Crime & Punctuation

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  So much for casually leading up to the subject!

  The story spilled out none too coherently, but Darlene didn’t have any trouble following it. By the time I was finished, she’d joined me at the kitchen table and supplied me with a steaming cup of coffee and a huge portion of homemade streusel.

  “Tiffany Scott,” Darlene repeated. “Huh!”

  I nodded. “Did you know her?”

  My friend shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I know who she is. Was. Are you sure it was murder?”

  I considered her question for a moment. “Detective Hazlett seemed to be hedging his bets. He said there was a possibility she’d been murdered. But, Darlene—why would he be asking me questions if it there wasn’t something suspicious about her death?”

  “Sad,” Darlene said instead of answering. Looking thoughtful, she took a long swallow of her coffee.

  “She was very young.”

  “She was an adult.”

  “Well, yes, but surely she wasn’t any older than her mid-twenties. She had her whole life ahead of her, and she was so excited about her novel.”

  “Was it any good?”

  I had to admit I’d only read the first few pages.

  “So it might not have been publishable?”

  I shrugged. “These days, I’m not sure there is any such thing. She could always have brought it out independently, as an e-book original. Anyway, that’s not the point. It’s a tragedy when anyone is cut off before their time.”

  “Why are you taking this so hard?” Darlene asked. “I don’t mean to seem callous, but it isn’t as if you were close friends with Tiffany Scott and are devastated by her death.”

  “I liked her, and I’m sorry she’s dead.” I narrowed my eyes as Darlene topped off her coffee from the French press she’d brought to the table and downed half the cup as soon as she’d added cream and sugar. “You don’t usually drink more than one cup, especially in the afternoon. What is it you aren’t telling me?”

  “I suppose you’ll find out anyway. Tiffany Scott was Ronnie’s granddaughter.”

  “Ronnie? Veronica Rappaport?”

  “Veronica North these days.” A faint smile flickered and was gone. “She tried out two other husbands before she latched onto Cal North. She had a son by one of them. He’s Tiffany’s dad.”

  Following Darlene’s example, I took a sip of coffee while I digested this new information. I’m not much of a drinker, but in that moment I found myself wishing for something much stronger.

  Ronnie Rappaport had been the bane of my existence in high school. In a politically correct world, she’d be singled out as a bully and warned to mend her ways. Back in the day, attitudes were different. Kids were expected to suck it up and cope with taunts and put-downs on their own.

  More than fifty years after the fact, telling myself I was being mature, I had chosen to ignore Ronnie at our reunion banquet. Even though only thirty members of our class showed up, and only half of them brought spouses, it hadn’t been difficult to stay out of her way. Now that I thought about it, I wondered if Ronnie had been doing her best to avoid me, as well.

  My husband and I had chosen not to have children. That pretty much took grandchildren out of the equation, but it didn’t keep me from feeling empathy for Ronnie. “Were they close? Ronnie and Tiffany?”

  “I have no idea.” As if her coffee had suddenly lost its appeal, Darlene shoved her cup aside. “I don’t move in the same social circles as the Norths or the Scotts, but I expect Tiffany’s choice of a husband pleased her grandmother. Ronnie always set great store by success.”

  I remembered Tiffany mentioning a husband. He liked modern décor, and he hadn’t read her novel, but that was all I knew about him. “Who did she marry?”

  “Only the richest man in town. His name is Gregory Onslow. He owns Mongaup Valley Ventures.”

  Neither name meant anything to me, and I said so.

  “I’ve got a brochure somewhere. He’s been promoting a major construction project that’s created quite a stir in town.” She waved off my next question. “It would take too long to explain, and I doubt it would cheer you up to hear about it. That’s why you came here, isn’t it? So I’d help you pull yourself out of the dumps?”

  “You do tend to look on the bright side of life.” I threw out the sarcastic reference to Monty Python’s Life of Brian with a deadpan expression on my face.

  She caught it, gave a snort of laughter, and dipped into Voltaire’s Candide for a comeback: “After all, this is the best of all possible worlds.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “I guess I should count my blessings and not dwell on someone else’s misfortune.”

  “Works for me. Look at the plus side—if Tiffany found you on the Internet, others will, too. How many people have hired you since you went live?”

  “Six. Tiffany’s was the biggest project. I was looking forward to working with her.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t read much of her book.”

  “No, but the signs were promising. Good word choices. No glaring grammar errors. Plus, she knew how to format correctly. The manuscript was printed in twelve-point Times New Roman with one-inch margins and proper spacing after periods and between paragraphs. And she used the Oxford comma.”

  Darlene lifted an eyebrow. “Is that some word nerd thing?”

  I chuckled. “You would not believe how much controversy there is over something as simple as whether or not to put a comma before the word ‘and’ at the end of a list.”

  “You should definitely blog about that, then.”

  “Darlene, I’m not starting a blog. If all goes well, I won’t have the time.”

  “It will attract more business. So will having a presence on social media.”

  “Don’t even start! I can’t do everything, even if I wanted to. And I don’t.”

  “Stick with just the blog, then. You can call it The Write Right Wright Writes, or maybe Lincoln’s Language Log.”

