Moving Can Be Murder (17 page)

I looked around the sales floor. Well, this
was impressive. Everything was arranged by color, and then by size.
Sweaters, short-sleeved and long-sleeved tops, blouses, pants,
shorts, skirts, dresses, suits, evening wear. All neatly pressed
and beautifully displayed.

There were shelves for purses, gloves, and
scarves as well. Sally’s Closet was certainly a lot neater than my
own closet.

My eyes were drawn to one rack with the sign
“Designer Duds.” Hmm. This required closer inspection, so I whipped
out my bifocals to check it out. Ralph Lauren, Jones NY, Liz
Claiborne, and – joy of joys – a few of the distinctive
multi-colored prints that Lilly Pulitzer is known for. All pretty
current styles, too. I couldn’t believe that some of the clothes
had original tickets on them.

I was peering at a particularly adorable
pink, green and yellow Lilly dress – it was sleeveless but I could
always wear a sweater over it to camouflage my “bye-bye” upper arms
– when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I squealed and jumped a
foot. Well, not a foot, but a couple of inches.

“Hi, Carol,” said one of my young neighbors.
Fortunately, she was wearing a name tag on her lavender apron that
identified her as Liz.

“Hi Liz,” I said, giving her a little hug.
“I didn’t know you volunteered at Sally’s Closet.” I gestured
around the store. “I’ve never been here before. What a great
place.”

“I’m here two afternoons a week while the
kids are at their swim class,” Liz said. “Volunteering keeps me
sane. I get a little ‘over-mommied’ at times, if you know what I
mean.”

I nodded my head. I remembered those days
well.

“I’m surprised to see you in here today,
Carol,” said Liz. “Didn’t you close on your house this morning? You
and Jim should be in some fancy restaurant, celebrating.”

Evidently, Liz hadn’t heard the house sale
news yet, and I had no desire to enlighten her. She’d find out soon
enough.

“Deb and Stacy and I are really excited
about another young family moving into the neighborhood,” Liz went
on. “Not that we didn’t all love you and Jim, of course. But Alyssa
and Jack seem like such a great couple. We met them last week at
the neighborhood cocktail party Sara gave for them.”

A neighborhood cocktail party? That Jim and
I hadn’t been invited to?

At my surprised look, Liz hastened to cover
her gaffe. “I guess I stuck my foot in my mouth there. It wasn’t
exactly a neighborhood cocktail party. I mean, not everyone in the
whole neighborhood was there. Just the younger ones.”

She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I
can’t seem to get out of this one. I think I’ll just shut up
now.”

I laughed, showing that I was not offended.
Even though I was.

“Nancy was showing off a great Coach purse
she said she got here.” I said. “I can’t resist a bargain. Why
don’t you give me a tour of the place?”

I peered around the shop. “And what’s with
the decorating scheme? The walls are a light purple, aren’t they?
That’s an interesting color choice.”

Liz looked surprised at my question. “Don’t
you know that purple is the color for domestic violence abuse, the
way red denotes AIDS or women’s heart disease?”

I was properly chagrined. “You’re right. I
should have known that.”

“All the proceeds from Sally’s Closet go to
support our parent organization,” Liz went on. “You’ve heard of
Sally’s Place, right? It’s a wonderful organization that supports
and protects the victims of domestic violence here in Fairport.
You’d be shocked at how many families the agency helps in a single
year.”

She sighed. “But it looks like we need to do
a better job at marketing. There just doesn’t seem to be enough
time, or enough volunteers, to get the job done the way it should
be.”

I started to reply, but Liz didn’t give me
the chance. “Most people don’t even know that October is Domestic
Violence Awareness Month as well as Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
All you see are pink ribbons everywhere, from October 1 to
Halloween. I’m not saying that breast cancer isn’t an important
issue, but so is domestic violence.”

“I can see how much you care about this,” I
said. “You’re very passionate about it.”

“You would be, too, if you’d seen first-hand
how domestic violence can destroy a family.”

I could see that Liz was verging on tears,
and tried desperately to think of something to calm her down.

That’s when I heard The Voice.

“Carol Elizabeth Kerr. Is that you?”

I immediately snapped to attention.
Practically saluted, as a matter of fact.

And turned to face my high school English
teacher, Sister Rose.

Chapter 18

Your opinion matters. I’m just not sure to
whom.

This was turning into a helluva day. I mean,
a heck of a day. No swearing in front of Sister. In high school, I
believed that she could read minds. I wasn’t about to test that
theory now that I was an adult.

Liz immediately scurried away and began
folding sweaters.

“Sister Rose,” I said. “It is me. But my
name is Carol Andrews now.”

“The correct sentence structure is, ‘It is
I,’ dear,” Sister said without missing a beat. “You never were an
English superstar, as I recall.”

Ouch. That hurt. Even if it was true.

