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

by Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa

  “I’m five nine without shoes,” Bev said. “Why?”

  Bevin’s sleeveless yellow shirt complemented her stunning hair. It also showed off her slender upper arms—toothpick arms, my mother would call them. No muscle. No meat. Just delicate, decorative appendages.

  “You couldn’t have done it,” I said.

  “I already told you I didn’t kill Jason Whitley.”

  “I know you didn’t, but you couldn’t possibly have done it,” I told her. “Look at you!”

  Bev put her drink on the table and looked down at her shirt like she was checking for stains. “So what? Did someone prove murderers never wear pastels?”

  “Don’t you see?” Lucinda said. “You’re a tall girl, but your arms are twigs.”

  “It doesn’t take much upper body strength to swing at bat at someone’s head,” Bev told her.

  “Maybe not, but it takes plenty of upper body strength to lift a corpse, toss it inside a car, then dump it in the woods.”

  “I could have dragged him,” she pointed out, playing the devil’s advocate.

  “There weren’t any drag marks!” I remembered. “I was there. Nothing was disturbed. Not a thing! Whitley might not have been a very big man, but he wasn’t a featherweight either. You couldn’t have done it.”

  “It rained the night before you found Jason Whitley’s body, didn’t it?” Lucinda asked me.

  “There was a big storm. Water would have filled in any deep drag marks. There were ordinary puddles on the path. That’s all. No drag marks.”

  “Someone could have helped me carry Whitley into the woods,” Bev said.

  “Who for instance? Franklin? He didn’t even know about the affair until Haver came to question you. Who else? Me?” I asked.

  “Don’t be silly. You’re too short.”

  “Exactly. You don’t have a sister, and you’re not close enough to anyone else in whole world to ask for that kind of favor except maybe your mother. She’s about seventy years old, isn’t she?”

  “She’ll be sixty-nine in June,” Bev said.

  “If almost any woman killed Jason Whitley, she’d need an accomplice,” Lucinda told her. “No, I think it will be easy enough to prove you didn’t do it. Let me take you over to your other lawyer—Harold Baylor. The guy’s a barracuda. You’ll love him.”

  “Okay,” Bevin said.

  “Wait for me in my car,” Lucinda told her. “I need to talk to Colleen for a minute.”

  The lawyer downed half of her screwdriver, then turned her attention to me. “The man in the driveway—the one who called me,” she said. “Is that your editor?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s not printing any of this business with Bevin in the paper, is he?”

  “He told me he wouldn’t print a thing unless she’s arrested,” I said.

  “I suppose that’s his big, expensive SUV in your driveway?”

  “Someone broke into my house yesterday,” I explained. “He came to help and stayed the night to make sure I was safe. Why? Did I do something wrong?”

  “Not really. I wouldn’t want Neil claiming you were having an affair with the guy before he left you.”

  “I hardly knew him when Neil walked out. He’s only been at the paper for two months. Believe me, it’s not what you think.”

  “Too bad,” Lucinda said with a sly wink.

  23

  Ken Rhodes arranged for the patio door to be fixed early the next morning. I thanked him and sent him on his way, keeping my fingers crossed that there would be enough credit left on my charge card to cover the damages.

  Bevin left with Lucinda Maynard to meet with the criminal lawyer. I would have gone with them, but I wanted to wait for Sara. The boys would stay with my parents until I called them to come home.

  My brother dropped Sara off in the early evening. She arrived sunburned, hungry, and thankfully in a halfway decent mood for a change. It had been a long day, and I was too exhausted to deal with more drama.

  Sara eyed the makeshift wall in the kitchen and the empty space on the desk in the den with the same weird sense of glee her brother had. She temporarily forgot her empty stomach.

  “Just think, Mom, you know something that’s important enough for our house to be broken into. How cool is that?”

  “That’s me—cool,” I said.

  “Do you think Mr. Whitley’s murderer broke in and robbed us? Grandma told me all about your notes.”

