Death Comes eCalling

by Leslie O'Kane

  The doorbell rang. Lauren swung open the door and cried, “Jack! How are you?”

  Jack Vance stepped inside, giving Lauren a party-like kiss of greeting. I felt a shade uneasy as I said hello, still unable to completely reconcile this average-looking middle-aged man with the Adonis of my memory.

  Steve groaned, but I wasn’t sure if that was due to his wife’s being bussed or his having to get to his feet again so quickly. Jack crossed the room and pumped Steve’s hand vigorously.

  “You two know each other?” I asked, needing to work my way into witty repartee gradually.

  “Sure do,” Jack said. “The district hired him to establish software security measures. He’s been teaching me a lot, let me tell you.”

  I grinned, nodded, and said, “Oh,” my mind racing to come up with some follow-up that could make me seem at least vaguely interested in school-district software security measures. Yet another area where I missed my husband. He had an incredible knack for acting fascinated with the most painfully mundane topics. Provided, of course, that his wife wasn’t the one speaking.

  “So. What kind of computer records do you need to keep secure?”

  “You’d be surprised, Molly. We have student-at-risk listings, the status of various grants, funds, teacher ratings, PTA activities, results of various surveys, the finance committee activities, of course…”

  “Of course,” I agreed. I’d been bobbing my head like a dashboard trinket. I looked at Steve, expecting him to add something, anything, to the conversation, but he was staring off into space. Lauren, too, seemed to have fallen asleep, eyes open. The doorbell rang, and Lauren, Steve, and I simultaneously cried, “I’ll get it.”

  It was Denise and her husband. His hair had yet another layer of grease gluing it onto his oddly shaped skull. Perhaps he’d had a particularly large head at birth that had never rounded itself out. He wore a checkered bow tie, white short-sleeved shirt, and green corduroy pants. I’d forgotten his name and hoped Denise would use it soon so I wouldn’t have to ask.

  “So, Molly, you met my husband the other night.” Denise’s light blue dress suit made her look particularly petite under all that fabric.

  “Yes. Nice to meet you again.” I wasn’t worried about catching his name. After all, there were other people in the room Denise would introduce him to.

  “Steve, Jack. How are you?” he said.

  Steve, Jack, and X launched into an animated discussion about baseball. Compared to most women, I’m a sports nut. However, the action of an entire three-hour baseball game can be shown in a single highlight clip. It’s a fine time-saver to watch the clip on the news, groan or cheer once, then get on with life.

  “Can I get anyone something to drink?” I asked.

  I took the men’s orders, but Denise and Lauren insisted on helping. We got as far as the front door before Tommy arrived. He scanned the room with the desperate look of a lost child. “Uh, hi, Molly. Got the wine, like you asked.”

  I thanked him, and as we chatted, Carolee climbed the front steps. I invited her inside, and noted Tommy’s gleeful expression as their eyes met, followed by the slight look of surprise when he lowered his vision to her swizzle-stick legs.

  “Let me introduce you to everyone.” I scanned the room and realized I was in trouble. The only people she didn’t know were Denise and X. “This is my neighbor Carolee Richards. You remember Tommy Newton, of course.”

  I stalled, but Mr. Denise’s name was still a blank.

  Carolee nodded shyly. “Hi. Nice to see you out of uniform.”

  Tommy’s grin was so wide he had a pair of dimples on each cheek that looked like quotation marks for his lips. We turned toward the living room.

  “And this is Denise and her husband. Denise and I went to school together for thirteen years. We were even in the same kindergarten class.”

  Carolee shook hands with Denise, then stepped toward X with an outstretched hand. “Sam Bakerton,” he said.

  Sam. Nothing like Uncle Sam on the World War II posters, I thought, as a memory device.

  No sooner had we gotten drinks and taken seats in the living room than the door opened, and a female voice cooed, “Knock knock.”

  Stephanie entered. She was wearing a strapless black taffeta gown. Yikes. In my cotton paisley A-line, suddenly I was underdressed for my own party. There was no violin quartet or diva following her through the door. Nor a spouse. Perhaps her husband had decided not to come, anticipating Jack’s presence.

