The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder

by Mary Jane Maffini

  Jack raised an eyebrow at that.

  There was a long pause before Mona said, “Right. I didn’t.”

  “Okay then. I’ll let you go back to work and I’ll return to my—” Actually, my pizza had lost its appeal. Something about the windshield image and the dead woman.

  Mona said, “I just wanted to let you know that I hadn’t killed her.”

  “Good.”

  She added, “But, one other thing.”

  I turned around so I wouldn’t see Jack staring at me. Reproachful would have been the official name for his expression.

  “Yes, Mona?”

  “The woman who was hit. Do you think she was Serena?”

  “I am certain it isn’t. It will turn out to be a tragic accident. Random.”

  “Oh well. Can’t have everything.” At that, Mona hung up.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Jack. She called me.”

  “You promised, Charlotte.”

  “I know I did.”

  “You swore. No more murders.”

  “Damn straight. No more murders. None.” I felt a knot in my stomach. This wasn’t a murder. Nothing to worry about.

  “Good. You going to eat your pizza?”

  “It’s all yours, Jack.”

  How could he eat after that news? I sure couldn’t. I was too busy thinking about Mona.

  Identify the time bandits in your life and give them the boot.

  2

  The small wood-paneled auditorium at the Woodbridge Public Library was bursting at its seams. The confined space already smelled of hot wool and simmering boots. Through the long windows, I could see the drifting white flakes as Woodbridge continued to be blanketed in the whitest spring on record. Even so, it wasn’t enough to keep folks away from my first time-management workshop. That was a relief.

  My organizing business needed a bit of a boost. The Woodbridge economy had taken a slam and businesses like mine had been slammed with it. Having an organizer come in and bail you out seems like a luxury to many people, and people cut luxuries in tough times. Check the magazine covers; everyone wants to reorganize their lives. No one wants to pay for it. I know that having an organized home, business, and schedule saves people lots of time and money. But business was down. Way down. All to say, I figured my series of courses would pay off in more ways than one. I was expanding into the time-management aspect and I hoped the exposure would raise the profile of Organized for Success.

  Not surprisingly, every person was female except for one solitary man, who sat there doing his best not to seem out of place. I assumed that his wife had sent him, her own time being too valuable. I thought they all radiated apprehension. But I felt wonderful. This would be the first workshop I’d ever presented. All those people were here to listen to me. I would talk. They would pay attention. I could help them. I found myself beaming at no one in particular.

  My friend Ramona’s earrings dangled and shimmered as she made her way to the front of the room. She was resplendent in an indigo suede jacket and matching pants, her go-to meeting outfit, she called it. As she tapped the mic at the podium, her short silver hair glowed like a crown in the fluorescent light. “Welcome, ladies and gentleman,” she said, “to the first in the Woodbridge Public Library’s spring community cooperative programs. Our topic is The Busy Person’s Guide to Managing Time and Life. I believe that you will learn how to get control of your days and weeks. Your time spent here will be a great investment. All five sessions are booked to capacity with waiting lists. I believe that’s because of our workshop leader. I’m sure Charlotte Adams needs no introduction here in Woodbridge, but she’ll get one anyway. After a few hectic years in the financial sector in the city, she returned home to Woodbridge determined to lead a simpler life, with time for friends and community. She now runs her own business, Organized for Success, and has helped hundreds of clients declutter and reclaim their homes. During this course, she’ll help you do the same with your time and your life. Please welcome Charlotte Adams.”

  Ramona stepped back during the surprisingly wild clapping. I believe she’s my biggest fan. She gradually edged toward the back of the room and gave me a surreptitious little wave. She was on reference duty that day, as she was most Saturdays, and she wouldn’t be able to stay. Luckily, Ramona didn’t need any advice on managing time.