  I sighed. It seemed like the whole world knew about the break-in. “Could be. Ken Rhodes thought there might be other information on the laptop that someone wants, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Financial,” I told her.

  “We’re not rich, are we?” she asked.

  I laughed.

  “Then who would care what—oh, God! Dad!”

  “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t your father, Sara. He may be a lot of things, but I doubt he’d stoop to burglary.”

  “I’ll bet he’s got plenty of money, Mom. He lives in that fancy building on the bay, and he has his own business. Maybe he kept records on the computer, the kind that show how much money he has stashed away somewhere. Suppose he’s trying to hide his—what do call it? Money balance? Earnings?”

  “Assets?” I guessed.

  “Yeah.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” I told her.

  I wanted to tell her he had already hidden many of his assets in a variety of bank accounts. I had no idea how much deposed wives are supposed to tell their kids about their miserly, recently AWOL fathers, but I thought it best not to say anything Though I had confidence in Lucinda Maynard’s ability to squeeze blood from a stone, it could take time to uncover the facts about Neil’s finances. Still, I doubted Neil would be dumb enough to leave that kind of information behind on the computer. He was far too sneaky for that.

  Sara opened the empty freezer and stuck her head inside to cool off. “You’d think with all his assets, he’d get the air conditioner fixed and send over a little grocery money.”

  “We can’t buy groceries if we can’t get to the market. Why don’t you go to Grandma’s house and see what she has to eat?”

  Sara, my resident vegetarian, made a face. “Her refrigerator’s probably filled with meat. We really need a car, Mom. Besides, I’ll be getting my learner’s permit soon, you know,” she said.

  I frowned. I could barely handle day-to-day life as it was, let alone the worry of my child being a brand-new driver.

  “We’re all kinda stuck here without wheels,” she told me.

  There was nothing more frustrating than living in the suburbs without a car. You couldn’t even run to the store for milk unless you actually ran—like two grueling miles of paved highway just to get to the nearest 7-Eleven.

  “Where would I get the money to buy a car? Your father?”

  “That’s a good one! Grandma told me she’d lend you the money,” Sara said.

  My mother had been hinting about lending me money since the day after I sank the Escort in the bay. Though my parents were far from rich, I knew they could afford it. Even with that, I hated the thought of taking their hard-earned cash.

  “I don’t know if I’d ever be able to pay her back. Cars are very expensive, Honey.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Find a used car and deal on the price. Everybody buys used cars now.” She paused. “Hey! Mr. Da Silva’s selling his Camry.”

  “I don’t know …” I told her, but found myself daring to hope. I thought maybe, if things worked out at the newspaper, I would be able to earn enough to repay my parents. Though my mother never balked when I borrowed her car, it still felt like an imposition. “Mr. Da Silva doesn’t seem like the type who would negotiate.”

  “You don’t know until you ask,” Sara said. “Besides, the kids in school said his wife broke a carton of milk in the trunk and it seeped all the way down through the carpet into the spare tire well. There’s your r
eason for negotiating. You can say the car smells sour.”

  I wrinkled my nose. I knew how bad sour milk could smell. Left to bake inside a hot trunk, it would take fumigation to eliminate the odor. On the other hand, ripping out carpeting in a small space like a trunk would be a snap. And removing the spare from the tire well to thoroughly scrub with Lysol would only take a matter of minutes. I doubted much of a smell would linger, and I could live with that—if the price was right.

  “You know you want this, Mom. A real car. The kind without rust? A car that actually works!”

  The kid was getting to me. I could feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

  “Go for it, Mom. Do it! Seize the day, or the dusk, or whatever it is out there. You know, like you always tell me to do.”

  Though she rarely showed it, Sara could charm a snake if she wanted to.

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a look,” I agreed.

  Sara flashed a triumphant grin. “Mr. Da Silva usually parks the car at the Little League field and walks home because he only lives a block off Poe Street. Why don’t you go check it out now, Mom?” She reached inside her front pocket. “Here’s my cell phone in case you want to give him call.”

