Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  I nodded encouragingly. This could be the start of my domestic violence article.

  “Not that I can share any of them with you or anyone else, Carol. I sometimes feel the burden of confidentiality is more than I can bear. But the Good Lord always keeps me going.”

  OK. Forget the article for now. But maybe, if I met Sister Rose at Sally’s Place, she’d be more willing to talk. If only to give me some background information on the magnitude of the problem.

  “I don’t think I can call you ‘Rose,’ Sister. I bet Nancy and Claire and Mary Alice would say the same thing. You remember all of them, right?”

  “Mary Alice Mahoney. Now, she was a lovely girl. Very quiet and studious.”

  “You mean, not at all like me?” I asked.

  Sister Rose laughed. “You don’t think I’m going to respond to that, do you, Carol?”

  I shook my head.

  “Mary Alice married Brian Costello while he was in medical school, and they had two sons. Then, Brian died tragically, in a car accident.”

  Should I go any further? Was Sister Rose the one person I could talk to who would absolutely keep my confidence about Mary Alice and Jack Cartwright? That was a pretty outrageous idea. I hadn’t seen the woman in years. And I certainly never thought we’d be trading secrets.

  But apparently, because of her role as Director of Sally’s Place, she was the keeper of many women’s secrets. And took that commitment very seriously.

  Hmm. Hadn’t she just told me something about herself that was pretty personal.

  I looked at my watch. The Paperback Café would be closing in about 20 minutes. In fact, the servers were already refilling the salt and pepper shakers and setting up for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  What the hell. I mean, what the heck.

  I went for it.

  “Sister.” I paused. “I mean, Rose. I’d like to share something with you, too. In fact, you may be the only one I can tell. It’s about Mary Alice. And my husband Jim and me. Oh, I forgot, you don’t even know I’m married. Well, he’s a great guy, and I have two terrific kids….”

  Sister Rose looked at me like I was stupid. It was a familiar look.

  “Carol, maybe some other time you can fill me in on your own life. But now, what do you want to tell me about Mary Alice?”

  She took my hands and squeezed them. Much too tightly. Ouch.

  “I could tell that you had something bothering you. That’s why I decided to tell you my secret. So you’d feel comfortable sharing with me.”

  “You surprise me,” I said. “But then, you usually did. How did you figure out I had something on my mind?”

  “Years of working with families in crisis have taught me to read faces fairly well,” Sister Rose said. “And I believe there are no accidents in life. Everything that happens is all part of The Plan. How else do you explain our paths crossing after all these years?”

  I could have answered, “Because I like to shop for bargains,” but this time, I didn’t shoot my mouth off.

  “Mary Alice may be in serious trouble,” I said. “And I found out something today that could make it even worse for her.”

  I poured out the whole sad tale, as succinctly as I could, starting with the house sale, finding Jack, Mary Alice’s presence at the house that night, and, finally, the old newspaper article. By the time I was finished, I was on the verge of tears. No surprise, right?

  “What should I do, Sister? Should I talk to Mary Alice? Maybe try to find out what happened to Jack on my own? You don’t think I should go to the police, do you?”

  “I’m glad you talked to me about this, Carol. But you must understand that everything you’ve said about Mary Alice’s involvement is purely speculation on your part. And you don’t even know that a crime was committed. You’re jumping to conclusions. Something I seem to remember you did quite a lot when you were younger.” Sister Rose smiled to take the sting out of her words.

  “Please know that you can trust me to keep this completely confidential. And you can talk to me any time you feel the need for a sounding board. I hope that, after all these years, you and I can become friends.

  “I’m sure Mary Alice is innocent of any wrong-doing. But do not, I repeat, do not, start investigating Jack’s death on your own. You’ll only stir up trouble. Let the police do their job, and hopefully the whole thing will blow over. Mary Alice may never know who Jack really was. That may be for the best.”

  I knew she was right, of course. I should mind my own business.

