Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder (3 page)

My mother saw fit to continue. “Suppose something happens with the kids, Colleen? You can’t leave a message for something like that. How are you supposed to contact him?”

“Cell phone.”

“Did you try it?” she asked.

“He must have turned it off,” I said through clenched teeth.

My mother and Bevin made eye contact. They had been doing this for the past few months. Every time Neil was late getting home or a no-show for a special occasion, they gave each other their secret code look that said
she’s such an idiot
.

They were right, of course. I
was
an idiot. I had always believed Neil when he used the long-hours-at-work excuse. He’d built Caruso and Oates Public Relations from the ground up and had been moderately successful. I held down the fort at home, and workaholic Neil took on the role of breadwinner. I honestly thought we had a great marriage until last month, when he came home long past midnight, threw some clothes into a suitcase, and declared he no longer loved me. His voluptuous business partner, Theda Oates, had replaced me as the object of his affection. Suddenly, I had become a cliché.

“Honey, are you hungry?” my mother asked.

I eyed the moist, butter-yellow pound cake, but shook my head. My heart said
stuff the whole thing in your mouth
. My nauseated gut said
you’ve got to be kidding
.

“How about dry toast?” Bevin suggested.

I nodded. Toast might be the only thing my stomach could handle.

Bev reached for the bread in its usual place on top of the refrigerator. As always, I envied her height. My mother watched with a wistful expression. At five-one, working in a kitchen without a step stool handy was impossible for her.

“Show off,” my mother said.

Bevin flashed a toothy, eat-your-heart-out smile and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.

“I don’t want you to worry about dinner tonight, Colleen,” my mother said. “You and the kids should eat with your father and me.”

I cringed at the thought of another of my mother’s hearty, home-cooked meals. “Maybe just the kids, Mom. I think I might skip dinner.”

“Skipping meals isn’t a good idea when you’re trying to lose weight. You’ll eat twice as much once you feel you can keep food down.”

I gave her my very best scowl.

Bevin set the toast on the table and winked. “Your mother can take over from here. Call me if you need anything.” She gave me quick peck on the cheek and scampered out the sliding door.

“You don’t think she rushed out on my account?” my mother asked.

“She has things to do,” I lied.

My mother finished her tea and checked the wall clock. “Send the kids over when they get home from school. I think they should sleep over tonight. You need to relax.”

“Good idea,” I said.

“Was it bad, Colleen? The body, I mean.”

I nodded and took a bite of toast.

“Was it, you know, grotesque or anything?”

I couldn’t take any more. “Don’t you have other things to do today?”

My mother, miffed, stood to leave. “I’ll see you at supper, Miss Tactful. And leave the attitude at home when you come over.”

4

Dinner at my parents’ house was always an adventure. My mother cooked enough food to feed the entire block, though in all honesty, the neighbors would have to be near starvation before eating her cooking. She put garlic in everything—vegetables, potatoes, rice, and, I suspected, fruit.

My father forgot to put the leaf in the table, so there were nine of us crammed around a table meant to seat six. The large turnout for an ordinary Friday night meal was a gesture of support in light of my eventful day. My brother, appropriately named Dick, his wife Delia, their twins, Patty and Penny, my kids, my parents, and I jostled for position.

I reached for my water glass and bumped Sara’s elbow. Salad flew off the end of her fork and landed on Bobby’s plate.

“Gross!” Bobby said, flicking a piece of romaine onto the tablecloth.

“It’s too crowded!” I complained.

“Stop whining and have something to eat,” my mother said as she placed the main course in the center of the table.

She made meatloaf, hideous even under the best of circumstances. I passed on it, as well as the mashed potatoes and sautéed green beans. Salad seemed to be the safer option.

“Is that all you’re having?” my father asked. “Where’s that hearty appetite?”

Sara giggled, a rarity ever since the day she had turned twelve.

I played with the greens. Salads were always an afterthought at the old homestead. They were never taken seriously or given the respect they deserved. The lettuce glistened, wet and soggy. The tomatoes were cut into thick, unappetizing wedges. The carrots were huge chunks of orange—the jaws of life wouldn’t have been able to break through them.