  Stephanie held out a covered platter toward me and said, “Darling. You were so out-of-sorts at the funeral. It’s nice to see you back in one piece. I know this is a surprise, but I brought dessert.” She scanned the faces of her captive audience. “Some of the men in the room probably haven’t heard this story, but Molly started a fire in Home Ec. Not just once, but twice. The first time, she burned chocolate chip cookies. What was the other? Oh, yes. It was supposed to be a chocolate marble cake. By the time Molly was through with it, it was marbleized upside-down cake. She not only burned it, she dropped it on the floor.”

  I gritted my teeth but managed a smile as I stepped toward her. “Yes, well, it’s baking-impaired people like me who inspired the invention of ice cream.”

  She handed me the platter as if it were Waterford crystal. “This is cheesecake. I made it from scratch. I was going to bring cherries jubilee, but I wasn’t sure I could trust you to set my dessert on fire.”

  “True. I would’ve asked you to hold it while I lit the blowtorch.”

  “Oh, Moll, Moll. Such a kidder.”

  I balanced the platter on my fingertips. “Just how much scratch goes into a cheesecake anyway?”

  Lauren whisked the cake from my hand. “Let me set this in the kitchen for you, Molly.”

  Stephanie’s husband stepped unannounced through the front door. He was wearing black slacks and a white long-sleeved silk shirt.

  Stephanie said, “Oh, Preston, there you are.” She took his arm and looked at me, her face expressionless.

  “Hello. I’m Molly.” Preston Saunders. Now there was a yuppie name. I wondered what could have taken him so long to reach the front door from my short driveway. He reached out his hand, and as I shook it, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke on his clothing answered that question.

  Preston glared at Jack Vance, now standing by the guacamole bowl. In a caricature, the two would have lightning bolts shooting from their eyes.

  Sam broke the silence. “Shame about Mrs. Kravett isn’t it, Jack?”

  “Sure is. You knew her?” Though the question hinted at nonchalance, Jack sounded all too aware that Sam had known her.

  “She did the proposal for the grant that my company… that Preston’s and my company awarded to Carlton Central,” Sam replied.

  “That’s right,” Jack said. “I’d forgotten.” Yet another lousy acting job. I looked at Preston. He was staring at an oil still life over the couch, pretending not to listen. That educational grant might have been the source of contention between him and Jack, but I’d put bigger money on Stephanie’s flirtations as the cause.

  “Mrs. Kravett started the student internship program at your company, too,” Steve said. All three men looked at him in surprise, and he added, “The interns’ schedules were in the school’s data base. You’d be amazed how much I learn about people during the course of my job.” He looked at Jack. “Though it would have made my job easier if Mrs. Kravett had shared her password with someone before she died. Now I have to work Sunday and take the whole system down to get at it.”

  The muscles in Jack’s jaw tightened and his eyes flashed in anger. There was an awkward silence. Everyone in the room was probably thinking: How long till I can make a graceful exit? That was certainly my thought pattern, and I lived here. Preston put his arm around Stephanie.

  “So, I take it you didn’t bring your children,” I said.

  “Good heavens no,” said Stephanie. She flicked at me with a manicured paw that sported a w
edding band and a diamond so large she must have listed to the left. “We’d owe my daughter another trip to Disneyland to reward her for having to come here tonight.”

  I turned a growl into a clearing of my throat, “Think I’ll go see where Lauren’s putting that cheesecake.”

  “Need any help in the kitchen?” Stephanie called after me.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Mind helping me whip up a main course?”

  She blinked, then said, “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

  I pushed through the kitchen door, letting it swing shut behind me. Lauren was leaning against the counter, gulping a glass of burgundy. She looked a bit sheepish.

  “Don’t get the wrong impression.” She lifted the bottle. “I just get nervous at parties and need to toke up. Want some?”

  I shook my head. I’d learned my lesson from a painful alcohol-related incident years ago, and now rarely drank even socially. “Lauren, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you. Is it just me, or is that woman a bitch?”