  But I also knew that if the police suspected Mary Alice of a crime, there was no way I wouldn’t get involved.

  Sister Rose and I parted in front of The Paperback Café. She actually gave me a quick peck on the cheek. Boy, talk about surprising me.

  I was halfway back to the apartment before it dawned on me that we hadn’t even talked about the show house.

  Chapter 23

  My idea of housework is to sweep the room with a glance.

  When I pulled into the parking lot at the apartment, I was glad to see that Jim’s car was already there. I couldn’t wait to tell him about having coffee with Sister Rose. He’d never believe it.

  It was amazing how much calmer I felt about everything now. Maybe the good sister would be an “unexpected friend,” like Maria Lesco. Stranger things have happened. (Not that I ever make snap judgments about people.)

  I also felt better because I’d made a real effort to make our tiny apartment into a cozy retreat. Not a honeymoon cottage – we were way beyond that. But maybe my life would be easier with only three rooms to take care of. I was going to make the best of the situation, no matter what, and I’d start by cooking a nice dinner for Jim on our minuscule stove.

  My good mood evaporated as soon as I opened the door. I had left a neat apartment. What I was returning to was slightly less than chaos. Newspapers strewn all over the floor. Dishes and glasses on the counter and in the sink. The tiny kitchen table littered with files. The television turned to CNN, blaring loudly. (I guess the Jim had ordered a cable hookup after all.)

  And My Beloved in the only good living room chair. Sound asleep. And snoring.

  Jeez, I’d only been gone two hours. Hurricanes had nothing on Jim. He could create chaos all on his own. Probably from overdosing on The Weather Channel.

  Should I be ashamed to admit that all previous worries immediately vanished from my mind, to be replaced by rage at the scene before me?

  Heck, no. I don’t think any wife in America would have reacted differently. I was livid.

  I slammed the grocery bags down on the floor. Luckily, there were no eggs in either of them. Jim didn’t even stir.

  Clicking off CNN did the trick. Jim came to and rubbed his eyes.

  “Hi Carol. I guess I must have dozed off. I was researching next week’s column.”

  I resisted saying that the column must be pretty boring if it put him to sleep. Instead, I made an heroic effort to choose my words carefully.

  “I did some food shopping after I unpacked more boxes,” I said, picking up one of my reusable grocery bags (I am environmentally sensitive) and putting it on top of Jim’s pile of papers. “I’ll bet you were surprised when you came back and saw how nice the apartment looked.” Before you messed it all up.

  “Huh?” said My Beloved, glancing around the room. “Oh, yes, it does look better. I guess I should say, it did look better, until I spread all my work things around. Sorry, honey.” He gave me a peck on the cheek. “You know my ‘filing system.’ I’d planned to have everything put away before you saw it.”

  Well, that was a little better. Jim did notice my efforts. Maybe men can be trained after all.

  I was proud of myself for not lashing out at him the way I sometimes do. Poor guy. This mess had to be tough on him, too.

  I grabbed a bag and squeezed my way around the table into the tiny kitchen area. And promptly banged my hip on an open cabinet drawer.

  Ouch!

  “Jim,” I yell
ed, “for heaven’s sake, will you please make an effort to close doors and drawers! It drives me crazy.”

  I rubbed my well-padded hip to ease the pain I was feeling. “This time, I really hurt myself. And if we’re going to be living in such tight quarters for a while, you have to remember. I don’t think that’s asking too much.”

  “You do some things that drive me crazy, too, Carol,” My Beloved shot back in his defense.

  Moi? I had irritating habits? That couldn’t be possible.

  “Oh, yeah?” I said. “Like what?”

  “You interrupt me when I’m talking. And..”

  “What do you mean?” I said. “I never interrupt you.”

  Jim waved his index finger at me in triumph. “You see? You see? You just did it! You don’t even know you do it. You do it all the time. I bet you interrupt me much more than I leave doors or drawers open.”

