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

by Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa

  “My personal papers are all over the floor in the den,” I told him, “and there’s nothing worth looking at in my underwear drawer.”

  “I can make coffee. You look like you could use some.”

  The Folgers can was empty, so I reached up in the cabinet and pulled down a small bag of “Holiday Blend” we’d received last Christmas, or possibly the Christmas before. “I don’t know how old this is, but we need it too badly to worry about it.”

  “Take your kid down to the game and don’t worry about anything here. Try to relax.”

  Relaxation was an interesting concept, especially with my whole world turned upside down and my kid’s baseball team scheduled to play a game they couldn’t possibly win. I drank two cups of coffee before Bobby and I walked out the front door. We met Dennis Thompson outside, and the three of us went down to the field together.

  Stanley Da Silva was on the bench in the dugout, with Eugene serving as assistant coach. I took a seat in the stands and watched as the Cardinals trounced our Pirates like they were major leaguers. By the top of the second inning, they’d scored six runs and threatened to score four more with the bases loaded and only one man out. I covered my eyes, unable to stand the pressure. The crack of the bat made me look. The ball sailed toward Bobby’s position in shallow left. I never saw such a look of utter panic on his face before. My heart started to race. He raised his arm timidly and kept his eye on the ball, ran backwards a few feet, then realized the ball wasn’t going to travel as far as he expected.

  He changed direction and ran in. I willed my son extra speed with every fiber of my being. Bobby ran in, tripped over a blade of grass, fell, slid, and stuck out his glove.

  The ball miraculously fell into the pocket. I was up on my feet in a flash and felt like I could finally breathe again.

  Bobby jumped up and threw the ball. The catcher caught it on a bounce and tagged the runner out at home plate. The Pirates cheered like they’d just won the World Series.

  “That’s my son!” I yelled.

  A few spectators in the row behind me patted my back. Pirates parents went wild, overjoyed that there had been at least one great, shining moment in the game to brag about.

  The celebration had just started to wind down when I spotted my father climbing up the bleachers to my row. He took his time, like each step caused excruciating pain. His expression was one of deep distress.

  “Pop, what’s wrong?”

  He sat down heavily beside me. “I see you survived the night,” he said. “Your mother said your editor stayed over.”

  “You’re upset because Ken Rhodes stayed at the house last night?” I asked.

  “Of course not. That’s your business, not mine. No, I’m upset because of Bevin.”

  “Bevin? What about her?”

  My father looked toward the Pirates dugout. “There’s a reason Ron Haver isn’t coaching today.”

  “He’s supposed to be in Atlantic City with your daughter,” I said.

  “Kate and Ron got back early this morning. He’s over at Bevin’s house, questioning her this very minute.”

  “Oh, no! Why?”

  My father threw me one of his who do you think you’re kidding looks. “The affair with Jason Whitley. It’s all over town, Colleen.”

  “Bev told me about it a couple of weeks ago. She was having trouble with Franklin …”

  “Trouble with Franklin?” My father said it like it was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.

  “Franklin’s been cheating on Bev for a long time,” I told him.

  “Franklin? He looks like Boris Karloff, for God’s sake!”

  “A smart girl can overlook an ugly kisser if the guy’s rich enough.”

  “I guess so,” he said. “Bevin did.”

  I took a long look at my father. At one time, he was considered a fairly attractive man. He’d had thick, blond hair before it started to fall out, and his eyes were still a bright, Celtic blue. Though not a tall man, his build, at least before his waistline thickened, had been on the slender side. As a kid, I noticed when neighborhood women would give him the eye. It never occurred to me to check out his reaction. As far as I knew, Dan Fleming never gave my mother a moment’s grief, unless you counted the numerous times he forgot to throw his socks in the hamper.

  “Pop, did you ever cheat on Mom?” I asked.

  My father reached over and felt my forehead. “I think you’re getting sunstroke. I would never cheat on your mother.”

  “Because you love her so much?” I asked.

  “Because she’d rip out my spleen with a salad fork if I ever so much as thought about it.”