  I took the phone. “Don’t get too excited, Sara. Remember, I’m just looking.”

  * * *

  On the short walk to the field, I pretty much convinced myself the Camry could be exactly what I needed. They had a reputation for being reliable, and they tended to last a very long time. I decided it was high time something went my way, and if the price was right, something would.

  The car looked almost perfect both inside and out. There were no oil drips beneath the car and no signs of heavy wear and tear on the body. Other than a pair of small dents near the bottom left front fender, the creamy-white, gold-trimmed Camry appeared to be in what used-car dealers would call showroom condition. I peeked through the windows. The carpets and upholstery were immaculate. From what I could see in the fast-fading light, there wasn’t even a speck of dust on the dashboard or a smudge on the windows.

  The FOR SALE sign was still in the window, along with a number to call. With newfound determination born from either desperation or stupidity, I pulled Sara’s phone from my pocket.

  Da Silva answered on the third ring with an abrupt “Hey” as a greeting.

  “It’s Colleen Caruso, Stanley,” I said. “I’m at the field looking at the car you have for sale.”

  “Well, I’m asking eighteen thousand for it,” he answered cautiously.

  I almost dropped the phone. “Eighteen thousand? You’re joking, right? I could buy a new one for that!”

  “That’s the price,” he insisted.

  I thought of apologizing for wasting his time but something else came to mind. “Your asking price isn’t flying, especially with what I know about the trunk.”

  He hesitated so long that I looked at the phone to see if we were still connected. I thought Sara had it wrong about the sour milk, but I persisted anyway. It wouldn’t be the first time I looked like an idiot, and I knew from past experience it wouldn’t be the last.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Da Silva finally said, but he had waited too long, and I certainly knew a bluff when I heard one.

  “Why don’t you come over so we can talk?”

  “You mean now?” he asked. “Tonight?”

  I looked around. The light was fading, and I didn’t want to postpone the meeting, afraid I’d lose my newfound nerve. “Yeah. Tonight. And please hurry.”

  Da Silva sighed “Okay. Fine,” he said.

  I did a fist pump to celebrate my small victory. I had finally taken charge, and I thought I could really get used to the feeling.

  * * *

  Stanley arrived in less than five minutes. I thought he must have run all the way to the lot. He was still dressed in his coaching clothes—a Pirates shirt and jeans that were nearly as pristine as his car. I walked around the Camry and leaned against it behind the driver’s side near the trunk—a clever ploy I hoped to use to my advantage.

  “How many miles are on it?” I asked, getting directly to the point before I lost my nerve.

  “Around fifty-seven thousand. Not exactly low mileage, but not bad,” he said with an odd, quizzical expression on his thin face. I straightened up and resisted the urge to wipe off any smudge I might have put on the car’s high-gloss finish.

  “It’s not great either,” I told him, feeling my confidence beginning to falter. I knew nothing about cars. Neil had always taken care of that. Still, I wasn’t willing to cave so soon. I reminded myself that I needed a dependable car and I’d be using Bobby’s skateboard to run errands if I didn’t buy one in the very near future.

  Da Silva tentatively unlocked the driver’s side door. “Did you want to look inside?”

  I couldn’t imagine what was going on inside the teacher’s head. Who wouldn’t want to get in and take a test drive when they were buying a car—especially a used car? I thought maybe he never sold a car before and wasn’t sure of the finer points of marketing. Actually, I wasn’t up on sales etiquette either. Neil had always traded our cars in with the dealer.

  I slid into the driver’s seat and was immediately impressed with the interior. “It looks very … tidy.”

  “I had the seats and carpeting steam cleaned,” Da Silva explained. “Every inch of it.”

  I knew he was trying to take away my bargaining advantage, but I also realized if the milk smell was totally gone, he wouldn’t be selling the car. I stepped out of the Camry and looked him straight in the eye. “Really? Even the trunk?”

