by Sara Rosett
“Hey,” Abby said, “want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Sure.”
“Great. About six o’clock?”
Mitch staggered up the basement stairs. “Last one,” he gasped. We’d stored some boxes with things we didn’t need right away in the basement. Rex meandered around Mitch’s feet, sniffing the seams of the dish-packed box. Mitch did a little two-step and dropped the box with a thud, narrowly missing Rex’s tail. I cringed, hoping the dishes weren’t shattered.
“Those are ready to go to the shed.” I pointed to the flattened boxes we’d already unpacked. Mitch gathered them up, maneuvered out the door to the backyard, and banged against the door frame and stair handrail.
I unwrapped six delicate coffee cups before Mitch returned.
“There’s a police car at Keith and Friona’s house,” he announced.
“I hope there wasn’t another break-in,” Abby said.
“Probably just another garage.” He picked up his list for the hardware superstore and gave me a quick kiss. “See you in about an hour. Love you.”
Livvy’s huffy cries merged together and I picked up my pace. I crammed the last piece of china, a gravy boat, into the cabinet with a hurried clink and took her from Abby as her cries intensified and her face turned from pink to scarlet. In her room, I settled down to feed her. I looked around and smiled. The walls could use a new coat of paint, but her nursery looked beautiful with the white crib and dresser and the yellow crib set dotted with tiny blue and white flowers. It felt good to have it out of the box. Her mobile of flowers and birds rotated slightly and gave off a single note of “Hush, Little Baby.” The window needed something, a valance maybe.
A large television truck with the number eight emblazoned on its side and a satellite lumbered past the window. I stopped rocking and watched as two women hopped down from the truck parked behind the police car at Friona’s house. One woman had blond hair escaping from a scrunchie. She wore baggy shorts, a T-shirt, and that classic California fashion statement, thick sandals with white socks. I pegged her as the news photographer. The other woman had hard-looking dark hair and moved carefully in high heels over the uneven sidewalk, straightening her vivid blue suit as she walked.
A second news truck arrived by the time I finished changing Livvy. “What’s going on?” I asked Abby, who was watching out the dining room window.
“I don’t know. Here, I’ll take Livvy. I see Mabel; she’ll know. You go find out.”
I headed across the lawn slowly. I didn’t want to be a nosy neighbor. I’d looked down on Ed and Mabel for their snoopy ways, but I was curious, too. I merged into the little clump of neighbors gathered in Mabel’s yard. I found her off to one side. “What’s going on?”
“The woman who lived there was killed last night,” Mabel said.
“What?” Goose bumps traveled up my arms. Another death?
“It was on the radio. Mugged in a parking lot downtown.”
“She was a squadron spouse.” I noticed Mabel looked annoyed that she didn’t know I was acquainted with Friona. Mabel wanted to be the one giving the news, not receiving it.
“I knew nothing good was going on in that house,” Mabel said.
“She was a night owl. I saw her out my back window,” said another woman, a contemporary of Mabel’s. “I’m Helen,” she said to me. “What a welcome you’re getting. This street used to be the quietest, nicest street. Now we’ve had a murder.” Helen was shrunken and stooped with age. Once she’d been petite; now she was tiny. She had a thin face with lines running down to her pinched mouth and straight iron-gray hair flattened in a bowl cut.
“Never had a murder until everyone started dying or moving to Arizona, and all these young people moved in.” Helen patted my arm. “I don’t mean you, of course. But people like her.” She pointed at the news vans obscuring Friona’s house. “Snooty. Too good to come over and say hello, the few times I did see her. Kept her nose in the air and didn’t even wave. But she sure kept busy coming and going at night. I don’t sleep well. Never would have guessed she was slinging burgers at McDonald’s.”
“Does anyone know what happened?”
“She was knifed,” Helen said with relish.
“Helen you need to turn that TV of yours off,” Mabel reproved her friend. “This was a person, not some character in a cop show. She was held up at knifepoint when she left after closing. They took her purse and then slit her throat.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“Someone at a hotel next to the restaurant heard her scream and called the police, but it was too late,” Mabel added.
