Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  “I promised I’d keep her secret.”

  I wanted to shout, “Then why are you talking to someone about the Cartwrights’ private business, Liz?”

  But I didn’t, of course. Instead, I inched as close as I could to the dryers, hoping to hear more.

  Then Liz’s companion said, “I think these quilts are finally dry. Let’s get out of here and grab some coffee.”

  Rats. Just when things were getting interesting.

  The Laundromat door closed behind them, leaving me with lots to think about. I finally had something that might clear Mary Alice. Or, at the very least, a place to start looking for answers to some very interesting questions.

  I broke every speed limit in Fairport to get back to the apartment and my computer. I couldn’t wait to send out an a.p.e. (all-points-e-mail) to my posse of sleuths.

  Of course, when I burst in the door, struggling to carry two baskets full of clean laundry, I found My Beloved trolling away at the computer, checking his stock prices. Argh. But according to our agreed-upon schedule, it was his computer time.

  “You look like you’re about to explode, Carol,” said Jim. I assumed he was referring to my excited expression and not making a nasty crack about any possible weight gain. (We had been eating a lot of take-out food lately. Not good for the waistline.)

  “Jim, you won’t believe what I just overheard at the Laundromat,” I said. “I’ll tell you if you take this laundry from me. These baskets are very heavy.”

  My Beloved, chivalry personified, countered with another suggestion. “Just put the baskets down by the desk, Carol. No need to struggle.”

  I almost let him have it, but then remembered his heart problem a few months ago, and followed his suggestion. Without comment. Points for me, right?

  “Jim, you have to hear this. When I was at the Laundromat today, I overheard a conversation between Liz Stone and someone else. I couldn’t see who the other person was, but that part doesn’t matter.”

  Jim opened his mouth to speak, but I headed him off.

  “Liz said that Alyssa Cartwright wouldn’t be mourning Jack’s death, because he was far from an ideal husband. Liz said that Alyssa’s life with Jack was ‘awful.’ That was the exact word she used.

  “Isn’t that something? We need to check that out. I need to send out an e-mail to the troops and tell them.”

  Jim looked at me in that “you must be crazy” way that I’ve seen all too often over the course of our marriage. Sometimes I ignore that look. But not now.

  “What are you checking out, exactly, Carol? Some offhand conversation you overheard in a Laundromat? Who knows what Liz meant by that comment. Or if she even knew what she was talking about.

  “Instead of sending out an e-mail to the ‘troops,’ as you call them, maybe you should check out your source first.”

  I hated to admit it, but he was right. Again.

  “And while you’re checking things out, Carol,” Jim continued, “it might be a good idea to check out a few things in your domestic abuse story, too. I showed it to Ted, the paper’s managing editor, just to get a preliminary reaction, and he thought the description you gave of a typical abuser wasn’t credible. It needs more fleshing out.”

  “Wasn’t credible?” I sputtered. “Why, that’s outrageous. I quoted Sister Rose word for word, and she’s been in the front lines of this problem for years.”

  “I’m just repeating what he said,” Jim replied. “Talk to her again. Try to get a few more specifics. And while you’re checking your facts, I’ll go online and check a few old newspaper sources on Cape Cod. Maybe I’ll find out a few things about Jack Cartwright to back up what you overheard from Liz.

  “Deal, Carol?”

  Whattaguy.

  “Deal, Jim.”

  In no time at all, I hustled myself over to Sally’s Place. First, though, I placed a quick call to be sure Sister was there. Surprisingly, she answered the phone herself.

  “Hello, Sister Rose,” I said in my most polite voice. “It’s Carol Andrews.” I started to inquire about her schedule today, but she cut me off.

  “I think I recognize your voice by now,” Sister said. “Of course, having caller i.d. on our phone does help. I was hoping you’d call. Can you stop by today? We need to talk about what happened at the preview party. And the sooner, the better.”

  “I’ll be there within the hour,” I said. “And I’ll bring coffee and snacks from The Paperback Café.”

  “Perfect,” Sister said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  You’ll be pleased to know that I resisted the siren song of the thrift shop, hardly giving the attractive window display, with all its new merchandise, a third glance. No shopping for me today. I was a woman on a mission.

  Well, maybe if the talk with Sister Rose went well, I’d reward myself with just a quick walk through the shop. After all, the proceeds went to such a worthy cause.

  Balancing the two coffees and the paper sack of goodies, I rang the bell and announced myself though the intercom.

  “Come in, Carol,” said Sister Rose. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “There was a time when if you told me you were waiting for me, it paralyzed me,” I said. “I hope those days are over.”

  Sister gave me a thin smile and waved me into an office chair. Opening a cup of coffee, she took a quick sip, then got down to business.

  “Tell me what’s happening on with Mary Alice,” she demanded. “Did the police release her after that disgusting display at the preview party? The very idea,” Sister huffed, “taking one of my students out of a public place like she was a common criminal.”

  “She’s home,” I said. “But very scared. Mary Alice is terrified that since the police have made the connection between her and Jack Cartwright, they think she has a perfect motive for wanting Jack dead. Plus, she already admitted to the police that she was at my house the night Jack died.”

