“Who else was at the barbecue?”
“Lauren. She claimed Steve was working. Denise and her husband. I can never remember his name.”
“Sam Bakerton.”
“Right. Also Jack Vance and his date. She looked like a high schooler. Stephanie and Preston Saunders. Plus a batch of people from other graduatin’ classes.”
“You said you had a partial thumbprint Couldn’t it have been someone else’s?”
He shook his head. “They’re hers. More importantly, her fingerprints were also on the knife.”
“She could’ve used that knife at the party. She opened that bottle of wine you brought. She probably used it to cut open the metal wrapper on the cork.”
“That’s what she says happened. But things don’t look so hot for her. Got a hotel clerk who says Lauren was all set to sign in, near hysterics, Friday night. Steve shows up and says she can’t have Rachel, ‘n’ grabs her. Yells that if she wanted custody of her daughter so bad, she shoulda been more careful ‘fore lettin’ Rachel see her own mother in bed with another man.”
I had to grip the edges of my chair; otherwise, I might have fallen from my shock. “With what man?”
He ignored my question. “Steve was writin’ Lauren a good-riddance letter when he got stabbed.”
Dear God. “I don’t believe any of this, Tommy. Lauren’s a good mother. She would never—”
“She admits to most of it. Says she didn’t stab her husband, though.”
I stared at my knees, embarrassed, angry, hurt. Why hadn’t she told me about this? It felt as if Lauren had betrayed me, as well as Steve. I asked quietly, “Where’s Rachel now? Can I talk to her?”
“She’s on her way up to Potsdam with her aunt. She’ll be all right.”
I glared at him. “If you were seven and your mother was accused of murdering your father because of something you’d witnessed, would you be all right?”
He winced. He looked at the photograph of his children and their deceased mom.
I stood up, grabbed the doorknob, and headed out, my senses reeling.
“Take it easy,” he called after me.
I got into my car and started the engine. I was now on a mission, to clear Lauren’s name, for Rachel’s sake. I smacked the steering wheel and said to myself, “I’m not going to let Rachel go for one extra minute thinking she’s in any way responsible for her father’s death.”
I drove to the only drugstore downtown. The pharmacist looked just like he should: tall, white-haired, wire-rim glasses, white lab coat. He smiled down at me, leading me to wonder just why it was that every drugstore counter I’ve ever seen is built on a platform. Is that to make us all feel like helpless children when we ask for drugs? Or are would-be robbers supposed to trip on the steps?
“May I help you?”
“I have some questions about medications. I’m Molly Masters. Maybe you know my parents, the Petersons?”
“Ah. Molly. You’re their oldest daughter. How’re your sister’s allergies?”
“Uh…much better.”
He chuckled. “Pardon me. It’s a professional liability. Just as bartenders remember regulars for what they drink, I remember people by their medications.”
I forced a smile, but that was an unsettling concept. It was one thing for a bartender to look at you and see a gin and tonic. Quite another for a pharmacist to see hemorrhoid ointment.
“So, Molly, what can I do for you?”
Adopting my best just-curious voice, I asked, “Can you tell me what digitalis and Lasix look like?”
He tensed. “They’re both little white pills. Why do you ask?”
“Mrs. Kravett was my teacher a number of years ago.”
His face instantly fell. He shuffled papers and became a whirlwind of activity as I continued. “I’ve heard a rumor that she accidentally took the wrong dosage of heart medication. She was so sharp, I find that hard to believe. Are Lasix and digitalis that similar looking?”
“She wore trifocals. I cautioned her about the dangers of confusing her dosages.”
“I heard the pills were in the wrong bottles. Did Mrs. Kravett always pick up her prescriptions herself?”
He slammed a notebook shut. “Listen to me, young lady. People’s lives depend on my precision. I put those pills in the right bottles. Sergeant Newton says they’re in the wrong bottles, so all I can say is they were in the right bottles when I filled her prescription. I would stake my life on it.”
