Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  I couldn’t help myself. As I started unwrapping the china, I took a quick peek at the newspapers, too. I was right. Some of them were at least 20 years old. I had a great time looking at The New York Times. Boy, fashions sure had changed over the years. And many of the stores with the splashy ads had gone out of business years ago.

  This is why you have so much trouble accomplishing things, I told myself. You’re too easily distracted and you don’t get anything done. Focus. Keep unpacking.

  There were a few more old newspapers wadded up in the corners of the box. I guessed My Beloved had stuck these in as an afterthought, so the contents of the box didn’t shift in transit.

  Oh, what the heck. I decided to check those out too, before I moved on to the next box. These were from our local paper. April 1988. This was the spring that Jim had been assigned to a client in Rome. The whole family had moved to Italy for six months. What a glorious time that had been. Of course, I had put on seven pounds, eating all that delicious food. Which I’d never been successful in taking off.

  Ah, well.

  I settled my back against the chair and started to scan the headlines. It took a few minutes for my brain to register what I was looking at.

  Ohmygod. It was a story about Mary Alice’s husband. And his tragic death in a car accident. Brian was killed instantly, when his car went down an embankment and exploded. The driver of the other car was a teenaged boy driving on a learner’s permit, who escaped without a scratch.

  My eyes filled with tears. How could I have forgotten that, while we were living it up in Rome, one of my best friends had her life turned upside down? What a selfish person I was.

  I forced myself to read the rest of the newspaper account, which apparently was a follow-up to a piece about the actual accident. The article was accompanied by a photo of Brian, and a photo of the driver of the other car.

  It was Jack Cartwright, our very-dead-almost-home-buyer.

  Chapter 21

  This is my spirit, honey. My body left a long time ago.

  My friends may tell you that I never stop talking. But let me tell you, looking at that yellowed newspaper clip left me speechless.

  Then, my brain kicked in. First of all, when you reach a certain age – not that I’m anywhere near that yet – I’m told that everyone you meet looks like someone you already know. A grade school classmate, for instance. Or someone you worked with one summer at the beach. Truth to tell, I’ve been known to go up to someone I’m sure went to high school with me at Mount Saint Francis Academy and say, “Gosh, I haven’t seen you in ages. You look terrific. We sat next to each other in French class. How’ve you been?” And then be totally embarrassed when the woman (it was an all-girls’ school, in case you didn’t know that) looked at me and said, “Who are you? I think you’ve confused me with someone else.”

  So, it was completely possible that this was not my Jack Cartwright.

  During my very brief experience with Pilates, the instructor always said, “Inhale to prepare.” I inhaled. Then exhaled slowly. Once more. Twice more. There, that was a little better. Maybe if my life ever calmed down, I’d go back to that class again.

  This called for a closer examination with my bifocals. I plopped myself back into the chair and closed my eyes. Inhale to prepare. OK, I was ready to take another look at that damned news story.

  “Local Doctor Killed in Car Crash,” read the headline. I shuddered. How awful to find this after all these years.

  I forced myself to read the brief story.

  “Doctor Brian Costello, noted local pediatrician and staff physician at Fairport Memorial Hospital, was killed instantly in an auto accident yesterday afternoon. The other vehicle in the crash was driven by seventeen-year-old John Cartwright of Milltown. Speed and slick road conditions, as well as the inexperience of the other driver, were thought to be factors in the crash. Local police are investigating. Doctor Costello leaves his wife, Mary Alice, and two sons. Funeral arrangements are pending.”

  There was no doubt about it. The driver of the car who caused Brian’s death was my Jack Cartwright.

  I sat there, motionless, while a million thoughts swirled through my brain. I remembered Mary Alice’s passion and grief when she talked about Brian’s accident at our neighborhood Bunco party a few months ago. At least twelve people heard her say that, if she ever laid eyes on the driver of the other car, she’d kill him.

  But she didn’t really mean that, I told myself. She was upset. More than upset. She was almost out of control. In fact, although I’d known Mary Alice most of my life, I’d never seen her like that before.

  There was no way Mary Alice could have known that the buyer for our house was the same person who was responsible for Brian’s death.

  Was there?

  Maybe she recognized Jack at the open house. Then she waited for a chance to finally get her revenge.

  This was beginning to sound like a trashy soap opera.

  But Mary Alice had been at our house the night I found Jack dead. She admitted that to the police. Maybe I don’t remember agreeing to meet her and hide something in the house because we’d never had that conversation. What if she just made it up to give herself a reason to be there? Who knew better than my best friends how unreliable my memory could be?

  “This is ridiculous,” I said to the dogs. “I’m just going to call her up and ask her. Or, better yet, ask her to meet me and go for a long walk. That way, I can see her reaction when I show her the newspaper story.

  “Oh, rats.”

  I suddenly realized this was a bad idea. If Mary Alice was innocent – correction, because Mary Alice was innocent – confronting her with the old article might only make things worse. She’d definitely panic. She might even run away.

  I couldn’t give the article to Mark, because he would have to give it to Paul Wheeler. Who would be obliged to question Mary Alice.