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“I overheard Karrie Hobart talking to her photographer. Karrie’s my favorite. She’s on Channel Two. Unlike some people, I want to know the facts, not the speculation.” Mabel shot a look at Helen.
Helen turned and marched away with as much dignity as her stooped form allowed.
“Helen gets carried away, but she’s right about one thing. This used to be a nice, quiet little street.”
I returned to the house, sat down at the kitchen table, and pressed my trembling hands between my knees. I relayed the news to Abby.
“That’s awful. Friona?” Abby’s eyebrows scrunched tighter. “From the mall?”
I nodded. I felt hot, then shivered.
Abby said, “You don’t look so good, kind of pale. You’re not going to faint, are you?”
The corners of the room seemed to slip and merge. “No.” I bent over and pressed my forehead to my clenched hands. Breathe.
It was too strange. Another spouse was dead. What kind of squadron was this? Too much stress. Breathe. Too many changes, the move, a baby, a new house, and a new squadron. On top of all that, squadron wives were dying. Dying!
Abby’s voice had faded to a low murmur, but I realized she wanted me to drink some water. Experimentally, I raised my head and blinked. The sunlight in the kitchen seemed extremely bright. I didn’t feel that strange hot/cold sensation anymore, so I took my large plastic water cup that Abby held out and sipped. The icy cold water felt good on my dry throat. “Sorry. It’s just so scary.”
Abby, who’d been hovering beside my chair, dropped into the one beside me and said, “I wonder what was she doing at McDonald’s?”
It wouldn’t hurt to tell Friona’s secret now that it was being broadcast over the news—even Helen knew. “She worked at McDonald’s. I saw her one morning and recognized her. She was embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to know. Her husband didn’t even know. Poor Friona. Now it’s going to be all over the news.”
The next night I was feeding Livvy in Jeff and Abby’s bedroom while the muted stop-and-go conversation continued in the dining room between Mitch, Abby, and Jeff when I noticed a piece of paper on the floor under Jeff’s dresser.
It had been a dinner of awkward pauses. Especially after I mentioned working at the Vincents’ house organizing Cass’s things. I mentioned it in passing, but I caught the quick look Abby shot in Jeff’s direction. Almost as if—no, that was crazy. Abby couldn’t be afraid of Jeff. While we ate, all I could think was that it would be a relief to go home.
But now I didn’t want to go home so quickly. The folded paper tempted me. It looked like the paper that set off the argument between Cass and Jeff at the barbeque.
I scanned the rest of the bedroom as I burped Livvy. Like the rest of the house it had an eclectic flair. A patchwork spread covered their brass bed. Two different styles of dressers, one dark wood and one painted white, and an upholstered chair furnished the small room, but even with the different elements, it worked. It must have something to do with the fabrics and paint colors.
Perfume, jewelry, and a set of hand weights covered Abby’s dresser. Jeff’s was clean, except for a photo of Abby and a low bowl that held change and the patches off his flight suit.
I settled Livvy in the playpen that Mitch had set up at the foot of the bed. Groggy
and satisfied from eating, she drifted into sleep. I slipped over to Jeff’s dresser and picked up the paper.
I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding. It wasn’t the paper I’d seen at the squad. The paper that made Cass so mad was a check. This was a receipt for a latte and a bagel. I replaced it where I’d found it, then glanced at the drawers and the closet.
No. I would not snoop through my best friend’s room. But Abby was worried and, although I hated to admit it, she was afraid. She knew Jeff was lying about something. What if he’d done it? What if Abby was living with a murderer?
I listened and heard the clink of silverware. After a silence that stretched too long Abby asked about our date at the Aurora Mansion. I slid open the top dresser drawer. Sorry, Abby, I mentally apologized, but if Jeff’s guilty, the sooner you know the better. I quickly felt around the edges of shirts. Nothing. I opened the rest of the drawers. Socks, jeans, underwear. Man, Jeff was neat. Nothing in the drawers except clothes and paper liners. I moved to the tiny closet and patted down Jeff’s flight suits.
