Moving Can Be Murder (11 page)

The house looked unloved already. Jim had
made arrangements to turn off the electricity – God forbid we would
pay an extra dollar to the utility company – so there was no cheery
front porch light on to greet me. Luckily for me, I kept a
flashlight in my car.

The kitchen door stuck, then squeaked as it
swung open.

“Hello, beautiful kitchen,” I said as I
walked into the dark room. My eyes immediately filled up. “I mean,
goodbye, beautiful kitchen,” I said. “I’m sure going to miss
you.”

I straightened my shoulders and ordered
myself not to wallow in memories. Easier ordered than done.

I ran my hands over the granite countertops.
I remembered so well the day they were installed. And how thrilled
I’d been to finally replace all that worn-out Formica.

Sob.

Another memory came, completely out of the
blue. Or black, since it was so dark in here, even with the
flashlight. This memory was less pleasant. The workmen had measured
for the countertops incorrectly. So the first time they tried to
install the darn things, the granite was too long. And the second
time, when the measurements were correct, one of the installers
dropped the piece of granite in the driveway and it shattered into
a million pieces. Man, was I angry about that.

OK, so not everything that happened here was
fairy-tale perfect.

I allowed myself the luxury of sobbing as I
went from room to room. Stupid, I know, but there was no one around
to hear me. “Goodbye beautiful fireplaces,” I said aloud. So the
chimneys weren’t lined and we were never able to use most of them.
They looked great decorated for the holidays.

Whimper.

Goodbye pine floors, well-scuffed from years
of walking by the people I loved.

Sniff.

I touched the doorway which still had faint
pencil marks measuring Jenny and Mike’s heights. I closed my eyes,
and I could almost hear the kids squabbling about who was taller.
How I wished I’d taken Nancy’s advice and replaced that door
molding, so I could take the old piece to our new home

Sob.

On to the dining room, scene of so many
wonderful celebrations. Kids’ birthday parties. Our wedding
anniversaries. Holidays. I bid farewell to my beautiful corner
cupboard, the fabulous wainscoting, and the fireplace with its
magnificent mantle.

Every year, we put a Christmas tree in the
dining room as well as ones in the living room and family room. If
I squeezed my eyes just right, I could imagine the lights twinkling
in front of the window.

God, now I was crying so hard I needed to
sit down on the floor. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after
all.

Come on, Carol, get up. You can do this.

At this rate, by the time I got through all
the rooms, the sun would be coming up. I needed to hurry myself
along, in order to get back to the apartment and get a little sleep
before Closing Day. And, even more important, before My Beloved
woke up and figured out I was missing.

I headed across the front hall to the living
room. The moon was shining through the sidelights of the front
door, so I could see just fine.

Not. I immediately tripped over something on
the floor and twisted my ankle.

“Damn it,” I said, allowing myself a rare
curse word as I massaged my poor foot.

I aimed the flashlight at the offending
object and had to laugh. It was a man’s shoe. How appropriate, I
thought. Jim had a habit of leaving his shoes right in front of
every door in the house. He claimed he didn’t want to track debris
in from the yard. I was always after him to move them out of the
way, put them in the closet – anything. Futile. The man simply
didn’t pick up after himself, anywhere, anytime.

“One of Jim’s shoes must have fallen out of
a suitcase this afternoon,” I told myself, my voice echoing in the
empty house. I hated to admit it, but now my house felt kind of
spooky.

I continued into the living room. There was
a pile of clothing bunched in a corner. Strange. I didn’t remember
that being there when Jim and I had walked through earlier.

“Those movers really were careless. Jim’ll
have a fit about this.”

The next thing I noticed was Jim’s other
shoe, peeking out from under the pile of clothes. I smiled. Well,
I’d just have to pick up after My Beloved one more time. A fitting
way to say goodbye to my house.

Then, I took a closer look.

Oops. This wasn’t Jim’s shoe after all.
Unfortunately, this one had a foot in it. The foot was attached to
a man who was quite dead. In my living room.

I didn’t know whether to cry or throw up.
But my insatiable curiosity won out over my churning stomach, and I
shined my flashlight onto the man’s face.

The house closing was definitely off.

The dead man was our buyer, Jack
Cartwright.

Chapter 12

All men may be different, but all husbands
are the same.

The next thing I remember, I was outside on
Old Fairport Turnpike, screaming my lungs out. It never occurred to
me to use my cell phone to summon help. Nor did I care that it was
now probably after midnight.

I guess I’m blessed with a good set of
lungs, because within seconds Phyllis and Bill Stevens appeared at
their front door, matching plaid bathrobes wrapped tightly around
them.

“Who the hell is carrying on like that?”
bellowed Bill from his stoop. He switched on his porch light to see
what was going on. “Don’t you know what time it is? People are
trying to sleep.”

“Bill, thank God,” I cried, happy to see a
familiar face even though it was also an angry one. “It’s Carol
Andrews. I need help. ” I ran across the street as fast as my
chubby little legs could carry me and threw myself into his arms,
sobbing.

“Carol,” said Phyllis. “What’s wrong?” She
looked at me critically, as if a woman babbling in the arms of her
husband was something she didn’t allow. “What are you doing here at
this time of night? Aren’t you closing on your house later today?
Lord, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Please,” I said, “you’ve got to call the
police right now. There’s a dead body in my living room.”

“What?” Bill and Phyllis said at exactly the
same time. Phyllis leaned close to my face, ever so slightly.
Probably checking for a telltale liquor odor on my breath.

“I know this sounds nuts, but you’ve got to
help me,” I said. “I came back to the house to do one more
walk-through and say goodbye.” I blinked back tears, which were
falling faster than I could keep up with them. My nose was running
too. Jeez. How attractive I must look.