  Jeez. He had me there.

  We hadn’t gotten on each other’s nerves (much) in our big antique house. But living in small quarters for an indefinite period of time might require some adjustments.

  After all, nobody’s perfect. Even me.

  Jim clipped leashes onto Lucy and Ethel and announced he was taking them for a walk. I could tell he was still annoyed with me. And I was equally annoyed with him.

  Clearly someone (that would be me) had to come up with a solution that would be workable and satisfactory to both of us. As I unpacked the groceries and squeezed them into the miniscule cabinet space (carefully closing the doors), I thought about how, when Mike and Jenny were little, I used to be able to get them to do things they didn’t want to do by making a game out of it. Like picking up their clothes. Cleaning their rooms. Taking out the garbage.

  That’s when I came up with a great idea. I could hardly wait for Jim to come back from his walk so I could spring it on him.

  “I admit that I’m not perfect,” I said to My Beloved when he finally made an appearance. I handed him a glass of his favorite merlot as a peace offering, and he settled into a living room chair.

  “We’re both stubborn, too. And we like to have things done our own way.

  “So here’s my idea.” I plopped myself down beside him and gave him a little smooch.

  “You know what a Honey-Do List is, right? A long list of chores to accomplish around the house, like clean out the attic, mow the lawn, or wash the windows.”

  Jim nodded. “I used to dread weekends, wondering what new jobs you’d come up with for me to do. That’s one advantage to being in this apartment, I guess. No more lists.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” I replied. “My idea is to have a Honey-Don’t List. As in, ‘Honey, when you do that, you drive me absolutely crazy, so don’t do it!’ We’ll make a list of the things about each other that get on our nerves. We’ll cut our list into individual strips and put them into two jars, one for each of us. Every morning, we’ll draw a strip from the other’s jar, and that person will have to refrain from that behavior for the entire day.

  “We could even have a prize at the end of each week for the person who makes the most effort – like going out to dinner. Or picking which movie to see. What do you think?”

  The more I thought about my idea, the better I liked it. In fact, I was surprised no other wife had come up with it before.

  My list about Jim’s faults would be much longer than his list about mine, naturally. Oh, well. I’m sure if he racked his brain he could come up with a few. I’m not perfect, I know that. But pretty close. Most of the time.

  “I think you’re nuts, Carol,” said My Beloved. “But I’m willing to give it a try. I even know the number one item I’m putting on your list.”

  “I know, too. I shouldn’t interrupt you when you’re talking.”

  “Wrong, Carol,” Jim said.

  “Don’t find any more dead bodies.”

  Humph.

  Over another delicious takeout meal from Seafood Sandy’s – my desire to cook had evaporated -- I brought Jim up to date on most of what had happened that day.

  I was pleased to see that he was taking copious notes as I was talking. That meant he was listening to me, for once.

  “So then Sister Rose and I met for coffee at The Paperback Café,” I said. “She really is very nice. We had quite a chat.” I omitted telling Jim exactly what the chat was about. I didn’t want to speculate on Mary Alice with him.

  “Jim, what are you writing?” I finally asked. “I don’t think I’ve said anything that memorable.”

  “Making more notes for my Honey-Don’t List,” My Beloved said. “Do you know how long it takes you to get to the point of a story?”

  Oh, boy. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Then Jim started to laugh. “I’m just teasing you, Carol.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’re very funny,” I said, my feelings only slightly mollified. “What did you do for the rest of the day?”

  Jim took a healthy swig of wine to fortify himself. “As a matter of fact, I have some news for you. And you’re not going to like it. I was waiting for the right moment. But there really isn’t one, so here goes. And please don’t interrupt me.”

  I clamped my lips shut. Get on with it, already. Nothing My Beloved said could be worse than worrying that one of my best friends was responsible for someone’s death.

  “I took a ride out to Eden’s Grove this afternoon to check on the progress of our new house,” Jim continued. “I expected to see some workmen laying the subflooring by now.