“Thanks. Have a nice day.”
He turned his back on me without reply.
My stomach was in knots as I drove home. I’ve never been good at lying, especially to myself. It was painful to admit that I had serious doubts about Lauren’s innocence. To top it off, I was getting a pimple on my nose. Apparently it wasn’t enough that I was reliving the emotional anguish of my teen years. I was destined to regain my complexion as well.
Nathan would be home in an hour. I went to my office. Molly’s eCards had an email. I stood still for a moment, weighing my options, thinking that if this was one more threat about my husband’s fidelity I’d fall apart. Finally I read the first paragraph:
Dear Ms. Masters,
I really need your help. My best friend is having a hard time with her teenage children. I’ve been looking for an eCard to cheer her up, and I can’t find anything that’s right. Your website says you will design personalized greeting cards. Can you create a humorous card about parenting teenagers?
“No, I’m not up to being funny,” I answered out loud. Then I went on to read the rest of her letter. She sounded like a nice person, sincerely worried about her friend. I wanted to give the job at least one shot I had little personal experience with raising teens. I thought about Tiffany and her outlandish outfits. Maybe I could do something about clothes.
Eventually, I thought about music and settled on humor about rap music, though the first time I did the design I spelled it wrap, which shows how “with it” I am. I drew a middle-aged woman in a miniskirt holding a transistor radio to her ear as she struts by a pair of obviously unimpressed teens. The woman says. “Sorry, kids. Got no time for rappin’. Got to go do my grocery shappin’.”
Picking a name at random for my fictitious character, the caption on the card below read: “Mildred Langweiler makes yet another heartfelt, if ineffective, attempt to communicate with her teenagers.”
Then I sent a written description of the card to my potential customer and went off to meet Nathan’s bus. He, as usual, dismissed all my attempts to glean information about his school day with his two stock answers: “Fine” and “I don’t remember.” Then he stared at my face and said, “Mommy, is that big red bump on your nose a mosquito bite?”
“It’s a pimple. And thank you for noticing.”
I went downstairs at the first opportunity and grabbed a message from my machine. The customer was thrilled with the rap card and thanked me profusely, asking me to send the card itself immediately.
Apparently not everything could go wrong at once after all.
Chapter 11
Cindy, the Locked-Nest Monster
Monday afternoon, Lauren called. She told me she was out on bond and would stay at a hotel till the funeral tomorrow. “I can’t stand the thought of being in that big house by myself,” she said.
As I listened, I battled a perverse urge to say, “Why? This is the perfect chance for you to be with your lover.”
“You’re kind of quiet, Molly. You’re still upset about the way I acted the other day, aren’t you. I know I was mean to you. I’m really sorry. I was so freaked out at the time, I—”
“It isn’t that. I talked to Tommy Newton this morning. He told me why he arrested you. He told me about your affair. That Rachel had seen you with the other man.”
There was a pause, then a meek, “Oh.”
I silently cursed at myself. This was going to hurt. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that keeping strong feelings to myself is worse than ad
mitting to them. “We’ve been friends for thirty years. I wish I didn’t have to jeopardize that friendship now, but you know how lousy I am at hiding my feelings. What you do within the confines of your marriage is your own business. But allowing Rachel to see you with another man in…I simply can’t sit back and pretend my learning about that from someone else hasn’t affected me.”
She sighed and, at length, said quietly, “I didn’t intentionally let Rachel catch us together. She was supposed to go to a friend’s house after a soccer game. She forgot and came straight home. It was the worst moment of my life. I knew I couldn’t tell you, because I knew you’d react this way.”
“I can’t help it. I’m a staunch believer in marital fidelity. So— “I stopped myself. I was about to tell her to shoot me. “I know these things happen all the time. I just never expected it to be you.”
She started to cry. “Neither did I. I never thought I’d be unfaithful to my husband. It just happened. But I didn’t kill Steve. I need you to believe me.”
