She stomped off.
At five o’clock, she threw open my door. “You need to get dressed. We’re going to the club for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Are you being a smart aleck?” Her voice rose.
“No, ma’am.” I quickly shook my head. “My mother is Southern.”
That seemed to calm her down, but she stared at me hard. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”
I wasn’t about to apologize for something I hadn’t done, so I said, “Thank you again for lunch.”
She nearly growled. “Yes, well, you’re only coming to dinner with us because I can’t trust you here alone.”
~*~
I wore a simple navy skirt and a matching sweater with a white blouse underneath. I’d bought the whole outfit at Sears, but you’d never guess it. Probably the simplicity allowed the clothes to pass as classy.
When I got to the car, Peter didn’t open the door for me. Nor did Mr. Jepsen, so I helped myself and climbed in the back. I wondered where Hank was, but I didn’t ask. The Jepsen parents seemed happy, excited even. They smiled at each other and chattered about the weather. Peter seemed preoccupied as well. Something was about to happen. But what?
As Mr. Jepsen drove, I took mental notes on the scenery. Square saltbox cottages lined the streets. The shaker shingle roofs had weathered to a lovely gray. Flowerboxes were alive with color. If Sam showed up tonight, I decided that I’d ask him about the Cape Cod architecture. Otherwise I planned to keep my mouth shut and fade into the background.
This was business as usual for me. I’d learned early in life to lie low when things were tense. I grew up in an alcoholic family. To survive in a house like that, you learn to go unnoticed. A drinker hopes for a reason to misbehave. You do your darnedest not to give him one.
I’d jumped out of the proverbial frying pan into the fire. The good news was that I was going home Wednesday—and this would just be another bad memory.
The bad news was that this memory would haunt me for years.
Chapter 8
The Jepsens glad-handed their way from the front door of the Yacht Club to the dining area. Something was definitely afoot. We were just sitting down when Hank and Veronica arrived, hand-in-hand. She wore a blue silk dress and pumps that screamed “designer.” The enigmatic expression on her face was modern-day Mona Lisa. A smirk played around her lips. Hank had on sharply pressed gray pants, a white button-down shirt, and a tie.
Mr. Jepsen rose to pull out a chair for Veronica, a courtesy he’d neglected to show me. After she was comfortable, Bert Jepsen smiled at the young couple. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Definitely!” squealed Elsa Jepsen, clapping her hands like a kid at a birthday party.
“We’re engaged.” Hank lifted Veronica’s hand high, flashing a one-carat stone for us to admire.
Elsa leaned over to kiss her son and new daughter-in-law to be. Bert Jepsen shook his son’s hand and then gave Veronica a peck on the cheek. As he did, Veronica looked over his shoulder and caught my eye. Her expression was so cold a chill ran down my spine.
I wondered what had happened to Sam.
Well, it was none of my concern. All I needed was to make it through this evening and the next day. Then I’d be flying the friendly skies.
A waiter bought a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon. Toasts were made. The Jepsen parents babbled on and on, discussing the upcoming nuptials. I heard that Veronica’s parents were vacationing at their house on the Amalfi coast. According to Hank, they had given the lovebirds their blessing.
After the champagne, everyone was even more chatty, while I did my best to remain invisible.
Mr. Jepsen seemed a little nervous, but totally focused on his new daughter-in-law. When he ordered a second bottle of champagne and started pouring it, she covered her glass. “Um, not for me.”
That put an even bigger grin on his face, and Elsa Jepsen leaned close to Veronica to say, “How are you feeling? Just sick in the mornings?”
“Uh-huh,” said Veronica, as an appealing shade of red colored her cheeks. “That reminds me. Daddy said he’ll talk with you later, Mr. Jepsen, about the merger. He’s convinced the stockholders to vote in your favor.”
Merger? Stockholders? I filed that one away as I took another bite of my grouper. No wonder the Jepsens were in high spirits. They were not only gaining a daughter, they were also securing a business deal. What was that word I had learned in Anthropology 101? Endogamy. The practice of marrying another member of the same clan, people, or kinship group.
