Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  The doorbell continued to ring as more guests arrived. I could hear Nancy chatting away, taking coats and stuffing them in our already packed front hall closet. That was another thing I didn’t do – empty out the coat closet. You’d think I had never entertained before.

  One of my neighbors, Sara Miller, was the next to appear in the kitchen, carrying a sterling silver chafing dish containing “Great Aunt Sharon’s Marvelous Meatballs,” a secret family recipe she claimed her aunt had given only to her, “since I’m the gourmet cook in the family.” Sara worshipped at the shrine of Martha Stewart, and never met a fancy recipe she wouldn’t try. Some of her experiments were successful, and others were not. One thing she was absolutely adamant about, though, was using only the freshest organic ingredients known to womankind. No frozen or canned for her. I had to hide the electric can opener when she was around.

  I wondered what culinary delight we were in store for tonight. I hoped it was a recipe that had already been tested on some other lucky neighborhood guinea pigs.

  Sara was dressed with her customary touch of purple – this time a tunic over black leggings. She looked like an eggplant with legs.

  My counters and island began to look like the takeout area of a local restaurant. Mary Alice took over, and organized desserts on one side and appetizers on the other.

  “OK, everybody, we have four Bunco tables tonight,” I said in my most take-charge voice. As usual, everyone was crowded in the kitchen, mixing in and having a great time. And not listening to a word I was saying.

  I had to move things along. “One Bunco table’s in the dining room, two are in the family room, and the other one’s in the office, so pick out where you want to sit. And help yourselves to some wine and an hors d’oeuvre or two.”

  “Or three,” piped up Phyllis Stevens, the head of the Old Fairport Turnpike Homeowners’ Association. Phyllis and her husband Bill were part of the “Old Guard” of the area. Their home had been in Phyllis’s family for three generations. She and Bill were one of only a handful of couples left in the neighborhood who were older than Jim and me.

  That was something I liked about our neighborhood, though – the influx of younger families. I knew I would have trouble adjusting to living in a place where everyone was about the same age – older than dirt, as Mike would say. I liked seeing the young mothers wheeling their babies around the block. It reminded me of when Jenny and Mike were little.

  Of course, in my day, I walked behind the carriage. These mommies jogged. They always appeared in a group and managed to both jog and talk at the same time, without losing either a single step or their breath. Amazing.

  It amused me to see My Beloved suck in his stomach if he happened to be outside when any of these young lovelies jogged by.

  Three of the jogging mommies were here tonight: Deb Myers, Liz Stone, and Stacy O’Keefe. Their color was already rosy. I couldn’t tell if it was because they’d jogged to my house or had hit the wine bottle a few times when they got here.

  “This is so cool, Carol,” said Liz. At least, I think it was Liz. They all had blonde ponytails and sometimes I had trouble telling them apart. “Thanks for inviting us. I’ve never played Bunco before, and I’m dying to learn. I hope it’s easy.”

  “Yeah,” added Stacy. “After a day with the twins, my mind is mush.”

  “I remember those days,” I said. “I used to long for adult conversation. The highlight of my day used to be a visit from the mailman, especially if he had a package that had to be signed for. That meant he had to ring the doorbell.”

  “Things haven’t changed that much, Carol,” Stacy assured me. “I still look forward to the mailman. Or any adult at my door these days. Even someone selling magazine subscriptions.”

  “By the way, did you hear that the police arrested someone for the hit and run accident at the college?” Liz asked.

  “Thank God,” Mary Alice said. “I hope they put him in prison and throw away the key without bothering with a trial.”

  “That’s a little strong, Mary Alice,” said Phyllis. “Everyone deserves his day in court, and is innocent until proven guilty.”

  Mary Alice snorted. “Listen, anyone who would hit a defenseless person and then drive away and leave her to die deserves to be locked up for life, as far as I’m concerned. Or, better yet, executed.” She took a hearty gulp of her red wine.

