Murder as a Second Language

by Joan Hess

“And I hear a voice in my head begging you to leave. Good-bye, Claire.” He had the audacity to close the door. I considered punching the doorbell but let my hand drop. I still had half of his weekend to spoil. I took out my cell phone. Rick was not answering. I drove around the winding streets while I thought. Peter wouldn’t be home until seven, so I had an hour before I needed to stop at the grocery store and the dry cleaner’s. Gregory would be testy if I returned to his house and asked him to look up Lilac Benjamin’s address. I stopped at what was marked as a golf cart crossing. No golf carts obliged, but I sat there anyway.

  The Book Depot closed at five on Saturdays. Jacob would be toting up receipts and straightening the shelves. I dialed the number and wasn’t surprised when he answered briskly and succinctly. “Book Depot.”

  “Jacob, this is Claire. I need you to look up an address on the computer. Don’t even think about telling me that you would prefer not to. Please find an address for Lilac Benjamin. Her husband’s a doctor.”

  “Very well, Ms. Malloy.” I could almost hear his priggish frown. He came back on the line a minute later. “The address is 1337 St. Andrew’s Way. Do you need directions?”

  I’d been on St. Andrew’s Way a few minutes earlier. “No, but thank you, Jacob. Enjoy your day off.”

  “I will make every effort to do so, Ms. Malloy.” He hung up.

  I backed into a driveway and retraced my route, trying to picture Jacob playing touch football or lounging at the lake. He was more likely to get his giggles from reading the latest translation of Beowulf while feasting on carrots and celery. I turned onto the pertinent street and looked at the house numbers until I arrived at a large brick home with ivy-covered walls, a circular driveway, a triple garage, and an expensive custom front door. I parked in the driveway, since there was room for a tanker to pull around my car and into the garage. I’d been lucky thus far, with the exception of Rick, who was AWOL. I crossed my fingers as I rang the doorbell.

  A perky teenaged girl with braces opened the door. Before I could get out a word, she said, “Wow, you’re Claire Malloy! I’ve seen you on the news. Caron’s two years ahead of me, so I don’t really know her. We sat next to each other at an assembly last fall, but I was too intimidated to talk to her.”

  I felt as if I should apologize. “Is this the Benjamin household?”

  “Yes! Have you come to investigate us? My dad keeps saying he’s going to shoot the next golfer that tramples the tomato plants.”

  “Is your mother home?”

  “You’re investigating her? Wow.”

  “Not at all,” I said firmly. “I’d just like to speak to her for a few minutes. Is she here?”

  The girl’s face fell. “No, they went to a golf tournament in Springfield. They should be back early tomorrow afternoon. If it’s an emergency, I can call them and tell them they have to get back here.” Her blue eyes glittered as brightly as her braces. “Is it an emergency?”

  “Please tell her that I’ll call her tomorrow afternoon.” I left the woebegone child standing in the doorway and climbed into my car. It was time to throw myself back into the mundane world of deciding between beef and chicken. I rather liked the idea.

  Wow.

  * * *

  I had a roast and potatoes in the oven when Peter came home. He didn’t say a word as he went into our bedroom. He came out, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and poured himself a glass of wine. I remained at the counter, slicing tomatoes and cucumbers for a salad. Several minutes passed with only the sound of my knife on the cutting board. I gritted my teeth, unwilling to concede. When I finally glanced at him, he said, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln…”

  “How was my day? I suppose you’re referring to my mildly frantic call from the restaurant?”

  “The PD received forty-one mildly frantic calls from local citizens who were convinced that al Qaeda has planted bombs all over town. A few imaginative citizens reported that City Hall was occupied by terrorists who were holding the mayor hostage. Someone wanted to know the evacuation procedure. Another claimed that the terrorists were kidnapping children, including her fifteen-year-old son who didn’t come home for lunch.”

  I winced. “My voice was loud, but I was upset. It’s stressful to be followed everywhere you go. Didn’t your friends at Quantico teach you that?”

  “They taught me not to intentionally confront a suspect unless I was prepared to detain him.”

  “Detain him with what—a soup spoon?”

