Nancy interrupted and asked, “Let’s try to stick to the point here, OK? What was said in the interview? Anything we can use to help sell the house now?”
“Not exactly,” said Jenny. “The tag line was ‘Death House.’ People are dying to live there.”
Chapter 19
Q: Does your husband help you around the house?
A: He’s very handy with a corkscrew, especially on weekends.
This called for drastic measures. I needed to lighten the mood. Fortunately, I had a handy solution in our tiny refrigerator.
Anticipating a festive night of celebration with My Beloved after the house closing, I had purchased two bottles of expensive champagne. One of them was chilling here at the rental, and I had left the other in our home refrigerator with a note welcoming the Cartwrights to their new home.
I guess they wouldn’t be drinking that one.
Anyway, between my discovering the dead body of our buyer, being interrogated by Detective Paul, Jenny and Mark breaking up, Jim’s YouTube appearance, the house deal falling through, and let’s not forget my re-connecting with Sister Rose, it had been a day I’d just as soon forget. I didn’t know about anybody else, but I sure needed a glass of the bubbly to pick up my spirits.
Plus, I remembered hearing some New Age guru on television talk about the power of positive thinking. Visualize what you want, and it will happen. Throw in a glass of champagne and everything would look better.
I started humming “The sun’ll come out tomorrow,” and everyone looked at me like I was nuts.
I ignored them and started rummaging through a cardboard box until I found 4 plastic glasses. Not the Waterford crystal flutes I would have preferred, but at this point, who cared?
“This is to toast a new beginning for all of us,” I announced. “Just wait a minute. I’ve got a surprise.”
“God, I hope you haven’t discovered another dead body,” My Beloved quipped.
“Nope. Much better than that. Ta da!”
I turned and held up the champagne.
Jenny started to laugh. Then she started to cry. Then she started to laugh again and grabbed for the champagne bottle.
“I’ll open it, Mom. It always explodes when you try.”
“And while you’re doing that,” Nancy said, “let’s talk about our next real estate move. No pun intended.” She looked at me. “Have you had a chance…?”
I shook my head and telegraphed, “It’ll be a better idea coming from you.”
Best friend that she is, Nancy immediately got the message and switched gears into professional Realtor mode. Isn’t it amazing how women always know what other women are thinking, while men flail around clueless?
But I digress.
“All right,” Nancy said. “I think it’s clear that we have to do some creative marketing to dilute the negative spin the media’s putting on the house sale. Are we all agreed?”
Not giving anyone a chance to respond, Nancy plunged ahead.
“Jim, you’re the marketing expert here. Do you have any ideas?”
I looked at Nancy in shock. What the heck was she doing? Didn’t she already have a plan?
My Beloved took a sip of the champagne and looked thoughtful. “Good question, Nancy,” he said. “It has to be something pretty spectacular to offset YouTube. Who knew I’d become an Internet star at my age?” He allowed himself a small smile.
I relaxed a little. Jim was starting to mellow. Must be the champagne.
“If this was a campaign you were drafting for a client,” Nancy went on, “what advice would you give them?”
She paused, then added, “Wouldn’t you suggest that the best way to counter negative publicity is through positive publicity? I know I’ve heard you say that often.”
Jim nodded his head and started to speak, but Nancy didn’t give him a chance. “You and I both know that the YouTube clip will fade into oblivion once some celebrity gets arrested for drunken driving or checks into rehab. We need to take advantage of the publicity while we have it. Isn’t the phrase you public relations professionals use, ‘put a positive spin’ on it?”
Jim nodded again. “That’s exactly it, Nancy.”
“But how to do it?” she asked, furrowing her brow slightly so as not to add any wrinkles.
“Of course, the chief consumer in every family is the woman,” said Jim, shooting me a look. I sipped my champagne and smiled at him.
Jenny chimed in, “So we have to come up with a marketing strategy to appeal to women,” she said.
“Exactly,” said Nancy. “We need a fresh approach. Something so the house won’t look like a tired old listing.”
“With a dead buyer,” I added.
Jim and Nancy frowned at me. Oops. Shut up, Carol, and let Nancy handle this.
And handle it, she did. Brilliantly. First, she talked about the popularity of home and garden television shows these days. “Women love to peek at other people’s homes and get decorating ideas,” she said. “I know Carol and I do.”
Then she gave Jim a roadmap of issues that women care about -- breast cancer, hunger and homelessness, abused children, and, finally domestic violence.
“You’re talking about cause marketing,” Jim said. “If we could find a marketing strategy for the house that hit on one of these issues, I think we’d hit a home run.” Poor guy. He fell right into the trap Nancy had so cleverly set for him.
“You’re right, Jim,” she beamed at him. “That’s a brilliant idea. And something’s just occurred to me. But before I tell you about it, I need to make a quick call to the office. I’ll do it outside.”
I counted to 60. Then, Nancy was back, with a big smile on her face. “You’re going to love this idea. My office wants to use your home as the show house to benefit Sally’s Place, the domestic violence program in Fairport. It’s the perfect project to counter all this negative publicity. You’ll come out looking like heroes, and you’ll get the house decorated for free. I bet that people will be fighting to buy it.
