching their caloric intake, and put the rest in another pot that I hide way back in the refrigerator behind my diet cranberry juice so Jim won’t see it. Presto—instant leftovers for another meal. Works every time! And if I’ve made Jim’s all-time favorite meal, meatballs and tomato sauce, I portion out part of what I’ve hidden and freeze it when the coast is clear. It may not be an idea original to me, but give me a break and let me think it is, okay?

  Jim wandered back into the kitchen while I was heating the chili in the microwave. He had a big grin on his face. “Lucia Pellogrini,” Jim announced. “That was her name.” He sighed. “We used to call her Luscious Lucia,” he said. “She sure was something.”

  “I don’t recognize the name,” I said, waving off Lucy and Ethel who were now circling around me with plaintive “feed me” looks on their faces. “But she’s put you in a much better mood, so I’ll bite. Who’s Lucia Pellogrini?”

  The microwave dinged, and I handed Jim a pair of oven mitts. “Wear these so you don’t burn your hands. The dish will be extra hot.”

  Jim waved me off exactly like I’d waved off the dogs. “I don’t need them, Carol. Why do you make such a big deal out of everything?”

  Go ahead and burn your hands. See if I care. I didn’t really say that out loud, of course.

  “So, who’s Lucia Pellogrini?” I repeated, handing Jim a box of red wine to open.

  Jim got a dreamy look on his face. “She was our grammar school class sex symbol,” he said. “Not that we ever actually called her that. But all the guys in my class had super crushes on her. Including me. She was an…early developer, if you get my meaning.” He sighed. “I wonder what she looks like now. I bet she’s still a hot number.” The man was practically drooling, lost in his overactive fantasy world.

  Honest to goodness, the only major difference between a boy and a man is that a man is usually taller. Other than that, they are exactly the same. So childish.

  “Why don’t you google her and find out?” I suggested like the good sport I was on rare occasions, sliding into my chair at the kitchen table and preparing to take my first forkful of food. It suddenly dawned on me that we had completely missed lunch today. No wonder Jim was crabby on the way home. He was probably starving.
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br />   “What, and ruin the fantasy?” Jim asked. “No way. If she’s gotten fat and matronly, I don’t want to know about it. In my mind, she’s still my grammar school hottie. Which, of course, brings us back to your grammar school boyfriend. And what happened at the meeting today.”

  I started to respond, even though my brain hadn’t come up with any sort of strategy yet, but my phone pinged, indicating an incoming text. “I’m sorry, Jim,” I said. “I know we agreed to turn off our phones while we’re having dinner, but I forgot. Besides, it might be important.”

  Jim didn’t answer me. I gathered from the faraway look on his face that he was back in grammar school again, perhaps passing a love note to Luscious Lucia.

  Of course, the text was from Nancy.

  Nancy: How r my shoes? Can u still walk?

  Me: Huge news. 2 much to text. Coffee 2morrow morning at 9.

  Nancy: Okay. Fairport Diner. Bring shoes.

  Me: Okay! M.A., C 2. U text them.

  Nancy: C and L left 4 FL 2day. Will text M.A. C u 2morrow at 9.

  Me: Okay.

  Darn it. I’d completely forgotten that Claire and Larry had started their southern trek. They were probably already on the auto train. I wondered if I could still text Claire. I still didn’t understand how the various cyber connections worked, and I was dying to tell her about my adventure in Manhattan today. And how I was morphing into a key player for a major television show, thanks to someone we went to grammar school with.

  Oh, all right. I was dying to brag about it to her. So, sue me. Sometimes I think I haven’t progressed much beyond childish behavior, myself. I toyed with my chili, imagining the look of surprise—and envy—on her face. And smiled. For once, I’d have the last word with her. I could hardly wait.

  Under normal circumstances, once I’d cleaned up the kitchen and given Lucy and Ethel their last stroll of the evening, I’d hop on the computer and catch up on all those important emails I knew were begging to be answered. And, just for the heck of it, I’d probably do some googling about Charlie King, too. After all, if I was going to be working with the guy, it would behoove me to find out how he morphed from a little squirt of a kid into a corporate mogul and television producer. That would mean finding out all I could about his family—including his late wife.

  But tonight I was too beat to stay up past 9:00, no matter how much the computer beckoned me. Plus, my feet were killing me from wearing Nancy’s admittedly gorgeous but way-too-tight (there, I finally admitted it) shoes all day. I know you’re all thinking I should have changed back into my sneakers for the ride home, but I wanted to impress the limo driver. Soaking my weary bones in a steaming hot tub held much more appeal for me than cruising down the Internet superhighway, even if I could do it while sitting down.

  And, truthfully, I knew I had some repair work to do in the marriage department, which took precedence over everything else. Sometimes, a good meal just doesn’t do it. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. And I’m not going to tell you any more about that. Except to say that Jim not only made the coffee the following morning, but he also served me breakfast in bed. With a big smile on his face.

  Chapter 15

  The best thing about having friends the exact same age is that they remember the same things you do. Unfortunately, they forget the same things you do, too.

  “Why are we meeting here?” I asked, sliding into a booth at the Fairport Diner next to Mary Alice. “What happened to the Paperback Café? That’s been our favorite coffee hangout for years.”

  “Gone,” Nancy announced with a wave of her hand. “Out of business.” She pursed her lips. “Really, Carol, you need to keep up with what’s happening in town.”

  “Gone?” I repeated. “How could it be gone? I just walked by it two days ago.”