  “You’ve never been tempted?”

  My father shook his head but kept his eye on the game. “I’m not blind, you know. Men always notice pretty women. I’m saying it wouldn’t have been worth it. I don’t have a death wish.”

  I was fascinated. “You mean you were too afraid of mom to cheat?”

  His gave me a docile smile. “Maybe I watched The Godfather a little too often.”

  “I guess you did, Pop.” I stood and took a step down to the row below us. “I’m going home to see if I can do anything for Bevin. Would you mind waiting here for Bobby? You’ll have to take Dennis, too. Take them anywhere but home. I don’t want the kid to see his mother get arrested.”

  “I’ll take them out for ice cream.”

  “A meal would be better, Pop. Burgers or pizza—something that takes longer. Then take them both home with you and keep them there. We’ll decide what to do with Dennis after I find out what’s going on at his house.”

  I walked through the parking lot and noticed the sign in Stanley Da Silva’s Camry window. He still hadn’t sold it. The car would have to wait, though. Bevin was more important.

  I followed behind an elderly couple walking slowly up Steinbeck Avenue and met Mrs. Testino in front of her house, shielding her eyes from the sun to get a better view of the activity up the block. There was a county car parked at Bevin’s curb.

  “Dopes!” Mrs. Testino commented. “They’ve got the wrong man!”

  “Woman,” I said, not pausing to chat.

  “She didn’t do it!” she called after me, like I really needed Carmella Testino to tell me my best friend was incapable of murder.

  The neighbors gathered on the sidewalk and chatted amongst themselves. A news van pulled up in front of my house. I spotted Willy Rojas as he emerged from his dented Jeep parked at the end of the street. He ran toward me, camera in hand, and met me at the end of my driveway.

  “I hear they’re close to making an arrest.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The big man,” Willy said.

  I looked across the street. Rhodes lingered on the sidewalk, leaving my backyard unguarded.

  “Bev wouldn’t harm a fly,” I told Willy.

  “How about an egotistical lover?” he asked.

  Rhodes came over and joined the conversation.

  “You saw Haver pull up and you called Willy! You know Bev’s my best friend!”

  “It’s news, Colleen,” Rhodes said. “We work for a newspaper. Get over it.”

  Across the street, the front door opened. Ron Haver emerged from the Thompson house alone.

  Disappointed sighs went through the crowd of onlookers. The news van pulled away in search of a better story. I looked down the street. Mrs. Testino still watched the goings-on, now with her obese cat, Bambino, clutched in her arms. The neighbors returned to their homes. Rhodes, Willy, and I remained on the sidewalk.

  “Care to alert the media?” Rhodes called out to Ron Haver.

  “It looks like someone already alerted the media,” he said. He crossed the street to meet us. “Who called Channel 7?”

  “Probably one of the neighbors. Would you care to make a comment for the Crier?” Rhodes asked.

  Haver gave him a broad smile. “Not at this time, Mr. Rhodes.”

  Rhodes shook his head and went back inside my hou
se. Willy walked off toward his Jeep. I was alone with Ron Haver.

  “Exactly how much trouble is Bevin in?” I asked him. “Should I be relieved you didn’t drag her out in handcuffs, or does she need to call Lucinda Maynard to recommend a good criminal lawyer?”

  Haver didn’t hesitate. “Have her call Lucinda Maynard. Your friend forgot to mention she met with Jason Whitley at the high school less than an hour before he was last seen alive.”

  I left Ron Haver and marched up the Thompsons’ driveway. Behind the front door, there was plenty of yelling and screaming—crass, obscene words I hadn’t used since high school. I was not one to interfere in another’s marital problems. God knew I had no expertise in that area. Regardless, I knocked on the Thompsons’ front door. Bev threw it open with so much rage, I was surprised she didn’t rip it off the hinges. I knew I had to get her out of there before Haver really did have a reason to arrest her.

  Franklin stood in the threshold that separated the spacious living room from their formal dining room. He looked like a man ready to explode.