The door to the room creaked on its hinges and I spun around. Whisk, Abby’s cat, stood on the threshold, her tail swishing slowly back and forth. The cat pranced to the bed, leapt lightly onto the spread, and settled down to watch me. I turned back to the closet. Abby had commandeered the rest of the closet. Nothing else except shoes and boots wedged next to a two-drawer filing cabinet in the back corner. I wasn’t surprised to see the filing cabinet in the closet. A house with square footage on the low side made you stick things where you normally wouldn’t dream of storing things. After all, I had some of my summer sandals stashed in the linen closet. I hesitated, but didn’t hear any sounds in the hall, only the muted ebb and flow of voices.
I pulled open the drawer. I snuck a glance over my shoulder. Whisk still gazed at me with unblinking sapphire eyes. I tried to shake my uneasy feeling. It was absurd that a cat could induce guilty feelings. Jeff’s neatness extended to the filing system, too. The top drawer contained household accounts, receipts, and tax returns. The bottom drawer had three folders. I seized the one labeled deer lease, and flicked through the papers.
A letter addressed to Jeff informed him his check had been received and gave driving directions to the leased land. It went on to describe the rules: when he could hunt and regulations about guests. Jeff’s canceled check was his receipt. It was stapled to the back. It was deposited the Monday after Cass died. I slid the folder back into the drawer and closed it. Jeff really did have a deer lease. He wasn’t lying about that.
But Abby knew he was lying about something. I scanned the room. I couldn’t stretch my time much longer. I knew from my organizing jobs that people tended to store items that were most important or valuable in their bedroom. I went to the tiny nightstand. The bottom was open and lined with model airplanes. I pulled on the small drawer at the top. It was stuck. I gave the drawer a yank. At the same moment I heard footsteps in the hall. The whole drawer flew out of the nightstand and the contents splattered onto the floor.
Oh no. I whipped around to check Livvy, but the rug had muffled the crash. She shifted her feet, sighed, and went back to deep breathing. The footsteps grew louder. What was I going to say to Jeff and Abby? I set the drawer down and scrambled to put everything back. A Kleenex. I was looking for a Kleenex. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Jeff as he walked down the hall to the bathroom without glancing in the room.
Thank goodness he didn’t see. I tossed in notepads, pens, a mini tissue box, and a small book about weather, one of Jeff’s other interests besides hunting. I tried to shove the drawer back, but it stuck again.
I heard the toilet flush and water run. I felt a bead of sweat on my forehead, near my hairline. The bathroom door opened. I shifted the drawer, jiggled it. Finally. It slid into place.
Jeff looked in on his way back to the dining room. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I whispered and patted Livvy’s back before I followed him down the hall. Fine, if you don’t count almost having a heart attack while searching your best friend’s house.
I slapped the plastic tray down and slid into the booth. Back to reality, I thought, and took my paper plate with the sub sandwich and Diet Coke off the tray. Our date on Saturday night had been wonderful, a relaxing dinner served with china, crystal, real flowers on the linen tablecloth, muted music, and dim lights. We were able to talk without interruption and even dance a little. Today, Monday, it was back to real life. No slinky dress that made Mitch smile his slow smile. Today it was fast food on paper plates gulped down while I wore a sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes. After this I was off for a quick rush through the Comm. Ah well, it had been nice. And the garage sale was Saturday, five days away. I’d better get busy.
We had avoided talking about anything from the squadron during our date, except once when I mentioned Friona. “It’s so sad. And weird, too. Two squadron spouses have died within two weeks. Don’t you think it’s a little strange?”
“Well, we know Cass’s death was intentional, but Friona worked in a fairly risky place. Armed robbery at fast food restaurants isn’t all that uncommon. I worked at that claim-processing unit when I was in high school. We got a lot of calls about robbery. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now let’s not talk about death anymore. Let’s dance.” He led me onto the floor, where I tucked my head under his chin and enjoyed the slow dance.
But I couldn’t ignore it anymore since I was on-base. Mitch rocked the car seat with one hand and held his sub sandwich in the other. Thinking of our short conversation about Friona, I asked, “Do you like playing devil’s advocate?”