“Plus, you could get a tax write-off, and my office will pay for your rental and any storage fees while the show house is going on. It’s going to be great, you’ll see.”
She threw her arms around Jim and gave him a smooch on the cheek. “Jim, you’re the best public relations person I ever met. And you just may have saved my job.”
Well, what could the poor guy do after that but say yes?
It’s wonderful what a little champagne can do.
“Are you sure you’re OK with this show house idea?” I asked Jim as I served out a portion of the fish and chips we’d ordered from Seafood Sandy’s for our dinner. I hadn’t been able to find enough pots and pans to cook a meal myself – well, I didn’t really look too hard. And after the trauma of the past 24 hours, I didn’t feel like cooking, anyway. Tomorrow, I promised myself, I’d get organized, unpack a few boxes, and do some food shopping.
We were alone now, except for Lucy and Ethel, of course. Nancy had done a super sales job about the event, but there were a few other hot button issues Jim and I still had to discuss. Like carrying two mortgages at the same time, for example.
My super fiscal conservative husband was bound to have a fit about that once the reality of our situation sunk in. But even after 30-plus years of marriage, My Beloved can still surprise me. In a good way.
“Now, Carol,” Jim said, “I know you’re really worried about our finances. I have to admit, once I found out that you were all right after the horrible ordeal you’d been through, that was my next thought. How are we going to manage this?”
He paused, took a sip of his no-longer-bubbly champagne, and grimaced. “This is warm now. Time to switch to water.”
I started to get up to pour him a glass from the tap, but he waved me back to my seat. “Don’t worry about that now, Carol. Let’s not get side-tracked.”
Jim cleared a place on the table and rolled out a yellow chart which had all sorts of diagrams and numbers on it.
My eyes started to glaze over as Jim droned on about his Andrews Family Financial Rescue Plan. Where was a government bail-out when I needed it? I guess that only applied to big automakers and major financial institutions.
I snapped to attention, though, when I heard Jim say, “If we have to use the home equity line of credit on the Old Fairport Turnpike house to tide us over for a while, we will. But I’d rather not dip into it unless we absolutely have to. So you’ll have to try harder to get freelance jobs. We’ll need the extra income.”
I started to give him a smart ass answer, then bit my tongue. Figuratively, of course. Because he was right, darn it. It was high time I started carrying some of the financial burden he’d assumed all these years. Jim’s New York City public relations job had provided a pretty cushy income for the Andrews family for more than 30 years, sent two kids to college with no student loans, and kept Lucy and Ethel in designer dog food – and me in designer duds – for a long time.
I assumed Jim was referring to my writing and editing career, as opposed to my detective career – when I literally saved him from being accused of murder. Now was probably not a good time to bring that up.
Later, after I had cleaned up the kitchen and walked the dogs, I sat in the dark and thought about my options. That’s when I came up with my brilliant idea, I would write a story about domestic violence in Fairport. And I knew just where to start.
I would go back to Sally’s Closet and interview Sister Rose.
Chapter 20
Rules of the House:
1. The woman is always right.
2. If the woman is wrong, refer to Rule Number 1.
I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the door. Huh? What time was it? Where was I? I stretched and was surprised to find I’d fallen asleep in a living room chair. Wow. My neck and back were protesting big time.
And what was this note on top of my chest? I squinted to read it without my glasses.
“Hi Carol. I didn’t want to wake you. You were snoring so peacefully. I’ve gone to the paper to work on this week’s column. Back later.
Love, J.”
Me? Snore? No way.
“Down, girls,” I said to Lucy and Ethel, delighted to find the procurer of their kibble awake and available to serve them breakfast.
The knocking had stopped, then started again. More persistent this time. The dogs started to bark.
“I hope whoever it is can take the shock of seeing me in my current state,” I said. “Not everyone is as forgiving as you girls are.
“All right, I’m coming,” I yelled. “Give me a second to get myself together.”
Then I realized I had no idea who was out there. It could be Detective Paul, here to ruin another day. Or a newspaper reporter. Or – even worse – someone from a television station.
I tried to peek out the front window without being seen, but to no avail.
“Who is it?” I asked. “And what do you want?”
“It’s Mark Anderson, Mrs. Andrews. I really need to talk to you.”
My former-almost-son-in-law. I wondered if he was here in an official capacity, or as a family friend. Well, if he had any thoughts about cross-examining me, I figured just looking at me in my current state would scare him speechless. And I had a few choice words to share with him. His comment about the Andrews family’s connection to the local dead body count was way out of line.
But when I opened the door, my maternal instincts immediately kicked in.
Mark looked like – with apologies to Sister Rose – hell. Sure, he was dressed in a sport jacket and tie, but they were both rumpled. His hair was barely combed, and he hadn’t shaved. I know that in some circles that’s considered a hip look, but not for a member of the police force. Except on television, of course.