  “Please come over to my house,” I begged Bevin. “Come now before this gets worse.”

  “The cops just told me my wife was cheating on me with a man who turned up dead! It can’t get any worse!” Franklin screamed.

  “Sure it can, Franklin,” I told him. “It can get plenty worse. Like maybe the cops could finger you for Jason Whitley’s murder.”

  Franklin punched the dining room wall and made a hole in the sheetrock the approximate shape and size of Vermont.

  “My mural,” Bevin hissed, her wide eyes reduced to slivers.

  It had taken Bevin weeks to paint it, taking pains to get every aspect of the serene, pastoral scene perfect. I knew I had to get her out of there fast, before something worse happened. I grabbed hold of her hand and dragged her out the door.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked when we reached her front lawn. “You should let me go back in there. They’re going to arrest me for murder anyway. I might as well give them a reason.”

  I held her arm tightly as we crossed the street, afraid she would break loose and double back, and pushed her inside my house.

  Ken Rhodes appeared in the dining room and Bevin pulled back.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Thompson. I’m only here to keep Colleen company,” Rhodes explained.

  “I’ll just bet you are,” she said.

  “No, Bev. He’s telling the truth. Someone broke into the house yesterday. They smashed the patio door to bits and stole my computer.”

  “Your computer?”

  “We think either Neil had something on it he didn’t want me to find, or someone wanted my Jason Whitley notes,” I told her.

  Bev just nodded.

  “Ron Haver said you should talk to Lucinda Maynard and get the name of a good criminal lawyer.”

  “But I didn’t kill anyone!”

  Ken and I looked at each other. “That’s not the point, Mrs. Thompson,” Ken said. “If the police believe you killed Jason Whitley, you’ll need a lawyer.”

  Bev looked stricken. “I can’t believe this is happening to me. Where’s Dennis? Is he still at the field? Dear God, what if he hears about this?”

  “He’s with my father and Bobby. They’re going out to eat after the game, and he’ll stay at my parents’ house until all this is settled. He’s fine. Don’t worry about him just now. There’s plenty of time for that later.”

  I led her up the three small steps to the dining room and pulled out a chair for her before I sat down. Ken sat across from Bevin. We looked like the Three Little Bears. Big Papa Bear, beautiful and nervous Baby Bear, and the curly-haired Momma Bear dying from the heat because the temperature inside her house had risen to eight degrees hotter than it was outside.

  I tapped my fingers on the table and waited for Rhodes to take the lead. Finally, he did.

  “We could all use a drink,” he said.

  “Good idea.” I jumped up and went to the kitchen. I wondered what would be an appropriate drink to give a woman who might be arrested for murder and whose marriage had been destroyed all on the same day. I stood on my toes to see what Neil kept stashed in the back of the cabinet.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” I said. “There’s gin, scotch, and something called Absolut.”

  “It’s vodka,” Bev said. “If you have orange juice, you can make me a screwdriver.”

  I grabbed the bottle and got the juice from the refrigerator. I figured Bevin would need something strong. I dumped ice in a plastic tumbler and poured in the liquids using a half-and-half ratio.

  “I’ll take the usual,” Rhodes called out. I splashed some scotch in a glass, added ice and water, and brought both drinks into the dining room.

  “Nothing for you?” Rhodes asked.

  “Someone has to keep a level head here,” I said. “There are things that have to be done.”

  Bev gulped down half the tumbler. Her eyes went spacey and her fidgety hands stilled.

  “We need to do some disaster recovery, Bev,” I told her. “Forgive me for prying into your finances, but exactly how much money do you have? Can you afford a really pricey criminal lawyer? One way or another, you’ll have to call Lucinda Maynard anyway. I don’t think you and Franklin have much of a future.”

  “I’ve always kept a little something aside for emergencies. I still have the money from those paintings I sold last November. I’ll call Lucinda for a referral.”

  At least that was something positive.

  “What were you doing up at the high school the night Jason Whitley was murdered?” I asked her.

  Bevin lowered her head. I knew she wouldn’t tell me with Ken Rhodes in the room.

