This was unbearably sad. Did I have to betray a new friend to save an old one?
Before I had the chance to voice my theory, the door opened and Mark stuck his head in again. “I’m sorry, everyone, but I have to insist that you leave now. Mrs. Costello’s lawyer is here and wants to see her.
“But he has good news. He’s arranged for bail, so after you sign a few papers, Mrs. Costello, you’re free to go home. For now.”
Mary Alice started to cry. Again.
I was so excited I threw my arms around Mark and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. I guess I embarrassed him.
“Jeez, Mrs. Andrews, I mean, Carol, I didn’t do anything,” Mark said. “This isn’t even my case. Remember? It’s Paul’s case.”
Just call me Mom, I said to myself. Or mom-in-law. Someday. Maybe.
Jim shot me a warning look and guided Mary Alice out of the interview room. I understood that look. It meant, Don’t interfere.
Naturally, I ignored it.
“Mark, I know this isn’t your case. But I also know that you and Paul have worked together before, and if you give him some information he doesn’t have, you could help him get to the bottom of how, and why, Jack Cartwright died.”
Mark raised one eyebrow – I’ve always admired a person who can do that – and said, “Talk.”
So I did. I was careful about what I said, though. I didn’t betray Marcia’s confidence. Instead, I told Mark I’d just remembered I’d seen a car on Old Fairpoint Turnpike the night before the closing. It was a red Mini Cooper and the license plate was Styln1. And I told him about the conversation I overheard in the Laundromat about Jack.
“So maybe he wasn’t the great guy we heard about at his memorial service,” I said. “I don’t want to tell the police how to do their job,” (much). “But it might be worthwhile to check with the local police in the Cartwrights’ former town in Massachusetts to see if any charges had ever been filed against Jack.”
Mark, bless him, went along with me. And then I let the police do their job. Without any more interference from me.
Honestly, I did.
Chapter 34
Time passes, whether you’re having fun or not.
At long last, it was show house time. The opening night party had been timed to coincide with Fairport’s annual Fourth of July celebration. Hey, when folks live in a town that was around during the American Revolution, the town fathers make a big deal out of it. Pancake breakfasts at the local churches, a never-ending (who knew there were all those Brownie and Cub Scout troops in town?) parade, free concerts in the town gazebo throughout the day and evening, plus fantastic fireworks on the beach.
One person who had been responsible for the transformation of our antique home into a show house would not be at the party. Marcia Fischer had been arrested and was likely to be charged in Jack Cartwright’s death.
It turned out that the police had searched the old auto accident records and discovered that Marcia was in the car the night Brian Costello died, so they already knew there was a connection between Marcia and Jack. That made me feel less guilty about pointing the police in Marcia’s direction.
But not much.
The good news was that Mary Alice was finally in the clear. Thank God.
I poked my head into what used to be my kitchen. Gone was the country look I’d slaved for years to achieve, replaced by sleek white cabinets, top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances (I always thought mine were top-of-the-line, but then I found out how much these replacements cost and almost fainted), and bright red – that’s right, red – countertops. I thought the room now resembled the local morgue during an autopsy, but what did I know about interior design?
Maria and the gang from the Trattoria were flying around cooking wonderful things to satisfy the appetite of the hundreds of guests who were paying big bucks to come to the event, as evidenced by the many platters and trays that were packed tightly next to each other on the kitchen island.
I waved to Maria, turned to leave, and was immediately wrapped in a giant hug by, of all people, Sara Miller.
Good grief.
“Carol, I don’t know how to thank you,” she gushed. “We’re all so relieved to finally know how Jack died, and Alyssa and the children can get on with their lives. It’s just wonderful.
“I can’t believe Marcia was afraid of Jack,” Sara continued, pressing me for more information than I was prepared to share. “At least, that’s what everybody’s saying. They supposedly dated when they were in high school, and Marcia’s claiming that he was abusive toward her,” Sara said, emphasizing the word ‘claiming’.
“I brought a special treat to celebrate the fact that this horrible ordeal is behind us. You know how I am. I just love to cook.”
She gestured toward a large cooler, placed smack in the middle of the floor where everyone from Maria’s Trattoria would trip over it.
