Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  Praise for The First Baby Boomer Mystery

  Retirement Can Be Murder

  “Susan Santangelo uses great characters, humor, and sort of a ‘Desperate Housewives’ backdrop to create a hilarious mystery…. An entertaining and light-hearted read from a real pro. The Baby Boomer mysteries promise to be as germane as Murder She Wrote. It would make a great television series.”

  –Midwest Book Review (five-star review)

  “Santangelo has come up with an intriguing premise, drawing on the much-publicized fact that the baby boomer generation will soon be facing retirement, and she develops it cleverly….Especially enjoyable features of this debut are the little humorous headings that begin each chapter. We’ll look forward to more Boomer mysteries in the years to come….Pure fun—and don’t be surprised if retired sleuths become the next big trend.”

  –www.Booklist.com

  “Susan Santangelo captures the everyday lives of Baby Boomers in Retirement Can Be Murder….Be prepared to feel at home.”

  –Dotsie Bregel, founder, National Association of Baby Boomer Women

  “This is a fun chick lit investigative tale starring Carol Andrews super sleuth supported by an eccentric bunch of BBs (baby boomers), the cop and the daughter. Carol tells the tale in an amusing frantic way that adds to the enjoyment of a fine lighthearted whodunit that affirms that “every wife has a story” and Carol's first is entertaining.”

  –Harriet Klausner, national book critic

  “The over-50 crowd will love this….I love this lighthearted mystery. Susan Santangelo combines humor and mystery to create a great read. I am so glad to see a female lead character over 50….This is a must read!”

  –Readers’ Favorite

  “Not since picking up one of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum books have I ever laughed or enjoyed a book so much as Susan Santangelo’s Retirement Can Be Murder.”

  –Suspense Magazine

  “Santangelo … captures well the anxiety of a wife who must face the reality of her life turning upside down. Good thing she has her friends to help.”

  –Blog Critics

  “Finally a cozy mystery with a heroine who’s middle-aged, married, and a mother….What really makes Retirement Can be Murder special is the author’s uncanny knack for finding humor in everyday situations….One of the funniest cozies I’ve ever read, and yet all of the humor flows naturally from the characters, the plot, and the dialogue.”

  –Patricia Rockwell, author, Sounds of Murder

  “Susan Santangelo may be the next Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer and amateur detective portrayed by Angela Lansbury in the award-winning television series Murder She Wrote…. Susan’s found a niche in the mystery-writing genre that just might find its way to the television screen, judging by the popularity of her first book, Retirement Can Be Murder.”

  –Shoreline Times

  I’d like to thank the following...

  My Personal Beloveds: Joe, Dave, Mark, Sandy, Jacob and Rebecca. You are all blessings in my life.

  Mazie Bloom, my godmother, aunt, and avid mystery reader, who gave me my first Nancy Drew book many years ago.

  Jan Fable, classmate, friend, and therapist extraordinaire, for answering all my questions about domestic violence. Any errors are mine.

  The mailing team at the West Dennis, MA post office – Dave, Doug, Sue, and Tom, for taking such tender loving care of all my books. And for teaching me the importance of Delivery Confirmation.

  Molly McKeown, friend and fellow Lilly Pulitzer enthusiast, for sharing her show house expertise.

  Sister Beth Fischer, who helped me bring Sister Rose to life.

  Lynn Pray, Pineridge English Cockers, for adding our baby, Boomer, to the pack.

  Elizabeth Moisan, author of Master of the Sweet Trade, and talented artist, for the wonderful book cover artwork. And Joyce and Ron Elliot, whose beautiful porch and white rockers continue to be the cover’s inspiration.

  The Paperback Café really exists, in the Connecticut shoreline town of Old Saybrook. I’ve taken the liberty of moving the Café to Fairport. Hope Russell and the staff don’t mind.

  Everybody at the Cape Cod Hospital Thrift Shop, past and present.

  All my pals at the Barnstable Branch of the Cape Cod Hospital Auxiliary. And especially everyone from the Breast Cancer Survival Center.

  The First Readers Club, especially Marti Baker, Nina Marino, Sandy Pendergast, Rhea Marrison, and Marie Sherman.

  Marlene Stern, whose courage and faith inspires me every day.

  Gwenn Friss, Cape Cod Times Food Editor, who came up with the brilliant idea of a recipe contest for this book. And to everyone who entered – the recipes are all yummy and you’re all winners.

  Special thanks to the thousands of readers who were so positive about the first book in the Baby Boomer mystery series, Retirement Can Be Murder, and who shared their stories with me at countless book events and via the Internet.