  I couldn’t talk to Nancy about this. She can’t keep a secret no matter how hard she tries. In fact, the harder she tries, the more likely she is to let something slip.

  My Beloved would tell me my imagination was working overtime. Which it certainly could be.

  I could call my friend Claire in Florida and ask her what to do, but she’s married to a lawyer, so she’d probably tell me to talk to the police and clear the matter up once and for all.

  In the past, I’ve unburdened myself to Deanna, my favorite hairdresser and miracle worker. Talking to her always made me feel better. But Mary Alice was a client of hers, too. I didn’t want to plant any suspicions in Deanna’s mind about Mary Alice. That wouldn’t be fair at all, to either of them.

  I couldn’t place Jenny in the awkward position of being my confidante this time. Besides, she might also tell me to talk to Mark. Even if she wasn’t talking to him herself.

  Then, I had another terrible thought. What if the police found out Jack’s identity and added revenging Brian’s death to the ridiculous accusation that I wanted to stop the house sale?

  A cold nose nudged my hand, and I looked down to find Lucy looking up at me. You can talk to us, she seemed to say.

  I scooped her up in my arms and gave her a squeeze. Oof, she was getting a little heavy. Time to switch to light dog food.

  “You and Ethel are great at support,” I assured her.

  “But unfortunately, this time I need some advice. And that’s not your specialty.”

  I’d always depended on talking difficult situations out with my family or friends. They help me gain the clarity that I usually lack.

  But I couldn’t tell anyone about finding the old newspaper. In fact, if I was smart, I’d burn the damn thing and be done with it.

  I‘d never felt so alone in my whole life.

  Lucy and I sat in that chair for a long time, with Ethel dozing at my feet. In fact, I think I dozed off for a few minutes, too. There’s nothing like the comfort of holding a warm furry body on your lap to produce a feeling of relaxation.

  Until Lucy started
to squirm. Enough of this. I need to go out.

  I finally figured out what to do about the newspaper article, thanks to the dogs. I’m not going to confess to you what I did. Let’s just say that, with a contribution from both of them, the article was completely destroyed and I didn’t feel the least bit guilty putting it into the trash barrel.

  And, like the great Scarlet O’Hara once said under dissimilar but equally stressful circumstances, I resolved to think about it tomorrow.

  Or, maybe not.

  My two canine co-conspirators and I spent the rest of the morning unpacking more boxes. Well, I unpacked. They snoozed.

  By noontime, the tiny apartment had begun to take on some semblance of home. Having my own dishes, cutlery, linens, and other kitchen accessories put away in the limited cupboard space was so great. I do like things to be orderly. (Sometimes I achieve order by throwing things into a closet and closing the door. I bet I’m not the only person who does that.) A few family photographs added to the cozy feeling.

  I was feeling pretty positive about what I’d accomplished. Until I found a photo of Claire, Nancy, Mary Alice and me that was taken at Mary Alice’s retirement shower the previous year. Mary Alice looked so happy, sitting on a chair we had decorated as a throne. She was wearing a tiara, a feather boa, and a tee-shirt that read, “Hello, New Life! The Best Is Yet To Come.”

  Just looking at that picture made me want to cry. Again.

  “There is absolutely, positively, no way that our Mary Alice could be involved in Jack Cartwright’s death,” I announced to the girls. They both wagged their tails in complete agreement. “I don’t care about that newspaper article. She didn’t recognize Jack. Period. And if anybody dares to say otherwise, I swear that I’ll do whatever it takes to prove them wrong.

  “Just like I did for Jim last year.”

  I tossed each of the dogs a Milk Bone, made sure their water bowls were full – I know their priorities – and told them to sit tight for a couple of hours because I needed retail therapy big-time. Even if I had to get it at the grocery store.

  Chapter 22

  I understand the basic concepts of cooking and cleaning.

  Just not how they apply to me.

  I’m going to be completely honest here. I hate food shopping. Probably because, now that My Beloved was retired and had more spare time on his hands, one of the joys of his existence was to “help” unload the groceries from their reusable, environmentally friendly bags, check each item against the cashier’s tape, and question everything I had purchased. “Why did you buy this brand of dishwasher detergent, Carol? Don’t you know that store brand is always cheaper? We’re on a fixed income now, you know. ” Etc. etc.

  Jeez. I’ve been doing the family shopping for more than 30 years and we weren’t bankrupt yet.

  This time, I was only going to pick up the bare necessities – eggs, milk, bread, maybe a package of chicken, some veggies. The tiny refrigerator in the apartment didn’t hold much. And dog biscuits. I hoped Lucy and Ethel wouldn’t notice if they got a generic brand for a change. And forgive me if they did.

  Concentrating on getting the most items for the least amount of money is a game I’ve been playing with myself ever since Jim retired. I usually lose, to hear My Beloved tell it, but I keep on trying. It’s kind of like going to one of the casinos Connecticut is famous for and playing the slots.

  I was concentrating extra hard today on bargain shopping because I didn’t want any stray thoughts of dead house buyers, failed real estate transactions, or possible arrests of best friends for murder to creep into my mind. So I didn’t even see another grocery cart coming down the canned food aisle until I careened into it.