I wasn’t interested in marrying a member of my clan, people, or kinship group. The world didn’t need another generation of busted-flat alcoholics.
After dessert, I excused myself and headed for the restroom. A clicketty-clack of heels warned me of Veronica’s approach. I thought about hanging out in the stall, but that seemed pointless.
“About the other night,” she started.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I carefully soaped up my hands, as if I could wash off the yuck I’d picked up by being around these horrible people.
She blocked my egress. “Sam is a lot of fun. But he’s unsuitable. Surely you can see why. People like us…”
“I get it. Believe me, I get it.” I rinsed my hands and dried them.
Her lips curved up. “I imagine you do. Peter will never marry you. I mean, you know that, don’t you?”
I couldn’t let this pass. “Peter isn’t going to marry me because I won’t have him. Excuse me, please. I’d like to go back to the table.”
Her laughter followed me out of the restroom.
Chapter 9
The champagne caused me to have a headache the next day, but I suffered in silence. Mrs. Jepsen delivered a breakfast tray with cold cereal, lukewarm milk, and a glass of tepid orange juice.
“Don’t forget you need to be up bright and early tomorrow. You don’t want to miss your plane.”
No, I certainly did not. I would sit up all night rather than let that happen.
She lingered in the doorway, her forehead creased and her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “I can’t control my son when he’s not under my roof, Kiki. That said, I expect you to stay away from him.”
“Trust me, ma’am, I plan to.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m breaking up with Peter.”
“Are you suggesting there’s something wrong with my son?”
Geez, lady, give me a break.
“No, ma’am.”
Her face turned red as a stripe on the flag. “You are a poster child for poor upbringing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said in earnest.
I could just imagine sharing that with my mother. She would have a blinking cow. Maybe even a full-grown heifer.
The next morning, Peter came to my door. I’d been up since the first light of dawn. I handed over my battered and borrowed Samsonite. Our exit was unimpeded as there was no one in the house who cared to say good-bye.
Peter shoved my suitcase in the small “back seat” of his Porsche 911S. I hopped in and buckled up. He roared down the driveway too quickly, causing gravel to fly like a hail of bullets. Several times he tried to initiate conversation. All he heard from me was a vast variety of grunts.
“Look,” he said, at the curb at the airport. “How about a kiss? Don’t go away mad.”
“I’m not going away mad, I’m just going away. Period.”
He grabbed my arm. “Come on, Kiki There’s no reason to act this way. You know I love you.”
“This is your idea of love?”
“Cut me some slack. I had to tell my mother something. She was going to ground me! Pops would have stopped my allowance! Be reasonable! There’s my life here and my life at school. When we get back, everything can go back to normal. We’ll be a couple again.”
I hopped out and yanked my suitcase out of his backseat. “Back together as a couple? In your dreams
, buddy!”
Chapter 10
For the next two weeks, my mother picked on me, teasing me about my “vacation.” I bit my tongue, more than once actually, and concentrated on getting back into her good graces. A couple of times, I came close to dialing Sam Rosenbaum’s number. If one person in the world could sympathize with what I’d gone through, Sam might be that guy. But I didn’t want to call him up and have a sob fest. I did have my pride.
One Saturday night around midnight, I gave in and made the call. On the second ring, someone picked up with a tentative, “Hello?”
“May I speak to Sam, please?”
“Why are you doing this?” The woman spoke with a heavy accent.
“I’m looking for Sam. Is this the Rosenbaum residence?”
“Yes, but Sam? You ask about Sam? You know Sam? When did you last see him? Tell me this, please!”
That’s how I learned that Sam Rosenbaum never came back from Hingham.
The next morning I called the Jepsen’s house. Peter answered on the first ring.
“What happened to Sam?”
“What do you mean?” His voice was cool.
“I mean, he never made it back to Chicago.”
A silence followed.
