Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder

by Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa

  “Not a thing. Except for Mr. Whitley, of course.”

  “Of course.” Haver allowed a small smile without looking up from his notebook. I took a deep breath and relaxed a bit. This wasn’t, as they would say in the movies, the third degree.

  “Everything looked the same except for the underbrush,” I volunteered.

  “The underbrush? It looked disturbed?”

  “No. It looked new.”

  “It wouldn’t have sprung up overnight.”

  “No. Since last October,” I told him.

  “What are you talking about?” Haver asked, confused. He looked up from his notebook.

  “I haven’t used the path since last October. Things changed—a sapling here, some weeds there. About a billion old pine needles …”

  “You mean you picked today to start jogging again?”

  I nodded.

  “Terrific.”

  “Listen, Ron. It’s nice to see you again.” I realized how ridiculous that sounded. We were reacquainted because I tripped over a corpse and thoroughly disturbed a crime scene. “What I mean is, I want to drive my kids to school, then go home and have a quiet nervous breakdown. Are we through here?”

  Haver squinted at the bright sun filtering through the trees from the direction of the bay. “Looks like it’s shaping up to be a great day. You should try to get out. Take your mind off this.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll go jogging,” I said.

  Another grin. “Seriously. You’re a wreck, Colleen. You’re shaking.”

  I anticipated seeing Mr. Whitley’s body each time I closed my eyes. I needed to cry, but not in the middle of the Little League parking lot in front of police, reporters, and scores of onlookers.

  “I just want to go home!”

  “Okay. Sure. You want a squad car to take you? The whole block is filled with reporters,” Haver said, pointing to yet another news van that pulled over on Poe Street.

  “No. I see my kids over by the fence. I just want to drive them to school and get back home as fast as I can.”

  “That’s fine. I can always drop by your house later if I need anything else.”

  I inched away from the concession stand. “Like what?”

  “More detailed information.”

  “Fine,” I said, and walked off toward the fence and my kids—whose grilling, I knew, would be far more in-depth than Ron Haver’s had been.

  3

  “What a nightmare!” I told Bevin Thompson, my across-the-street neighbor.

  “And this was always such a nice neighborhood,” she said absently. Her eyes looked a little vacant. Of course, she was right. Nothing much ever happened in our tiny, upper-middle-class enclave. A dead body was completely out of the ordinary, a really big deal.

  “A reporter chased me halfway up the block,” I complained as I paced back and forth in my kitchen, waiting for the coffee machine to finish dripping. “The kids badgered me on the ride to school. Would you believe Old Lady Testino called to ask if Whitley’s head was attached to his body?”

  Bevin winced, though anything coming from Mrs. Testino’s mouth was bound to be shocking.

  I continued to pace. It seemed to be the only way to keep from shaking. Too many thoughts were going through my head. “Dear Lord, my nerves are shot. I wish Neil was here. I called and left a message for him. He never called back.”

  “There’s a shock,” Bev mumbled.

  When Bevin bought the house across the street seven years ago, we became instant friends, despite being polar opposites. She was one of those tall, willowy types, with flaming red hair and goddess-like good looks. A talented landscape artist, Bevin had had showings all over the state and twice at one of those small, pretentious galleries in Manhattan. My short stature had never been thin enough to be considered petite, and my freaky hair tended to retract into tight little ringlets at the mere forecast of rain. My writing skills were solid but not dazzling, and a reader had once referred to one of my stories as hack journalism.

  As for our husbands, opposites failed to attract. Neither man liked the other. I never really cared for pompous Franklin Thompson, and Bevin outright hated Neil from the start.

  “If I don’t get that cup of coffee soon, I’m going to chew raw grounds,” I said.

  “Would you please sit down! You’re wearing out the floor tiles.” Bevin reached in the cupboard for coffee mugs. “Where’s your mother this morning?”

  “She went to Dizzie’s Salon for hair repair. She’ll be back soon.”

  “Good. Maybe the smell will be gone by then.”

