Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  The more I thought about it, the madder I got.

  Well, after that phone call, I certainly wasn’t going to send any food over to comfort the family. In her current frame of mind, Sara would probably think I was trying to poison them.

  But then, I realized this wasn’t really Sara talking. Who could blame her for lashing out at me under the circumstances?

  I needed to talk to Mary Alice. She was the only one of my friends who could give me advice on dealing with Sara, since she’d had so much experience as a nurse counseling grieving families. Plus dealing with her own personal heartbreak.

  When her voice mail came on, I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t upset her. Probably telling her that I had discovered a dead body in my living room wasn’t the best message to leave.

  I forced myself to sound normal. “Hi Mary Alice. It’s Carol. A little problem has come up that I really need to talk to you about. Could you call me back as soon as you get this message? Thanks.”

  I hoped that would do the trick. But I knew Mary Alice wasn’t nearly as anal as I was about checking either voice mail or e-mail messages.

  “Let’s give her an hour,” I said to the dogs. “If we haven’t heard from her, we’ll call her again. Meanwhile, we’ve got some unpacking to do.” I knew I also had to go to the police station sometime today and give a formal statement. But I was in no rush to do that, and certainly wouldn’t go without My Beloved as moral support.

  I was on my hands and knees searching through a box labeled “Emergency Supplies” when the phone rang. I scrambled to my feet and, as I did, felt a searing pain shoot through my lower back. Rats. It would probably take at least two weeks before I was back to “normal.”

  I dropped back onto my knees and willed myself to ignore the pain as I grabbed for the phone.

  “Hello, hello. Mary Alice? Thank God you called me back so quickly.”

  “This is Detective Paul Wheeler of the Fairport Police,” said the voice at the other end of the phone. “What time this morning will you be at the police station to answer more questions about last night’s incident at your home? I expected to see you by now.”

  I started to speak, but he interrupted me.

  “I’m sure you want to cooperate with the police. Unless you have something to hide, of course.”

  Give me a break.

  A variety of responses flashed across my mind in a millisecond, ranging from smartass to sniveling and pathetic. He’s just trying to goad you, Carol. Don’t let him get to you.

  “Why, Paul, I’m so glad you called,” I said in what My Beloved refers to as my saccharine voice. “I’m looking forward to answering your questions and getting any confusion straightened out as soon as possible.” Yes, sirree. I can’t wait until you shine a bright light in my eyes and put the thumbscrews to me.

  “I’ll be there by eleven-thirty, if that’s convenient.”

  “Be on time,” he said. And then I heard the dial tone.

  “He is unbelievably rude,” I said to the dogs. “And to think that Jim and I are taxpayers and pay his salary.” Hmm, that was an interesting thought. Maybe I could get the little twerp fired. A pleasant fantasy, but there was no time to dwell on that now.

  “If I can find bath towels and soap, I’m going to take a shower and get down to police headquarters,” I announced to the dogs. “And if Jim doesn’t show up by the time I leave, I’m going alone.”

  Lucy and Ethel gave me doggy stares. They know me too well.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I can’t go alone. I need support. I’m dreading this.

  “You can both come with me.” I swear, Lucy’s tail began to wag. “But you can’t come into the police station. The way my luck is going, one of you might accidentally nip a policeman and I’ll be thrown in jail.”

  As things turned out, My Beloved arrived back at our temporary digs just as I was loading the dogs into the car.

  “Nice television appearance, Jim,” I said. “How did you get trapped into it? I didn’t know you were going back to the house this morning.”

  Jim became defensive. “I didn’t think it would do any harm to go back to the house and see if the police were still there. When that college kid came with his camera crew, I didn’t think it was a big deal to answer his questions. After all, I’ve prepped lots of clients for television appearances over the years. How did I know the kid would turn out to be so aggressive? He must have taken interview lessons from Jerry Springer, for God’s sake.

  “Where are you and the dogs off to?” he asked, neatly changing the subject.

  “No where fun,” I replied. “I have to go to police headquarters and sign a statement, remember? That obnoxious Paul Wheeler has already called to remind me to get over there pronto. Oh, and wait till I tell you what happened with Sara Miller.”

  Rats. Don’t tell him about that now, Carol. Are you crazy?

  Luckily, by that time Jim had turned away so I was talking to his back. “Wait a few minutes and I’ll go with you,” he said. “I don’t want you facing the police alone.

  “It’s not like we have any other place to go this morning, like to the lawyer’s office to close on the house.”

  I’d driven by the Fairport Police Station hundreds of times over the years. Slowly, of course. Didn’t want my lead foot to get me arrested for speeding.

  The building looked like it had been designed by someone with no architectural knowledge except what he got playing with Tinker Toys as a child. The money it cost the town to build our police station was a sticking point in the craw of many a resident, including My Beloved -- a fiscal conservative to the core.

  “This monstrosity is a perfect example of why our taxes are so high,” groused Jim.

