Moving Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  “Now, to echo Carol, what exactly is a preview party?”

  “Before the designers come into a show house and do their thing,” Nancy explained, “the sponsoring organization holds a fancy black tie,

  invitation-only party so guests can see the empty house. The date’s already been set for this coming Saturday night.”

  “What?” I shrieked. “Jim and I are giving a black tie party this weekend? How the heck do you expect us to pull it off with such short notice? Are you nuts? Jim’s going to pitch a fit when he hears about this.”

  “Easy, Carol. You and Jim don’t have to do a thing but dress up and show up. No cooking, no cleaning, no decorating. All the arrangements have already been made.”

  Now I was really confused.

  “Don’t frown at me that way, sweetie,” Nancy said to me. “At our age, frowning can cause permanent wrinkles.”

  Trust Nancy to know something like that. In her quest to retain her trim figure and unlined face, she was inclined to try every new product that came on the market. A one-woman consumption machine.

  “All right, already. I won’t frown. But I’m still confused.”

  “Me too,” said Mary Alice. “Although talking about a party sure beats talking about…well, you know. And I guess that if the preview party is going ahead, that must mean that the police have OK’d using the house, right? Maybe the investigation is over, and I can breathe a sigh of relief.”

  “All I know is, my boss called the chief of police and put a little pressure on,” Nancy said. “The next thing I knew, we had the green light to hold the event and start the renovations for the show house. Superior Interiors will be doing the whole house, which is perfect because Marcia Fischer already knows the property.

  “It may seem to be happening super-fast,” said Nancy, turning to me, “but remember that your house is a last-minute venue substitute. The first home owners backed out after all the preliminary arrangements had been made. Invitations for the preview party had already gone out. We’re using Maria’s Trattoria to cater the party, of course.”

  “That makes me feel a little better,” I said. “So Jim and I don’t have to do anything but show up? You’re sure? You’re not going to spring something else on us at the last minute, are you?

  “And who are these guests anyway? Will we know any of them?”

  “There are about one hundred people coming so far,” Nancy said. “As a matter of fact, when word got out that we were using your house instead of the other one on Roseville Road, the phones at the real estate office and Sally’s Place started ringing off the hook. More people want to come. We may have to turn people away.

  “Oh, by the way, you should know we’re charging one hundred and fifty dollars a person to tour your empty house. It all goes to support Sally’s Place.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Wow is right,” said Nancy, warming to her subject even more. “This could be the biggest event to hit Fairport in years. The national media attention alone will be tremendous. We’ll sell your house for sure after this is over.”

  “National media attention?” I repeated. “I’m not sure how Jim will react to that. He was pretty upset to find himself a media star, even though it was only for a short time. If it happens again, he’ll freak out for sure.”

  “He won’t freak out when all the house offers come pouring in,” Nancy said. “He’ll be absolutely, positively, overjoyed.

  “Now, to the important stuff.

  “What are we all going to wear?”

  Chapter 26

  I highly recommend the 30-day diet. I’m on it,

  and so far I’ve lost 15 days.

  To my surprise, Jim didn’t freak out about the preview party. The possible media exposure didn’t bother him either.

  What he did complain about, loudly, was having to wear a tux.

  “Good lord, Carol, a black tie event in our empty house? Why does it have to be so formal? I never heard of anything so ridiculous. I don’t even know where my tux is. Probably packed away in some box in the storage unit.”

  What this translated to, of course, was, “I don’t think my old tux will fit me, and I don’t want to try it on and find out.”

  Mindful of my number one crime on Jim’s Honey-Don’t List, “Thou shalt not interrupt thy personal beloved under any circumstances (even though he’s carrying on like a lunatic),” I let Jim rant and rave for a few minutes without a response. I knew he’d eventually calm down. And do things my way.

  “We’re the host and hostess of this event,” I finally said in my most reasonable tone of voice. Technically not true, since the preview party was a benefit for Sally’s Place. Hmm. Did that mean Sister Rose was going to show up in a snazzy, sequined off-the-shoulder dress and greet people at our door?

  Perish the thought.

  “I hope we don’t have to pay to get into our own house,” Jim said.

  “Of course we don’t have to pay, silly,” I replied, and made a mental note to confirm that with Nancy.

  “Maria’s Trattoria is doing the catering, so you know the food will be good,” I continued. When in doubt, pull out the food card. It works on Jim every time.

  “I’m not shelling out money for a new tux,” Jim repeated. “But I do have some good news for you on the financial front.”

  He reached in his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and waved it in my face. “I got back our entire deposit from Eden’s Grove. We’re well rid of that place and all the snobs who live there.”

  I snatched the envelope from his hand.

  “This is going right back into the bank,” I said. “But I’m taking out a little money to buy you that tux. And no arguments.

  “You have to look your best for the preview party, especially if some of our almost-neighbors from Eden’s Grove show up. We’ve gotta show them what they’re missing.

  “And I have to lose ten pounds before Saturday night.”