  I sniffed the air. Sure, I needed a shower. I had a tough morning. A jog can take a lot out of a girl. So can an encounter with a corpse.

  “Did my deodorant fail or something?” I asked.

  “There’s a distinct smoke smell.”

  “I don’t smell a thing.”

  “It’s all over your clothes, Colleen. Do you think half the neighborhood doesn’t know you sneak-smoke out back near the fence where your mother can’t see you?”

  My parents lived in the house directly behind mine. The arrangement had been a mixed blessing. It was convenient for the kids to come and go, though privacy for both households was nonexistent—not that my parents have ever been big on privacy.

  Their property was high in the back and sloped downward toward the street, as did all the lots on Hemingway Place. My parents could not see up into my yard because of the stockade fence. Still, I always used caution when my nerves were shot and I’d give in to temptation and sneak a cigarette. The gate we’d installed for a shortcut between the two yards could swing wide open without warning, so I lived in fear of being caught mid-puff by a crazed, sixty-three-year-old chronic bronchitis sufferer.

  I opened the cabinet under the sink. “I’ll get the air freshener.”

  “Take a shower and change your clothes.”

  “I can’t keep still long enough to shower,” I told her.

  “You need a drink,” Bevin said.

  “I need several, but I haven’t eaten anything yet.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re not hungry! You’re always hungry.”

  “I’ll ignore the snide remark. I don’t want to eat because I’m nauseated enough already.”

  Bevin poured two cups of coffee and reached in the cabinet over the refrigerator for the brandy. “This will help.”

  I covered my cup with my hand. “I keep that for my cramps. Besides, it’s not even noon yet.”

  “Oh, please! It’s noon somewhere.” She pushed my hand away and poured a generous splash in my cup.

  The booze helped. Fortified, I ran upstairs, stripped off my clothes, showered, and dressed in fresh jogging sweats. By the time I got back to the kitchen, my mother was at the table sipping tea.

  My mother’s hair, at least for the time being, was a light shade of ash brown with just a hint of gold. Formerly, it had looked sort of pink, the result of an off-brand hair coloring. She had been dying her own hair for years and changed the color so often my father nicknamed her Rainbow Head. The ash brown, hairdresser fix-it job suited her. So did the newly cropped hairdo.

  “Colleen, you poor thing!” my mother said. She patted the seat on the chair beside her. “Come sit down.” I thought she wanted to comfort me. I should have known better. “It serves you right for running alone so early in the morning. How many times have I told you those woods aren’t safe?”

  “Please! Mom!” I rubbed my temples and regretted for the hundredth time not moving to Alaska when I first got married.

  Bevin poured me a fresh cup of coffee and omitted the brandy. I sipped at it and eyed the blue-and-white Entenmann’s box my mother had brought over. My stomach growled, but I still felt queasy—even a small slice of cake was out of the question.

  “You know, Colleen, I half expected Neil to be here when I came over. You did call him, didn’t you?”

  “I left a message. I was hoping the kids could stay at his place tonight.”

&
nbsp; “Too busy in his brand-new life to return your phone calls, huh?” my mother said. “Well, that’s Neil. A true Sicilian, through and through.”

  “He’s only half Sicilian, Ma,” I said, as if she didn’t know.

  “Right. The bad half.”

  My mother, Stella Trani Fleming, was born in Naples, and Neapolitans viewed men with even a drop of Sicilian blood suspiciously. My dad, Patrick Fleming, came from solid, down-to-earth Irish stock—as far from Sicilian as you could get.

  I glanced at Bevin, hoping for a little sympathy. She lowered her head and lifted her coffee mug to her lips. Given the way she felt about Neil, I expected no compassion.

  My mother saw fit to continue. “Suppose something happens with the kids, Colleen? You can’t leave a message for something like that. How are you supposed to contact him?”

  “Cell phone.”

  “Did you try it?” she asked.

  “He must have turned it off,” I said through clenched teeth.