  I smiled out at the sea of eager faces. Almost everyone in the crowd smiled back at me, with the exception of the pale, blond, rabbity woman in the far corner of the back row, who averted her eyes and stared at the floor. I thought she was trying to disappear into the man’s parka she was wearing. Make eye contact with every single person, I reminded myself.

  “Thank you, Ramona, and thanks to the Woodbridge Library for its support of this program and our workshop. I’m very happy to be—”

  Several hands shot up.

  I blinked. Usually the questions follow information. In such a large crowd, it can be tricky maintaining control. That was something I’d have to get used to.

  “I’ll take one question,” I said. “We need to stay on schedule to get everything done. That’s something I’ll talk about in more detail today. Yes?” I pointed to the most enthusiastic hand waver; a plump, permed grandmotherly type sitting two feet away from me in the front row.

  Her happy face lit up as she gushed, “Charlotte! What did it feel like having a gun fired at you?”

  “Horrible,” I said. “And I—”

  I should have said that I was there to talk about time management and not murder. Maybe made a little joke that murder was not my business. However, whatever I might have said would have been drowned out by the barrage of questions from almost all areas in the packed room.

  “Charlotte! How many times have you actually been arrested?”

  “I’ve never actually been—”

  “Some of your friends have been injured. Do they avoid you now?”

  “No. We’re lifelong friends and—”

  “Have the police started calling you when they need help?”

  “The police like to solve their own cases. I like to concentrate on—”

  “My neighbor is being stalked. Can you help her?”

  “No, she should—”

  “I think she needs protection.”

  “I am an organizer. I can’t—”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No!”

  “Do you plan to buy one?”

  “Never.”

  “When did Woodbridge become such a dangerous place?”

  Ramona stormed back to the front of the auditorium, ready to rescue. But I did not want to be rescued. And as a rule, I don’t need to be.

  I winked at Ramona so she’d get that point and said, “We are all in much more danger from overcommitment in our lives than we are from mysterious villains. Trust me on that. If you want to find out how to get rid of the time bandits that rob you of your days, the worries that steal your sleep, or the stress that can kill you, let’s get started. For everything else, we have the police or Law & Order if you want entertainment value.”

  Ramona nodded approval. She likes to sock it to them too. I needed to stay on top of this crowd. I knew they’d love what I had to share with them. Or at least, I thought I knew that.

  “So, here’s the road map for today. We’ll find out what the real obstacles are to you enjoying your life and why you are failing to meet your goals. We’ll see how you can have a better balance in your life and in your family relationships.”

  Now why did I feel that wasn’t quite as entertaining as the idea of me acquiring a weapon and firing at a felon?

  I guess I’d overestimated my fun value. To say nothing of the time-management problems of the Woodbridge populace. After the coffee break, I lost about 10 percent of the crowd, including my plump, permed questioner from the front row. I was surprised to note that the pale, rabbity blonde in the back corner returned to her seat. I smiled reassuringly in her direction, but there was apparently something quit
e fascinating on her shoes. Oh well.

  Ramona had rejoined the group for coffee. She said, “Most people love it, Charlotte. A few have decided this kind of workshop wasn’t quite what they wanted. They’re probably already home watching The First 48.”

  “That’s fine with me. They can have a partial refund. I’m here for the ones who are serious about fixing their lives. We’ll have better discussions with a smaller group.”

  The second half of the morning went well as we focused on finding out what is actually important in each of their lives. Before the break, everyone in the room had identified three goals that they wanted to achieve but had been unable to. Now we were identifying barriers and figuring out strategies to fulfill those goals. I love this stuff.

  There were five sessions in total, but the Saturday session was a two-parter, and with luck, this serious group would be back the next week to talk about how they’d put their strategies into practice. I’d help with suggestions for developing good habits, finding support, positive self-talk, and tricks that had worked for others.

