Class Reunions Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story; A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery

by Susan Santangelo

  Chapter 35

  I don’t have a problem with caffeine.

  But I have a HUGE problem without it.

  “I’m getting way too old to pull all-nighters,” I moaned to Lucy while I was looking at my haggard face in the bathroom mirror. Lucy remained unsympathetic. She’s used to me moaning and groaning first thing in the morning.

  And, as my canine sidekick was pointing out to me with a disgusted stare, I didn’t really pull an all-nighter. I did get two hours’ sleep.

  Which only made me feel worse. Like I’d been hit by a train but didn’t have the good sense to die right then and there.

  Groan.

  “How am I ever going to get through the day? I’m absolutely exhausted.”

  Put your tasks in priority order and you’ll be fine, Lucy advised. Starting with serving Ethel and me our breakfast.

  Swear to God, that’s what she said.

  I stumbled into the kitchen and was startled to see Jenny sitting at the table. My mom-o-meter immediately ratcheted up several degrees. Was there trouble in newlywed-land?

  Not that I would ever come right out and ask her, of course. Remember, I’m very subtle, and I never interfere in my children’s lives.

  “You look terrible, Mom,” my favorite daughter said. She pushed her coffee mug in my direction. I saw it was the one I gave her for her tenth birthday, the one that proclaimed, “Congratulate me. I’m a double digit, now.”

  “Sit down and inhale some of this coffee. You look like you need it more than I do.”

  “Thanks, sweetie,” I said, plopping my aging body into a chair. “You’re right. I do need coffee. And I know I look terrible. Sleep deprivation has that effect on me.”

  Jenny wrinkled her brow. “Why didn’t you get any sleep?” Then, she grinned. “Did you and Dad have a wild night?”

  “We take our cue from you and Mark,” I shot back, embarrassed at her insinuation.

  Jenny blushed.

  Oh, Carol. You went too far with that crack.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” I said, squeezing her hand. “That was out of line. Your married love life is none of my business.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize,” Jenny said. “My crack was way out of line, too. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  She leaned over and gave me a quick peck.

  “So, why are you up and about so early?” I asked. “Do you have a class to teach this morning? Or…” I searched my daughter’s face… “is something up with you? Everything ok? With you and Mark, I mean.”

  Sheesh, Carol. Stifle yourself, already.

  “Of course everything’s all right,” Jenny said. “More than all right. Blissful. No need for you to worry.

  “But last night Mark and I talked a little more about what happened at your reunion. It must have been awful, finding someone dead in the bed you were supposed to sleep in. Ugh.” She grimaced. “You’ve had far too many of those adventures lately.”

  “It was horrible,” I admitted. “And, you’re right. This has been happening to me too often. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m cursed. Is this the way my golden years are going to play out – going from one crime to another? AARP never did a workshop on this.”

  “You need to protect yourself, Mom. Don’t get involved. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

  “Thank you very much for that reminder, Jenny. My body tells me that every morning.” I held out the coffee cup. “How about filling this up again? I need all the caffeine I can get.”

  “I’ll trade you fresh coffee for details of the reunion,” Jenny said. “Not the sanitized version, either. The real story. And, by the way, Mark says no crime was committed. Your classmate committed suicide. He doesn’t understand why you won’t accept that.”

  “Is that why you’re really here this morning, Jenny?” I asked. “To convince me that I’m wrong? That I should just let the whole thing drop?”

  Another thought struck me with such force it took my breath away. “Did Mark send you to tell me to lay off? Not poke around? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Gosh, Mom, you’re getting paranoid,” Jenny said. “Can’t your only daughter stop in for a quick cup of coffee and a chat with her mom without the mom going off the rails?

  “Here.” Jenny pushed a plate loaded with baked goods in my direction. “Have a bite of blueberry muffin. That’ll cheer you up.”