  I sighed. “It’s a real mess. But Nancy, Claire, and a few other folks I’m not sure you know, are working with me to try and clear her. We may not be professional sleuths but,” I paused for just a minute. “Not to brag, but we do have a little experience in solving crimes. And I just found out something very damaging about the Cartwrights’ marriage that could affect the case.”

  Sister Rose gave me the cold stare that struck fear into students for decades.

  “Carol, dear,” she said, “you do realize that this is a human life we’re talking about. This is not a game. You sound like you’re playing ‘Clue,’ for heaven’s sake. Who are you? Miss Marple?”

  Whoa. That was harsh. I sat up very straight in my chair and glared at her.

  “I assure you, Sister Rose, that I’m very aware of the fact that this is not a game. This is one of my best friends we’re talking about here. I hope that, if you have any information that could help her, you would share it with us.

  “In fact,” I matched her frozen look with one of my own that’s been known to elicit confessions of wrong-doing from my children in a single second, “I would expect you to do so.”

  Sister Rose nodded her head slightly. “Your point is well taken. I’m glad we understand each other.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t mean to be so hard-nosed, Carol. I’m just as worried about Mary Alice as you are. And I’m afraid I’m taking it out on you.

  “Now, you said you have more questions about the article you’re writing on domestic violence,” Sister Rose said, indicating our discussion about Mary Alice’s troubles was over. “How can I help you?”

  I whipped open my little notebook and rummaged in my purse for a pen. Too late. Sister Rose handed me one. That broke the ice between us.

  “I’m not going to remind you of all the times you came to class unprepared, Carol,” said Sister with just a hint of a smile.

  Humph.

  “I’ve been asked to expand on the profile of a typical abuser,” I said. “For instance, if a young boy witnesses domestic abuse in his family, would that
be a major factor if that boy becomes an abuser himself when he grows up? Is my question making any sense?”

  “It makes perfect sense,” Sister replied. “But unfortunately, things are never as black and white as that. Each abuse case, and each abuser, is different. Some children who witness abuse between their parents make choices that lead them into abusive relationships as adults. Abuse is about control. One person controlling another. The patterns set in childhood can continue into the next generation. But they don’t always. And there have been many articles written about the role alcohol and drugs play in an abusive relationship. Again, the answer is not black and white.

  “There’s a non-profit organization, the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, which gives excellent information on domestic violence statistics. Their motto is, ‘Every home a safe home.’ You might want to mention their web site in your article. It’s www.ncadv.org.

  “I hope you really understand what I’m telling you here, Carol. Read the information on this web site very carefully. And think about what you already know. Few relationships are what they appear to be. There are always secrets.”

  I looked up from my scribbling. “I’m trying to write down everything you’ve told me, Sister.”

  “Find the secret, Carol, and you can save a person’s life.”

  Chapter 33

  There will be a $5 charge for whining.

  I puzzled over what Sister Rose had told me all the way back to the apartment. It was a very strange conversation. I felt that we were talking on more than one level, about more than one thing. It was very frustrating.

  Fortunately, My Beloved was out. I guess that sounds terrible, but sometimes I need to process things on my own, without explaining what I’m doing, why I’m doing it, and, most important, when I’ll be finished so I can start dinner.

  I gave the girls a quick run, a bowl of water, and some Milk Bones, which made me a goddess in their eyes.

  Then I poured myself a glass of chardonnay (it was a very small plastic glass, in case you were wondering), fired up my computer, and searched for the web site Sister Rose had told me about for the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence.

  Wow. What an eye-opener. It was such an organized web site, and the purple hue of all the pages made for very easy reading for…ahem…older eyes, like mine. I’d known some of these facts before, but I was especially intrigued by the national fact sheets relating to abusive relationships. The list was even broken down by state.

  I continued my Internet search, and eventually found another excellent web site, www.domesticviolence.org. This one included common myths about domestic violence. There was so much to learn. I was overwhelmed by all the information I could use for my article. And saddened by all I’d discovered. The domestic violence issue was a national tragedy. And one of our country’s ugliest secrets.

  I put my head back in my chair and closed my eyes for a minute, to clear my head. I guess I must have dozed off, because I had the weirdest dream. In it my mother – good grief, where did she come from? – was chasing a man who had no face. When she caught him – she never was a good runner so I was quite impressed – she started hitting him and screaming, “Not my daughter. Not my daughter. You leave her alone.”

  That dream really spooked me. First of all, my mother and I never had, shall we say, the closest of relationships. She died when I was in my mid-twenties, and it was only later in life I finally realized that, hey, she wasn’t perfect, but she loved me, and she was the best mother she knew how to be. Nobody could ask for more than that from a parent.

  I tried to be a good mother to Jenny and Mike, but who knew if I succeeded? There are no fool-proof how-to books for parenting. At least, none that I’ve found in my local independent book store or library.

  I sat there, lost in thought, going over the dream and trying to figure out what it could mean. I wasn’t even sure I was remembering the whole thing. Mother couldn’t possibly be warning me about Jim. No way. She adored him, and he was wonderful to her right up to the day she died.