It was hard to decide who looked worse, him or me.
I gave him a hug. “Come on in, Mark. Even though I’m not sure I’m glad to see you.”
Lucy and Ethel were, though. They danced around his legs, begging for attention, and for any treats Mark might have in his pocket.
“I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but I haven’t unpacked the coffee pot yet,” I said. “Besides, I’m not really sure how I feel about you right now. Jenny told us what happened between you two. And why.”
I suppose that was reckless of me. I shouldn’t have told him that Jenny still confided in her parents about some of the intimate details of her life. But what the heck. Mark, of all people, knew what a close family we were.
“Can I sit down for a minute and explain?” Mark asked. “Or try to?”
I nodded my head and pointed to the one kitchen chair that didn’t have a box piled on top of it. I told myself to keep my mouth shut and let Mark talk. Especially since Mark was a detective, and there was a chance that I might need him if the “house problem” got any worse.
“It was stupid of me to say what I did about you and Mr. Andrews, Mrs. Andrews.”
“Jim and Carol,” I corrected him.
Mark flashed a grateful smile. “Thanks. I appreciate that.
“Anyway, it was just an off-hand remark about you two. I thought it was funny. It never dawned on me that Jenny would take it the wrong way. And get so upset that she’d break off our relationship.”
Men. Sometimes they just don’t get how sensitive we women can be about people we care about. For instance, it’s perfectly all right for me to criticize My Beloved should I happen to notice that the waist band on his pants has gotten tighter. But nobody else is allowed to do that.
“Mark,” I said, “after all, it sounded to Jenny like you were blaming us for the two suspicious deaths.” And to me, too.
“In my own defense, Carol, you have to admit that what I said was true. You and Jim were involved in Davis Rhodes’s death last year, and now you’ve found a dead body in your house. But that doesn’t mean I believe you were responsible for Jack Cartwright’s death. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence.”
“It was an awful experience for me,” I said, “and on top of that, I had to deal with that horrible Paul Wheeler, cross-examining me like he was starring on Law and Order Fairport.
“Of course, it would be different if I knew that you’d be involved in this case. Like you were the last time. I think we made a pretty good team.”
In fact, you might not have solved the case if it hadn’t been for my help. Or been recruited by the Fairport police force and promoted to detective.
I didn’t really say that, of course.
“That might not be possible,” Mark said slowly. “After all, Jenny and I are a couple now.”
I gave him a hard look. “That’s the point, Mark. You’re not a couple any more.” Thanks to your big mouth.
“Of course, I hope that this death will be ruled a tragic accident, and there won’t be any further police investigation. But if that doesn’t happen, God forbid, couldn’t you keep your ears open at the station? That’s not asking a lot, is it? Especially since you know that Jim and I aren’t responsible.”
I paused, then played my trump card. “I know Jenny would be grateful, too. In fact, that’s a sure way to get her back.”
“That went pretty well,” I said to Lucy and Ethel. “I feel better knowing that Mark’s on our side.”
They each gave me a reproachful stare.
“All right, Mark didn’t exactly promise anything. But with getting Jenny back as his incentive, I think he’ll try pretty hard to find out what’s going on.”
I sighed. “I just hope he shares what he finds out with us.” Partic
ularly me. Especially since I had already proven my impressive sleuthing ability last year.
I sat down on the chair where I’d spent the night and thought about my options for the day.
The chaos around me was overwhelming. And I needed to talk to Sister Rose about my article.
I had to prioritize.
“I hate to admit this,” I said to Lucy and Ethel, “but it looks like we’ll be stuck living here for a while. We can’t go back to our old house, and our new one won’t be ready for another two months.” Assuming we could afford to move into it. So far, we had given the builder several deposits, but the final payment was yet to be made. The money for that was supposed to come from our house sale. Still another thing to worry about.
“I have to unpack some things and try to make this apartment look like home. And then I’ll take a quick shower and go food shopping. Jim deserves a home-cooked meal for a change, instead of take-out. And I promise I’ll buy dog biscuits, just in case you were worried you were going to starve to death.”
Lucy, the food diva of the pair, immediately assumed a begging position.
“You have to wait until we’ve unpacked at least one box,” I said to her. “Then we’ll take a break and have a snack.”
I decided to start with a box marked “Kitchen Supplies. Open This First.” It was in Jim’s handwriting, so I figured he must have packed it. I wasn’t sure what he thought of as critical to a kitchen, but what the heck.
Hmm. A corkscrew. A can opener. A screwdriver. A hammer and nails. Plastic garbage bags. Candles. This certainly was an eclectic box.
Underneath all of this were two carefully wrapped dinner plates, two coffee mugs, two juice glasses, and a few knives, forks and spoons.
Well, now we were getting someplace. At least these items were food-related. But dirty. Very dirty. My Beloved had wrapped them in old newspapers he must have taken from a stack we had in the garage. Some of those papers had been there for years, since Jim never wanted to recycle anything that mentioned one of his p.r. clients.
Moving Can Be Murder Page 12