  And to everyone who e-mailed me with terrific chapter headings. Keep them coming!

  Moving

  Can Be Murder

  Every Wife Has A Story

  A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery

  Second in the Series

  Susan Santangelo

  Moving Can Be Murder

  A Baby Boomer Mysteries Press Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Baby Boomer Mysteries trade paperback edition/First Printing, May 2011

  PUBLISHED BY

  Baby Boomer Mysteries Press

  P.O. Box 1491, West Dennis, MA

  www.babyboomermysteries.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

  either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. Copyright 2011 by Susan Santangelo

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any

  information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews of a critical nature.

  Cover and Book Design by Grouper Design, Yarmouthport, MA.

  Cover Art: Elizabeth Moisan

  ISBN 978-0-615-45806-9

  Moving Can Be Murder

  By

  Susan Santangelo

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Moving Day for Carol (and Jim): A.K.A. Sel
ler’s Remorse

  I had to say goodbye one more time. But how does anyone say goodbye to 34 years of memories?

  “It’s just a house, Carol. It’s not a person.” I could hear My Beloved Husband Jim’s voice telling me that over and over again. “It’s much too big for just the two of us. We should cash out and move now, before the real estate market gets worse.”

  He’d finally worn me down. I’d agreed to sell our beautiful antique home in the historic district of Fairport, Connecticut, and downsize to a nearby active adult community. Surprisingly, the house sold quickly. Part of that was no doubt due to Fairport’s proximity to New York City – it’s a great commuter town – and also to the super marketing skills of our listing broker, my very best friend, Nancy Green, from Dream Homes Realty (“We make your dreams a reality.”).

  I wish she hadn’t done such a good job.

  She’d convinced me to take a video of my house, intact, before I started to pack up all our things. OK, my things. Jim was much more willing than I was to let so many things go.

  The moving truck had come today, and all of our cherished possessions had gone into storage. Our new home wouldn’t be ready to move into for two more months. I wanted to postpone the closing, but Jim, not wanting to lose the buyer – God forbid -- opted to move us and our two English cocker spaniels, Lucy and Ethel, into a furnished one-bedroom apartment temporarily. It was quite a comedown – trading a five-bedroom home for a space smaller than our old master bedroom suite.

  When My Beloved had taken early retirement from his high-pressure job at Gibson Gillespie Public Relations in New York City, I’d dreaded the thought of him being home all the time. But within a month after his retirement, Jim had signed on as a columnist for our weekly newspaper, the Fairport News, which kept him busy and out of my hair most of the time.

  That is, he was out of my hair in a five-bedroom house. How that would translate to our temporary cramped digs remained to be seen.

  I’d tried to put on a brave face when we walked out the kitchen door and locked it for the last time. But I felt like something I truly loved had died.

  I know, I know. I was being ridiculous.

  Later that night, after hours of tossing and turning in a strange bed and listening to My Beloved’s snoring, I decided to go back to my house one more time. I wanted to be in each room and let the memories wash over me. And once I had done that, I would let the house go. Once and for all.

  That was my plan.

  Until I stumbled over the dead body in my living room.

  Chapter 1

  If a husband speaks in the wilderness, and his wife

  is not there to hear him, is he still wrong?

  “Turn the thermostat down to sixty-three,” My Beloved barked at me. “That’s plenty warm enough for this time of year.”

  Sixty-three was warm enough for this time of year? In New England? It was January, in case Jim hadn’t noticed. There was snow on the ground and a cold wind was blowing through our drafty front door.

  I decided not to argue with him, pushed the thermostat down, and went to add another sweatshirt to my layers of clothing. I hoped I’d still be able to bend my arms.

  The furnace protested. It clanked, shuddered, sighed, and finally shut off. Maybe the furnace was cold, too.

  “The way this old house bleeds money, it should be owned by a millionaire,” said Jim, who’d followed me into our bedroom to continue his tirade. “You know that since I retired we need to be careful with our finances, Carol. I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you.”

  Yeah, yeah. I’d heard it all before. Often. In fact, I heard the same complaints before My Beloved had retired. I knew we weren’t millionaires, and we sure didn’t live like we were.

  “I think we should seriously consider putting the house on the market in the spring. It’s getting to be too much to take care of.”

