Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  Mark and Jenny used to kid their father all the time about painting the outside of the house, too. In his younger days, that was his personal warm weather project, and he only did one side a year. I always had my heart set on a white house. Thank God the house we bought was already white, and not some off-beat color like sage green or red.

  Thinking about the kids made me decide to try and reach Mike myself and fill him in on what had happened. Not that I didn’t trust Claire, of course. But sometimes a “child” needs to hear a parent’s voice. Or, maybe, the other way around.

  I punched his number in my cell phone address book – I hope you’re all impressed with the fact that I’ve become such a techie – and listened to 4, 5, 6 rings. Then, voice mail came on, and the automated response said, “Mail box full. Please try again later.”

  That was odd. Like most members of the twenty-something generation, Mike lived by his phone, Blackberry, iPhone – you name it. He never failed to pick up messages immediately. Hmm.

  I pushed that little tremor of worry out of my mind that mothers always get when they can’t reach their offspring, no matter how old they are. He’s absolutely fine, I told myself. Probably just extra busy with Cosmo’s and hasn’t had a chance to check his messages today. Claire will see him today and e-mail or call later. Or he will.

  I couldn’t sit at this table much longer. The restaurant staff was starting to set the tables for the dinner shift.

  What you need, Carol, is a little retail therapy. Consider it helping a worthy cause.

  I decided to check out Sally’s Closet on my way back to the apartment.

  I must have driven by the thrift shop hundreds of times on my way to and from the train station. Funny, I’d never noticed it before. On-street parking is always a challenge in Fairport, but luckily we still had our parking sticker for the railroad commuter lot. And, even luckier, there actually was a choice of spots today. I took that as a good sign that my luck was changing.

  I stopped to check out the thrift shop windows. I’d already made up my mind that if I didn’t find anything attractive in the window, I wouldn’t go in. I mean, Nancy’s Coach purse was an incredible bargain, but I was sure that kind of thing didn’t happen very often.

  I had to admit that the place looked inviting from the outside. Housed in a white colonial-type building so favored in Connecticut, Sally’s Closet advertised “gently loved clothing for women and children.” Most of the window displays featured up-to-date merchandise that…wait a minute! Did I see a Lilly Pulitzer dress in the window? Well. Sally’s Closet just might be selling that beauty to me.

  I knew finding that parking space was a good omen.

  The bell on the front door tinkled discreetly as I entered. First, I gave the interior the “sniff test.” You know what I mean. Some shops that feature “antique” or “gently used” goods have a distinctive musty odor that makes me gag. I’m outta those in a skinny second.

  Sally’s Closet had a lovely hint of lavender. One of my favorite scents. Score one point. Two women – probably volunteers – were unloading a cart full of merchandise. I noticed they were wearing lavender aprons. I liked that too. A uniform look, so customers would know to ask them for help if needed. Score another point, for professionalism.

  Now, on to the important stuff – the merchandise itself.

  I looked around the sales floor. Well, this was impressive. Everything was arranged by color, and then by size. Sweaters, short-sleeved and long-sleeved tops, blouses, pants, shorts, skirts, dresses, suits, evening wear. All neatly pressed and beautifully displayed.

  There were shelves for purses, gloves, and scarves as well. Sally’s Closet was certainly a lot neater than my own closet.

  My eyes were drawn to one rack with the sign “Designer Duds.” Hmm. This required closer inspection, so I whipped out my bifocals to check it out. Ralph Lauren, Jones NY, Liz Claiborne, and – joy of joys – a few of the distinctive multi-colored prints that Lilly Pulitzer is known for. All pretty current styles, too. I couldn’t believe that some of the clothes had original tickets on them.

  I was peering at a particularly adorable pink, green and yellow Lilly dress – it was sleeveless but I could always wear a sweater over it to camouflage my “bye-bye” upper arms – when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I squealed and jumped a foot. Well, not a foot, but a couple of inches.