  “Would you mind giving me a few minutes alone with Bev?” I asked him.

  Rhodes went to the kitchen and snatched my cordless phone off the wall. “You’re in over your head here,” he told Bev. “I’ll step outside and call your lawyer for you. I assume she’s listed?”

  Bev nodded. I waited until the front door slammed shut behind him before asking Bev, “Why did you go up to the high school the night Jason Whitley disappeared?”

  “This is really embarrassing,” she said.

  “It’s gonna get a whole lot more embarrassing if the cops come back and put you in handcuffs. Level with me!”

  “You’ve been hanging around cops too much,” Bev told me. “You’re beginning to sound like one.”

  “The high school?” I reminded her. “You stopped by to see Jason Whitley. Why?”

  “Because I was mad at Franklin. I wanted to see if there was a chance for just one more …”

  “Oh, gross!”

  Bev nodded. “I agree, but I went to him anyway.”

  “How did you ever start this?” I asked.

  “I knew Jason from the Little League field, but our first real encounter would be at the beach, I guess, in early January. I went down to the bay to paint. There wasn’t a soul around, and everything had a strange, battleship color that begged to be painted. The sky, the water, even the wharf. Jason happened to be taking a stroll at the time. He stopped to check out my work and started lavishing me with compliments about my style, my keen eye—all that stuff. Artists are such suckers, Colleen. We love flattery. So one thing led to another.”

  “So you decided to hook up with him because of a chance meeting?”

  “I had just learned about Franklin and his hot babe a couple of days before. I was in an ugly mood. That’s probably why all that bleakness at the bay appealed to me. And Jason Whitley could be so charming when he wanted to be. ”

  I thought about Whitley’s last night alive. Bevin must have been furious with Franklin to run to Jason Whitley again. “The night he died, did you, um, do it in the classroom?” I asked.

  “We didn’t do it in the classroom. We didn’t do it at all. We just talked.”

  “What time did you leave the high school?”

  “I don’t know. It was pretty dar
k outside. Jason came straight to the classroom from a car wash meeting or something like that.”

  “Did you pass the custodians at any time?” I asked.

  “I saw them. They were mopping the floors.”

  “Did they notice you at all?” A stupid question. Bevin Thompson got noticed everywhere she went.

  “I don’t know. They looked pretty busy.”

  If the custodians saw her, they could easily pick her out in a lineup.

  The doorbell rang, and Lucinda Maynard walked in, not bothering to wait for me to open the door. “I’ve already contacted a criminal lawyer for you, just in case,” she told Bevin as she climbed the three steps to the dining room. “I see we’re drinking. Can I get one of those?”

  I went to the kitchen and made the lawyer a screwdriver. When I came back, Lucinda was seated at the table with a pad and pen, jotting down notes.

  “Can they arrest her?” I asked. “Do they have enough evidence?”

  Lucinda smirked. She looked positively frightening. I could see how she had built her reputation—it was through intimidation.

  “They got nothing,” she said. “I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I’ll tell you right now, they don’t even have circumstantial evidence. They’re only speculating at this point.”

  I handed the drink to Lucinda and took a seat. “Did you talk to the police? How do you know?”

  “I live in Tranquil Harbor, Colleen. Everybody knows.”

  “Great! The Tranquil Harbor grapevine. I wonder what color jumpsuits they’re wearing in prison these days,” Bev said.

  “You’re not going to prison,” she told her. “You didn’t kill Jason Whitley. We’ll prove it.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  Bevin lowered her head, and her curls tumbled forward. She could have been playing the part of a tragic heroine or a high fashion model on the very edge of a nervous breakdown. With her wonderful height, Barbie doll waist, and impressive boobs …

  “Bev, how much do you weigh?” I asked out of the blue.

  “What does my weight have to do with anything?”

  “Plenty. How much?”

  She thought a moment. “About one twenty. Sometimes near one twenty-five. It fluctuates.”

  Lucinda picked up on my train of thought. “How tall are you?”