“Look, Peter, this isn’t funny. Is Sam there in Hingham? Did he decide to hang around because of Veronica?”
What followed was the muffled sound of someone putting a hand over the receiver. I could hear Hank talking in the background. The conversation was low and urgent.
“Peter!” I yelled into the receiver. “Answer me! What happened to Sam! I know you’re still there! Tell me!”
“Calm down,” he said. “I guess you haven’t heard, huh? Bad news. Sam must have drowned.”
“He what?”
“He drowned. See, he got all upset about Veronica and Hank, and he stole a boat from the Yacht Club, and he—”
“You no good, son of a—” I couldn’t bring myself to complete the sentence. “That can’t be true and you know it! Sam hated the water. He told me so himself!”
“Really?” Peter put on his hurt voice. “Are you calling me a liar? That’s not fair. Doesn’t matter what he told you. There was a police inquiry and everything. Guess what? Hank and Veronica eloped! Can you believe it? I’ve got a sister! Isn’t that wild?”
It certainly was. It was wild and fantastic, and profoundly awful.
I hung up on Peter and dialed the operator. “I want the police department in Hingham, Massachusetts,” I said. “I need to report a murder.”
My mom was going to kill me when she saw the phone bill.
I could have saved myself the trouble. The Hingham P.D. said exactly what I expected. “Blah...blah…blah. The Jepsens are upstanding members of the community. Blah…blah…blah. Several people vouch for the fact that they saw a young man matching Sam’s description sailing out of the harbor. Blah…blah…blah. The Coast Guard is looking for the body.”
“But he didn’t know how to sail!” I sputtered.
“Can you confirm that, miss?”
I couldn’t. Just because Sam said he hated water, didn’t mean he couldn’t sail, did it?
The policeman suggested that if I was totally and utterly convinced there’d been wrongdoing, I could come down to the station and make a statement.
He couldn’t take one over the phone. They needed to see my identification in person.
I started crying.
Chapter 11
Present day…
I never wanted a Facebook page. But my boss at Time in a Bottle, Dodie Goldfader, tasked me with producing our marketing and social media so scrapbooking would be seen as hot, hot, hot. Creating my own personal page offered me a place to try things out without messing up our business image. To my surprise, it proved a terrific place for reconnecting with old friends, some of whom I hadn’t heard from in ages. One quiet morning I was scrolling through my “friend requests” when Peter Jepsen’s name popped up.
“No, can’t be,” I said. Then I picked up my 2.25 cheater-readers, and did a double-take while staring at his profile picture. Was it possible this tired and bloated man was the boy I once wanted to marry? The years had not been kind to Peter. We hadn’t spoken since that phone call when he told me Sam Rosenbaum had drowned.
Conversely, I’d kept in touch with Mrs. Rosenbaum by sending her Hanukkah cards. She reciprocated, although she rarely wrote much in the way of a message. Although she did often tell me how much it meant to her that I remembered Sam.
Now Peter’s photo brought the whole ugly incident back to me. Back then, I’d been without resources, but as Mert Chambers, my best friend, says, “Not no more.” The ugly emotions I’d kept inside for a decade and a half bubbled up and demanded that I do something.
But what? I drummed my fingers on my desktop. I’d had suspicions then, but I didn’t have any proof. Intrigued, I started poking around on the internet. It’s amazing what people post and share. By accepting Peter’s offer of “friendship,” I gained access to his private life. And that gave me access to all that had transpired since Veronica and Hank married. Pretty interesting stuff—and it proved a lot of what I’d always suspected.
Armed with that information, I did what I always do when I have a problem. I dialed my boyfriend, Detective Chad Detweiler.
Chapter 12
A few weeks later…
“What brings you to town?” I said, and smiled at Peter. We sat across from each other in the next-to-the-last booth in a corner of Yia Yia’s, one of my favorite restaurants in Chesterfield, an upscale suburb of St. Louis. I had arrived first after reserving this booth, so I sat with my back to the wall while Peter’s back was to the next booth over.