  “Hi, Carol,” said one of my young neighbors. Fortunately, she was wearing a name tag on her lavender apron that identified her as Liz.

  “Hi Liz,” I said, giving her a little hug. “I didn’t know you volunteered at Sally’s Closet.” I gestured around the store. “I’ve never been here before. What a great place.”

  “I’m here two afternoons a week while the kids are at their swim class,” Liz said. “Volunteering keeps me sane. I get a little ‘over-mommied’ at times, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded my head. I remembered those days well.

  “I’m surprised to see you in here today, Carol,” said Liz. “Didn’t you close on your house this morning? You and Jim should be in some fancy restaurant, celebrating.”

  Evidently, Liz hadn’t heard the house sale news yet, and I had no desire to enlighten her. She’d find out soon enough.

  “Deb and Stacy and I are really excited about another young family moving into the neighborhood,” Liz went on. “Not that we didn’t all love you and Jim, of course. But Alyssa and Jack seem like such a great couple. We met them last week at the neighborhood cocktail party Sara gave for them.”

  A neighborhood cocktail party? That Jim and I hadn’t been invited to?

  At my surprised look, Liz hastened to cover her gaffe. “I guess I stuck my foot in my mouth there. It wasn’t exactly a neighborhood cocktail party. I mean, not everyone in the whole neighborhood was there. Just the younger ones.”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t seem to get out of this one. I think I’ll just shut up now.”

  I laughed, showing that I was not offended. Even though I was.

  “Nancy was showing off a great Coach purse she said she got here.” I said. “I can’t resist a bargain. Why don’t you give me a tour of the place?”

  I peered around the shop. “And what’s with the decorating scheme? The walls are a light purple, aren’t they? That’s an interesting color choice.”

  Liz looked surprised at my question. “Don’t you know that purple is the color for domestic violence abuse, the way red denotes AIDS or women’s heart disease?”

  I was properly chagrined. “You’re right. I should have known that.”

  “All the proceeds from Sally’s Closet go to support our parent organization,” Liz went on. “You’ve heard of Sally’s Place, right? It’s a wonderful organization that supports and protects the victims of domestic violence here in Fairport. You’d be shocked at how many families the agency helps in a single year.”

  She sighed. “But it looks like we need to do a better job at marketing. There just doesn’t seem to be enough time, or enough volunteers, to get the job done the way it should be.”

  I started to reply, but Liz didn’t give me the chance. “Most people don’t even know that October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month as well as Breast Cancer Awareness Month. All you see are pink ribbons everywhere, from October 1 to Halloween. I’m not saying that breast cancer isn’t an important issue, but so is domestic violence.”

  “I can see how much you care about this,” I said. “You’re very passionate about it.”

  “You would be, too, if you’d seen first-hand how domestic violence can destroy a family.”

  I could see that Liz was verging on tears, and tried desperately to think of something to calm her down.

  That’s when I heard The Voice.

  “Carol Elizabeth Kerr. Is that you?”

  I immediately snapped to attention. Practically saluted, as a matter of fact.

  And turned to face my high school English teacher, Sister Rose.


  Chapter 18

  Your opinion matters. I’m just not sure to whom.

  This was turning into a helluva day. I mean, a heck of a day. No swearing in front of Sister. In high school, I believed that she could read minds. I wasn’t about to test that theory now that I was an adult.

  Liz immediately scurried away and began folding sweaters.

  “Sister Rose,” I said. “It is me. But my name is Carol Andrews now.”

  “The correct sentence structure is, ‘It is I,’ dear,” Sister said without missing a beat. “You never were an English superstar, as I recall.”

  Ouch. That hurt. Even if it was true.

  I stuck out my hand in a gesture of friendship. She ignored it. I stuck my hand in my jacket pocket. Suddenly, I was 16 years old again and being kept after class to be reprimanded for one of a hundred possible transgressions. Like a school uniform skirt that was too short. (I hated our uniforms so much, I avoided wearing navy blue until I was 30!) Or saddle shoes that weren’t properly polished. Or a homework assignment that was late. Or whispering in class.