“I’m just not hungry,” I told everyone at the table.

“That’s a first,” Dick teased.

My brother jumped in his seat and reached down beneath the table to massage his leg. I knew Delia had kicked him hard in the shin. My mother let the comment slide. My parents always thought of Dick as their golden child. Being the only boy, he was the pride and joy of both the Irish and Italian sides of the family and had been allowed to get away with just about everything.

“I’m sorry. I think I’ll just go home and go to bed,” I told everyone.

“Geez, Colleen, I was just kidding,” Dick said, and I knew, deep down, that he was. He fought all my battles in grade school and took my side in every altercation on the block. But inside the house was another matter entirely. He treated me the way I treated our kid sister Kate. We observed the pecking order.

I pushed back my chair and stood. “Don’t let the kids stay up too late, Mom.”

“We’re doing that
Xbox
thing after we eat,” my father informed me. That meant Bobby would stay up until long after midnight and probably beat the pants off his grandfather.

I used the backyard shortcut and entered my kitchen through the sliding door. The flashing red light on the answering machine caught my attention right away. There were two messages. Kate called to ask if I enjoyed my morning jog. I knew my mother had told her about the body. Ron Haver also called. He said he would drop by sometime in the early evening with a few more questions. I barely had time to fix a gin and diet tonic before the doorbell rang.

Ron Haver slouched beneath the porch light. His crisp suit was a jumble of lines and creases, and his usually perfect hair looked lifeless.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I have to clear up a few things, and I’d like to get it done right away. Are you busy?”

“Not really.” He eyed my drink, longingly, I thought. “You look like you could use one of these,” I said. “I take it you had a rough day.”

“A hectic one,” he admitted.

He stepped inside and pulled the battered notebook I saw at the Little League field from his breast pocket.

“Have a seat,” I said, motioning to the sofa.

“Thanks. I’ve been on the run all day, and you’re my last stop.”

“Would you like a drink? Or maybe coffee?”

“I’m still on duty,” he said. “Coffee would be great.”

“I’ll bet you’re hungry. How about something to eat?”

“That’s really nice of you, Colleen. I skipped lunch and dinner.”

So did I,
I thought.

I went to the kitchen to make coffee and throw together a sandwich. When I returned, Haver’s eyes were closed and his snores filled the room. I gave him a gentle nudge and whispered, “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. The coffee’s ready.”

He snapped awake, disoriented, and glanced around at the unfamiliar setting. “I must have dozed off. Sorry. Look at this sandwich!”

Like my mother, I possessed no cooking skills. But sandwiches were my specialty, and they usually dazzled my guests—capicola, Genoa salami, provolone, lettuce, tomato, red onion, with a splash of olive oil and balsamic vinegar on a sliced hard roll from Lisa’s Bakery.

“It’s nothing really.”

Haver took a huge bite, then another. I sat down beside him and glanced at the words scribbled in his open notepad.

“It’s only your name, address, and a few words about your mishap with the body,” he said when he caught me looking.

“I can see that. How’s the sandwich?”

“Great,” Haver said. “But it’s too big. Please take some of this.”

He held out half the sandwich, and I took a reluctant bite. It
was
good, but it really could have used mozzarella and there wasn’t any in the fridge. Still, I wasn’t all that hungry anyway. I set the sandwich aside.

“Do you intend to follow up on this Whitley thing?” Haver asked.

“Follow up?” I asked.

“For the newspaper. Let’s face it, you’d have an interesting perspective.”

I sank deep into the sofa cushions. “I don’t have the experience to write anything that deep. I’m not a beat reporter. I get fluffy assignments and do as I’m told.”

Haver finished off the rest of his sandwich and washed it down with coffee.

“Was there something else you wanted to ask me?”

He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and read over his notes. “Well, let’s see. You left here at approximately six thirty for your run. You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary—except for Jason Whitley. You tripped over his body …”

“Because I didn’t see him,” I reminded Haver.

“Did you see any footprints on the path while you were jogging?”