  “But there was nobody there.

  “I went to the sales office to complain. After all, we’d given them a deposit a while ago. At the rate they’re going, we’d be lucky to move into the house by Christmas.”

  “Good for you, Jim. What did you find out?”

  “They have some new salesman in the office now named Skip Campbell. I didn’t see anyone there I recognized, so I had to deal with him. At first, he was pretty evasive when I demanded some action. He wouldn’t give me a straight answer as to why the work had stopped, or when it was going to start up again. I wouldn’t let him get away with it.

  “Then good old Skip told me that the Eden’s Grove Homeowners Association had an emergency meeting about us last night. With all the notoriety about our old house, and the buyer dying under mysterious circumstances, they don’t want us to move in.

  “Eden’s Grove is voiding the contract and giving us back our deposit. And there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”

  My fantasy of two master bedroom suites vanished.

  Poof. All gone.

  And I thought the day couldn’t get any worse.

  Chapter 24

  When life gets you down, just put on your big girl undies

  and deal with it.

  I woke up the next morning after a restless night. I remembered the terrible dream I’d had about Adam and Eve chasing Jim and me out of the Garden of Eden with axes and hatchets in their hands. “And don’t ever come back,” they screamed at us. “You’re not good enough to live here with us.” It’s funny how I can never remember the happy dreams. But the bad ones – those are seared into my brain.

  Jim was still sound asleep beside me, with the dogs curled up on either side. (The rule we had about no dogs on our bed had been quickly erased once we moved into these temporary digs.) I eased myself out of bed and headed off to take a quick shower. I tried to be as quiet as possible, so as not to wake my sleeping prince.

  He looked so peaceful lying there, poor baby. I knew this ordeal was as hard on him as it was on me. We just reacted to stress in different ways. I needn’t have worried. Neither canines nor Jim stirred.

  I used the cascading water to do my favorite meditation, and washed all the bad things, including Adam and Eve, down the drain. So there!

  I needed to focus on positive things today. Like starting to research my story on domestic violence. That entailed another talk with my new best buddy Sister Rose, but that wasn’t the
way I wanted my day to start.

  To paraphrase the Bard of Avon, “How many problems doth stress me today?”

  In addition to the kaput house deal and Mark and Jenny breaking up and becoming reaquainted with my former nemesis and new buddy Sister Rose, I had a new one to add to the list. Jim and I would drive each other crazy if we were stuck in our tiny apartment for an indefinite period of time, despite the Honey-Don’t List.

  The person I needed to talk to first was Nancy. She had to find us permanent new digs before Jim and I ended up in divorce court. Even if two master suites weren’t included.

  Sigh.

  I know my best friends’ schedules like I know my own. Maybe better, since mine tends to be erratic.

  Nancy’s idea of a great start to the day was to spend an hour huffing and puffing and generally causing herself great bodily pain at a nearby women’s gym, Battle of the Bulge. She called it exercise. I called it torture. Nancy was not going to slide into the senior part of her life without a fight.

  Recently, she almost talked me into going with her for a consult about some procedure called a “Liquid Facelift.” Fortunately, when I realized this was a lot more involved than switching moisturizer brands, I came to my senses and backed out.

  Oh, well, to each her own.

  “I love it when I’m right,” I said to myself as I pulled into a parking space next to Nancy’s snappy red convertible. “Especially when it happens so infrequently.”

  A young woman in sweats, gym bag in hand, eyed me as I got out of my car. I guess she’d never heard anyone talk to herself before. Wait’ll she got to be my age. She’d find out.

  The young woman just stood there, not moving.

  Good grief. It was my darling daughter.

  “Jenny. My gosh. I’m surprised to see you here,” I said as I wrapped her in a big hug.

  “Not as surprised as I am to see you here, Mom. Have you finally decided to start exercising? It’ll do you so much good.”