  That last one happened pretty often.

  Jeez, Carol, grow up already. And why the hell – I mean, heck – didn’t Nancy tell me Sister Rose was connected to this shop? No doubt she was blinded by her Coach bag purchase. Some pal.

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Sister,” I said with a sweet smile. “You look wonderful.”

  And she did, damn it. I mean, darn it. Her softly curled white hair framed a remarkably unlined face, and her clothes were just as stylish as mine. Actually, more stylish than mine. Of course, she probably got first pick of the thrift shop donations.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Carol. I always enjoy seeing my former students.” Then she reached out and gave my shoulder a little squeeze.

  Awkward silence.

  So, what should I say now? Gotta go? It’s been grand? Let’s get together for coffee sometime and talk about old times? By the way, my husband Jim and I were selling our antique home, but I found our buyer dead last night so the deal’s off and we may donate the house to Sally’s Place for a show house?

  Not hardly.

  “Since Mount Saint Francis closed several years ago, the sisters’ lives have been so different,” Sister Rose finally said. “I thought I’d be teaching forever. But now, here I am…” she gestured around the shop… “the director of a program for victims of domestic violence. And running a thrift shop.”

  She gave me a meaningful look, the kind that used to turn my knees to jelly. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before, Carol. We can always use more volunteers. And donations.”

  And just like that, I heard myself promising to come in one morning a week to help out in the shop. Then I got the heck out of there. I didn’t even try on that Lilly Pulitzer dress.

  You really are an idiot, I told myself. How could you let someone you haven’t seen in over forty years still intimidate you like that? And on top of that, now you’ve committed yourself to seeing her once a week at Sally’s Closet. No matter how great the bargains are there, it’s not going to be worth putting yourself through torture to snap them up.

  Then, I had a great idea. If Jim and I (big “if” coming here) donated our house for a fundraiser, maybe Sister Rose would let me off the hook. I mean, how many sacrifices was I supposed to make for this program? And I could say that I was too busy planning the event to volunteer at the thrift shop.

  Brilliant, Carol. One of your best schemes yet. Now all I had to do was calm Jim down once he found out the house sale was off. And convince him to go along with the show house. I definitely needed Nancy’s help to pull all this off. And she needed mine, too.

  Time to talk to My Beloved.

  But first, I decided to take a quick drive past my house. Maybe the police activity was over and the yellow crime tape was gone. That’d be fabulous.

  I was cruising down Fairport Turnpike, the main street in our town, just about to turn into the historic district, when I noticed several trucks bearing what looked like T.V. satellite dishes parked at the corner.

  Hmm. I wondered what all the excitement was about, and braked to take a quick look.

  Unfortunately, the excitement was centered in front of my house, where Phyllis and Bill Stevens were being interviewed by a gaggle of reporters, pushing and shoving and thrusting microphones into their faces. It was a mob scene, and it looked like Phyllis and Bill were having a swell time becoming instant celebrities.

  Good grief! I floored my car and got out of there before they saw me. My Beloved was going to have a fit when he heard about this.

  Then again, wasn’t he the one who always used to tell me that there’s no such thing as bad publicity? The key was to get your name out in the public eye – and be sure it was spelled right. I wondered if the same rule applied to real estate listings.

  I just hoped we didn’t make the front page of the National Enquirer.

  At least I didn’t have to face an emotional discussion with Jim by myself. By the time I got back to our temporary hovel – I mean,

  apartment – Jenny and Nancy were there too.

  Lucy and Ethel greeted me joyously, of course. Thank God for dogs. They’re always in a good mood.

  The three humans had a variety of expressions on their faces – Jenny looked like she was on the verge of tears, Nancy had a bright smile pasted on her face that I knew was phony, and My Beloved, well, My Beloved had that tell-tale nervous eye tic thing going that was never a good sign.