  Then I thought, maybe my mother was a symbol for all mothers, and she was warning me about how often daughters are abused by their partners. That would make sense, because I was so focused on the domestic violence article. Perhaps my subconscious was reiterating the message, in case I didn’t understand the seriousness of the problem.

  I massaged my forehead. Too much thinking sometimes gives me a headache, and I could feel one coming on.

  I heard a car door slam, and Jim burst through the door. He looked so upset that, at first, I thought someone had died.

  “Larry just called with terrible news,” Jim said. “He’s working at the courthouse to try to arrange bail, but….

  “God, Jim, what is it? Bail? Why?”

  “Mary Alice has been arrested.”

  “Orange is definitely not your color.” I held Mary Alice’s hand tight and made a feeble attempt to make her smile.

  I had called Mark immediately after Jim told me about Mary Alice. Of course, at first Mark had protested that this wasn’t his case, there was nothing he could do, blah blah blah. But I didn’t let him off the hook that easily. So, sue me. I used a little maternal threatening. Jim was making all sorts of faces at me during this conversation, by the way. I just closed my eyes and ignored him.

  And here we were once again, My Beloved and I, in the Fairport Police Station. No preliminary coffee stop this time. Once Jim announced our names to the officer on duty – I guess the perky receptionist went home at 5:00 – Mark came out and took us back to the holding cells at the rear of the building. He gestured us into a bleak room with the bare basics of furniture – think “yard sale retro.”

  Before we even had a chance to sit down, he led in Mary Alice.

  “You have five minutes,” he informed us. “And if you stay any longer, and my boss finds out, I’ll be probably be fired.” Then he closed the door and left us alone.

  Mary Alice held onto my hand like she was on the Titanic and I had the last life preserver.

  “Carol, you’ve known me for over forty years.” She looked at My Beloved. “And you’ve known me for almost as long. For God’s sake, you can’t believe that I’m responsible for Jack Cartwright’s death.

  “You don’t, do you?”

  She looked at us, hard.

  “You don’t, either one of you, do you?” she repeated. “I swear, I didn’t know Jack was inside your house. If I did, I would have done something to help him. No matter what our past history was. How many times do I have to say this? Jack was a human being, above all else. And, I swear, he’d be alive today. If only I’d known he was in there.”

  She buried her head in my shoulder and sobbed.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Jim snapped. I stared at him, shocked by his harsh tone.

  “Listen, Mary Alice,” he said. “Carol and I both believe in you. Hell, I think even Mark believes in you.”

  His face hardened. “But all this sniveling of yours isn’t helping.”

  Jeez, what a creep. Wait’ll I got him out in the parking lot. I was going to let him have it.

  Mary Alice blew her nose with a tissue I’d found in my pocket. True to form, she did check it carefully and removed a few particles of lint before she used it. Then she straightened up in her chair and said, “You’re right, Jim. Crying isn’t helping at all. What do you want to know?”

  “Now you’re talking,” said My Beloved. “I want you to think back to that night. Did you see anyone, or anything, outside our house? A person walking a dog, maybe? A car? A couple pushing a baby carriage? Kids on bikes? Close your eyes and think hard.”

  Mary Alice squinted her eyes shut. So did I. After all, I’d been there that night, too.

  “I’m sorry, Jim,” she said finally. “I don’t remember seeing anybody. I wish I did. I just drove in the driveway to the back of your house. Then I got out of my car, sat on the back porch steps, and waited for Carol to come. I waited for half
an hour, and Carol never showed up. So I went home.”

  My eyes snapped open. “But I saw something, Jim,” I said excitedly. “When I got to our house, I remember there was a car cruising down the street. There’s not a lot of traffic out at that hour, so I paid attention to it.”

  Oh, rats. It was a tomato red Mini Cooper. I’d seen that car before, the day Nancy was prepping our house before it went on the market.

  I knew I wasn’t crazy. The car was Marcia Fischer’s.

  When the car passed under a street light, I’d had a quick, clear view of the driver. And there was no mistaking that vanity license plate, Styln 1. It was Marcia in the driver’s seat, all right.

  Both Mary Alice and Jim looked at me expectantly. It was so quiet in the room that I could hear the ticking of Jim’s watch.

  “The car was Marcia Fischer’s, from Superior Interiors. And she was definitely driving it. I saw her face clearly. It could just be a coincidence, but I don’t think so.”

  Jim looked at me skeptically. “Are you sure, Carol? Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “A few things have been going on since then, dear,” I said. “As you may recall, right after I saw the car, I came in our house and found Jack’s body. That pretty much took my mind off anything else that happened that night.

  “And, besides, I don’t know about you, Mary Alice,” I looked at her, “but nobody ever asked me about this before.”

  I took a deep breath and made a giant leap in what I was sure was the right direction. Because I finally understood what Sister Rose had been trying to tell me. Jack Cartwright was an abuser. And I’d bet that he was also the one who traumatized Marcia when she was a teenager. That explained a lot of things, including why Marcia had been at Jack’s memorial service. Sister Rose couldn’t break Marcia’s confidence, but she hoped that if she dropped enough hints, I’d eventually catch on.