  The kitchen suddenly was very quiet. Everyone, it seemed, was listening to this exchange.

  “I don’t agree,” said Phyllis, her cheeks getting a little pink. “Everyone is entitled to a fair trial. That’s one of the principles this country was founded on.”

  “My husband Brian was killed in a car accident by a kid who was driving with only a learner’s permit,” said Mary Alice. She was so upset now that she was shaking. “The judge let him off with only two years in jail and five years’ probation. How’s that for justice?

  “That kid ruined my life and my boys’ lives. I swear, if I ever see him again, I’ll kill him.

  “I mean it.”

  Then she slammed her wine glass down on my granite counter, grabbed her coat, and left without saying another word.

  Chapter 8

  An archeologist is the best husband any woman could want.

  The older she gets, the more interesting she is to him.

  “I’ve never seen Mary Alice so upset,” I said to My Beloved. It was Valentine’s Day and we were finally going to have some time to ourselves. I was filling Jim in on the Bunco party while we enjoyed a pre-dinner glass of merlot in front of a cozy fire in the living room.

  “It’s nice that Mark’s not working tonight so he and Jenny can be together,” I continued. “The last few days have been non-stop, packing her up and helping her move into her new condo.”

  I reached over and grabbed Jim’s hand. “I know this has been hard for you, but when she came home last year, we knew she wouldn’t be here forever. And Mark is such a good guy.”

  “When he’s not suspecting me of bumping somebody off,” Jim groused. He winked at me to show he wasn’t serious.

  “I don’t want to talk about Mary Alice, or even Jenny and Mark, right now,” he said. “I know we usually don’t make a big deal about Valentine’s Day, but this year, after everything we’ve been through together, I wanted to get you something extra special.”

  He handed me a small box. I opened it and found a strand of cultured pearls and matching bracelet inside.

  “Oh, Jim, I love them,” I said. “I can’t believe you did this for me. Thank you, so much.” I threw my arms round My Beloved and gave him the smooch he deserved for such a romantic gesture.

  “I have something special for you too,” I said, pulling out the envelope that contained a funny valentine and the agreement I’d already signed to list our house for sale.

  “Here. Open it,” I said. “I guarantee you’re going to love it.” I was wriggling with excitement. I love surprises. As long as they’re happy ones.

  “I hope you didn’t spend too much money,” Jim said.

  “You are so predictable,” I said. “For your information, I didn’t spend any money on your gift. But I’m sure we’re going to make some.”

  Jim looked at me quizzically, then pushed his glasses up onto his forehead so he could read the card. Honestly, the man will not admit that he needs bifocals. And women are supposed to be the vainer sex.

  The valentine featured good old Charlie Brown saying, “I knew I’d have to look through a million valentines before I found the right card for you….. Because you’re one in a million.” We’ve never been into giving each other mushy greeting cards. This was as close as it got.

  “Good one, Carol. What’s this inside?”

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, raising my wine glass. “Here’s to the rest of our lives. May they be long, healthy, and full of new adventures.”

  “Are you sure about this?” asked Jim, holding the listing agreement and good old Charlie Brown in a deat
h grip. “I’m not forcing you to move. I know how much you love this house.”

  “I’m sure I want to start having new adventures with you as soon as possible,” I said, neatly sidestepping his question. “It’ll be fun to fill in the details as we go along. Now, sign.” I held out a pen. “I already did.”

  After a romantic dinner and a delightful interlude in our Jacuzzi – I don’t have to tell you everything! -- I called Nancy to tell her it was official. We were listing the house for sale.

  And that’s when our troubles really started.

  Chapter 9

  The first time a man got into trouble,

  he put the blame on a woman.

  “I thought you loved our house,” I said to Nancy. “All you’re doing now is finding things to criticize about it.”