  I did as Jenny suggested. Yes, I know, muffins have lots of fat and cholesterol, but they’re one of my vices. After a few bites, I sighed in contentment. “Yummy. Thanks, sweetie. You’re right. I do feel better. Almost human.”

  “Nothing like a quick combination of sugar and caffeine to make the world look brighter,” Jenny said. “Now, I don’t have to be on campus for an hour. Do you want to tell me everything that happened the night before the reunion? And,” she looked at me, “what you’re up to now. Because I know you’re up to something. I can tell. I see the signs.”

  I shook my head. “No go, Jenny. I can’t share with you this time. You’ll say something to Mark and I’ll be in hot water with the Fairport police. Again.”

  “Hey, Mom, that hurt,” Jenny said. “I’m asking you to confide in Jenny-the-daughter, not Jenny-the-wife-of-a police-detective. You know it always helps for you to talk about things with me.”

  She narrowed her eyes and gave me a stare. “And if I know you, and I do, I bet you’ve already enlisted Mike to do some cyber sleuthing. Am I right?”

  Trapped. That’s what happens if you have a good relationship with your kids. One day, they grow up and know you better than you know yourself.

  “Not one word about this to your husband,” I said, wagging my index finger at her. “If I get in trouble with the police, I’ll know who to blame.”

  “Cross my heart, Mom,” Jenny said. “Unless you’re about to confess that you’re responsible for your classmate’s death. Which is completely ridiculous. Now, talk.”

  So, I did. I went way back to the blue dress debacle, and how Meg bullied so many girls in our class and made their lives a misery. Even the ones we thought were her best friends. I told Jenny about how Meg had shown up and tried to take over the reunion planning, then stormed off in a huff when she couldn’t get her own way. And relived the moment when Nancy and I walked into our room at Mount Saint Francis the night before the reunion and found her dead.

  “Meg always claimed to be from a wealthy family,” I continued. “And we believed her. But she lied about that. I don’t know why that surprised me. But it did.”

  Then I told Jenny about the note the police found when Meg died, “Forgive me.” “That’s why Meg’s death has been ruled a suicide,” I said. “But I know, and lots of other people agree with me, that Meg was too vain to kill herself.”

  I took a deep breath. “Mary Alice and I spent yesterday afternoon at another classmate’s house, Neecy Prentiss. It turns out that Meg’s parents worked for her family. Meg’s mother was the housekeeper, and her father took care of the grounds.

  “Neecy admitted that she hated Meg. Even more than the rest of us did. Meg was really mean to her most of the time.

  “Neecy ended up marrying Meg’s old boyfriend, though.”

  I started to tell Jenny about the Tony-Neecy-Meg love triangle, but I realized her eyes had a glassy look.

  Too much information, Carol. Cut to the chase.

  “Neecy doesn’t believe Meg killed herself, either. And she wanted to pay me to find out what really happened. She’s afraid that, if it comes out how much she hated Meg, she’ll be accused of her death.”

  You’ll notice that I left out the part about the blackmail. I figured I’d ratted out Neecy enough without mentioning that. Nor did I mention Fifty Shades of Navy. No sense in confusing my daughter even more. Although I couldn’t, f
or the life of me, figure out how that fit into the puzzle. And I was sure it did.

  “I refused to take any money from Neecy,” I said. “But I have asked Mike to see if he can find out what Meg’s been up to for the forty years since we graduated. And I gave him a few more names to check out, too.”

  I frowned. “I should have given him J.T. Murray’s name. I’ll have to e-mail him and add that name to his list. J.T. is the director of marketing for Fairport Manor, the assisted living community. Which is what Mount Saint Francis Academy has become. I still can’t quite believe that.”

  “Is J.T. a man or a woman?” Jenny asked. “There was a Jessica Murray who was a senior when Mark and I were freshman at Fairport High.”

  “A woman,” I said. “I’m not sure how old she is.”

  “Let me think a minute,” Jenny said. “Something terrible happened in that class. I think a student died.”