  “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “My mind was on something else and I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  “You always had your mind on other things, Carol. That’s one thing about you that hasn’t changed,” said the driver of the other shopping cart.

  Good grief. It was Sister Rose.

  “What’s wrong, Carol? You were never at a loss for words. Didn’t you think nuns ate?”

  This was too much. I was in no mood for the good sister’s peculiar brand of sarcasm today. And, besides, if Jim and I decided to – graciously – allow our antique home to be used as a fundraising venue for Sally’s Place, Sister Rose had better straighten up and start being nicer to me.

  Of course, I needed her cooperation, too, for my potentially Pulitzer-Prize-winning article on domestic violence, but I chose not to focus on that. Right now, I had other matters to clear up with my former English teacher.

  “You know, Sister,” I said, “I never understood why you always went out of your way to criticize me when I was in high school. And now that I’m an adult, even though we haven’t seen each other in years, you’re still doing it. I never had the nerve to speak up for myself when I was a teenager, but you can’t give me in-school suspension any more. I think you owe me an explanation. And an apology.”

  We stood there, shopping cart to shopping cart, while other shoppers maneuvered around us. I was shaking, either from anger or fear. Would I be punished in hell for calling a nun out?

  Sister Rose finally broke the silence.

  “You’re right, Carol. There are some things I need to say to you. But not here. How about if we finish our shopping and meet for a cup of coffee? You could come to my office at Sally’s Place. It’s more private there.”

  “I’m all for having a cup of coffee,” I said. But not on your turf. I’m not that crazy. “I usually have a quick shot of caffeine around this time of day. But I have another idea. Why don’t we meet at The Paperback Café, instead? Do you know where that is?”

  Sister Rose nodded. “I’ll see you there in half an hour.”

  I called after her, “Don’t be late.” Of course, I didn’t say it very loud. I just wanted to have the last word with her. For once in my life.

  The Café was quiet when I got there. Of course, Sister Rose had gotten there ahead of me, and was already sipping a cup of steaming coffee.

  Rats. I really wanted to get there first. I know, that’s childish.

  I hoped our little coffee klatch wouldn’t take too long. I had perishable groceries in my car. But I was curious about what Sister Rose had to say to me.

  Once I had my own cup of half decaf/half regular coffee, I settled myself in the booth opposite her. So far, she hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. I realized I could luck out. If she didn’t talk at all, I’d be back at the apartment in no time.

  “Carol,” she finally said, “what I’m going to tell you isn’t an apology. It’s more of an explanation. You can take it any way you want to.”

  Sister Rose took a deep breath. Then she asked, “How old do you think I am?”

  Huh? Now this was really weird. The next thing, we’d be promising to send each other birthday cards.

  I took a good look at her. I mean, I looked at her. When I was in high school, I always assumed all our teachers were old. Really old. At least, well, forty. Fifty, even. But if Sister Rose had been forty then, that’d make her – I did some quick math, not my strong suit – close to eighty today.

  The woman sitting opposite me was nowhere near that age. In fact, she looked remarkably like someone…someone my age. And never mind exactly what that age is.

  “I’m only four years older than you, Carol,” Sister Rose said.

  “Surprised?”

  Surprised? I was in shock.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “That means when I was in high school…”

  “I was still only four years older than you.”

  She spread her hands wide in front of her. “Don’t you see, Carol? I was a young girl, too, just like all of you. Mount Saint Francis was my very first teaching assignment. I was scared to death. But determined to be the very best English teacher I could possibly be. And I wanted everyone to respect me, so I forced all my students to toe the line. There was no fooling around in my class.


  “I admit I overdid it in the discipline area. I did tone it down as I got more used to teaching. But your class was my first one. I didn’t want any of you to suspect how young I was. And how insecure.”

  Wow. This was pretty amazing. I couldn’t wait to tell Nancy about this.

  “OK,” I said slowly. “I get the fact that you were young and scared back then. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re still coming down on me just like you used to do in high school.”

  I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily.

  “Old habits die hard, Carol,” said Sister Rose. “A little nun humor there.”

  Humph.

  “I always wanted the best for you. But you aggravated me so much. You had tremendous potential and I felt I needed to push you hard to force you to live up to it. I guess seeing you again pushed me back into that same mode. Every now and then, at Sally’s Place, I tend to do the same thing when I see a young woman about to make a huge life mistake. The difference there is, when I start to get like that, the women don’t let me get away with it.”

  “Maybe you’re losing your touch,” I said.

  Oops. My bad.

  “Sorry, Sister. I still have a smart mouth.”

  To my amazement, Sister Rose laughed out loud. I don’t think I’d ever heard her laugh before. And then I started to laugh. We made quite a picture, two middle-aged women laughing like teenagers.

  “One other thing I want to get straight with you, Carol,” my coffee companion said. “Please, just call me Rose. Not Sister Rose. Especially if you’re at Sally’s Place or the thrift shop. We try to downplay the religious connection. It intimidates some of the clients. My life now is all about helping women and children who are going through the toughest time in their lives. Some of the stories I’ve heard make me want to cry.”