  At the end of the session, when the would-be time managers filed out of the room, most of them stopped to say thank you. As I straightened out my notes to leave the front of the room ready for the second half of the day, I became aware of a woman sidling up the aisle. It was the blonde from the back row. As she got closer, I could see that her hair was seriously overbleached and underconditioned. Her skin was a flat fish-belly white, with a few angry blemishes, and she didn’t meet my eyes. Under other circumstances, she could have been very pretty. I couldn’t avoid noticing that her hands were rough and red, the nails bitten to the quick. This woman was a walking advertisement for stress.

  I wanted to reach out and give her a comforting hug, but, of course, there was no way I could do that. Pity is not something that most of us seek. As it turned out, that wasn’t what she was looking for at all.

  “Hello,” I said. “I hope the course so far is—”

  This time she stared straight into my eyes. “Oh, Charlotte,” she said in a high-pitched girlish voice. “Can you ever forgive us?”

  I shook my head. “Forgive you?”

  “Yes.” She stared at the floor and I swear tears formed in her eyes.

  “Forgive you for what?”

  “We were so cruel. Heartless. And you were just a little thing.” She giggled softly. “Of course, you’re not very big now.”

  I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  “I’m Haley? Haley Brennan? I was Haley McKee? I used to be friends with Serena Redding?”

  I blinked. The flawless ivory skin, the bouncy ponytail, the contagious grin were gone, and the sexy curves, if they remained, were buried under a loose sweatshirt that said OFFICE CLEANING SPECIALISTS. At least she’d taken off the man’s jacket and was carrying it.

  She said, “And Jasmin Lorenz and Tiffanee Dupont were my friends too, of course, to a certain extent, but mostly Serena.”

  When someone begs your forgiveness and you have no recollection of the incident they want to be forgiven for, that won’t bring them any relief. One glance at Haley’s pale face and anguished expression and I understood she was desperate to be forgiven. I could forgive her for whatever it was. What the hell. It wasn’t going to cost anything, was it?

  I said, “It was a long time ago.”

  “But you must have felt so humiliated.”

  I resisted the urge to shrug. I’d never felt humiliated by Haley, or Tiffanee or Jasmin or Serena, for that matter. Annoyed and occasionally cautious when they were in the vicinity, but that was it. I’d had a challenge with Helen “Hellfire” Henley, the teacher who terrified us all, but a few mean girls? I couldn’t remember anything they’d done that was anywhere near humiliating. Mona Pringle’s image flickered in my mind. Now she should be the one being asked for forgiveness.

  “I’m over it,” I said with a smile. “My life has turned out fine. I love my job, I have great friends, and I enjoy myself. Also, I’ve learned to not hold a grudge. It’s a huge waste of time and energy.”

  She stared at me. “You don’t hate us?”

  “Why would I? We’re all adults now. We move on.”

  Of course, looking at Haley I realized that her life hadn’t turned out great. She seemed to be at the point of collapse. Could it be guilt? Misplaced if so, as she’d never succeeded in doing me any damage. Of course, she may not have caused me grief, but she’d sure brought plenty to other people.

  She was weeping softly now. I glanced around. I preferred that the rest of the group not think I reduced one of their number to tears.

  I patted her arm, doing my best to appear forgiving. “All in the past. The present’s what counts.”

  “The present’s not so great for me, as you can probably tell at a glance. And now Serena’s back.”

  “I’d heard that.” Damn. I hadn’t meant to blurt that out.

  “Who told you?”

  “I don’t even remember,” I said, not wishing to bring Mona Pringle into this. For one thing, Haley might need to ask for her forgiveness and I doubted that Mona was in that zone. I tried not to imagine Haley’s sad face splattered against the windshield of Mona’s car.

  Haley stared at me, her large blue eyes magnified by the red eyelids. A few random tears straggled down her cheeks. “How could you forget something like that?”

  Because Serena was so unimportant in my life that I had to be reminded who she was? I chose not to say that. “I may have even just overheard it when I was shopping at Hannaford’s. But I never had much connection with Serena. I’m neutral on whether she comes back or not. I wouldn’t even expect to run into her. What brings her back to Woodbridge? She’s been gone since graduation, hasn’t she? Are you looking forward to reconnecting with her?”