  “I don’t mean the building is gone,” Nancy clarified. “It’s still there. But it’s been sold. Nobody’s sure what’s going to happen to it. Meanwhile,” she gestured around the Fairport Diner, “I thought this would be a perfect place for us to meet for coffee this morning and catch up. Can either of you guess why?”

  “Neither of us is privy to your insider real estate news,” Mary Alice said with a rare trace of annoyance. It didn’t take a major leap of intuition to figure out that she had worked the night shift at the hospital and wanted nothing more than to go home and climb into bed. Especially since she insisted on decaf coffee. Mary Alice doesn’t drink a lot of coffee—she’s usually a tea kind of person—but when she does, it’s always high-test.

  “I guess you pulled an all-nighter last night, Mary Alice,” I said. “I thought that when you retired, you didn’t have to do that anymore. Oh, thank you.” This last comment was directed toward a server who placed cups of steaming hot coffee in front of us.

  Nancy waved away the menus he offered. “We’ll just have coffee.” As an afterthought, she added, “Thank you.”

  “Honestly, Nancy,” Mary Alice said, “where are your manners? You practically bit that poor guy’s head off.”

  “Sorry,” Nancy said. “I’ve got a really full day today. And Her Nibs here,” gesturing across the table at me, “seems to have something vitally important to tell us. The reason I suggested meeting here, Carol,” she said, “was because I thought you’d love the location. And the other customers. Don’t you get it?”

  I looked at my BFF for a hint, and got none. “I give up, Nancy. Why? What?”

  Nancy gestured around the diner. “Look at the other customers, doofus. They’re mostly on the Fairport police force. I figured you might be able to pick up some good gossip here, in case you want to eavesdrop.” She laughed, and I couldn’t help it; I laughed, too. But first, I swatted her across the table. Just because I could. And because she knew me far too well.

  “This is all very interesting,” Mary Alice said, her tone conveying the opposite. “But why are we here at all? I mean, why are we getting together for coffee?” She yawned, then covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. Can’t help it. I’m exhausted. I want to go home and go to bed.”

  “Then I’ll make this quick,” I said. “Chuckie Krumpelbeck. Ring any bells?”

  Nancy furrowed her brow in concentration. Then, when she realized what she was doing, immediately relaxed her face. Of all of us, she’s the most concerned with keeping herself as young-looking as possible for as long as possible, no matter what it takes.

  “I remember him,” Mary Alice said. “We went to grammar school with him. Wasn’t he the shortest boy in our class? And I think he had terrible acne, too.” She blushed. “Not that I mean to criticize him. We all had complexion issues in those days.”

  “Mary Alice,” I said, “you’ve never said a critical thing about a single person in your whole life. At least, not something that wasn’t true. And you’re right. Chuckie did have bad skin. But just wait till I tell you…”

  “That’s right,” Nancy interrupted. “He was a real loser. And if I’m remembering correctly,” she said, zeroing in on me from across the table, “you always got stuck dancing with him at those horrible classes we had to take after school in eighth grade.”

  I took a sip of my coffee. “Well, guess what? I saw him yesterday. Actually,” I clarified, “Jim and I had a meeting with him in New York. That’s where I wore the shoes you lent me, Nancy,” I said, handing her back the Coach bag. “Here they are, safe and sound. Thanks for loaning them to me. They were a big hit, although they did pinch my feet.”

  Nancy took the bag, peeked inside to be sure her precious shoes were still in good shape and, satisfied that I hadn’t wrecked them, tucked the bag under the table. I tried to pretend I hadn’t noticed her checking the shoes for damage. As if I wouldn’t take good care of them. The idea!

  “Okay, Carol,” Nancy said, “what’s up with you? You saw Chuckie? How? Why? Is that the reason why you insisted we get together this morning?”

  I took another sip of my coffee and savored it. Slowly. I was enjoying myself, and didn’t want to d
rop my bombshell too quickly. More than anything, I wished that Claire was present to hear what I had to share.

  I know. I am a very bad person.

  “Well, Chuckie’s all grown up,” I said.

  “Of course he is, Carol,” Mary Alice said. “All of us are grown up. Can you get to the point? I’m sorry to be impatient, but I need to go home and get some sleep.”

  I took pity on my friends. “Believe it or not, Chuckie Krumpelbeck has changed his name and morphed into a hotshot television show producer. He’s Charlie King now,” I said. “Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s pretty famous.”

  Nancy gaped at me. “Chuckie Krumpelbeck is Charlie King? You’re kidding. Of course I’ve heard of him.” She gestured around the diner. “I bet everyone in this place has watched at least one of his television shows, even if they wouldn’t admit it.”

  “Why did you and Jim meet him?” Mary Alice asked. “Did Chuckie contact you on Facebook?”

  I smiled. “No, that’s not how it happened at all. Jim got a call from Mack Whitman, his old boss, about coming out of retirement to consult on a new television show, The Second Honeymoon Game. And Mack wanted me to be part of the team.” I laughed. “Actually, he insisted,” I said, and tried to look modest.

  I paused for a beat and hoped the magnitude of what I’d said registered with Nancy and Mary Alice. “That’s why I borrowed your shoes, Nancy. I didn’t want to look like a suburban hick when we went into the city for the initial meeting. And it turned out that the executive producer for the show is Chuckie. I mean, Charlie. So, I guess you could say that I’m in show business!”

  “I can tell this is going to be some story,” Mary Alice said. “And I know that sometimes, it takes you a while to get to the point, Carol. Maybe I should switch from decaf to the real stuff. I don’t want to nod off and miss a word. Even if I can’t get to sleep right away when I get home.”