  Peter was struggling to stay calm, which was quite sweet of him. His face was a tiny bit red, and he was strangling the wineglass. It was expensive, part of a set of twelve. I caught myself trying to recall whether they were Waterford. I scooped the sliced vegetables into a bowl. “Aren’t you going to tell me what the FBI is going to do?”

  “Nothing. They have no one named Hamdan Zayed bin whatever in their files.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t go around flaunting his membership card in al Qaeda. Not that I think he has one.” I was going to tell Peter what I did think about Hamdan’s associations, but he was glaring at me. It was time to change the subject before the situation escalated. “I went to the farmers’ market this morning. It was packed. I bought some produce, but I couldn’t fight my way to the flower stalls.” I took a pair of kitchen shears out of a drawer. “Would you like to help me cut some? The beds can spare a few snapdragons and dahlias.”

  He took his wine out to the terrace. Interpreting that as a no, I went out the front door and cut enough flowers to make an arrangement for the dining room table. After I finished, I sat down on the porch swing. I wasn’t worried about Peter. He would do his best to stay miffed, but eventually he’d get over it. In the past, I’d enraged him. This was trivial in comparison.

  Caron’s car came down the gravel driveway and parked next to mine. I was pleased to see that Inez was with her. They took towels and beach bags out of the front seat. I heard Inez say something about her sunglasses as she climbed back in the car. Caron sat down next to me. “I made it all day without being kidnapped, Mother. Aren’t you proud of me?”

  “Even more than when you won the arm-wrestling tournament in seventh grade. That was quite a feat of strategy and strength.”

  “I told Glenda I’d let her eat my lunch for a month if she threw the bout. Did you find out anything about the nasty man with the lost puppy? I may want to play in the park tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I had a little talk with him earlier. He didn’t have a dagger in his belt. This may be hard to hear, but he’s not interested in you. However, you need to stick with a crowd, even at the mall. He doesn’t have a puppy, so don’t fall for that ploy.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know when you’re teasing. Is this serious? Can’t Peter arrest him for harassing you? Stalking is illegal.”

  “He’s not breaking any laws. The police have a sketch of him and will pick him up on a flimsy charge if they spot him. Peter will give him a rough time, and that may be the end of it.”

  Inez walked toward us, her cell phone at her ear and her eyes blinking frenetically. She turned off the phone and stared at us. “There’s an al Qaeda squad in town. They’ve concealed bombs at the mall, the high school, the campus, and City Hall. The governor called up the National Guard, and now there are armed soldiers on every corner. A friend of Ashley’s cousin’s roommate saw them. No one is allowed on Thurber Street after dark, and we’re all under a ten o’clock curfew.”

  “What?” Caron said in a stunned voice. “A ten o’clock curfew? They can’t do that, can they? The First Amendment guarantees the right to assemble. It doesn’t say until ten o’clock.”

  I intervened before both of them started howling. “The whole story is total nonsense being spread by misinformed people. No al Qaeda, no National Guard, no bombs, no nothing. This is a rumor on steroids, that’s all. This friend of Ashley’s cousin’s roommate doesn’t exist outside the fringe of credibility.”

  Caron looked at me. “Does this have anything to do w
ith the man without the puppy?”

  “It might.” I flipped a dried leaf on my shirt and watched it spiral to the ground.

  Inez was gaping at us as if we’d crossed the fringe. “What man without a puppy? Who?”

  “Would you two like to stay for dinner?” I asked. “No haute cuisine, just roast beef, potatoes, and salad.”

  Caron clearly wanted to demand a better answer but said, “Sure, we might as well. Our friends are evacuating in caravans.”

  “You have fifteen minutes. I suggest you whip out your cells and start texting everyone you know to tell them this rumor is a hoax. Tell them Deputy Chief Rosen assured you that nothing out of the ordinary is going on in Farberville, nor will anything dire happen in the future.”

  Caron dug through her beach bag for her cell. “Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens in Farberville.”

  The naiveté of teenagers, I thought as I went inside and peered at the meat thermometer in the roast. I took the heavy pan out of the oven and set it on the stove. In one of my cookbooks I’d seen a recipe for Yorkshire pudding.