  I’d heard that one before, too. But I knew he wasn’t serious. Moving meant Jim would have to organize and clean up all his clutter, now piled high in two unused bedrooms. This was a task he’d been successfully avoiding for years. And besides, except for his weekly newspaper column for the Fairport News, what else did he have to do with himself besides putter around the house doing necessary – and sometimes unnecessary – repairs?

  He’d never move out of here.

  We’d owned our antique house in Fairport, Connecticut -- a hop, skip and quick commuter train ride from New York City -- for the past 34 years. While Fairport didn’t have the “cachet” of other Fairfield County,

  Connecticut towns like, say, Greenwich or New Canaan, it was still considered a desirable bedroom community for those who traveled daily to jobs in Manhattan. I absolutely loved the town, and had no intentions of selling my wonderful house.

  Still, I had noticed Jim reading the real estate section of the paper more often these days. And once or twice, when I logged onto the computer after him, I realized the last web site he’d looked at was Realtor.com.

  Hmm. This could be more serious than I thought.

  Rummaging around in the back of my walk-in closet, I grabbed the first thing I could find, which turned out to be a hooded sweatshirt that proclaimed, “I decided to bake some anatomically correct men. Didn’t give them any brains.”

  “Very funny, Carol,” said Jim as I struggled to put my head through the opening.

  “Did you wash this in hot water and deliberately shrink it?” I tried not to sound like I was accusing him of a crime, but since Jim recently assumed the family laundry duties, several articles of my clothing have registered complaints. “It wasn’t this tight the last time I wore it.”

  “Maybe you’ve just gained a few pounds,” said My Beloved.

  Ouch. That really hurt. I swiveled around to face him and give him a smartass answer, but he’d already stomped out of the room and headed to the kitchen.

  Being me, hardheaded to a fault, I couldn’t let his remark pass so I stomped right after him. I found him with his head stuck in the refrigerator, rummaging around for a snack.

  “It seems to me, dear, that you’re the one who always has his head in the refrigerator.” Among other places. “I’ll have you know that I weighed myself this morning and I haven’t gained an ounce. What do you think about that?”

  “Ha,” said Jim, unwilling to let it go. “Scales aren’t always accurate. I just know what I see when I look at you. Let’s just say there’s a little more to love than there used to be.”

  Jeez. He was the one who, since his retirement, hadn’t been able to fasten the top button on his favorite jeans.

  “Play nice, kids,” said our daughter Jenny, home from teaching at Fairport Community College a little earlier than expected. “I can’t leave you two alone for a minute.” She hugged us both, then said, “Now, kiss and make up. Or I’ll have to send you to your room without supper.”

  “How the worm has turned,” I said, laughing just a little to let our daughter know that her dad and I weren’t really mad at each other.

  I gave Jim a quick peck on the cheek, and he gave my arm a squeeze. Probably checking to see if there was any extra fat on it, but thanks to all the layers I was wearing, he couldn’t tell.

  “Here’s the mail,” said Jenny. “Since when do you subscribe to Retirement Relocation magazine, Dad?”

  Huh? My Beloved had paid actual money for a magazine subscription on places to retire? When he could have read it at our library – for free?

  This was beyond serious. This was a crisis-in-the-making.

  Chapter 2

  I can only please one person a day. Today is not your day.

  Tomorrow’s not looking good either.

  Dinner that night was strained. Not the food, the atmosphere. (We may be older, but we can still chew.) I wanted to confront My Beloved about his real estate musings – I had a right to know, after all. But I didn’t want to have an argument in front of Jenny. And somehow, I knew Jim and I would have an argument.

  I chewed
thoughtfully, oblivious to the conversation Jim and Jenny were having about the courses she was involved in this semester. Jenny had returned home last summer after spending a few years in L.A. pursuing a graduate degree in English, and being pursued – and sometimes caught -- by a variety of highly unsuitable young men, in my humble opinion. Especially the last one, Jeff, whose controlling attitude had finally driven Jenny back to the East Coast.

  Not that I would have ever voiced that to my daughter, of course. I do have a big mouth, but I’m not that stupid. Both Jim and I were delighted that she now was pursuing a graduate degree and supporting herself (with a little help from good old Mom and Dad) with a part-time teaching assistant’s job at the local college.

  And I was over the moon about Jenny’s new relationship. Her boyfriend du jour, whom I hoped would be The One, was Mark Anderson, who had been a classmate of Jenny’s way back in grade school. He was also a local police detective, and he and Jenny had become reacquainted last summer when My Beloved had been (falsely, of course!) suspected of committing a homicide. I was the one who had finally figured out who the real culprit was, but modestly, I let the police department take all the credit.