  I wasn’t totally serious, of course. Nobody can lose weight that fast. So what if I was no longer a size 6? I mean, size 8. Oh, well. Might as well tell the truth. I’m now what I call a size 10 ½ on a good day, 10 ¾ on a bad day if I hold my breath. Time and gravity march on.

  I rationalized that I needed a new dress for Saturday night’s bash. Jim also needed a new tuxedo. And I had to get cracking on research for my article on domestic violence.

  What better place to combine all these tasks than Sally’s Closet? If I got really lucky, I wouldn’t have to go anywhere else.

  Shopping is my form of therapy. Nancy gets her high from exercising. I get mine from scoring a major bargain. In fact, I get positively giddy when I anticipate what I might find.

  So I was in extra good spirits when I pushed open the door of the thrift shop, even though the Lilly Pulitzer dress I’d coveted during my last visit was no longer in the window. “You snooze, you lose,” I told myself. The next time I saw something here that I really wanted, I was going to snap it up, whether it fit or not. Heck, Jenny could always wear it if my bargain purchase was too small for me.

  Sister Rose wasn’t in her place at the cashier’s desk. I confess that, surprisingly enough, I was disappointed not to see her. After our exchange of girlish secrets, I knew she was someone I could trust. And like. After my shopping binge, I decided I’d try to see her at her official office, Sally’s Place.

  Two young women, deep in conversation, came through the swinging doors at the back of the thrift shop, dressed in the customary lavender aprons. They were pushing a cart piled high with new donations.

  Bonanza! A chance to score bargains before anyone else could get to them.

  When they saw me, conversation immediately ceased. Hmm.

  “Hi, Carol.” It was my neighbor Liz.

  I gave her a bright smile, and turned toward the other young woman.

  She was the most adorable little thing I’d ever seen, with the face of an angel framed by a halo of dark hair. Tiny in stature, probably not even five feet
tall. She looked like a stiff wind would blow her right over, that’s how thin she was.

  “I don’t think we’ve ever met, Mrs. Andrews,” she said. “I’m Alyssa Cartwright, Jack’s wife.”

  “I guess I should say, I’m Jack’s widow.”

  Her eyes filled up. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”

  Jeez. What could I say? No etiquette book I’d read ever covered a situation like this.

  “Mrs. Andrews, in spite of what my mother may have told you, I want you to know that I don’t hold you and your husband responsible for Jack’s death,” Alyssa said. “It must have been a terrible accident. The family may never know the cause, but it could have happened anywhere.”

  She wiped away some runaway tears from her face. “Jack and I were both looking forward to moving into your beautiful house and raising our children there. Excuse me. I have to go in the back and mark some more clothes now.”

  There was an awkward silence. Liz and I just stood there, looking at each other.

  Finally, I recovered my wits enough to say, “I feel terrible. I never realized I’d see Jack’s widow here. She took me by such surprise, I couldn’t even express my condolences.

  “I feel terrible,” I repeated.

  “There was no way for you to know that Alyssa volunteers here once a week,” Liz said. “We didn’t expect her in today, but she said that it was important for her to keep as normal a schedule as possible, especially for the children’s sake.

  “I guess you’re here to buy something to wear to Jack’s memorial service on Saturday.”

  “The memorial is Saturday? I didn’t know. That’s the same day as the preview party for the show house.” There are obviously many things you don’t know, I chided myself.

  “I don’t think the two events will be at the same time, Carol,” said Liz.

  “I didn’t expect they would be,” I shot back. I wanted to add that I wasn’t that stupid. I didn’t, of course.

  “Does that mean the police have completed their investigation into the accident?” I asked, emphasizing the word “accident.” If that was true, it sounded like good news for Mary Alice.

  “I have no idea,” Liz replied. “All I know is what Alyssa told me when she came in this morning. I’m sure the family just wants to get the whole ordeal over with.”

  “I can see why,” I said. Me too.

  “I have to confess, Liz, that what I really came in for this morning was to see if I could find a fancy dress for the show house preview party. And maybe a tuxedo for my husband. I thought it was a good idea to buy something here, because all the money raised from the thrift shop goes to support Sally’s Place, just like the show house proceeds will.

  “You know that our home was chosen to be the show house for the Sally’s Place fundraiser, right?”

  Liz’s face brightened. “Sister Rose was just talking about that. She was praising you to high heavens, saying how generous it was of you and your husband to allow your home to be used.”

  Huh? Sister was singing my praises?

  “I hear that tickets are already sold out for this weekend’s preview party,” Liz said as she rummaged through the dress racks searching for the perfect dress for me to wear. “I shouldn’t have waited to buy tickets. It’s too late now.”

  She looked pointedly at me, and I got the message loud and clear.

  “I’m sure we can squeeze in two more people,” I said with the confidence of someone who has no clue what she’s talking about. “Leave it to me.”

  I realized it was time for me to beat a hasty retreat, in case Alyssa came back. The encounter with her had shaken me up, and I was sure it’d been just as upsetting for her.

  “I’d like to see Sister Rose today,” I said to Liz. “But I’m not sure where her office is. And whether I need an appointment.”

