standing homes that’s pet-friendly. It’s even going to have a fenced-in dog park. Isn’t that a great idea?”
I briefly wondered if the dogs would have scheduled activities as frantic as the humans’.
“Lucy and Ethel will love it there as much as we will. I put down a deposit on a house this morning. All you have to do is sign and we’ll be the first home owners in the new section. They may even use us in their advertising to attract other buyers.
“So you don’t have to worry anymore about where we’re going after we close on this house. It’s all set. Isn’t that terrific?”
Obviously Jim thought he’d pulled off a huge coup. I wasn’t so sure. And I was plenty aggravated that he hadn’t consulted me first before making such a major decision.
Of course, I hadn’t consulted him when I signed the listing agreement to sell our house, either. But I knew he’d go along with it.
Oh, what the heck. We were moving to a brand new place with top-of-the-line everything and I could keep both dogs.
My Beloved would learn to play golf. We would swim leisurely laps in the pool.
And I could always lock the door and take a long nap if the frantic pace of activities overwhelmed me.
I hoped I’d at least be able to pick the color scheme for our new digs.
Chapter 11
Some people sweat. I’m so glam, I ooze glitter.
The last box had been packed and labeled. The last closet had been emptied. Even the garage looked clean, for the first time in twenty years.
My Beloved and I walked through each room hand in hand, our footsteps echoing in the now-empty house. I was having trouble holding my emotions in check. Even Jim, who is rarely emotional, had tears in his eyes, though he’d never admit it.
“Well, I guess it’s time to go,” he said.
“Goodbye house. We’ve loved every minute here.”
Hand-in-hand, we walked out the kitchen door and locked it for the last time.
And didn’t look back.
I couldn’t sleep.
It was a strange bed, with lots of lumps and bumps. Or maybe the lumps and bumps were my aging body. Anyway, this new apartment was going to take some getting used to. Thank God it was only for a few months, until our Eden’s Woods house was ready. Assuming it was completed on time, which, according to Nancy was rare in the construction world.
As if sleeping in a lumpy bed wasn’t bad enough, I also was having hot flashes for the first time in years. I figured the stress of moving must have activated my power surge mechanism. Rats. Who needed this?
My Beloved, of course, was having no trouble sleeping. His rhythmic snores were a pleasant, familiar sound. Even my tossing and turning didn’t disturb him. Lucy and Ethel had adjusted pretty quickly to the new digs, too, each finding a comfortable spot on the bedroom carpeting and zonking out. Ah, a dog’s life is one to be envied. Maybe in my next life, I’d come back as one.
I yanked the blanket off and threw my right leg on top of it. I forced myself to think of snow and sleet and polar ice caps.
It was no use. I was still hot and sleep was out of the question. I had to get out of the apartment and get some fresh air.
When my bare feet hit the icy floor, I winced. Now, I was cold. But definitely wide awake. I grabbed my sweats, socks and sneakers and dressed quietly. I was out the door, car keys in hand, in a New York minute.
I sat in my car, motor running, and pondered my options. What would be open at this time of night? A Dunkin’ Donuts? The Fairport Diner?
What you don’t need, Carol, is a shot of caffeine.
Nah. Who was I kidding? I knew where I was going.
I turned in the direction of my soon-to-be-former home. I was going to give myself a private pity party and walk through it one more time all by myself.
As I drove into our driveway, I wondered fleetingly if I could be charged with breaking and entering. I squelched that thought. It was still our house until we signed the papers at tomorrow morning’s closing.
The house looked unloved already. Jim had made arrangements to turn off the electricity – God forbid we would pay an extra dollar to the utility company – so there was no cheery front porch light on to greet me. Luckily for me, I kept a flashlight in my car.
The kitchen door stuck, then squeaked as it swung open.
“Hello, beautiful kitchen,” I said as I walked into the dark room. My eyes immediately filled up. “I mean, goodbye, beautiful kitchen,” I said. “I’m sure going to miss you.”
I straightened my shoulders and ordered myself not to wallow in memories. Easier ordered than done.
I ran my hands over the granite countertops. I remembered so well the day they were installed. And how thrilled I’d been to finally replace all that worn-out Formica.
Sob.
Another memory came, completely out of the blue. Or black, since it was so dark in here, even with the flashlight. This memory was less pleasant. The workmen had measured for the countertops incorrectly. So the first time they tried to install the darn things, the granite was too long. And the second time, when the measurements were correct, one of the installers dropped the piece of granite in the driveway and it shattered into a million pieces. Man, was I angry about that.
OK, so not everything that happened here was fairy-tale perfect.
I allowed myself the luxury of sobbing as I went from room to room. Stupid, I know, but there was no one around to hear me. “Goodbye beautiful fireplaces,” I said aloud. So the chimneys weren’t lined and we were never able to use most of them. They looked great decorated for the holidays.
Whimper.
Goodbye pine floors, well-scuffed from years of walking by the people I loved.
Sniff.
I touched the doorway which still had faint pencil marks measuring Jenny and Mike’s heights. I closed my eyes, and I could almost hear the kids squabbling about who was taller. How I wished I’d taken Nancy’s advice and replaced that door molding, so I could take the old piece to our new home
Sob.