“I do.”
There was another pause as she tried to collect herself.
“Are we still friends?”
“We’re still friends. Mind you, I’ll never come into your house without knocking, but you’re the best friend I’ve got in the state of New York. That hasn’t changed.”
“Thank God. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After we hung up, I struggled to come to grips with my ambivalent feelings. Was I being honest with myself and Lauren? What really bothered me more: that Lauren cheated on Steve, or that she didn’t tell me about it? Would I have felt so betrayed by her actions if Steve were still alive?
And who was the other man?
Another funeral. I kept the children home from school and brought them with me. Most of my parenting decisions are based on what feels right to me at the time. It felt right to have Karen there, for Rachel’s sake.
Lauren had instructed the clergyman to announce that she did not want anyone to express their sympathy to her at this time. The kids and I sat at the back, where I hoped Nathan could use the coloring book I’d brought for him without attracting attention. No one spoke as Lauren entered. Rachel was beside her, followed by a family of four. With the mother’s white-blond hair, they could only have been Steve’s sister and family.
As the service proceeded, I scanned the various backs of heads. Everyone from my dinner party last Friday was in attendance. For most of us, that had been the last time we’d seen Steve alive. Someone, though, had seen Steve at least one more time, and had stabbed him to death. My anger over that thought allowed me to stay dry-eyed throughout the service.
As we stood up to leave, Tommy Newton happened to look my way. He shook his head. Maybe he had seen the determination on my face and knew my mind was set on finding the killer.
Once we were all outside, Lauren seemed intent on leaving the scene quickly, but Rachel and Karen spotted each other. Rachel shyly said, “Hi.” Karen said hi back and hugged her. It nearly broke my heart.
While I struggled to regain my composure, Stephanie approached. She looked from me to Lauren, put a finger to her lips, then pantomimed her condolences. She clutched her hands to her heart, closed her eyes, and hung her head. Then she snapped out of it, yanked a brimming folder from her enormous purse and thrust it into my arms, saying, “This is everything you need as PTA treasurer. Call, me if you have any questions. Your name is already on the account. Toodles.” She whirled on a spike heel and grabbed Preston’s arm, and they headed to their Mercedes.
Lauren gaped at Stephanie, then chuckled in dismay. “My God, that woman’s insufferable.”
Glad to see a shadow of the Lauren I knew, I pounced on it. “Could you come for lunch tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
We said our goodbyes, then I took Nathan’s and Karen’s hands and headed toward our car. I spied Jack Vance and Sam Bakerton at the far corner of the lot. They were arguing. Jack and Preston didn’t get along, but he and Sam had been friendly at my dinner party. Perhaps the problem lay in that grant their company had given to the school through Mrs. Kravett.
Carolee was standing near the parking lot, watching Lauren and Rachel in the distance. As we neared, she said hello to my kids and gave me a sad smile. “This is so hard,” she said in a choked voice. “I can’t stand to see Lauren this way. If I get too near her, I know I’ll start blubbering and make a complete fool of myself.”
“I know what you mean.”
“My lunch break’s over. I’d better get back to the hospital. If you—” She paused, then said, “Never mind,” and got into her car.
“If I what?” I called after her. She didn’t answer and drove off.
“If I what?” I muttered again to myself.
Karen and Nathan were watching all of this with interest “Here’s a suggestion for when you get older, guys. When you start a sentence, complete it, even if you wind up having to say something stupid. For example, ’If you…drive in the rain, your car gets wet.’”
“Do they make big towels for drying cars?” Nathan asked.
I rolled my eyes. “No, just extremely large blow dryers.”
As I unlocked my car, I spotted Denise. She’d been sitting in her car nearby, apparently patiently waiting for her husband to finish his debate with Jack so they could leave. She waved, stood up, and called, “Molly, come meet my daughter.”