  “Her office is next door to our shop,” Liz said. “If you go outside and stand in front of our building, look to your immediate right. There’s a red brick two-story building with a discreet sign that says ‘Sally’s Place.’ She likes to pop back and forth between her office and the thrift shop and keep an eye on all of us. When I first started volunteering here, it used to creep me out that she’d suddenly show up with no warning. I never even heard her coming.”

  That brought back a high school memory of Nancy and me (Claire and Mary Alice were the goody-goodies in those days and never were involved in these hijinks) sneaking out of school to have a quick cigarette. Sister Rose always found us, no matter where we were hiding. We never figured out how she did it. Her sudden, soundless appearances made all of us finally quit the smoking habit. Which, in hindsight of course, was a good thing.

  “Do you want to talk to her about the show house?”

  “I’m doing an investigative story on domestic violence in Fairport,” I said, and watched Liz’s eye widen. “I thought Sister would be a good person to start with.”

  “For that, you won’t need an appointment,” said Liz. “Sister’s been on a personal crusade to bring attention to this issue for years.

  “Wouldn’t it be something if you turn out to be the one who makes that happen?”

  Yes, indeedy, that certainly would be something.

  Chapter 27

  It’s great to have a friend to grow old with. You go first.

  I rang the doorbell, then tried the door for Sally’s Place. It was locked up tight. Hmm. I wondered if it was closed for the day.

  “You doofus,” I told myself. “This is a program for domestic violence victims. Of course the door would be locked, for safety reasons.”

  I started to knock but the door flew open before my knuckles made contact and revealed, not Sister Rose, but Marcia Fischer from Superior Interiors.

  “I was on the phone when you rang the bell,” she said. “Sorry to keep you waiting outside. Sister’ll have my head if she hears about that. I’m supposed to keep an eagle eye on the front door through the closed circuit television monitor, but sometimes I have to take a phone call.”

  She peered at me through her designer eyeglasses.

  “Don’t I know you? Of course, you’re Carol Andrews. You and your husband are letting us stage your beautiful home for our show house. Are you here to talk to Sister about the event?”

  I resisted reminding her that when she was in the house before it went on the market, she’d found thousands of things to criticize about it. And made me so mad I wanted to slug her.

  Sidestepping the question, I said, “Sally’s Place seems like a wonderful program, and Jim and I are happy to help in any way we can.

  “Is Sister Rose in? I’d just like a few minutes of her time.”

  “For you, of course she’s in,” said Marcia. “And I know she’ll be glad to see you.”

  I was amazed at the change my inadvertent foray into philanthropy had made in Marcia’s attitude. I guess people like Bill and Melinda Gates were used to this kind of treatment, but it was new to me.

  Marcia led me down a silent hallway to an office at the rear of the building. For a brief moment, before she knocked and opened the door, I had a kneejerk flashback that I had been called to the principal’s office to be disciplined. Again.

  But that feeling passed.

  Sister’s back was to us as we walked into the room. She was hard at work on the computer and didn’t look our way.

  Marcia cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but Carol Andrews is here to see you.”

  Sister whirled around in her chair, her face wreathed in a big smile. I was afraid she was going to hug me. But she didn’t. Thank God. I was still adjusting to our new relationship. Maybe she was, too.

  “It’s so good to see you, Carol,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve ever been to our office before. Are you here to talk about the preview party? Or the show house? I never got a chance the last time we spoke to thank you for your wonderful generosity.

  “Please, sit in this chair,” Sister went on, gestu
ring me toward an oversized wing chair. “It’s the most comfortable one in the office. Would you like some coffee? Tea? Perhaps Marcia could….”

  But Marcia had made a discreet exit.

  “I don’t need anything to drink,” I said. Then, remembering my manners, I added, “Thank you. And I’m not here about the show house.

  “I want to talk to you about domestic violence.”

  Sister’s expression instantly changed from upbeat to serious. “What is it you need to know, Carol?” she asked me in a gentle tone I’d never heard from her before. “How can I help you?”

  “Thank you, Sister,” I said, unsure of exactly where to begin.

  Oh, Carol, for heaven’s sake grow up and get on with it already.

  “You may not know that I’ve done quite a bit of freelance writing over the past several years. Since our home is being used as the fundraiser for Sally’s Place, I thought that the event would make a great backdrop for a feature story on domestic violence in Fairport. I’d like to write an in-depth piece, and sell it to our daily paper, perhaps even go national with it. You know the angle, ‘Idyllic Suburbs Mask Dirty Secret.’ ”

  I stopped myself. “I sound like exploitation journalism. But do you know what I mean?”

  “As I told you when we had coffee, Carol, I’m the keeper of many secrets,” Sister Rose said. “Many of them break my heart.”

  “That’s exactly what I want to know, Sister,” I said. “I know you can’t reveal names. But perhaps you can share some stories? Or at least tell me how Sally’s Place started? Was there really someone named Sally?”

  Sister Rose looked thoughtful. Then she apparently came to a decision.

  “I’ve been working to raise the public’s consciousness about this for years,” she said. “Perhaps this is one way to do it. We can work together. But you must promise me that I will have final approval of the story you write, and no names or any other references to clients will be used that could in any way identify them.”