  She didn’t need to ask which woman. “It’s her all right, but you bring out the worst in her.”

  “How? What is it about me that makes her act like that?”

  “Maybe she’s jealous of you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Nobody’s ever been jealous of me. Except maybe my mother-in-law, for stealing her only son.” That reminded me. Jim was supposed to call at eight tonight, Fridays and Saturdays being the rare days that the considerable time difference was workable. With any luck, I could play up his phone call to let it be known that I did indeed have a loving husband.

  Lauren turned, studied my face, and said wistfully, “We can never see ourselves as clearly as we see others. That’s why, as friends, we hold up a mirror. And I see so much beauty in you.”

  I was taken aback by her words and muttered through my embarrassment, “Jeez, Lauren. You’re getting philosophical on me.”

  She smiled slightly and blushed. “You wrote that in a letter to me seven years ago.”

  I looked at her in surprise, and she continued, “I’d sent you pictures from our tenth reunion and was obsessing about my weight. Remember?”

  I did, vaguely, but we were soon deluged with party guests who’d swamped into the kitchen. I should’ve known how guests gravitate there if the hostess leaves them unattended for any length of time. Lauren helped with my hostessing duties and we were soon actually eating at the dining table like real adults.

  Our food was not the disaster I’d envisioned. The stuffed spinach-and-cheese manicotti was moist, the salad crisp, and even the garlic bread was just the way I liked it, crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside.

  My daughter, Karen, self-appointed hostess of the basement party for the younger set, kept periodically moaning that the pizza’d better arrive soon or she’d starve to death. It did, and she didn’t.

  Lauren continued to hit the wine as we ate, matched in pace only by Tommy, who acted truly smitten by Carolee. She kept excusing herself to “check on the children.” I wasn’t sure how much of that was sincere interest and how much was an attempt to impress Tommy with her mothering skills. In any case, it was a wonderful convenience for me.

  On a final trip up the stairs, carrying an empty pizza box and paper plates, Carolee announced, “Rachel just did the cutest thing. She showed your children how to print out letters on your computer.”

  I tensed. I’d deliberately turned off my computer and fax machine/printer. A subscriber to Murphy’s Law, I’d wanted to avoid the possibility of an obscene fax or email arriving, to be read aloud by Karen to our dinner guests. “What did she send?”

  “Oh, just some little doodles she drew.”

  “Excuse me. I don’t want my children to figure out that they can use my computer to edit my eCards. It would crush my ego to discover that they're better artists than I am.” Forced to reveal my possessiveness about my office equipment, I might as well get in some plugs for my company.

  I headed down the stairs, an idea for a humorous non-occasion card came to me. After chasing the three children out of my office, I made a quick sketch so I wouldn’t be mulling it over during dinner. It was a drawing of a mother and son in a kitchen. The mother’s back is turned while the boy fearfully duels a live swordfish. The mother is saying over her shoulder, “It’s called sushi, and it’s good for you! Now for the last time, stop playing with your food!”

  I heard angry male voices and rushed back upstairs. It was obvious the party was not going well. For one thing, now no one was speaking. Much as I’d like to have attributed that to my good cooking, no one was eating. All three Wilkinses looked upset; Rachel had come upstairs and was standing near the table, kicking at the carpet.

  Steve threw his linen napkin on the table. “I will not sit here and be accused of overcharging my customers. I work my tail off for you people.” He rose. “Lauren. Rachel. We’re leaving.”

  “Don’t go.” I felt desperation, bordering on panic, as I scanned the faces of my guests. Stephanie looked oblivious, but Preston was red-faced, as were Denise, Sam. and Jack. Carolee and Tommy had rotated in their seats and appeared to be watching with curiosity.

  I put my hand on Steve’s shoulder. “What’s a party without a good-spirited debate, right? Talk about overcharging! Has anyone seen the tax tables for this year?”

  Actually, I hadn’t seen them, but surely the IRS was one enemy everyone had in common. Steve ignored me and headed to the door. “We’ve got ice cream and a whole cheesecake in the kitchen,” I called after him. “Made from scratch.” What the hell had I missed?