  She took a sip of her coffee and appeared lost in thought. “I remember now. One of the boys in that class died of a drug overdose right before graduation. He was Jessica’s boyfriend. His name was Anthony something or other. I’m sorry. I can’t remember his last name.”

  “It wasn’t Prentiss, was it?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Jenny said. “Anthony Prentiss.”

  Chapter 36

  For your information, I am the trophy wife. I just need a little more polishing than some of the newer models.

  After Jenny left for school, I sat and pondered this new piece of information and tried to decide how important it was. After all, I already knew that J.T. worked at Fairport Manor, and Tony Prentiss was her boss. I wondered how accurate Jenny’s account of the long-ago romance and subsequent tragedy was. Because she was only a freshman at the time, neither J.T. nor Anthony were in her immediate circle of friends.

  Since Jenny and Mark were both freshmen in the same high school class, I reasoned that he must have heard about the tragedy, too. But maybe he didn’t factor it in when he was investigating Meg’s death.

  Well, why would he? Mark was a trained police detective, used to dealing with cold, hard facts to solve a crime. Or a non-crime, as he termed Meg’s death.

  And Mark was a man.

  Whereas I, as a woman and an incurable romantic, had absolutely no trouble concocting another Romeo and Juliet scenario for the J.T. Murray/Anthony Prentiss relationship.

  “What if J.T. never got over losing Anthony?” I asked Lucy and Ethel. I sighed. “I guess this is one time when neither of you can relate to what I’m talking about. You’ve never been in love.”

  In my next life, maybe I’ll become a fiction writer. After all, like most clever wives, I’ve been shading the truth for years.

  This thought process, for some reason, brought me back to Fifty Shades of Navy, knee socks, and Over The Knee Socks – one of the catchy chapter titles I’d discovered during my late night e-book sleuthing.

  Yuck.

  Just thinking about that title made my blueberry muffin threaten to pay an unwanted return visit to my mouth.

  I didn’t want or need to read the book. I just needed to find out who the mysterious Fifty Shades author was. Later today, I’d concentrate on that.

  Maybe.

  But first, thanks to Jenny’s tip, I did have something concrete to research – the death of Anthony Prentiss. I wondered if I could find an old obituary online. I had to figure out what year he died, though.

  I was momentarily stumped, until I remembered that he was a senior at Fairport High School the year that Jenny and Mark were freshman. I did a quick Internet search, and found out that The Fairport News, our local weekly newspaper, archives obituaries going back twenty years. I figured that Anthony’s death would have gotten huge coverage, since his family was so prominent in town.

  Naturally, being me, when I went on the newspaper website, I got temporarily sidetracked by stories about other local events. I was particularly amused by the coverage of a long-ago town council meeting, when one Fairport resident threatened to punch out the First Selectman if he didn’t permit dogs on our local beaches for part of the year.

  Quickly, I scanned the fine print for the resident’s name, and was relieved to see it wasn’t anyone I knew. Like my husband, for instance.

  Focus, Carol. You can come back to the site and entertain yourself some other time. Right now, you have a job to do.

  I finally found what I was looking for. It was brief and to the point.

  Anthony Prentiss, Jr., 18, died at his home on Tuesday. He was the beloved son of Anthony Prentiss, Sr., and Denise Nolan Prentiss. There will be no calling hours. Burial will be private.

  I sat back in my chair and thought about what I’d read. And, perhaps more important, what I hadn’t read.

  How did Neecy and Tony go on after such a horrific loss? I’d be in grief therapy for the rest of my natural life.

  “I wonder if J.T. had a chance to say goodbye,” I said to the girls. “What if she had a complete breakdown when Anthony died?”

  I had to talk this over with someone wiser than me, which describes most people I know. A person who would share a terrible burden without question, give sage advice if asked, and, above all, would never, under any circumstances, betray a confidence.