  The color completely drained from Da Silva’s face. “How did you know?”

  I refused to rat out my own daughter, so I went for a nice, vague explanation. “You know, people talk. The custodians. Other teachers. Things come up.”

  “What, exactly, do you want from me?” he asked.

  “I’d like a really good price,” I told him.

  “You want the car? I should just give you my car?”

  I began to get a little concerned. I thought maybe, drunk with power, I had pushed him a little too hard. I wondered how much of a price reduction I could really expect for a smelly trunk.

  “I don’t expect you to give me the car. I’m a reasonable person. I could be even more reasonable if you’re amicable about payments,” I told him, hoping to shrink the amount of the loan from my parents. “We could do it over the span of a year or so—depending on the agreed-upon amount, of course.”

  Da Silva stood there staring, his mouth in a grimace. “Okay,” he finally said, “let’s talk money.”

  “First pop the trunk,” I told him, wanting to see how bad the smell actually was. Of course, if the price was good enough, the smell wouldn’t much matter. What I needed to know was what I’d be dealing with.

  He pointed his keychain toward the back of the car and pressed the button.

  The trunk popped up, and I dutifully went around to the back of the car to check it out. As expected, I saw the usual breakdown items—a jack, a tire iron, jumper cables, and a first aid kit. Stanley had also stowed the Little League equipment bag in the trunk. From where I stood, I didn’t detect a sour smell. I pushed the bag aside and leaned in to get a good whiff.

  That’s when I saw the briefcase with the initials JW.

  And a laptop.

  And suddenly it came all together. Jason Whitley’s missing briefcase, a white sedan, baseball bats … Oh my God !

  “Are you happy now?” Da Silva asked, sticking something sharp against my ribs.

  A knife.

  “You knew I stole your laptop, and the standardized tests are still in Jason’s briefcase—just like you thought they’d be. You’ve known all along, Mrs. Caruso. Ever since that night you saw me at the beach. I would have thrown it all in the bay, but I figured you were determined enough to wade in and get everything.”

  The papers with penciled-in circles! I thoug
ht, remembering my conversation with Johnny Lynch, the head custodian who I’d spoken to near the recycling bins.

  It was hard to concentrate with a knife poking me in the side. There had been someone else on the beach that night, the same someone in a baseball cap who had run to his car with a package as a gull deposited good fortune on my head and who had forced me drive my Escort into Raritan Bay.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” he whispered.

  When normally asked this, my sarcastic nature would have made me ask if the question was literal or figurative. I figured with the tip of his sharp knife threatening my ribcage, Da Silva would be in no mood for banter. I bit my lip and shook my head no, so adamantly that I practically declared him a genius.

  “I’m not paying you one thin dime. Why should I? I’ve been a good teacher for eleven years, and then they come up with this mandated testing crap? With the state pushing for performance, the Board of Ed would have been all over me once those test results came in! Me? Like it’s my fault these kids can’t pass a test?”

  I wanted to tell him how wrong he was, but the knife convinced me to keep my mouth shut.

  “It’s not like I had a choice,” he hissed. “So I replaced a few real tests and threw out the duds. What’s the big deal? I just made sure some of the failing students would pass. Does it matter that much? It’s not like these kids need to solve algebra problems the rest of their lives. When are they going to use it? Whitley was all worked up about having my former students. He didn’t think he’d win the Teacher of the Year award if he couldn’t get them up to speed. Eventually, he figured out my trick, and he was going to talk. It would have cost me my job, my teaching certificate, my pension—everything I’ve worked for!”

  He paused and looked around the lot. I knew he was sizing up the surroundings.

  “Now you have the whole story, Ms. Reporter, for all the good it will do you. You’ll never get to write it. Like I was going to give you my car to pay you off!” he snorted. “You’re not blackmailing me.”

  He pressed the knife harder, and I felt the sharp steel touch my skin.

  “I want you to reach up and shut the trunk now,” he ordered me. “We’re taking a little stroll into the woods.”