  Oh boy. Wrong question. Haley was horrified and possibly even terrified by the idea of her friend coming back. I could see why. Life had not been kind to Haley, and Serena would be even less so when she got a peek at her. What was the purpose of life’s losers except to amuse the strong and beautiful? The blue eyes filled with tears again. I reached over. This time I squeezed her hand.

  “Why don’t we get out of here and go to Ciao! Ciao! for coffee?” I said, adding quickly as her pallid face fell, “My treat.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “I think the library staff has to get the room ready for the children’s activities this afternoon. Don’t feel any pressure, Haley. We don’t have to go for coffee if you don’t have the time. We can talk on our way to the parking lot.”

  She shivered in the hot room. “Coffee sounds good.”

  Twenty minutes later we were each wedged into one of the tiny painted chairs at Ciao! Ciao!, facing each other over a fancifully painted table; bright blue and decorated with what seemed like garden gnomes in the middle of a wild polka. I was drinking a latte and Haley was going for just plain coffee. We each had chocolate biscotti to crunch or dunk.

  “You know what? I always thought they were just a waste of money, but that does look delicious,” she said as she eyed my latte.

  “No one can beat them here.”

  She glanced around. “This place is so nice. I’ve never been here. I thought only snobs came here. Not that you’re a—”

  “Mostly students and professors, artists and some techy types and entrepreneurs who work out of home and like to mingle. I like it too.”

  With her oversize jacket that also said OFFICE CLEANING SPECIALISTS on the pocket, and her washed-out hair, Haley in fact didn’t match the young and hip crowd in Ciao! Ciao! I kept resisting the urge to offer her a makeover. Everything is not about appearances. Haley certainly had changed since St. Jude’s; there was no question about that. I put it down to guilt. Perhaps the way she’d treated people like Mona had come back to haunt her. Kicked in the keister by Karma.

  She said, “You can’t judge people by their looks. That’s one thing I should have learned over the years.”
r />   I wondered what those years had done to Haley. Nothing too good was my guess, but I didn’t want to ask too much. I did notice the rings on her finger. “I see you’re married.”

  She shrugged and glanced away. “Yeah, right out of high school. One of those unplanned things, you know. We have a fourteen-year-old daughter, Brie. Can you believe that?”

  “Wow.”

  “She’s a great kid. She’s very smart. She loves poetry and reading.”

  “That must keep you busy, keeping up with her activities.”

  Haley gave me a strange glance. “Sure. That and the job. When she was younger, I was able to stay home with her. But now Randy—that’s my husband; you may remember Randy from the football team at St. Jude’s—”

  I made a noncommittal head movement, the type that can be a yes or a no, depending on interpretation. I’d never spent any time thinking about the football team. Except for one guy who’d asked me out and then changed his mind for unexplained reasons, my interests had always been in geekier, smart boys. But as Haley had married one of the players, I chose not to mention that.

  “He was a hero,” she said, a faraway look in her redrimmed eyes. “A big man around town. So handsome and nice too. Popular. I was lucky to snag him. Everyone was so jealous.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t interested in pursuing the jealousy angle. Best to avoid that conversational trap.

  She continued, “Anyway, Randy had a job in sales. He was dynamite. Things were great. We had a beautiful home, cars, and people to clean my house. Randy could sell anything, but the company went out of business and sales jobs in this area dried up in the bad economy.”

  “Sorry to hear about that.”

  “It’s just the beginning. He has . . .”

  I waited until she regained her composure. Whatever he had, it wasn’t good.

  She pulled herself together. “He has a chronic kidney condition. He’s been pretty sick. Medical care and drugs have been killing us. It’s been very hard on him. He doesn’t have the stamina he used to have. I don’t even know how long . . .”