  “You’ve got to stop thinking about this as your house, Carol,” said my crackerjack real estate agent and former best friend. “I was afraid you’d be like this. That’s why I was hesitant to take this listing. You’ve got to let go and let me do my job. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, is selling your house.”

  It was a few days after Valentine’s Day. Nancy and Marcia Fischer, the “staging expert” from Superior Interiors (“Your Home, Only Better”), a local upscale furniture and design studio, were going through my house from top to bottom, scrutinizing every room, opening every closet door, and taking copious notes. Marcia was also photographing each room with her digital camera.

  I felt like I had been invaded.

  Lucy and Ethel followed us from room to room, probably checking to be sure Marcia – whom I disliked on sight for no reason other than the fact that she rolled her eyes at Nancy every time we went into another room – wasn’t swiping anything.

  “You need to remove all these personal photographs,” said Marcia, surveying my beautiful living room and its built-in bookcases with obvious disdain. “Buyers have to be able to imagine themselves in a house. No one wants to look at pictures of someone else’s family.” She looked at Nancy, who nodded in agreement.

  “The dogs will definitely have to leave when we have the open house on St. Patrick’s Day,” Marcia continued. “As a matter of fact, they should be out of the house for at least a week before the open house to get rid of that awful doggy odor.” She wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “No agent’s going to show a house to a potential buyer with this stench.”

  Stench! What? No way. I was a meticulous housekeeper. Now I was really angry.

  Before I hauled off and slugged her, Nancy intervened. “Marcia’s right, I’m afraid. You’re just so used to living with dogs that you don’t notice it. But believe me, a potential buyer will.

  “It never bothered me, though,” she added, trying to soothe me. “You know how much I love the girls.” To prove it, Nancy reached down and gave each of them a scratch on their silky heads.

  I was momentarily pacified. I guess I knew in my heart that Marcia and Nancy were right. But I also knew I couldn’t stand hearing my beautiful house criticized so ruthlessly.

  “Nancy, you’re my best friend. I trust you to do your job,” I said, trying to convince myself that I really meant what I was saying. I didn’t say a word about Marcia, though. I’m not a complete hypocrite.

  “The dogs and I are going to get out of your way. You figure out what needs to be done, make your list, and Jim and I’ll do what you say.”

  I held up my right hand and said, “Girl Scout’s honor.” I hope she didn’t notice that my left hand was behind my back. Those fingers were crossed.

  “You want to price the house much too low,” My Beloved sputtered at Nancy the next evening. The three of us were seated around our kitchen table, where we’d all sat together hundreds of times before. This time, though, we weren’t friends getting together for a friendly cup of coffee or a glass of wine. We were there to hammer out the final details of the house listing. This was a business meeting, and Jim meant business.

  He leaned forward in his chair, breathing hard, like he usually does when money is involved. “There is no way I’m letting this property be listed for such a low price.”

  Keep your mouth shut, I told myself. Let the two of them hammer it out.

  Unless they came to blows, of course. Then I’d have to break it up.

  I had a momentary, cheery thought. Maybe if Jim couldn’t agree with Nancy about a listing price, he wouldn’t want to sell the house.

  Yeah, and then he’d keel over from a heart attack when he was shoveling the sidewalk or mowing the lawn.

  So much for that fantasy. No way that was going to happen, if I could prevent it.

  Nancy reached into her designer briefcase, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and slapped them on the table in front of Jim. I had the sneaky feeling she wanted to slap him with the papers, and was working hard to restrain herself. Maybe listing the house with a close friend hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Too late now. And I knew she would’ve killed me if Jim and I had listed the house with any other real estate agent.

  “These are comps from houses that have sold in this neighborhood in the past two years,” Nancy said to Jim. “I want you to study them carefully, and see if you notice a trend.”

  My Beloved pushed his glasses on top of his head and squinted to read the information. “You see,” he said after just a few seconds, “these comps prove my point. Most of these houses sold for over a million dollars.”

