Moving Is Murder (3 page)

Cass leaned down to peek under the stroller’s awning. “Who’s this?”

“Olivia. We call her Livvy,” I said.

“She’s gorgeous,” Cass said. “My Chloe looked just like her when she was a baby. Pale fuzz for hair and a cute little rosebud mouth.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“I have two. Chloe’s four and Julie is three.” She brushed a loose strand of honey brown hair away from her face. Her smile faded as she rubbed her lightly freckled arms. “They live with my ex-husband.”

I took in her smooth face, slim body. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. Pretty young to have two kids and be divorced and remarried. She spoke so quietly I had to strain to hear, “I made some mistakes. I miss my daughters so much.” Abruptly she came out of her reverie and focused her attention on me. “So did you get the Hansons’ house for less than they were asking?”

I tried to think of a way to divert the nosy question, but she rolled on, “I heard they had to move. That they were really desperate.”

“We got a good deal.” I hedged, glad for my stint in a PR office, which had taught me a few deflection techniques.

“Two thousand less? Or maybe five?” So much for deflection.

“So what time is the wives’ coffee?” Abby asked.

“Spouse coffee,” Cass corrected. “It’s silly, but we have to be politically correct. Although I don’t think we have any male spouses in this squadron. It starts at seven-thirty tomorrow night. Everyone will be here because this will be the first meeting since we broke for the summer. The food’s going to be yummy. Diana’s bringing her raspberry torte.” Cass leaned toward me and said in an undertone, “It’ll be perfect, of course. Everything Diana does is perfect.” Then she switched back to her normal tone. “But the rest of us are bringing brownies and cookies.”

“I’ll see. Nice to meet you. We’ve got a lot to do …” I turned toward our house.

Cass changed gears and rolled on, “I write the ‘Squadron Spotlight’ column in the newsletter. It introduces the new spouses. I’ll spotlight you next month. So where were you stationed before you moved here?” Cass’s hazel eyes fastened on me with the intensity of an investigative reporter.

“Hunter, in California.” She extracted my minibiography before we could escape. She didn’t write anything down, but I had a feeling Cass was filing away every word and wouldn’t forget a single detail.

A tow truck rolled into view. “I’d better get back to unpacking,” I said and escaped before she could ask any more questions.

“Good grief, she’s nosy. And all that breathless energy. It makes me tired,” I said.

Abby’s forehead crinkled. “I didn’t know she had kids. I thought they were newlyweds.” Abby was a people person. Within a few minutes of conversation she knew most people’s life stories. I could tell she was wondering how she missed knowing about Cass’s kids.

“I knew living in the same neighborhood with most of the squad wouldn’t be good.” I was half-joking, half-serious. “Look what happened on our first day. We almost get run down by a van.”

Abby said, “Don’t be so dramatic. We’re fine. Livvy’s fine. It was an accident.”

“FP Con: Bravo,” declared one sign at the main gate to Greenly AFB. Another sign announced, 100%
id check.
I shoved the diaper bag aside with one hand and pulled my billfold out of my purse. Some women have a weakness for shoes. I’ve got a passion for purses. I breathed a sigh of relief this morning when I found the box marked
PURSES.
I might look like a frazzled, sleep-deprived mom in my red T-shirt, jean shorts, and sandals, but my purse said I still had style. Today I had my patriotic purse, rectangular red and blue leather, with a short oval strap, an appropriate choice for a squadron barbeque.

I extracted my pink photo ID and cranked down the window of the Jeep Cherokee. Everything on the Cherokee was manual—windows, seats, locks. I’d scraped together the money to buy it in college and I was quite fond of the Blue Beast, as Mitch called it. He preferred his sporty Nissan. He’d almost convinced me to sell the Cherokee, but when we got our northern-tier assignment there was no way I was parting with four-wheel drive.

Livvy gurgled in her sleep as a blast of hot, dusty air tinged with gasoline fumes swept into the car. I came even with the young security policeman in fatigues toting an M-16 on a shoulder strap. He skimmed the card. “Thank you, ma’am.” He stepped back and I eased down
the wide, flag-lined boulevard to Mitch’s squadron. I sent up a quick prayer of thanks that we were out of Lodging and into our house. The two weeks we’d spent in the small hotel room waiting for our household goods had seemed like two months.

We were in our house, but so much for my intention to not get too deeply involved in the squadron. Abby had guilt-tripped me into going to the spouse coffee where I’d somehow volunteered to help with the garage sale fund-raiser. And here I was, two days later, going to the squadron barbeque. I had boxes to unpack, crumpled packing paper to flatten. I still needed to find the answering machine. I’d be polite for the shortest amount of socially acceptable time and then get home.