  My mother and Bevin made eye contact. They had been doing this for the past few months. Every time Neil was late getting home or a no-show for a special occasion, they gave each other their secret code look that said she’s such an idiot.

  They were right, of course. I was an idiot. I had always believed Neil when he used the long-hours-at-work excuse. He’d built Caruso and Oates Public Relations from the ground up and had been moderately successful. I held down the fort at home, and workaholic Neil took on the role of breadwinner. I honestly thought we had a great marriage until last month, when he came home long past midnight, threw some clothes into a suitcase, and declared he no longer loved me. His voluptuous business partner, Theda Oates, had replaced me as the object of his affection. Suddenly, I had become a cliché.

  “Honey, are you hungry?” my mother asked.

  I eyed the moist, butter-yellow pound cake, but shook my head. My heart said stuff the whole thing in your mouth. My nauseated gut said you’ve got to be kidding.

  “How about dry toast?” Bevin suggested.

  I nodded. Toast might be the only thing my stomach could handle.

  Bev reached for the bread in its usual place on top of the refrigerator. As always, I envied her height. My mother watched with a wistful expression. At five-one, working in a kitchen without a step stool handy was impossible for her.

  “Show off,” my mother said.

  Bevin flashed a toothy, eat-your-heart-out smile and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.

  “I don’t want you to worry about dinner tonight, Colleen,” my mother said. “You and the kids should eat with your father and me.”

  I cringed at the thought of another of my mother’s hearty, home-cooked meals. “Maybe just the kids, Mom. I think I might skip dinner.”

  “Skipping meals isn’t a good idea when you’re trying to lose weight. You’ll eat twice as much once you feel you can keep food down.”

  I gave her my very best scowl.

  Bevin set the toast on the table and winked. “Your mother can take over from here. Call me if you need anything.” She gave me quick peck on the cheek and scampered out the sliding door.

  “You don’t think she rushed out on my account?” my mother asked.

  “She has things to do,” I lied.

  My mother finished her tea and checked the wall clock. “Send the kids over when they get home from school. I think they should sleep over tonight. You need to relax.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “Was it bad, Colleen? The body, I mean.”

  I nodded and took a bite of toast.

  “Was it, you know, grotesque or anything?”

  I couldn’t take any more. “Don’t you have other things to do today?”

  My mother, miffed, stood to leave. “I’ll see you at supper, Miss Tactful. And leave the attitude at home when you come over.”

  4

  Dinner at my parents’ house was always an adventure. My mother cooked enough food to feed the entire block, though in all honesty, the neighbors would have to be near starvation before eating her cooking. She put garlic in everything—vegetables, potatoes, rice, and, I suspected, fruit.

  My father forgot to put the leaf in the table, so there were nine of us crammed around a table meant to seat six. The large turnout for an ordinary Friday night meal was a gesture of support in light of my eventful day. My brother, appropriately named Dick, his wife Delia, their twins, Patty and Penny, my kids, my parents, and I jostled for position.

  I reached for my water glass and bumped Sara’s elbow. Salad flew off the end of her fork and landed on Bobby’s plate.

  “Gross!” Bobby said, flicking a piece of romaine onto the tablecloth.

  “It’s too crowded!” I complained.

  “Stop whining and have something to eat,” my mother said as she placed the main course in the center of the table.

  She made meatloaf, hideous even under the best of circumstances. I passed on it, as well as the mashed potatoes and sautéed green beans. Salad seemed to be the safer option.

  “Is that all you’re having?” my father asked. “Where’s that hearty appetite?”

  Sara giggled, a rarity ever since the day she had turned twelve.

  I played with the greens. Salads were always an afterthought at the old homestead. They were never taken seriously or given the respect they deserved. The lettuce glistened, wet and soggy. The tomatoes were cut into thick, unappetizing wedges. The carrots were huge chunks of orange—the jaws of life wouldn’t have been able to break through them.

  “I’m just not hungry,” I told everyone at the table.