“Business,” he said. “Hard to imagine, eh? Peter the Party Boy became Mr. Upright Citizen. Hey, I’ve got to tell you, you look really good, Kiki. I mean, the years have been kind to you.”
I blushed. My dress was black and tight-fitting. I’d taken extra time with my hair and makeup. “Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”
“Bring me another vodka martini. Make it a double,” he said to the server. Then to me, “What would you like, Kiki?”
I ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio and a glass of ice water. No way was I getting tipsy. I was on a mission.
“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” Peter winked. For a brief second, I saw the boy I once liked so much. But that young man had vanished. He was hidden somewhere inside an old guy with a lot of broken veins in his nose. “You’re divorced, right?”
“A widow. And you’re married?”
“Only when she and I are in the same town.”
We shared a laugh, although mine was a bit forced. He told me her name was Lisa and she was a saleswoman for a pharmaceutical company.
“You seeing anyone?” he asked with a leer.
“Yes, I’m in a relationship,” I said. “But let’s not allow that to spoil our fun, right?”
“Right you are,” he said with a smirk as we clinked our glasses together.
“You’re a VP at your father’s company?” I asked. When he nodded, I said, “That’s just great, Peter. Following in your Dad’s footsteps. By the way, how are your parents?”
“Dad died five years ago. Mom is in a nursing home.”
“Sorry to hear that. Please tell her that I asked after her. How’s Hank?”
“Same-o, same-o. He’s the CEO of the company. Technically he’s my boss. He’s still married to Veronica. They’ve got two kids.”
“And you? Any children?” As if I didn’t know. I’d gone through every photo he’d posted.
“One boy. Reggie. The light of my life. Care to see pictures?”
Our dinner came, Turkey Piccata for me and Osso Bucco for him. Throughout the meal, Peter continued to drink double martinis. I sipped my one glass of wine while he sagged a bit in his seat. The sight of him repelled me. It brought back bad memories of my father. But that was then, and this was now. And I wasn’t without resource
s. Not anymore. Besides, we were on my home turf.
I sat up a little straighter. I knew what I had to do.
Peter misread my body language.
“Look, something’s been bugging me. I know you’re still miffed about Sam.” Peter signaled the waiter for a refill. By my calculations, he’d had six double martinis.
“Not really miffed,” I lied. Some things do get better with age. I was better at telling lies than I had been as a young woman. Maybe that’s the price of maturity. Or maybe that’s what maturity means, a keen knowledge of how and when to lie. I smiled sweetly at Peter. “But I am still curious.”
“About what? I know you were poking around. The police called Dad. Boy, was he mad. But what the heck? There’s not a lot more to tell. Sam freaked out about Veronica and Hank getting engaged. He got drunk, stole a boat from the dock, went sailing, fell overboard, and wound up being shark bait.”
I acted resigned to the “facts.” “But I figure he might have had some help. The boat that was stolen was a Boston Whaler. Your family’s boat, right? Sam didn’t like the water, so he wasn’t alone, was he?”
Peter’s eyes hardened and his mouth took on an angry scowl. “You’re trying to get me to incriminate myself.”
“No, I’m not. You didn’t do it. Your brother did. But Hank had help. He needed someone to lure Sam into the boat. It was Veronica, wasn’t it?”
Peter leaned back in his seat. “Why would they do that? Why would Hank care? He and Veronica were going to get married. She’d made her choice; she chose him. Sam was just…”
“An annoyance.”
Peter shrugged.
“It was just a matter of taking out the trash,” I pushed my point.
“Hey, the guy bugged us. There’s no reason to accuse my brother—”
“Your brother couldn’t take a chance. I’ve done some poking around on the Internet. Your father’s business was on the verge of bankruptcy, right? That merger was the only way to save it. The bank wouldn’t help him. Veronica’s dad was willing to do the merger to give his future son-in-law a job. Hank could stay in Hingham, and the Evertons could keep an eye on their daughter.”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 99