  Not my hairdresser, Deanna, whom I frequently turn to when I’m in a muddle. I was going to a high authority.

  I switched off the computer and headed for the shower. I would figure this out. Not by myself, of course. But I knew what my next step had to be.

  So, after the dogs had been fed and exercised, I loaded them into the tailgate of my Jeep along with a bag of clothing to donate, and headed in the direction of the thrift shop.

  And Sister Rose. Again.

  Chapter 37

  I shop, therefore I am. Broke.

  “We only accept donations through the rear door of the shop,” said the volunteer at the cash register. She gave me a look that made me feel like I’d committed a major crime. “You’ll have to leave and come in through the back door. That’s our policy. No exceptions.”

  “I’m a personal friend of Sister Rose,” I said, not even giving the woman a passing glance as I steamrolled my way, lugging my bag of clothing, toward the back room of the thrift shop.

  “I’m sure she won’t mind my coming in the main entrance with donations,” I called over my shoulder.

  In a flash, the volunteer was beside me. “You can’t go back there. Don’t you see the sign on the door? It says, ‘No admittance. Authorized personnel only.’ What’s the matter? Can’t you read?”

  Well! It had been a long time since I’d been treated this rudely.

  “As a matter of fact, I read very well,” I informed the woman. “Especially since Sister Rose was one of my teachers at Mount Saint Francis Academy. Excuse me.”

  And I pushed open the rear door to the sorting room, leaving the volunteer standing there on the other side.

  “Carol, you’re the answer to a prayer,” Sister Rose said, greeting me with an unprecedented hug.

  “I guess there’s a first time for everything,” I said. “But you might try telling your gatekeeper” – I gestured toward the front of the shop – “to be a little more welcoming. She almost bit my head off because I had the nerve to bring my donations in by the front door.”

  “It’s Julie’s first day,” Sister Rose said. “And I’m afraid she’s feeling overwhelmed. All the other volunteers I had scheduled called in sick. There’s some sort of flu bug going around. And I can’t stay in the front to train her properly, because I have to deal with all of these.” She gestured around the floor of the shop, which was stacked with a variety of shopping bags and boxes. “Everyone in Fairport who doesn’t have the flu must have decided to clean out their house today and bring us their donations. I can’t keep up wi
th it.

  “That’s why you’re the answer to a prayer, Carol,” Sister Rose continued. “You can stay today and help, can’t you?”

  “Well, I did come to talk to you for a quick minute. I hadn’t planned on staying.”

  Nor did I really want to.

  “And I have Lucy and Ethel in the car. They’ll need to be exercised, and they’ll need water, too.”

  You knew this would happen. Sister Rose always ropes you in to help her when you pop into the shop.

  Oh, what the heck. All those bags to go through. Who knew what treasures I’d unearth? I wasn’t brave enough to refuse Sister Rose, or suggest that she make an effort to recruit new volunteers for the shop. Lots of them.

  Instead I sighed, put on my purple volunteer apron, and got to work. The questions would have to wait.

  Fortunately, I am a multi-tasker. I can talk and sort at the same time. In fact, Jim claims that I can talk under any circumstances. I’m not exactly sure what he means by that, but I choose to take it as a compliment.

  “So where are you with your sleuthing, Carol?” Sister Rose asked as we began sorting through another bag of donated clothing.

  Boy, did that catch me off-guard.

  “I was wondering how to start the conversation with you, Sister,” I said. “But, as usual, you’re way ahead of me.”

  Fortunately, Sister Rose didn’t voice what I knew she was thinking – that she was always way ahead of me. Except in jumping to conclusions. I am the undisputed champion in that department.

  I filled Sister Rose in on the visit to Neecy yesterday, and the surprising admission about her true relationship with Meg.

  “But Neecy must have had some kind feelings toward Meg,” Sister Rose pointed out. “Especially if she asked her to be her son’s godmother. That’s not a responsibility to be offered to just anyone.”