  I gave myself a painful pinch on the arm and began to dress the salad.

  * * *

  On Sunday morning we settled on the terrace with coffee, bagels, lox and cream cheese, a bowl of melon chunks, and the newspaper. I had the book section. Peter was commenting as he read the travel section. “What about Bermuda? Pink beaches and scooters. Hmm, zip lines in Costa Rico that shoot you through the rain forest like a bullet. That sounds fun.”

  “I prefer to stroll through the rain forest so I can see the parrots and orchids.” I turned the page. “If this erotica fluff is such a big seller, then why can’t I sell the last five copies?”

  “I’ve also wanted to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. Did you know it’s on the border between Tanzania and Kenya?”

  “No, but I do now. Do you know where the Limpopo River is?”

  “The what?”

  “On the border of Zimbabwe. More coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Shall I toast another bagel? We can share.”

  “Lovely, dear.”

  Caron came out to the terrace with a glass of orange juice, found the comics section, and lay down on a chaise longue. “Why do they keep running this Prince Valiant strip? It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s so boring.”

  “It started seventy-five years ago,” Peter murmured.

  I glanced at him. “And you know that because…?”

  He hid behind the newspaper. “When I was a kid, I was a big fan of King Arthur and his knights. I had a plastic suit of armor and a sword. I can’t remember how many dragons I slew and maidens I rescued.”

  Caron and I exchanged grins. Peter had not been my knight in shining armor. When we first met, I’d disliked him intensely. If he’d tried to sweep me off my feet, I would have clawed his face. That was no longer the case, although he’d shown no indication of sweeping anything.

  “Any plans for the rest of the day?” I asked him.

  “I’m on a tight schedule. Baseball game, golf tournament, and a DIY show about restoring antique motorcycles.”

  I looked at Caron. “What time does Joel get home?”

  “They have to go to church and out to eat with his grandmother, who’s a lifelong fan of cafeteria food. They should be home by five or six. Joel will escape as soon as he can. He’s going to text me when they’re on the road so I’ll have time to get ready. Can I borrow your yellow skirt?”

  “Yes, you may. It’s in your closet, not mine. Why aren’t you going to wear any of the clothes we bought the other day?”

  “Those are for school, Mother. I wish you’d pay more attention.” She and Prince Valiant went upstairs to give themselves pedicures.

  Once we’d taken the dishes and cups to the kitchen and put things away, Peter went into the living room and turned on the TV. He arranged the pillows, set a glass of iced tea within reach, and sprawled the length of the sofa. Men are easily amused.

  I went into my library and called Rick for the umpteenth time. I was so startled when he answered that I was speechless for a moment. I recovered and said, “This is Claire. We need to talk. I promise I won’t ask you to divulge your big secret, because I’m pretty sure I know what it is.”

  “Then we have nothing to talk about, do we?”

  “We have many things to talk about, including what happened to Willie on Friday. I need your help.”

  “Austin said you have a theory but no evidence. This should be left to the police, Claire. They can run tests and interview her. I went by the hospital yesterday, but I wasn’t allowed to enter her room. She looked good and thanked me for coming by.”

  “Will you be home if I come by in an hour?” I immediately wished I could retract the question. It needed to be a statement: “I will come and you’d better be there.” All it lacked was an ominous “or else,” but nothing remotely plausible came to mind. I was pleased when he suggested meeting at Mucha Mocha.

  I needed to come up with an explanation for my departure, but by the time I’d showered and prepped, Peter was sound asleep. I turned down the volume, put his glass on a coaster, and tiptoed out the front door.

  The Mucha Mocha parking lot had only a few open spaces. I went inside and continued to the patio. Rick sat at a table, texting. He’d already purchased coffee and a pastry. I sat down across from him. “Updating the president on an outburst of terrorism in Farberville?”

  “I got dozens of texts and e-mails that made no sense. Idiotic rumors, mass hysteria, evacuate before we’re all blown to pieces. I waited for one to claim that aliens had landed in the football field and were beaming up our best players.” He put down his cell phone. “I was sending my grandmother a birthday card. Dancing polar bears with candles on their heads. Before you sniff disdainfully, I sent real flowers yesterday.”