I heard Cass as soon as I pushed open the heavy door to the squad. Frigid air hit my bare arms as I followed her excited voice down the stairs.

“So, I was practically pressing the brake through the floorboard with trees whizzing past me. In the park!” Cass’s voice rose and her eyes widened as she mimed driving without brakes. She pulled the energy and attention of the room to her. “Can you believe it? I barely missed Abby and Ellie. And the baby! I was terrified when I saw that stroller and I couldn’t move the steering wheel. Anyway, I finally remembered to put it in neutral. Joe showed me how to do that last winter, if it was icy. I took out a whole row of azaleas.” A group of people holding paper plates piled with hamburgers and chips gathered around Cass.

The squad was built into a man-made hill. The steep sides at the front dropped away in the back so the basement had doors that opened outside to picnic tables with a view of the flight line. Usually we’d be outside at the picnic tables, but today everyone was inside the
squadron, which had air-conditioning, something I realized I had taken for granted all my life. Now I was thoroughly appreciative and wouldn’t dream of eating outside in the 100-degree weather.

A few bursts of color, the spouses, broke up the monotony of the green flight suits that dominated “The Hole,” the name of the basement break room. In every job I’ve ever had the break room is a little plain space no bigger than a cube with a few sticky tables, painfully uncomfortable chairs, a vending machine, and an ancient microwave that makes you wonder if you should wear protective gear when you hit the “on” button. Unlike the civilian workforce, the military takes rest and relaxation seriously. The Hole took up the entire basement of the squad. It had a bar at one end, scratched tables and worn chairs spaced throughout, and a ratty earth-toned couch in front of a large TV.

The bar was stocked and in full swing. I’d been surprised at the first barbeque I’d attended. What employer hands out beer in the middle of the day? To people flying multimillion-dollar aircraft, no less? Of course, if you were flying you weren’t supposed to be drinking. The whole atmosphere was part of that tradition of being a flyer—virility and masculinity personified. The mystique of doing a dangerous job and then partying hard, reinforced in movies like
Top Gun.

Despite the increasing presence of females, the military is still a rather masculine profession, at least in the flying squadrons. The Hole was a case in point. The walls were covered with beer posters featuring bulging breasts and long legs. I wondered how much longer they would be able to get away with it before someone made them take the pictures down. Not much longer, I hoped.

Various trophies covered the walls, ranging from the more normal baseball type to the rather risky “souvenirs” people brought home, such as beer mugs from bars, signs, and even rugs. This practice, also known in more crass terms as “stealing,” was now officially frowned on, but I thought new souvenirs probably showed up regularly.

Cass’s voice broke into my thoughts. In her hot pink T-shirt and shorts she was a flash of color amid a crowd of olive drab. “It’s just a good thing I had to go to the store and I wasn’t going down Rim Rock Road like I usually do. I don’t know what I would have done.” I shivered when I pictured the steep curving road that hugged the escarpment of Black Rock Hill. Without brakes Cass would have been in serious trouble.

I waved to Mitch across the room. He motioned that he would get our burgers, so I set the diaper bag and my purse in the pile of purses and backpacks by the door.

“Vandalism.” Cass’s voice carried across the room as she replied to a question about what happened to her van. “The police say they’ve had some ‘incidents’ in our neighborhood.”

I took a seat off to one side of the group surrounding Cass with another wife that I had seen at the spouse coffee, but hadn’t talked to, Friona Herrerras. I thought she might be lonely. She had dark chocolate hair smoothed back into a French twist, olive skin, and gorgeous dark eyes with thin arched brows. She was from New York and had moved to Vernon after her wedding to Senior Airman Herrerras. I introduced myself and asked, “So how do you like Vernon?”

For an answer, she raised her shoulders in a languid shrug and took a drink of her Diet Sprite. She wasn’t
eating. Her sleek, sleeveless blue-green dress accented her thin figure and contrasted sharply with the dented folding chairs, frayed carpet, and crinkled beer posters. She looked like an exotic sea creature grounded on a beach. I could see her mentally counting the months until they were transferred. I recognized that look; I’d had it myself right after the first 5.0 earthquake rocked our California apartment. One good thing about the military: if you don’t like your assignment, you know you’ll move soon.

She scratched a few red welts on her forearm. Her lips twisted in distaste as she explained. “Poison ivy. God, people out here are crazy. Everyone has to be outside. Hiking, yard work, rollerblading. It’s like they’re in love with the trees or something. What I wouldn’t give for a skyscraper.