On to the dining room, scene of so many wonderful celebrations. Kids’ birthday parties. Our wedding anniversaries. Holidays. I bid farewell to my beautiful corner cupboard, the fabulous wainscoting, and the fireplace with its magnificent mantle.
Every year, we put a Christmas tree in the dining room as well as ones in the living room and family room. If I squeezed my eyes just right, I could imagine the lights twinkling in front of the window.
God, now I was crying so hard I needed to sit down on the floor. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Come on, Carol, get up. You can do this.
At this rate, by the time I got through all the rooms, the sun would be coming up. I needed to hurry myself along, in order to get back to the apartment and get a little sleep before Closing Day. And, even more important, before My Beloved woke up and figured out I was missing.
I headed across the front hall to the living room. The moon was shining through the sidelights of the front door, so I could see just fine.
Not. I immediately tripped over something on the floor and twisted my ankle.
“Damn it,” I said, allowing myself a rare curse word as I massaged my poor foot.
I aimed the flashlight at the offending object and had to laugh. It was a man’s shoe. How appropriate, I thought. Jim had a habit of leaving his shoes right in front of every door in the house. He claimed he didn’t want to track debris in from the yard. I was always after him to move them out of the way, put them in the closet – anything. Futile. The man simply didn’t pick up after himself, anywhere, anytime.
“One of Jim’s shoes must have fallen out of a suitcase this afternoon,” I told myself, my voice echoing in the empty house. I hated to admit it, but now my house felt kind of spooky.
I continued into the living room. There was a pile of clothing bunched in a corner. Strange. I didn’t remember that being there when Jim and I had walked through earlier.
/> “Those movers really were careless. Jim’ll have a fit about this.”
The next thing I noticed was Jim’s other shoe, peeking out from under the pile of clothes. I smiled. Well, I’d just have to pick up after My Beloved one more time. A fitting way to say goodbye to my house.
Then, I took a closer look.
Oops. This wasn’t Jim’s shoe after all. Unfortunately, this one had a foot in it. The foot was attached to a man who was quite dead. In my living room.
I didn’t know whether to cry or throw up. But my insatiable curiosity won out over my churning stomach, and I shined my flashlight onto the man’s face.
The house closing was definitely off.
The dead man was our buyer, Jack Cartwright.
Chapter 12
All men may be different, but all husbands are the same.
The next thing I remember, I was outside on Old Fairport Turnpike, screaming my lungs out. It never occurred to me to use my cell phone to summon help. Nor did I care that it was now probably after midnight.
I guess I’m blessed with a good set of lungs, because within seconds Phyllis and Bill Stevens appeared at their front door, matching plaid bathrobes wrapped tightly around them.
“Who the hell is carrying on like that?” bellowed Bill from his stoop. He switched on his porch light to see what was going on. “Don’t you know what time it is? People are trying to sleep.”
“Bill, thank God,” I cried, happy to see a familiar face even though it was also an angry one. “It’s Carol Andrews. I need help. ” I ran across the street as fast as my chubby little legs could carry me and threw myself into his arms, sobbing.
“Carol,” said Phyllis. “What’s wrong?” She looked at me critically, as if a woman babbling in the arms of her husband was something she didn’t allow. “What are you doing here at this time of night? Aren’t you closing on your house later today? Lord, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Please,” I said, “you’ve got to call the police right now. There’s a dead body in my living room.”
“What?” Bill and Phyllis said at exactly the same time. Phyllis leaned close to my face, ever so slightly. Probably checking for a telltale liquor odor on my breath.
“I know this sounds nuts, but you’ve got to help me,” I said. “I came back to the house to do one more walk-through and say goodbye.” I blinked back tears, which were falling faster than I could keep up with them. My nose was running too. Jeez. How attractive I must look.
“When I got to the living room, I found a dead body.” I paused and a tremor went through my body as I remembered the horrible sight. “Oh, God, it’s our buyer, Jack Cartwright.”
I started to cry even harder, then – how embarrassing -- I started to hiccup. I couldn’t stop. I was sure Phyllis thought I’d been drinking.
They led me inside their house and had me sit down on the sofa in the family room. Phyllis gave me a paper bag to breathe into, which she claimed would cure my hiccups. Bill, meanwhile, phoned the police.
The paper bag trick didn’t work. I was hiccupping, crying, and sniffling all at the same time. A true mess.
“Does Jim know you came back to the house?” asked Phyllis.
“Jim!” I cried. “I have to let him know what’s happened.”
There was no way to predict My Beloved’s reaction. He could be angry at me for sneaking out and going to the house, scared on my behalf, angry that the closing was off – anything was possible. Especially if he was awakened from a sound sleep. Although, I reminded myself, he’d had more experience with finding dead bodies than I had, since he’d discovered his retirement coach’s last summer.
“Bill,” I pleaded, hiccupping for added emphasis, “can you please call Jim for me? I’m too upset to make any sense.” I held out a scrap of paper. “Here’s his cell number.”