“The ground was wet. Loads of puddles. Twigs. Pine needles. But I didn’t notice any footprints. I wasn’t looking down, of course. If I had been …”

“… you wouldn’t have tripped over Whitley,” Haver said. “Yeah, I gathered that much. Did you notice anyone else in the woods while you were jogging?”

“No. Things were quiet. It didn’t look like anyone went anywhere near those woods since last fall. There weren’t even candy wrappers from the kids using the path as a shortcut to and from the field. Isn’t that odd?”

“The season just started,” he reminded me. “Our team played Monday night and the Dodgers had a practice on Tuesday that ended at seven. There hasn’t been a game since then, and none of the other coaches held a practice this week. There wasn’t enough time for a good trash buildup.”

“If nobody used the path since the Dodgers practice, that would mean Whitley died sometime between late Tuesday night and this morning.”

Haver laughed. “No offense, but you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure it out. Jennifer Whitley called the Harbor police at three o’clock in the morning on Wednesday to tell them her husband never came home. She wanted to know if there were any accidents. She drove over to the high school and found her husband’s car parked in the lot—but no Jason.”

I jumped right in, intrigued by the possibilities. “Maybe he was kidnapped or killed during a robbery. You know, Sara says he always carries a briefcase, like he’s a corporate raider or something.”

“Who’s asking the questions here, Colleen?”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“You sound like you’re interrogating me.”

“I said I’m sorry. Jeez! Why wouldn’t I be curious about all this? After all, I did stumble upon the crime scene, so to speak.”

“Who said there was a crime?” Haver said.

He had me there. “You mean Whitley died of natural causes?”

“Suppose he had an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Maybe he fell while he was jogging,” Haver teased.

“There wasn’t anything on that path he could have hit his head on. To my way of thinking, someone killed him and dumped him in the woods.”

“That’s your theory?” he asked.

“It’s a good theory. Were there any fingerprints on Whitley’s car? Any blood?”

“I’m not getting into this with you,” Haver said firmly.

I realized I must have sounded like Jane Marple on speed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to badger you. What else do you need from me?”

Haver looked uncomfortable. “I was wondering how well you knew Jason Whitley.”

“I know him from school. He’s Sara’s algebra teacher.” I paused. “Or rather, he
was
. Not much of a motive, unless you think I killed him because he’s robbing my tax dollars. Would that make me a suspect? Still, the mayor’s robbed us blind for years. What if he turned up dead?”

“We’d all be suspects,” Haver said.

I eyed the sandwich half Haver gave me. I took one more bite, enough of a base for my stomach. “I’m thinking about another gin and tonic. If we’re through, you’re welcome to join me.”

“I just want to go home and fall into bed,” Haver said.

“Too bad you’re so tired,” I said. “Dick is over at my parents’ house having dinner. If you’re still hungry, I’ll bet there’s plenty left. Either way, he’d love to see you.”

“I’ll pass on the food, but I haven’t talked to Dick in a while. Your boss hasn’t seen him since college.”

“Meredith Mancini is much older than she looks,” I said.

“You know I meant Ken Rhodes. The three of us served time at Rowan University. It’s a miracle we made it through.”

I hadn’t realized my brother knew Ken Rhodes. Dick was five years older than me, so we hadn’t paid much attention to each other’s friends growing up. Except for Ron Haver, I’d never known any of his college buddies. His friendship with Rhodes could present a problem. I could just imagine all the dorky kid-sister stories Dick had shared with Rhodes.

“So we’re all done here?” I asked. “No more questions?”

“None I can think of right now. I hate to ask you this, but do you have a number where I can reach Neil? I’ll be working tomorrow, and I need him to help coach the team in the morning. The assistant coach is more interested in his own kid’s batting average than if we actually win a game.”

“Stanley Da Silva? He still teaches over at the high school, doesn’t he?” I asked.

“Algebra I. Why?”

“I just thought he might be too upset to coach is all.”

“It’s baseball season, Colleen. Get a grip on reality.”

I led Ron Haver to the door. In all the excitement, I almost forgot how huge Little League was in the shore communities. “Give me your notepad, and I’ll write down Neil’s cell number. Don’t hope for too much. Neil’s not much interested in family-type things anymore. He’s barely spoken to the kids since he moved out.”