  “Sorry, Molly,” Lauren muttered. “Steve isn’t feeling good all of a sudden.” She glared at him. They were soon gone, leaving only a trail of apologies behind them.

  Still, no one at the table was speaking. Preston shot an angry glare at Sam, who quickly looked away.

  “Did I miss something while I was downstairs?” I asked as casually as I could.

  Jack stood up. “Great dinner, Molly. I’d, best be going.”

  “It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “Yeah, we’d better shove off as well,” Preston said. “We can just take your cake with us, sugar, and we’ll have some at home.”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “Did a stink bomb go off up here while I was downstairs?”

  Denise, Stephanie, spouses, and cheesecake promptly left. I escorted them to the door, but the instant they were outside, I locked the door and whirled toward my lone remaining guests.

  “Tommy. Carolee. Neither of you is leaving this house till you tell me precisely what went on while I was downstairs.”

  At least I’d managed to suppress the wagging finger that would’ve punctuated my words had I been speaking to my children.

  Carolee and Tommy exchanged a look of shared perplexity. Tommy shrugged. “Beats me, Molly.”

  In wide-eyed innocence, Carolee said, “Steve was sharing some anecdote about a computer job or something. I wasn’t listening because Tommy was telling me about his sons. Then Preston said something and Jack said something, then Steve said, ‘Oh you think so, do you?’ And, well, next thing I know, there was this dead silence, and you came upstairs, and Steve said they had to leave.”

  “No offense, Carolee,” I said, “but that story seems to have lost a lot in the translation.”

  Tommy held up his hands. “Like Carolee said, we were talking to each other at the time. Didn’t hear what was bein’ said at the rest of the table. What kinda ice cream you got?” His lopsided smile warned me that he was not entirely sober.

  Tommy and Carolee left together a half hour later. I called Lauren’s house, but got their machine. I left a message to please call me back and tell me what was going on. I glanced through the window. The house lights were on and I could see an adult-sized shadow move across the drawn curtains in their kitchen window.

  When my phone rang later, I rushed to it, hoping it was Lauren.

  “Hi.” It was Jim. “I called late on pur
pose. Your email said you were having a dinner party tonight, and I didn’t want to interrupt it.”

  “That was thoughtful.” Next time I wanted witnesses when he called, I’d better clue him in first.

  I told him about my teacher’s heart attack, but suddenly decided not to tell him about the threats. It felt as if telling him about them would make my peril real.

  We chatted for a while, and I put the kids on the line with him before getting them to bed late, but allowing them to talk with their dad was more important than a little extra sleep, especially on a weekend. Then I decided to tackle the kitchen.

  After loading the dinner plates into the dishwasher, I started on the remaining cooking utensils. I soon discovered something strange. After a few minutes, I checked the dishwasher, then every drawer and shelf in the house.

  The search only verified my fear: someone had stolen my carving knife.

  Chapter 7

  Finally. Some Shade!

  An empty car was in my driveway. That had to be Sergeant Tommy’s. He must have walked Carolee home and stayed for some tutti-frutti.

  It was almost eleven at night. I parked myself on my doorstep and waited, calculating that he would either stay overnight at Carolee’s or leave soon, but in any case, he would not leave his car in my driveway for everyone to see much longer.

  The missing knife was just plain weird. I mentally sorted through my party guests’ attire. Who might have been able to sneak out a heavy knife with a nine-inch blade? Nobody had worn a coat, but at one point three purses were behind the stuffed chair close to the door. Whose were they?

  “Ouch!” I slapped a mosquito on my arm. Talk about sharp blades. The mosquitoes were out in force. We have mosquitoes in Boulder, but the ones in upstate New York can be mistaken for hummingbirds.

  Stephanie hadn’t brought a purse. Hers would have been some tiny gold or silver clutch to match the outfit, and I’d have remembered it. She had that covered platter, though, large enough to have hidden my knife. So all four women could conceivably have gotten the knife out of the house. A man could simply have stashed it inside his shirt or pants leg. Which was not to say he’d want to run a marathon that way.