“A couple from the squad said, ‘Let’s get together.’ I’m thinking, like—you know—dinner, right? Wrong. We went on a
hike.”
From her tone, I could tell she thought hiking was as crazy as walking on hot coals. She set the Sprite can on her arm, covering the spots.

Okay, she didn’t want to talk about the great outdoors, so I searched for another topic. “What do you do? Are you looking for a job?” Or going to school? She looked like she was about nineteen.

She examined the strap on her sandal and waved her hand vaguely. “I shop.” I revised my opinion of Friona from lonely to aloof. Not an exotic sea creature. More like a bored mermaid. She twisted around, inspected the room. “What’s taking Keith so long? I swear.” She stood and said abruptly, “See you.”

Mitch arrived with two plates and we moved to the tables to sit with Abby and Jeff. They were easy to spot because Jeff’s tall figure topped with red hair cut in a crew
cut towered over everyone. I popped the top of my Diet Coke, poured it into the clear plastic cup of ice Mitch had brought back, and took a bite of hamburger. No efforts to be supermodel thin for me. Livvy babbled away in her car seat near my chair, a combination of gurgles and murmuring.

Abby pulled a key out of her pocket and slid it across the table. “I brought a copy of our house key. I locked myself out last week and Jeff had to drive all the way home to let me in. At least he wasn’t on a trip or I’d have had to fork over fifty bucks for a locksmith. Do you mind keeping an extra key for me at your house in case it happens again?”

“No, of course not. In fact, it’s a great idea. I’ll leave one with you, too.” I worked my key off my key ring and gave it to Abby. “I’ll get Mitch’s key before I leave. I’ll be there to let him in.”

Livvy’s gurgles merged into a few gulps. I checked her face. Tomato red. A storm of crying was about to break. I looked at Mitch and he smiled and shook his head. “Right on cue.” He picked her up and walked. I ate fast.

“Hello, everyone,” boomed a man up front. “I’m Colonel Briman. I want to welcome all the new arrivals.” He whipped off his hat and set his flight bags down. He must have come straight from the flight line. “Everyone who has transferred here within the last month, please stand up, stand up. Welcome to Greenly AFB.

“We’re a team here and we want everyone to join in and be right at home. If you need anything, anything, just let me or my wife, Jill, know.” Briman had wiry brown hair, a tan face, and green eyes made greener by the flight suit he wore. There was a round of halfhearted applause and we sat back down. “Now some of
you know we have to pick up an additional rotation to the sandbox in December, but I’m going to make it as painless as possible.”

No one made a sound, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop about twenty degrees. The “sandbox,” the deserts of the Middle East and Southwest Asia, are the bane of everyone’s life in the Air Force. It didn’t really matter where, Iraq, Qatar, the UAE, or another small but strategic country. It would be a hot, dry, and lonely time away from home. Mitch had been there last year over Christmas. It was something almost everyone hated, but you didn’t complain, at least not in front of the squadron commander. “We’re glad to have you new folks here and I know we’ll work together and make a great team,” Briman concluded. “Now I’ve got a meeting, but my door is always open to anyone at Team Greenly.” He picked up his flight bags and headed out.

Team concept was big right now. Briman must be brushing up on it, I thought cynically. Then I felt bad. It wasn’t his fault there was a deployment over Christmas. I met Mitch’s dark eyes and he said quietly with a minimal shrug of one shoulder, “I’m low man on the totem pole here.” I sighed. He would be gone over Christmas this year, too.

Diana, a thin woman with straight blond hair cut in an androgynous “little boy” style, slid into a seat, moving with a fluid, catlike grace. I’d met her at the coffee. She hooked her short hair behind her ears and introduced her husband, Brent. His thin blond hair fell across his forehead as he leaned over to shake my hand. “So nice to meet you.” He held my hand in both of his, looked directly into my eyes. Diana and Brent looked like a magazine ad for expensive perfume; both were blue-eyed blonds and attractive. But I realized Brent
was handsome in the blond Nordic style while Diana merely made the best of what she had. She compensated for a pointy nose with a short haircut that emphasized her translucent blue eyes. She adjusted her rings to centered positions on her fingers, then cut her hamburger exactly down the middle. With her eyes, pale hair, and fastidious ways, she reminded me of Abby’s Himalayan Persian cat, named Whisk. Brent’s arm bumped mine as he reached for his beer. “Sorry,” he said with a charming smile.