I stuck out my hand in a gesture of
friendship. She ignored it. I stuck my hand in my jacket pocket.
Suddenly, I was 16 years old again and being kept after class to be
reprimanded for one of a hundred possible transgressions. Like a
school uniform skirt that was too short. (I hated our uniforms so
much, I avoided wearing navy blue until I was 30!) Or saddle shoes
that weren’t properly polished. Or a homework assignment that was
late. Or whispering in class.

That last one happened pretty often.

Jeez, Carol, grow up already. And why the
hell – I mean, heck – didn’t Nancy tell me Sister Rose was
connected to this shop? No doubt she was blinded by her Coach bag
purchase. Some pal.

“It’s so nice to see you again, Sister,” I
said with a sweet smile. “You look wonderful.”

And she did, damn it. I mean, darn it. Her
softly curled white hair framed a remarkably unlined face, and her
clothes were just as stylish as mine. Actually, more stylish than
mine. Of course, she probably got first pick of the thrift shop
donations.

“It’s good to see you, too, Carol. I always
enjoy seeing my former students.” Then she reached out and gave my
shoulder a little squeeze.

Awkward silence.

So, what should I say now? Gotta go? It’s
been grand? Let’s get together for coffee sometime and talk about
old times? By the way, my husband Jim and I were selling our
antique home, but I found our buyer dead last night so the deal’s
off and we may donate the house to Sally’s Place for a show
house?

Not hardly.

“Since Mount Saint Francis closed several
years ago, the sisters’ lives have been so different,” Sister Rose
finally said. “I thought I’d be teaching forever. But now, here I
am…” she gestured around the shop… “the director of a program for
victims of domestic violence. And running a thrift shop.”

She gave me a meaningful look, the kind that
used to turn my knees to jelly. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in
here before, Carol. We can always use more volunteers. And
donations.”

And just like that, I heard myself promising
to come in one morning a week to help out in the shop. Then I got
the heck out of there. I didn’t even try on that Lilly Pulitzer
dress.

You really are an idiot, I told myself. How
could you let someone you haven’t seen in over forty years still
intimidate you like that? And on top of that, now you’ve committed
yourself to seeing her once a week at Sally’s Closet. No matter how
great the bargains are there, it’s not going to be worth putting
yourself through torture to snap them up.

Then, I had a great idea. If Jim and I (big
“if” coming here) donated our house for a fundraiser, maybe Sister
Rose would let me off the hook. I mean, how many sacrifices was I
supposed to make for this program? And I could say that I was too
busy planning the event to volunteer at the thrift shop.

Brilliant, Carol. One of your best schemes
yet. Now all I had to do was calm Jim down once he found out the
house sale was off. And convince him to go along with the show
house. I definitely needed Nancy’s help to pull all this off. And
she needed mine, too.

Time to talk to My Beloved.

But first, I decided to take a quick drive
past my house. Maybe the police activity was over and the yellow
crime tape was gone. That’d be fabulous.

I was cruising down Fairport Turnpike, the
main street in our town, just about to turn into the historic
district, when I noticed several trucks bearing what looked like
T.V. satellite dishes parked at the corner.

Hmm. I wondered what all the excitement was
about, and braked to take a quick look.

Unfortunately, the excitement was centered
in front of my house, where Phyllis and Bill Stevens were being
interviewed by a gaggle of reporters, pushing and shoving and
thrusting microphones into their faces. It was a mob scene, and it
looked like Phyllis and Bill were having a swell time becoming
instant celebrities.

Good grief! I floored my car and got out of
there before they saw me. My Beloved was going to have a fit when
he heard about this.

Then again, wasn’t he the one who always
used to tell me that there’s no such thing as bad publicity? The
key was to get your name out in the public eye – and be sure it was
spelled right. I wondered if the same rule applied to real estate
listings.

I just hoped we didn’t make the front page
of the
National Enquirer.

At least I didn’t have to face an emotional
discussion with Jim by myself. By the time I got back to our
temporary hovel – I mean,

apartment – Jenny and Nancy were there
too.

Lucy and Ethel greeted me joyously, of
course. Thank God for dogs. They’re always in a good mood.

The three humans had a variety of
expressions on their faces – Jenny looked like she was on the verge
of tears, Nancy had a bright smile pasted on her face that I knew
was phony, and My Beloved, well, My Beloved had that tell-tale
nervous eye tic thing going that was never a good sign.

“About time you showed up, Carol,” he said.
“We’ve been waiting for you so we can make some decisions.”

Rats. I was in trouble already.

“Nancy has given us the bad news that it
looks like the house deal is off. We’ve got to come up with a new
plan to sell, and quickly.”

Nancy started to speak, but Jenny
interrupted her. “Before we talk about the house, I have something
to tell all of you. It’s pretty personal, but I wanted you to hear
it from me first. We don’t have many secrets.”