  I produced a small smile to reward him for his thoughtfulness, then said, “I was curious about Gregory’s wife and her so-called accident. Once I learned the truth, an odd idea crossed my mind. I may be wrong. The easiest way to find out is for you to tell me your cousin’s name and where she lived. I’ll get online and search the local newspaper for her obituary. If that doesn’t work, my husband can speak to the police department there.”

  He stirred his coffee, staring at the swirls. “Okay, she didn’t die in Oregon. Her name was Rosalind McBrindell until she married that bastard Gregory. She sent me wedding pictures. I wanted to puke. I sensed from her earlier letters that he was controlling and abusive—not physically, but emotionally. He insisted on knowing everywhere she went and with whom, even when they were dating. Rosie refused to see it that way, since her father had been the same way throughout her childhood. She thought it showed how much he loved her.”

  “So what happened after they were married?”

  “He became worse. He manipulated her, eroded her self-confidence with insidious little jabs, made her feel incompetent. He was careful when other people were around, but he had sly ways to belittle her. ‘Rosie, honey, you always get that wrong. That’s why I love you.’ She stopped going to parties. If she went out to lunch with women friends, he’d call her cell and demand to know if she was drinking too much. She was embarrassed to let anyone know what he said.”

  I felt a chill as I imagined myself in her miserable situation. “Why didn’t she divorce him?”

  “I asked her that, too. I offered to fly in and hold her hand through the entire ordeal. She said that she could take care of herself and didn’t want me to get involved. She may have thought I might attack Gregory, which I would have. After that, she tried to write me cheerful letters. I didn’t believe half of what she wrote, and she wasn’t adept at lying. Then she killed herself.” He picked up a napkin and blotted his eyes. “I didn’t know until another cousin told me three months later. He was in Afghanistan, and his parents didn’t want to burden him until he came home.”

  “Your parents must have heard.”

  “They rented a house on o
ne of the Hebrides islands. Very remote, no Internet, no cell service. My mother had decided to write a mystery novel, and my father’s into birds and photography. They sent me a letter when they finally found out about Rosie, but I’d been transferred to Hong Kong, so I never received it.”

  “You said you’d been in Hong Kong since you graduated from college.”

  “I may not have been truthful. I’ve lived in several countries over the last ten years. I was in Bolivia at the time. It didn’t seem prudent to mention it.”

  I nodded. “Because Rosie might have said something about her cousin in Bolivia, and Gregory could make the connection.”

  “Everybody in the family calls me Paddy or Pat. I decided to go by Rick and hope she hadn’t mentioned my last name.” He was calmer now, but far from relaxed. Each time the word “Gregory” was spoken, his jaw tightened. It was too bad he hadn’t ignored Rosie’s plea to stay away. Gregory might have landed in the emergency room, too mangled to produce his insurance card.

  “So now you’re here to make him suffer. You haven’t made much headway that I can tell. If he’s found guilty of embezzlement, he’ll get off with making restitution, probation, and maybe a fine. There are too many billionaires competing for beds in the federal prisons.”

  “What can I say? I’m not into torture and murder. I might kidnap his cat and demand a million dollars, but he doesn’t have one because of his allergies. Rosie found that out when she brought home a kitten. He threatened to dispose of it unless she gave it back immediately.” He paused, on the edge of a smile. “I hadn’t remembered that until now. Some of my friends have cats. A sprinkle of dander in his office and his car could lead to sneezing and asthma. Rosie mentioned once that they kept a key hidden under a flowerpot on the patio. If it’s still there, Gregory won’t sleep well at night.” He leaned forward and took my hand. “Thank you, Claire. I knew there was a reason I agreed to meet you. Austin will love this.”

  I was not inclined to scold him for such a juvenile prank, and almost offered to help. However, the wife of the deputy chief has to hold herself to certain standards. “All I can say is don’t get caught. Let’s go back to your scheme to have Gregory nailed for embezzlement. Any progress?”