  “About time you showed up, Carol,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you so we can make some decisions.”

  Rats. I was in trouble already.

  “Nancy has given us the bad news that it looks like the house deal is off. We’ve got to come up with a new plan to sell, and quickly.”

  Nancy started to speak, but Jenny interrupted her. “Before we talk about the house, I have something to tell all of you. It’s pretty personal, but I wanted you to hear it from me first. We don’t have many secrets.”

  She turned and looked me squarely in my baby blues.

  “Remember this morning, when you were grilling me about Jack’s death and you wanted to know if Mark could find out any information about the police investigation?”

  I nodded my head. “But you reminded me that he couldn’t, because you and he are, well…I think the expression you used was just that …you and he are.”

  “Well, guess what?” Jenny said, her voice quavering. “He and I aren’t now. We had a huge fight and broke up this afternoon. So now he’ll probably be assigned to this case, and you can pump him for information all you want. You shouldn’t, of course. It’s probably against the law. But I’m sure you’ll try anyway.”

  Wow. Coming from Jenny, that really stung. Even if it was true.

  Nancy jumped up and said, “I shouldn’t be here now. This is family talk.”

  “No, stay,” said Jenny. “I want you to hear this, too. The reason we had a fight is because Mark made a crack about our family.”

  Her tears were gone now. Replaced by anger.

  “He reminded me that there’ve been only two suspicious deaths around here within the past year. And said it was very interesting that my parents were involved in both of them. He called you two ‘a personal local crime wave.’ When he said it, he laughed, like he was making a joke. What a jerk.

  “I didn’t think it was funny. And I told him so. One thing led to another, and that’s that.”

  “I’m sure Mark didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” I said, wondering at the same time if he did. Or if, like a lot of men I know, he just said something stupid without thinking first.

  “Maybe not,” said Jenny. “I admit that sometimes I overreact, too. It’s an inherited trait.” She looked pointedly at me.

  Moi? Overreact? Well, yes. Sometimes. OK. Often.

  “Anyway, this will give us a little cooling off period. Maybe it’s not a permanent break-up. We’ll see how it works out. At
least this time I have my own place, so nobody has to move out. I guess I have learned some life lessons.”

  “Speaking of places to live,” Nancy said, “we need to talk about a battle plan.”

  “Before we get into that, how are you doing, Carol?” My Beloved asked. “I know last night was a nightmare for you, and this morning, being cross-examined by that idiot detective, wasn’t any picnic, either. Are you up to talking about the house sale?”

  What Jim was really saying, of course, was that he was sorry he snapped at me when I got back to the apartment, and that he didn’t mean to jump down my throat the minute I walked in the door.

  I gave him a peck on the cheek. I wanted him to know I appreciated his support and all was forgiven. This time.

  “I’m doing better now, thanks,” I said. “And on the way back here, I drove by our house again. I couldn’t believe what was going on. There were T.V. trucks all over the place, and Phyllis and Bill Stevens were being interviewed by a bunch of reporters. It looked like a media circus. I got out of there as fast as I could.”

  “Carol, I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” said My Beloved. “How many reporters were really there? I doubt it was a media circus. I mean, after all, poor Jack Cartwright died, but people die every day. Why would reporters care?”

  This from my husband, the public relations expert.

  “I think I can answer that,” said Jenny. “Before Mark and I had our big fight this afternoon, I checked out a few Internet sites to see if there was anything posted about Jack’s death. That’s what started our argument.”

  She looked at her father. “You’re not going to like this, Dad. That interview you did with the college reporter is on YouTube. And parts of it have been picked up by some national media sites.”

  Jim stiffened. “What? That little twit put me on YouTube? Without my permission? I’ll sue the pants off him.”

  “It’s in the public domain, Dad,” Jenny said. “You were interviewed for a news show. You didn’t have to sign a waiver or anything.”