“What?”
“You downplay my ideas, like the possibility of Friona’s and Cass’s deaths being related to each other.”
“Someone has to be the voice of reason in our family.”
I faked a kick at his shin and he wiped the smile off his face.
He said, “I bet you didn’t know I liked debate in high school.”
“No. I didn’t.” Debate seemed too … cerebral for my athletically inclined spouse.
“I did. I liked to argue one side and then turn around and argue the other side. So, yeah, I like being the devil’s advocate.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Why didn’t you become a lawyer?”
“Better snow skiing at the Academy. And chicks love a man with wings.”
“Please. You know I fell in love with you only because I beat you at miniature golf.”
Later in the Comm, I tossed a head of romaine lettuce into a plastic bag and put it in my cart. I dutifully followed the arrows from the produce aisle around to baking and canned goods. Only the military would try to control traffic flow in a grocery store, but I had to admit that it was a nice system when the store was crowded. Today, Monday afternoon, was pretty slow and I didn’t have to work too hard to avoid retirees. I added canned soup and flour to the basket, then I strained to remember what else was missing from the pantry. In my rush to get out of the house, I’d left the list on my desk beside my cookbooks. I checked the price on the cereal, $1.86, and dropped two boxes into the cart. The prices definitely made it worth the drive.
A slight, silver-haired woman cut in front of me in the noodle section and grabbed the last two packages of spaghetti noodles. I picked up ziti noodles instead. When we’d lived in California, the Comm had always been packed with military retirees who took their grocery shopping benefit very seriously. I’d learned to stay out of the way of frail-looking elderly folks. They could be vicious with their carts when the shelves were getting low. Today, I was too busy keeping an eye on Livvy, making sure she wasn’t about to burst into one of her crying sessions, to worry about noodles.
“Isn’t he a cute one! How old?” I turned to put a jumbo package of paper towels in my cart and found the spaghetti-swiping woman patting Livvy’s blanket and smiling. Livvy’s pink blanket. Despite hats with bows and pink clothing, this was the third person to stop me to l
ook at Livvy and ask “his” age. “She’s four months.” I reminded myself how lucky I was to have a little baby and how much people enjoyed reliving memories of their babies when they asked about Livvy. The woman cooed and smiled at Livvy. Livvy kicked her feet and the woman’s face crinkled.
On the next aisle, I tossed a package of Hershey Kisses into the cart. Then I tried to wrestle a twelve-pack of Diet Coke into a few inches of free space on the lower rack of the cart. A voice above me asked, “Can I give you a hand there?”
I looked over my shoulder at Nick Townsend. “Ah, sure.” I backed out of his way. I checked out his cart. It was packed with soft drinks, jumbo packages of candy bars, Pop-Tarts, and snack bars. He stood up after shoving the box into the lower level of my cart. “I can pack a cart to the brim. I’m the Snack O.”
He moved back to his cart and shoved it back and forth like a little boy revving up his toy car before it took off.
I nodded. The Snack Officer’s job was to stock junk food in the snack bar, a little cubby of a room or closet somewhere in the squadron. The squad bought in bulk and resold things individually, a nice moneymaker for the squadron.
“Thanks. Hey, I was wondering, did you ever see Cass at Northwest Family Health?”
“What?” His cart stilled.
“I saw you there the last two Fridays. I know Cass had an appointment the Friday she died, so I wondered if she knew about your allergy shots.”
His expression moved from blankly polite through confusion and to fury in a few seconds. He took a step toward me and I backed up against the shelves. The two-liter soft drink bottles bumped against my shoulders. Nick was about my height, so his narrowed eyes and flushed face were right in my face. “Shut up!” A wave of his onion breath engulfed me. I moved my head back further, pressing against the bottles behind me.
I glanced up and down the aisle. It was deserted. “Don’t go messing in my private life.” I could see little beads of sweat pop out on his upper lip. “If I hear one word, one word, of this from anyone else I’ll know where it came from and you’ll be sorry.” Before I could move, he jerked away and sped off down the aisle with his overloaded cart.