Good old Bill. He was happy to be given still another prominent role in the melodrama playing out in his family room. He made eye contact with Phyllis, probably asking permission to use the phone again, patted me on the shoulder, and took the cordless phone into the kitchen to make the call.
A few seconds later, the doorbell rang and my nemesis, Paul Wheeler, the shortest and nastiest detective on our town’s police force, strode in. Oh, joy. He and I had crossed swords last year. I prayed he wouldn’t remember me.
No such luck.
“Don’t I know you?” Paul asked me, scowling. “Aren’t you Carol Andrews, from across the street?” At least he didn’t say, “Aren’t you that busybody Carol Andrews?”
“What’s this all about?”
Paul gestured for me to sit on the sofa while he remained standing. I immediately realized he was doing that to intimidate me. And that my sitting while he continued to stand was the only way he would ever be taller than I was.
As succinctly as I could, I described the sale of our house, our temporary move into an apartment, my coming back to check the house (I didn’t call it a “pity party”), and finding the dead body in my living room. I was proud that my voice was calm, and I just gave the bare facts. No embellishments or opinions.
And, miracle of miracles, my hiccups had disappeared. Paul had accomplished what a paper bag couldn’t.
When I came to the part about the identity of the dead man, however, Paul stopped me. “How did you know it was your buyer?” he asked, raising himself up to his full (short) height and attempting to loom over me.
I recognized him, stupid.
I didn’t really say that, of course.
At this point, I became aware of flashing lights and activity across the street. More police, no doubt. And the emergency squad, though it was too late to do anything for poor Jack.
“I left my front door open when I ran outside,” I explained. I didn’t want Paul to think the house had been broken into. In fact, the house had showed no signs of forced entry. I filed that fact away to think about later.
Paul sat down opposite me and made himself comfortable, legs spread apart. He took out his notebook and glared at me. “One more time, and don’t leave anything out.”
I started to reply, then stopped myself. I wondered if I needed a lawyer. Poor Jim had tried to help the police out last year and ended up being suspected of a crime.
I couldn’t help bristling at Paul’s tone. It sounded like he was accusing me of misleading him.
OK, I had been guilty of doing that during our previous encounters.
I guess he remembered that, too.
“My husband and I decided to put our house on the market and move to an active adult community.” Too much information, Carol. He doesn’t care about that.
“The house sold immediately. Perhaps you remember what a beautiful house it is.”
I paused to give him a chance to respond, but Paul just looked impatient. I do have a tendency to drag stories out, especially when I’m nervous. Which I certainly was at that moment.
“The house was purchased by a nice young family, the Cartwrights. Jim and I moved out today. I mean, yesterday. The closing was supposed to be tomorrow. I mean today.” I knew I wasn’t making any sense.
“Anyway, I came back to the house by myself to take a final walk- through. And I found the dead body of our buyer, Jack Cartwright, in our living room. That’s all.”
“Were you and your husband in agreement about selling the house?” Paul asked me.
“Well, no, actually in the beginning, I didn’t want to sell it,” I admitted. “In fact, I was really opposed to it.”
Paul pounced on my reply.
“So, Mrs. Andrews, perhaps you had a motive to stop the sale of the house. By eliminating the buyer. Permanently.”
“Don’t answer him, Carol,” said My Beloved, racing into the room like Sir Galahad to the rescue. I flung myself into his familiar arms and began to bawl.
“My wife has had a terrible shock,” said Jim. “You have no right to make such an outrageous accusation.”
The combination of Jim’s tone of vo
ice – who knew My Beloved could be so forceful? – and my continued crying stopped the questioning for a brief moment.
And then, Paul’s cell phone rang. Not just any ring, mind you, but the song “Bad Boys,” the theme from the television show Cops. Words as well as music. And I quote, “Whatcha going to do when they come for you? Bad boys, bad boys.” It made me laugh. I couldn’t stop myself. OK, by that time I was probably verging on hysteria, but it was so ridiculous. Fairport Detective Paul Wheeler, television-reality-show-star-wanna-be.
He listened to whomever was on the other end of the phone, then snapped it shut. “I was only thinking out loud,” he said to us. “I wasn’t accusing anyone of a crime. Yet. It’s much too early for that.”
Was it my imagination, or had Paul emphasized the word “yet”?
“You’ll have to come down to the station in the morning and sign a formal statement, Mrs. Andrews. I need to get over to the crime scene now.”
The crime scene, a.k.a. my beautiful living room. Oh, God.
Jim glared at Paul. “I resent that implication. There’s no way of knowing that this is a crime. It could be just an unfortunate accident.”
As we were leaving, I remembered my manners and thanked Bill and Phyllis profusely for their help. I knew they were glad to see us go. But I suspected the thrill of being involved in a possible crime, however vicariously, would make them the center of a neighborhood drama for a long time to come.
Jim put his arm around my shoulder and guided me out of the room. “Come on, Carol, let’s go home.”
I looked at him blankly. “Go home, Jim? Where the heck is that?”
Chapter 13
Moving Can Be Murder Page 7