  I ignored him. The butterflies in my stomach were increasing and multiplying as we got closer to the front door of the station. The only experience I’d had with interrogation were from My Beloved. “Where did you get that …? How much did you pay for it? Did you really need it?” Etc. etc. ad nauseum. Any wife worth her wedding ring knows that drill. I figured that, with all those years of practice dodging those questions, a police interrogation would be a piece of cake.

  I willed myself to relax. Hah!

  Go in and get it over with, I told myself. You have nothing to hide.

  “Wow,” I exclaimed as I caught sight of the spacious lobby for the first time. “This is a lot nicer than I expected. Check out the fancy furniture. It looks like it’s real leather.”

  “Humph,” said My Beloved. “Another exorbitant example of wasting the taxpayers’ money.” I could see the wheels turning in his head. It looked like Jim had a subject for his next “State of the Town” column. He loves pointing out examples of fiscal incompetence whenever he gets the chance.

  Unfortunately, he does it with me too, but let’s not get into that now.

  The receptionist looked up from filing her nails and pushed back the glass window separating her from possible felons. I wondered if it was bulletproof glass.

  “May I help you?” she asked in an overly perky tone. I guess we didn’t look too threatening.

  “I’m Mrs. Carol Andrews,” I said. “I’m here to see Detective Paul Wheeler. He’s expecting me.”

  “Oh, Carol, yes,” she said. “Detective Wheeler will be with you shortly.” She gestured toward chairs across the lobby. “Have a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here.” She looked quizzically at Jim. “And you are?”

  “He’s Mr. Andrews,” I said. “I’m Mrs. Andrews. And you are?”

  The receptionist gave me a puzzled look, then said, “I’ll buzz Detective Wheeler for you now.”

  “Honestly,” I said to Jim as I attempted to get comfortable on the chair’s slippery leather seat, “that’s one thing that really bugs me. That receptionist is young enough to be our daughter, for Pete’s sake. Who told her she could call me by my first name?”

  “May I offer you some coffee while you wait?” asked our hostess, whose
name badge read Tammy.

  Even though it had been less than an hour since my last cup, I figured another shot of caffeine couldn’t hurt. Besides, I wanted to find out for myself if all those tales of horrific police station coffee were true.

  “Dunkin’ Donuts or Starbucks?” Tammy continued. “Regular or decaf? Cappuccino, espresso, latte? Skim milk? Cream? Sugar?” She gave us a toothy smile. “We just got a new coffee machine. I’ve been dying to try it out.”

  Jim interrupted her. “No thanks. I thought this was a police station, not a damn coffee bar!”

  “Suit yourself.” Tammy slammed the window shut and resumed her manicure.

  I don’t know how long we sat there, but it seemed like an eternity. I found myself wishing I’d brought a book along to pass the time. At one point I whispered to Jim, “Where is everybody? I know we don’t have a lot of crime in Fairport, but I never thought we’d be the only ones here.”

  “Maybe they bring the serious criminals in by the back door,” My Beloved replied.

  The waiting time continued with no end in sight, and Jim began to shift in his chair. If there’s one thing My Beloved hates more than wasting money, it’s wasting time.

  Tammy slid open her window again. “The rest room is all the way down the hall on the right hand side,” she announced.

  Jim flushed scarlet. I couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. But either way, I knew we were getting into dangerous waters.

  “Don’t respond,” I whispered, and squeezed his hand.

  At least I wasn’t nervous any more. Well, not as much.

  The phone buzzed again.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll tell her. Right away.”

  Tammy had the grace to look embarrassed when she relayed the message. “Detective Wheeler is on his way back to the scene of the incident. He’s asked that you meet him there.”

  “God, what a jerk,” Jim said, grabbing my hand and pulling me out of my chair. “Come on, Carol. Let’s go home.”

  “I never liked yellow and green together,” I said to My Beloved as we pulled into our yard. The yellow “Police Line, Do Not Cross” tape was stretched across our green picket fence. A small group of curious neighbors walked by and pretended they didn’t see us.

  “Let’s get this over with, Carol,” said Jim. “At least we’re on our own turf. That should make the questioning a little easier on you.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d been here last night,” I shot back, then immediately regretted it.

  Sometimes my mouth has a mind of its own. He’s only trying to help, I reminded myself. Cut the guy some slack.

  Lucy and Ethel began to bark and hop around in the back of our Jeep. They knew they were back in their own yard and were dying to run around.

  “All right, you guys,” I said, opening the tailgate so they could hop out. And buying myself a little more time before I went into the house. My stomach was doing flip flops again. I hadn’t felt so queasy since I was pregnant with Mike. Which reminded me.

  “I haven’t heard from Mike all week,” I said to Jim. “Have you? I worry when we don’t hear from him.”

  “He’s probably still sulking over his precious comic book collection,” Jim replied. “He’ll e-mail or call us soon.

  “Come on, let’s get this over with. You’ll feel much better then,” My Beloved said, taking my arm and propelling me toward our side door.

  Once again I found myself in my empty kitchen, but I had no chance to wallow in self-pity this time. Detective Paul pounced on us as soon as we walked in the door.

  “We don’t need you here, Mr. Andrews,” he said. “Please wait outside.”

  Jim immediately began to sputter, and I intervened. I don’t read all those mystery books for nothing.