  A spirited discussion ensued and, true to form, the visit with Darlene lifted my spirits. By the time I drove home, I was in a much more cheerful frame of mind.

  Chapter 4

  Neither the local evening news on television nor the next day’s local newspaper—the biweekly that comes out on Tuesdays and Fridays—carried any details about Tiffany Scott’s murder, only reporting that she’d died unexpectedly and that the police were investigating because it was an unattended death. There was no mention of foul play or suspicious circumstances, but I couldn’t get the image of my waterlogged business card out of my mind. The idea that Tiffany might have been drowned like an unwanted kitten made me shudder.

  Although I took swimming lessons as a kid, I’m not fond of water. That may be because I took swimming lessons as a kid. I had to remove my glasses, which meant everything around me abruptly became a blur. Then, as soon as I dove into the water, it went straight up my nose. As a solution, my mother insisted that I wear a nose guard. All that did was give everyone else at the swimming hole a good laugh.

  I tried to tell myself that the cause of Tiffany’s death was none of my business. I did not need to know the details. I vowed to forget all about her book and erase the memory of an aspiring young author full of enthusiasm.

  It didn’t work. When I sat down at my dinette table for breakfast the next morning, I remembered all over again the way she’d looked sitting opposite me. Her face had been aglow with hopes and dreams that would never be realized.

  I was badly in need of a distraction, and the visit from Detective Hazlett had reminded me of a task I’d neglected. During that brief moment of panic when I’d thought I must have done something to warrant a visit from the police, I’d realized that I was, in fact, guilty of breaking the law. A few minutes online confirmed that I should have registered my car within thirty days of establishing residency in New York State.

  Oops.

  Just to make matters more complicated, I also discovered that I had to have a New
York State Insurance Identification Card before I could register my vehicle. Fail to present this ID and you’d be required to surrender your plates. Not only that, if you had a lapse in insurance of more than three months, you risked having your driver’s license suspended.

  “Wonderful,” I muttered. “I was right to panic when that cop showed up.”

  Always one to look for the positive in a situation, I decided to see this as a way to keep my mind off Tiffany’s death. Making myself and my car legal would certainly occupy the entire day.

  My first stop was at the insurance agency where I’d bought my homeowner’s insurance. I traded in my old automobile policy for liability, no-fault, and uninsured motorist insurance from a company approved by the state of New York. Then, armed with two freshly issued insurance ID cards, the original and a copy, I got in the car and headed for the nearest Department of Motor Vehicles office.

  That meant a trip to Monticello, the county seat. By the time I drove there, my insurance agent would have notified the DMV that I was covered. Apparently there is a lot of car insurance fraud in New York State. The DMV would not only take possession of one of my two ID cards before they let me register my vehicle, they’d also have to have electronic verification of insurance.

  What is it about dealing with government agencies that makes honest people so nervous? I was a wreck by the time I parked at the Sullivan County Government Center and collected the paperwork I’d brought with me. I checked everything one last time. Vehicle Registration Application printed from the DMV site and filled in. Check. Proof of my identity. Check. Proof of car insurance and ownership. Check. Checkbook to pay title fee, license plate fee, and tax. Check.

  I planned to get a new driver’s license while I was there, too. According to the online instructions, that was a simple matter of trading my Maine license, not due to expire for another year, for one from New York. I wouldn’t have to take a written test or prove I could parallel park. I shuddered at the thought of the latter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d attempted that particular maneuver.

  My father taught me to drive. He’d had me steer his big old Buick in circles in an empty parking lot on a Sunday afternoon. He was a good teacher. I’d been pretty confident of success the day I went in to take my driver’s test . . . and devastated when I didn’t pass. I no longer remember the reason I failed on that first attempt, but I do recall that most of my high school friends were in the same boat. To make ourselves feel better, we decided that the DMV must have a policy to flunk everybody under eighteen at least once before letting them have a license.

  Think positive, I ordered myself. I’d completed the application form. I had my passport with me for additional proof of identity. I’d even dug out my Social Security card, since the information online indicated that I might need to present that to the powers-that-be to prove I was who I said I was. Belatedly, I wondered if I should have brought a copy of my birth certificate, too. No, I decided. That wouldn’t help. Then I’d have to have my marriage certificate to prove that Michelle Greenleigh and Michelle Lincoln were the same person. Clearly I was overthinking this.

  Taking a deep breath, I tucked everything into my shoulder bag and got out of the car. The DMV office was easy to find, since it was on the first floor of the government center and clearly marked, but I had to repress a sigh when I saw how many others were already waiting, seated on several rows of long, blue, uncomfortable-looking benches. There were even two people ahead of me in the line to get a ticket. A moment after I joined the queue, a middle-aged woman with a sour expression on her face crowded in behind me. She was muttering under her breath.

  After I’d taken a number and a seat, I studied my surroundings. The institutional décor was not designed to offer comfort. The only adornments on the bland walls of the waiting area were a few signs, mostly warnings. There was, however, a child-size desk with two wooden chairs in front of it, neither occupied at the moment. It was supplied with what looked like a coloring book and a box of crayons. I stifled a snort when I shifted my gaze upward and noticed the sign directly above the little desk.