“When I got to the living room, I found a
dead body.” I paused and a tremor went through my body as I
remembered the horrible sight. “Oh, God, it’s our buyer, Jack
Cartwright.”

I started to cry even harder, then – how
embarrassing -- I started to hiccup. I couldn’t stop. I was sure
Phyllis thought I’d been drinking.

They led me inside their house and had me
sit down on the sofa in the family room. Phyllis gave me a paper
bag to breathe into, which she claimed would cure my hiccups. Bill,
meanwhile, phoned the police.

The paper bag trick didn’t work. I was
hiccupping, crying, and sniffling all at the same time. A true
mess.

“Does Jim know you came back to the house?”
asked Phyllis.

“Jim!” I cried. “I have to let him know
what’s happened.”

There was no way to predict My Beloved’s
reaction. He could be angry at me for sneaking out and going to the
house, scared on my behalf, angry that the closing was off –
anything was possible. Especially if he was awakened from a sound
sleep. Although, I reminded myself, he’d had more experience with
finding dead bodies than I had, since he’d discovered his
retirement coach’s last summer.

“Bill,” I pleaded, hiccupping for added
emphasis, “can you please call Jim for me? I’m too upset to make
any sense.” I held out a scrap of paper. “Here’s his cell
number.”

Good old Bill. He was happy to be given
still another prominent role in the melodrama playing out in his
family room. He made eye contact with Phyllis, probably asking
permission to use the phone again, patted me on the shoulder, and
took the cordless phone into the kitchen to make the call.

A few seconds later, the doorbell rang and
my nemesis, Paul Wheeler, the shortest and nastiest detective on
our town’s police force, strode in. Oh, joy. He and I had crossed
swords last year. I prayed he wouldn’t remember me.

No such luck.

“Don’t I know you?” Paul asked me, scowling.
“Aren’t you Carol Andrews, from across the street?” At least he
didn’t say, “Aren’t you that busybody Carol Andrews?”

“What’s this all about?”

Paul gestured for me to sit on the sofa
while he remained standing. I immediately realized he was doing
that to intimidate me. And that my sitting while he continued to
stand was the only way he would ever be taller than I was.

As succinctly as I could, I described the
sale of our house, our temporary move into an apartment, my coming
back to check the house (I didn’t call it a “pity party”), and
finding the dead body in my living room. I was proud that my voice
was calm, and I just gave the bare facts. No embellishments or
opinions.

And, miracle of miracles, my hiccups had
disappeared. Paul had accomplished what a paper bag couldn’t.

When I came to the part about the identity
of the dead man, however, Paul stopped me. “How did you know it was
your buyer?” he asked, raising himself up to his full (short)
height and attempting to loom over me.

I recognized him, stupid.

I didn’t really say that, of course.

At this point, I became aware of flashing
lights and activity across the street. More police, no doubt. And
the emergency squad, though it was too late to do anything for poor
Jack.

“I left my front door open when I ran
outside,” I explained. I didn’t want Paul to think the house had
been broken into. In fact, the house had showed no signs of forced
entry. I filed that fact away to think about later.

Paul sat down opposite me and made himself
comfortable, legs spread apart. He took out his notebook and glared
at me. “One more time, and don’t leave anything out.”

I started to reply, then stopped myself. I
wondered if I needed a lawyer. Poor Jim had tried to help the
police out last year and ended up being suspected of a crime.

I couldn’t help bristling at Paul’s tone. It
sounded like he was accusing me of misleading him.

OK, I had been guilty of doing that during
our previous encounters.

I guess he remembered that, too.

“My husband and I decided to put our house
on the market and move to an active adult community.” Too much
information, Carol. He doesn’t care about that.

“The house sold immediately. Perhaps you
remember what a beautiful house it is.”

I paused to give him a chance to respond,
but Paul just looked impatient. I do have a tendency to drag
stories out, especially when I’m nervous. Which I certainly was at
that moment.

“The house was purchased by a nice young
family, the Cartwrights. Jim and I moved out today. I mean,
yesterday. The closing was supposed to be tomorrow. I mean today.”
I knew I wasn’t making any sense.

“Anyway, I came back to the house by myself
to take a final walk- through. And I found the dead body of our
buyer, Jack Cartwright, in our living room. That’s all.”

“Were you and your husband in agreement
about selling the house?” Paul asked me.

“Well, no, actually in the beginning, I
didn’t want to sell it,” I admitted. “In fact, I was really opposed
to it.”

Paul pounced on my reply.

“So, Mrs. Andrews, perhaps you had a motive
to stop the sale of the house. By eliminating the buyer.
Permanently.”

“Don’t answer him, Carol,” said My Beloved,
racing into the room like Sir Galahad to the rescue. I flung myself
into his familiar arms and began to bawl.

“My wife has had a terrible shock,” said
Jim. “You have no right to make such an outrageous accusation.”

The combination of Jim’s tone of voice – who
knew My Beloved could be so forceful? – and my continued crying
stopped the questioning for a brief moment.

And then, Paul’s cell phone rang. Not just
any ring, mind you, but the song “Bad Boys,” the theme from the
television show Cops. Words as well as music. And I quote, “Whatcha
going to do when they come for you? Bad boys, bad boys.” It made me
laugh. I couldn’t stop myself. OK, by that time I was probably
verging on hysteria, but it was so ridiculous. Fairport Detective
Paul Wheeler, television-reality-show-star-wanna-be.

He listened to whomever was on the other end
of the phone, then snapped it shut. “I was only thinking out loud,”
he said to us. “I wasn’t accusing anyone of a crime. Yet. It’s much
too early for that.”