  “If Jim can’t stay, I’m going to call our lawyer,” I said. “I’m not going through this interview without some support.” And protection, I added silently.

  “And, by the way, I think you owe us an apology for keeping us waiting at the police station all that time, and then ordering us to meet you here instead.”

  I fixed him with my official mommy stare, the one that used to strike fear into my kids when they’d done something wrong and I’d caught them.

  “All right, he can stay,” Paul said grudgingly, making it clear he was doing us a huge favor. “But no interfering with my questioning,” he ordered Jim.

  “Now,” addressing me, “show me exactly what you did last night. And don’t leave anything out.” He brandished a tape recorder. “I’m going to tape what you tell me.”

  That frightened me. “Why are you taping me?” I asked. “Last year when I was interviewed, you and Mark took notes.”

  Oops, that was stupid, Carol. No need to remind him that you’ve been through a police interrogation before.

  “The last time, you weren’t directly involved in the situation. This time, you are.”

  I took a deep breath and began my story. Again. Truth to tell, I was getting a little sick of telling it, so I’m not going to bore you with all the details of my “interrogation.”

  Suffice it to say that it took a lot longer than it should have, mainly due to the fact that My Beloved, who had been told to keep his mouth shut during the interview, kept interrupting Paul’s questions with some of his own. At times, it was hard to figure out who was conducting the interview. Every time I started to explain what I did, when I did it, and where I did it, Jim would jump in and ask something like, “Why did you do that, Carol?” Or “I don’t understand how you could have done that. It makes no sense to me.”

  By this time, they were both beginning to grate on my nerves. I mean, whose side was My Beloved on, anyway?

  I was just about to tell both of them to knock it off when I heard the kitchen door open.

  Mary Alice came running into the house and threw her arms around me. “Carol, what’s going on? I waited here for you for half an hour last night. Where were you? Why is there police tape outside the house?”

  Chapter 16

  Let’s all assume I know everything and get this over with.

  I don’t know which surprised me more – Mary Alice’s sudden appearance or what she blurted out. And I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

  Detective Paul switched off the tape recorder. I could imagine what he was thinking. Not only did he get to grill me, but now another possible witness had dropped in. His lucky day.

  “Why is everybody staring at me like that?” Mary Alice asked. “What did I say?”

  To his credit, My Beloved stepped in to ease the situation before Paul could answer.

  “There’s been a little hitch in the house sale,” Jim said in a masterstroke of understatement. “Our buyer had an accident here last night, and…”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Andrews,” said Paul. Turning to Mary Alice, he said, “I’m Detective Paul Wheeler of the Fairport police. Who are you?”

  “This is Mary Alice Costello,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulder. “She’s one of my best friends.

  “Though I don’t know why you thought we were meeting here last night,” I continued. “Did I ask you to come?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” said Paul with obvious impatience.

  “I have enough information to prepare a statement for you to sign, Mrs. Andrews. You two can leave now. I want to talk to Mrs. Costello alone.

  “This is still our house,” said Jim. “We’re not going anywhere. Any questions you ask Mary Alice you’ll do in front of us.”

  Whoa, Jim. Way to go. Although I feared that his sudden burst of bravado wouldn’t sit too well with Paul. I didn’t want to be hauled back to the police station again, even if there was fresh latte being brewed just for us.

  Jim was right, though. This still was our house. So I switched into a familiar role – hostess.

  “Why don’t we all sit down?” I suggested. I looked around and realized that there wasn’t a single stick of furniture left. The only
thing I could come up with was the front staircase. Well, it would have to do.

  “Come on,” I patted the lowest step, “sit beside me, Mary Alice.” And tell me what the heck you meant about meeting me here last night. Are you trying to get into trouble with the police, too?

  I didn’t really say that, of course.

  “I’ll stand,” said Paul. Of course, he would stand. It was the only way he’d be taller than the rest of us. He switched on the tape recorder again. “I’m continuing to record this. Now, once again, give me your name and relationship to the Andrews family.”

  “I’m Mary Alice Costello, and I’ve been a close friend of Carol’s and Jim’s for over thirty-five years. But I don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions. Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  “All in good time,” said Paul. “Now, you say you were here at the Andrews home last night? For what reason?”

  “I came to meet Carol.” She looked at me, questioning whether it was OK to go on. Since I had no clue what she was going to say, I nodded my head.

  “Carol and Jim sold their house, and the closing is today. The idea of leaving the home where they had raised their kids was especially hard for her. So we came up with the idea of hiding something small in the house that would be meaningful, so that a part of the Andrews family would always be here.

  “Don’t you remember, Carol? You saw this suggestion on New England Dream House. It was about tips to conquer seller’s remorse.”

  Say what? This was news to me. Of course, with all the stress of packing and moving, I could have forgotten.

  I started to ask her a question, but Detective Paul stopped me.

  “Don’t interrupt, Mrs. Andrews,” said Paul.

  He then began to barrage her with questions himself, the little jerk.

  “What time did you arrive? Did you see anything out of the ordinary when you got here? What time did you leave? Can you prove what time you left?”