  “Look again, Jim,” said Nancy. “You’re missing the point. All the ones that sold for over a million dollars were newer homes.” She pointed out three houses she had highlighted in yellow. “The antiques all sold for considerably less. The highest one, four months ago, sold for eight hundred twenty-five thousand dollars. It was on the market for over a year, and the sellers had to come way down on their asking price to finally get it sold. Buyers today want open floor plans and skylights, not cozy rooms with low ceilings and uneven floors. This isn’t going to be an easy sell. You’ve got to price a house right in this competitive market. This property should be listed in the sevens.”

  I could see the calculator in Jim’s brain figure out the bottom line. He looked at me for guidance, but no way was I going to get in the middle of this one. He’d always been the financial genius in the family.

  I raised my eyebrows, then sent him a look which said, “Whatever you do is fine with me.”

  My Beloved sighed in defeat. “Seven hundred seventy-five thousand dollars,” he said. “And not a penny less.”

  “Exactly the figure I was thinking of,” said Nancy. She winked at me, and handed him a pen “You’ll see that I’m right, Jim. Leave everything to me.”

  For the next few weeks, Jim and I worked like, forgive the expression, dogs. We rented a storage unit in town, and I was assigned the job of packing away all our personal items. Since we’d been in the house over thirty years, we were drowning in stuff, much of it saved for reasons that neither of us could remember. I wanted to throw a lot away, and Jim wanted to save all the things that I didn’t. Funny that women are accused of being packrats, and it’s the men who can’t part with that tattered college sweatshirt or magazines that are years out of date.

  I finally convinced My Beloved to hire a dumpster. I was well on my way to filling it, too – and having myself a great time with my purging – until I accidentally threw out Jim’s favorite L.L. Bean jacket, which he had carelessly left on the garage floor. After that debacle, I reined myself in. Reluctantly.

  We hadn’t made any decision on where we were moving to, but since Nancy expected the sale of our house to take a while, neither of us was concerned.

  “Wherever we go, I promise that we’ll take both dogs with us,” Jim said. What a softie. I knew he loved the girls as much as I did, especially now that he was retired and able to spend more “quality” time with them.

  Jenny was a big help in the purging and packing. Probably because she had moved out of the house and was starting her own adventure with Mark. I was dying of cur
iosity about the progress of that relationship, but I restrained myself from cross-examining her. Like asking whether there were any wedding plans.

  Our dear son, however, was not taking our move out of the family homestead as well. In fact, if e-mails could ignite a computer, his constant flood of them would have burned our house down. They basically all had the same tone, but varied in intensity as we got closer to the open house. Such as:

  The Big Move

  Mom, don’t touch my stuff! I’ll come home and go through it all myself. Just give me a little time to get things wrapped up in Florida. Do not – I repeat, DO NOT! – under any circumstances, go into my closet and start to pack things up. Especially my comic book collection.

  Your anxious son.

  His comic book collection? Since when was that so precious? I remembered that Mike had been into comics when he was in junior high. He even had a box or two stored away, but nothing that could possibly stir up this kind of long-distance panic.

  I decided Mike must have years’ worth of Playboy magazines stashed under his comics and he didn’t want me to know that. That made much more sense.

  I had an easy solution. I would delegate packing up Mike’s room to My Beloved. It would give him a nice break from re-grouting the master bathroom tile, touching up the baseboard paint and trim in the kitchen, and helping me wash the windows until they sparkled. Etc. etc.

  It sure looked easier to prep a house for sale on Home and Garden Television. Where was the Designed-To-Sell team when we needed them?

  A week before the open house, I moved Lucy and Ethel, along with their food, bowls, toys, blankets, crates, and doggy snacks, over to Mary Alice’s house. We hadn’t talked much since her Bunco party outburst, and this gave me a convenient excuse to catch up with her. Plus, she loves Lucy and Ethel almost as much as I do. And truth be told, they love her, too. Not as much as they love me, of course.