Moving Can Be Murder (19 page)

I started to get up to pour him a glass from
the tap, but he waved me back to my seat. “Don’t worry about that
now, Carol. Let’s not get side-tracked.”

Jim cleared a place on the table and rolled
out a yellow chart which had all sorts of diagrams and numbers on
it.

“I’ve been thinking about this all
afternoon, and I’ve come up with what I think is a reasonable
financial plan to get us through the next few months until the
house finally sells. Of course, we’re going to have to cut back on
lots of extras, but I think we can do it. Nancy’s show house idea
is a godsend, but we can’t kid ourselves into thinking it’s going
to make the house sell right away. It may not. So here’s what we’re
going to do.”

My eyes started to glaze over as Jim droned
on about his Andrews Family Financial Rescue Plan. Where was a
government bail-out when I needed it? I guess that only applied to
big automakers and major financial institutions.

I snapped to attention, though, when I heard
Jim say, “If we have to use the home equity line of credit on the
Old Fairport Turnpike house to tide us over for a while, we will.
But I’d rather not dip into it unless we absolutely have to. So
you’ll have to try harder to get freelance jobs. We’ll need the
extra income.”

I started to give him a smart ass answer,
then bit my tongue. Figuratively, of course. Because he was right,
darn it. It was high time I started carrying some of the financial
burden he’d assumed all these years. Jim’s New York City public
relations job had provided a pretty cushy income for the Andrews
family for more than 30 years, sent two kids to college with no
student loans, and kept Lucy and Ethel in designer dog food – and
me in designer duds – for a long time.

I assumed Jim was referring to my writing
and editing career, as opposed to my detective career – when I
literally saved him from being accused of murder. Now was probably
not a good time to bring that up.

Later, after I had cleaned up the kitchen
and walked the dogs, I sat in the dark and thought about my
options. That’s when I came up with my brilliant idea, I would
write a story about domestic violence in Fairport. And I knew just
where to start.

I would go back to Sally’s Closet and
interview Sister Rose.

Chapter 20

Rules of the House:

1. The woman is always right.

2. If the woman is wrong, refer to Rule
Number 1.

I woke up to the sound of someone knocking
on the door. Huh? What time was it? Where was I? I stretched and
was surprised to find I’d fallen asleep in a living room chair.
Wow. My neck and back were protesting big time.

And what was this note on top of my chest? I
squinted to read it without my glasses.

“Hi Carol. I didn’t want to wake you. You
were snoring so peacefully. I’ve gone to the paper to work on this
week’s column. Back later.

Love, J.”

Me? Snore? No way.

“Down, girls,” I said to Lucy and Ethel,
delighted to find the procurer of their kibble awake and available
to serve them breakfast.

The knocking had stopped, then started
again. More persistent this time. The dogs started to bark.

“I hope whoever it is can take the shock of
seeing me in my current state,” I said. “Not everyone is as
forgiving as you girls are.

“All right, I’m coming,” I yelled. “Give me
a second to get myself together.”

Then I realized I had no idea who was out
there. It could be Detective Paul, here to ruin another day. Or a
newspaper reporter. Or – even worse – someone from a television
station.

I tried to peek out the front window without
being seen, but to no avail.

“Who is it?” I asked. “And what do you
want?”

“It’s Mark Anderson, Mrs. Andrews. I really
need to talk to you.”

My former-almost-son-in-law. I wondered if
he was here in an official capacity, or as a family friend. Well,
if he had any thoughts about cross-examining me, I figured just
looking at me in my current state would scare him speechless. And I
had a few choice words to share with him. His comment about the
Andrews family’s connection to the local dead body count was way
out of line.

But when I opened the door, my maternal
instincts immediately kicked in.

Mark looked like – with apologies to Sister
Rose – hell. Sure, he was dressed in a sport jacket and tie, but
they were both rumpled. His hair was barely combed, and he hadn’t
shaved. I know that in some circles that’s considered a hip look,
but not for a member of the police force. Except on television, of
course.

It was hard to decide who looked worse, him
or me.

I gave him a hug. “Come on in, Mark. Even
though I’m not sure I’m glad to see you.”

Lucy and Ethel were, though. They danced
around his legs, begging for attention, and for any treats Mark
might have in his pocket.

“I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but I
haven’t unpacked the coffee pot yet,” I said. “Besides, I’m not
really sure how I feel about you right now. Jenny told us what
happened between you two. And why.”

I suppose that was reckless of me. I
shouldn’t have told him that Jenny still confided in her parents
about some of the intimate details of her life. But what the heck.
Mark, of all people, knew what a close family we were.

“Can I sit down for a minute and explain?”
Mark asked. “Or try to?”

I nodded my head and pointed to the one
kitchen chair that didn’t have a box piled on top of it. I told
myself to keep my mouth shut and let Mark talk. Especially since
Mark was a detective, and there was a chance that I might need him
if the “house problem” got any worse.

“It was stupid of me to say what I did about
you and Mr. Andrews, Mrs. Andrews.”

“Jim and Carol,” I corrected him.

Mark flashed a grateful smile. “Thanks. I
appreciate that.

“Anyway, it was just an off-hand remark
about you two. I thought it was funny. It never dawned on me that
Jenny would take it the wrong way. And get so upset that she’d
break off our relationship.”