I told her I’d love to, then let my children into our car and stashed my PTA treasury paperwork under my seat. For some reason, Denise was obsessed with the treasury account. I wasn’t letting her near it till I had the opportunity to figure out why.
Denise met me a row up from her car and said under her breath, “We decided to take our daughter out of school today, too. Rhonda babysat for the Wilkinses this summer.”
I nodded and watched Denise’s car as we approached, curious to see what Rhonda looked like. All I’d seen of her so far was the back of her head at the service, and her feet sticking out the car window. She was petite, like her mother. Earbud cords blended into her wild, light brown hair. She had her eyes closed and was bobbing to her own tunes. She was very thin; with a nose that the rest of her features needed to grow into.
“Rhonda! Take those things off!” So much for the baby voice Denise used to address other people’s children.
Rhonda shot her mother a dirty look, but followed her instructions.
“Say hello to my friend Molly!”
“Hello.” She smiled. Her mouth was full of braces.
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you, Rhonda.”
Denise put her hand on my arm. “Would you like to go out for lunch? Or have you eaten already?”
“No, and I’d love to, but I have the kids with me. Would you mind if—”
Before I could ask if she would mind bringing the children, Denise said, “Rhonda would love to babysit. She’s twelve and has been through Red Cross emergency training.”
Rhonda nodded enthusiastically. “I’m a great babysitter. I love kids.”
Sam and Jack had parted company, and Sam approached, having donned a smile that was obviously forced. He greeted me, and Denise told him she’d asked me to lunch. Sam narrowed his eyes at her and said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Absolutely,” she answered. “Rhonda’s agreed to babysit. We’ll take the kids to Molly’s, and you can go straight to work from here. Molly can drop Rhonda and me off after lunch.”
Sam frowned, then studied me. “Promise me you’ll keep an eye on Denise. It’s of primary importance.”
“It is not,” Denise snapped. “She can say no if she wants.”
He held up his palm. “Denise, we’ve discussed this. So what’s it going to be, Molly?”
I felt like one of Custer’s men, with the general saying, “Indians? What Indians?” Something very weird was going on, but I was inclined to go along with it. I now suspected that one of two things was happening: (a) Something in the water had gradually tu
rned my former classmates into raving lunatics, or (b) there was an ongoing cover-up involving my classmates, and Steve and Mrs. Kravett had stumbled onto it. Multiple choice was never my forte, but if the answer was (b), lunch with Denise just might get me closer to unraveling the mystery.
We got into my car, with Rhonda immediately being as good with my children as any babysitter could possibly be. We dropped them off and gave Rhonda instructions for their lunch.
Denise said to me, “I know of a wonderful spot we can eat, though it’s fairly remote. Mind going there?”
“Sure. Just be prepared to be the navigator. I have no sense of direction.” That was an understatement. I can get lost in a dark closet.
By the time Denise had me make my third turn, I had no concept of where I was. She scooted the passenger seat forward so she could reach the radio and tuned in a talk show. A parenting counselor was telling some poor sap, “No child under the age of six should watch any TV. From six years and up, no more than an hour a day.”
“That’s why his talk show’s on radio,” Denise said.
A voice on the radio said: “…should be doing something active with your children. Plant a garden, do crafts projects —”
“Oh, please,” I muttered. “Next he’ll talk about no sugar. Does this guy stay home twenty-four hours a day with his children, or does his wife? Just once I’d like to meet one of these perfectly raised children of parent advisors and ask what their life at home was really like.”
Denise laughed, turning to a music station. We chatted, but Denise was tense and anxious. She kept turning to glance through the rear window, as if she expected someone to be tailing us. I dearly hoped she wasn’t taking me to some remote spot where she would pull a gun on me and say, “All right, This is it. Let me be PTA treasurer or I pull the trigger.”
We’d been driving for well over half an hour. “Just where is this place?”
“We’re almost there.”
“When you said it was remote, I assumed it was still in the state of New York. What does this place have to offer that warrants the drive? Nude waiters?”
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