  LEARNERS PERMITS

  9:00 A.M. TO 3:00 P.M. ONLY

  The numbers of the lucky persons being served appeared beside the windows where they were to stand, barred from direct contact with a clerk by a counter topped with a wall of glass. After a glance at my ticket, I was glad I’d thought to tuck my iPad into my shoulder bag. It looked as if I was going to enjoy a nice chunk of reading time.

  The next hour passed slowly. My e-book didn’t hold my interest, and most of the people seated near me were careful to avoid eye contact, discouraging me from trying to start a conversation. The only exception was the woman who’d been in line behind me. She’d taken a seat on the same bench, leaving only about a foot of space between us. Every time I glanced her way, my gaze was met by a hard, unfriendly stare.

  I’ve never been good at waiting, and the sensation of hostile eyes watching me made matters worse. By the time my number came up I had a bad case of the jitters. I hopped off the bench with more speed than grace and made tracks for window three.

  “I’m number one-oh-seven,” I told the bored-looking clerk on the other side of the glass partition. And then I blurted out what had apparently been niggling away at the back of my mind the entire time I’d been sitting there. “Did you know you’re missing the apostrophe in your sign?”

  She answered my question with a blank stare.

  I should have dropped the subject, but on occasion my mouth operates without consulting my brain. “The sign that says LEARNERS PERMITS—it should have an apostrophe after the word learners. It’s possessive, you see. The permits belong to—”

  “Ma’am, do you have business with the DMV?” The bored look had been replaced by one of mild irritation.

  If I’d been twenty years younger, or even ten, my face would have turned crimson with embarrassment. No one likes to be lectured to, and annoying the person whose cooperation I needed was a very bad idea. “Sorry. I just moved here. I need to register my car and trade my Maine driver’s license for one from New York.” I fished the documents out of my shoulder bag and placed them in a neat pile on the counter.

  Despite the shaky start, the registration went smoothly. Once I had my brand-new license plates in hand, the clerk moved on to Part B. First she had me read the eye chart on the wall behind her. Since my glasses were less than a year old, I passed that test with flying colors. Then she took my picture. I didn’t expect much there. ID photos are rarely flattering, but I was unprepared for the process to come to a dead stop when she examined my Maine driver’s license.

  “This isn’t valid.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This license. It’s not a Real ID.”

  Belatedly, I realized that the clerk’s objection had nothing to do with proof of my ability to drive a car. I sighed. I was going to have to deliver a little lecture after all.

  “Maine is one of five states who initially refused to meet the requirements of the Real ID Act. It was only when residents could no longer get into a federal building without a passport that legislators enacted a compromise. The upshot is that this is still valid and your web page states that New York and Maine have reciprocity on drivers’ licenses.”

  She squinted at the object in question, a doubtful look on her face, and didn’t say a word.

  Compelled to fill the silence, I kept talking. “It would have cost a bundle to comply with the federal law, and Maine’s legislature is frugal as well as paranoid about sharing information. Even now drivers can opt out of a Real ID. I hadn’t decided what I was going to do when this came up for renewal.” I ground to a halt. “Perhaps you could check with your supervisor?”

  She continued to fix me with a suspicious look, the kind that made me think she was about a nanosecond away from calling security. There was no guard in the DMV office, but there had been a uniformed sheriff’s deputy in the lobby. Meanwhile, the sour-faced woman from th
e line to get a number had taken her place at the adjacent window. While she waited for the clerk to process her application, she eyed me up and down with a sneer on her face. She seemed to have taken a personal dislike to me. For some reason, that rattled me almost as much as the clerk’s recalcitrance.

  Almost. The low point of my day was when the clerk disappeared into another room, taking my Maine license with her. I was certain that when she returned she was going to deny me a new license and confiscate the old one. I wondered how I was supposed to drive home then.

  It took another quarter of an hour for everything to be straightened out. My application was approved and in exchange for my Maine driver’s license I was given a temporary one from the Empire State. The official one would be mailed to me. After all the hassle, I had to fight an urge to break into a run as I left the office. I was half convinced they could still change their minds. Instead, I proceeded at what I hoped was a decorous pace along a long corridor lined with blue doors and gave a sigh of relief when I finally exited the government center.

  I really hate bureaucracy. It has a numbing effect on the brain. I stood there, mind blank, for a full minute before I could remember where I’d parked my car.

  As I drove home, once more the good, law-abiding citizen, I mentally composed a letter I would never send. In it I made several suggestions about areas where the training of DMV employees could be improved. First on the list was a remedial lesson in basic grammar and punctuation with an emphasis on the use of apostrophes.

  Chapter 5

  I spent the weekend working on the small room that was my DIY project. Steaming wallpaper is a boring job. So is sanding a floor. I had plenty of time to think, and I was of two minds about attending Tiffany’s funeral. It was to be held on Monday afternoon at the same church I’d attended as a child and at which Darlene was still an active member. She had called to ask if I wanted to go with her. I’d agreed, but as soon as I hung up memories had rushed in. The last funeral I’d attended had been my husband’s. I’d reached for the telephone, intending to call Darlene back and cancel, but something had stopped me.