Men. Sometimes they just don’t get how
sensitive we women can be about people we care about. For instance,
it’s perfectly all right for me to criticize My Beloved should I
happen to notice that the waist band on his pants has gotten
tighter. But nobody else is allowed to do that.

“Mark,” I said, “after all, it sounded to
Jenny like you were blaming us for the two suspicious deaths.” And
to me, too.

“In my own defense, Carol, you have to admit
that what I said was true. You and Jim were involved in Davis
Rhodes’s death last year, and now you’ve found a dead body in your
house. But that doesn’t mean I believe you were responsible for
Jack Cartwright’s death. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence.”

“It was an awful experience for me,” I said,
“and on top of that, I had to deal with that horrible Paul Wheeler,
cross-examining me like he was starring on Law and Order
Fairport.

“Of course, it would be different if I knew
that you’d be involved in this case. Like you were the last time. I
think we made a pretty good team.”

In fact, you might not have solved the case
if it hadn’t been for my help. Or been recruited by the Fairport
police force and promoted to detective.

I didn’t really say that, of course.

“That might not be possible,” Mark said
slowly. “After all, Jenny and I are a couple now.”

I gave him a hard look. “That’s the point,
Mark. You’re not a couple any more.” Thanks to your big mouth.

“Of course, I hope that this death will be
ruled a tragic accident, and there won’t be any further police
investigation. But if that doesn’t happen, God forbid, couldn’t you
keep your ears open at the station? That’s not asking a lot, is it?
Especially since you know that Jim and I aren’t responsible.”

I paused, then played my trump card. “I know
Jenny would be grateful, too. In fact, that’s a sure way to get her
back.”

“That went pretty well,” I said to Lucy and
Ethel. “I feel better knowing that Mark’s on our side.”

They each gave me a reproachful stare.

“All right, Mark didn’t exactly promise
anything. But with getting Jenny back as his incentive, I think
he’ll try pretty hard to find out what’s going on.”

I sighed. “I just hope he shares what he
finds out with us.” Particularly me. Especially since I had already
proven my impressive sleuthing ability last year.

I sat down on the chair where I’d spent the
night and thought about my options for the day.

The chaos around me was overwhelming. And I
needed to talk to Sister Rose about my article.

I had to prioritize.

“I hate to admit this,” I said to Lucy and
Ethel, “but it looks like we’ll be stuck living here for a while.
We can’t go back to our old house, and our new one won’t be ready
for another two months.” Assuming we could afford to move into it.
So far, we had given the builder several deposits, but the final
payment was yet to be made. The money for that was supposed to come
from our house sale. Still another thing to worry about.

“I have to unpack some things and try to
make this apartment look like home. And then I’ll take a quick
shower and go food shopping. Jim deserves a home-cooked meal for a
change, instead of take-out. And I promise I’ll buy dog biscuits,
just in case you were worried you were going to starve to
death.”

Lucy, the food diva of the pair, immediately
assumed a begging position.

“You have to wait until we’ve unpacked at
least one box,” I said to her. “Then we’ll take a break and have a
snack.”

I decided to start with a box marked
“Kitchen Supplies. Open This First.” It was in Jim’s handwriting,
so I figured he must have packed it. I wasn’t sure what he thought
of as critical to a kitchen, but what the heck.

Hmm. A corkscrew. A can opener. A
screwdriver. A hammer and nails. Plastic garbage bags. Candles.
This certainly was an eclectic box.

Underneath all of this were two carefully
wrapped dinner plates, two coffee mugs, two juice glasses, and a
few knives, forks and spoons.

Well, now we were getting someplace. At
least these items were food-related. But dirty. Very dirty. My
Beloved had wrapped them in old newspapers he must have taken from
a stack we had in the garage. Some of those papers had been there
for years, since Jim never wanted to recycle anything that
mentioned one of his p.r. clients.

I couldn’t help myself. As I started
unwrapping the china, I took a quick peek at the newspapers, too. I
was right. Some of them were at least 20 years old. I had a great
time looking at The New York Times. Boy, fashions sure had changed
over the years. And many of the stores with the splashy ads had
gone out of business years ago.

This is why you have so much trouble
accomplishing things, I told myself. You’re too easily distracted
and you don’t get anything done. Focus. Keep unpacking.

There were a few more old newspapers wadded
up in the corners of the box. I guessed My Beloved had stuck these
in as an afterthought, so the contents of the box didn’t shift in
transit.

Oh, what the heck. I decided to check those
out too, before I moved on to the next box. These were from our
local paper. April 1988. This was the spring that Jim had been
assigned to a client in Rome. The whole family had moved to Italy
for six months. What a glorious time that had been. Of course, I
had put on seven pounds, eating all that delicious food. Which I’d
never been successful in taking off.

Ah, well.

I settled my back against the chair and
started to scan the headlines. It took a few minutes for my brain
to register what I was looking at.

Ohmygod. It was a story about Mary Alice’s
husband. And his tragic death in a car accident. Brian was killed
instantly, when his car went down an embankment and exploded. The
driver of the other car was a teenaged boy driving on a learner’s
permit, who escaped without a scratch.