  “That’s a first,” Dick teased.

  My brother jumped in his seat and reached down beneath the table to massage his leg. I knew Delia had kicked him hard in the shin. My mother let the comment slide. My parents always thought of Dick as their golden child. Being the only boy, he was the pride and joy of both the Irish and Italian sides of the family and had been allowed to get away with just about everything.

  “I’m sorry. I think I’ll just go home and go to bed,” I told everyone.

  “Geez, Colleen, I was just kidding,” Dick said, and I knew, deep down, that he was. He fought all my battles in grade school and took my side in every altercation on the block. But inside the house was another matter entirely. He treated me the way I treated our kid sister Kate. We observed the pecking order.

  I pushed back my chair and stood. “Don’t let the kids stay up too late, Mom.”

  “We’re doing that Xbox thing after we eat,” my father informed me. That meant Bobby would stay up until long after midnight and probably beat the pants off his grandfather.

  I used the backyard shortcut and entered my kitchen through the sliding door. The flashing red light on the answering machine caught my attention right away. There were two messages. Kate called to ask if I enjoyed my morning jog. I knew my mother had told her about the body. Ron Haver also called. He said he would drop by sometime in the early evening with a few more questions. I barely had time to fix a gin and diet tonic before the doorbell rang.

  Ron Haver slouched beneath the porch light. His crisp suit was a jumble of lines and creases, and his usually perfect hair looked lifeless.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I have to clear up a few things, and I’d like to get it done right away. Are you busy?”

  “Not really.” He eyed my drink, longingly, I thought. “You look like you could use one of these,” I said. “I take it you had a rough day.”

  “A hectic one,” he admitted.

  He stepped inside and pulled the battered notebook I saw at the Little League field from his breast pocket.

  “Have a seat,” I said, motioning to the sofa.

  “Thanks. I’ve been on the run all day, and you’re my last stop.”

  “Would you like a drink? Or maybe coffee?”

  “I’m still on duty,” he said. “Coffee would be great.”

  “I’ll bet you’re hun
gry. How about something to eat?”

  “That’s really nice of you, Colleen. I skipped lunch and dinner.”

  So did I, I thought.

  I went to the kitchen to make coffee and throw together a sandwich. When I returned, Haver’s eyes were closed and his snores filled the room. I gave him a gentle nudge and whispered, “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. The coffee’s ready.”

  He snapped awake, disoriented, and glanced around at the unfamiliar setting. “I must have dozed off. Sorry. Look at this sandwich!”

  Like my mother, I possessed no cooking skills. But sandwiches were my specialty, and they usually dazzled my guests—capicola, Genoa salami, provolone, lettuce, tomato, red onion, with a splash of olive oil and balsamic vinegar on a sliced hard roll from Lisa’s Bakery.

  “It’s nothing really.”

  Haver took a huge bite, then another. I sat down beside him and glanced at the words scribbled in his open notepad.

  “It’s only your name, address, and a few words about your mishap with the body,” he said when he caught me looking.

  “I can see that. How’s the sandwich?”

  “Great,” Haver said. “But it’s too big. Please take some of this.”

  He held out half the sandwich, and I took a reluctant bite. It was good, but it really could have used mozzarella and there wasn’t any in the fridge. Still, I wasn’t all that hungry anyway. I set the sandwich aside.

  “Do you intend to follow up on this Whitley thing?” Haver asked.

  “Follow up?” I asked.

  “For the newspaper. Let’s face it, you’d have an interesting perspective.”

  I sank deep into the sofa cushions. “I don’t have the experience to write anything that deep. I’m not a beat reporter. I get fluffy assignments and do as I’m told.”

  Haver finished off the rest of his sandwich and washed it down with coffee.

  “Was there something else you wanted to ask me?”

  He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and read over his notes. “Well, let’s see. You left here at approximately six thirty for your run. You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary—except for Jason Whitley. You tripped over his body …”

  “Because I didn’t see him,” I reminded Haver.