“I had some delicious beef tenderloin languishing away in the freezer just begging to be turned into the Marvelous Meatballs that were such a hit at your Bunco party, and I decided they’d be the perfect addition to this wonderful party. I knew Maria would be pleased. She loves my cooking, too. One gourmet chef admiring another.”
I pulled away from her embrace, embarrassed by the attention.
“I really didn’t do anything,” I said. “I was sure that Mary Alice wasn’t responsible for Jack’s death, and one thing sort of led to another. The whole situation is very sad.”
I remembered our conversation at Sally’s Place, when Marcia had talked about her abuser. She seemed so frightened of him, even after all these years. I felt so guilty about pointing the police in her direction. But I felt I had no choice.
“I guess Marcia snapped when Jack came back after all those years,” Sara said. “But he’d changed. He was a wonderful husband and father. Look at all the people who came to his memorial service to talk about the difference he’d made in their lives. She had nothing to fear from him.”
I remembered what Sister Rose had said: abusers rarely change their pattern. Instead, they look for another person to control.
I realized that some of the pieces weren’t fitting together as neatly as I wanted. What if I’d put them together wrong?
Sara hugged me again. Jeez, this was too much.
Maria had been looking daggers at us for the past few minutes.
Finally she mouthed, “Get out of here and take Sara with you. There’s not enough room in the kitchen as it is.”
I took the hint.
“There’s something I’m curious about, Sara,” I asked, extricating myself again from her grasp and leading her out the side door toward the huge tent that had been erected in our back yard.
I snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and passed one to Sara.
Sara took a sip and smiled. “Tattinger’s. My favorite. I see no expense has been spared for this party.”
“All for a good cause,” I said. “Nancy thought serving really good champagne would make the guests open their wallets wider when it came to the auction part of the evening.”
I took a sip myself. Nancy was right. This was the good stuff.
“Sara,” I began again, “I don’t mean to pry.” Much. “But I’ve been doing research on domestic abuse for an article I’m writing, and I can’t help but wonder.”
I took a deep breath. What I wanted to know was probably going to put the brakes on our rekindled friendship.
Sara nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead and ask me whatever you want.” That champagne was doing a great job of relaxing her, all right.
“Did you ever see any evidence of Jack abusing Alyssa?” I asked. Sara’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t mean hitting her, Sara. But from everything I’ve been told, domestic abuse is a pattern of behavior that usually continues over a lifetime. It’s all about control. So I couldn’t help but wonder.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Sara said. “I already told you that Jack was a loving husba
nd to Alyssa and a wonderful father to those two kids. Believe me, as Alyssa’s mother, I’d know if something else was going on.
“A mother always knows. I’m going to see if Maria needs any help.” Sara turned so quickly that some gravel from the driveway shot into my face, and marched toward the kitchen at a brisk pace.
A mother doesn’t always know, I thought. I remembered Marcia Fischer’s mother and how she didn’t have a clue what was going on when Marcia was a teenager.
Then I thought about my own mother, and all the things I’d kept from her when I was growing up. Those memories made me smile, until I remembered that weird dream I had. “Not my daughter, not my daughter.” What was my mother trying to tell me?
I was interrupted in my musings by Jenny, with Mark close behind her. I had to admit, my darling daughter was positively glowing.
“Isn’t this wonderful, Mom? What a great party.”
I was tempted to respond, yes, but I wish it was your rehearsal dinner. And you guys were being married tomorrow.
But I didn’t. I hope you’re all proud of me.
The opening night party for the show house was a huge success.
Sister Rose was thrilled, especially when a preliminary tally of the night’s receipts showed a gross profit of $80,000. Wow!
My Beloved and I had hardly seen each other all night, except across the crowded tent once or twice. But I did feel his disapproving eyes on me when I raised my hand to bid on a two-week vacation at a villa in Tuscany. This time, I didn’t ignore his glare. I was smart enough, after all these years of marriage, to know which battles to fight, and this wasn’t one of them.
In the crush of people, I lost sight of Jenny and Mark, which could have been deliberate on their part. I mean, who wanted to hang out with an oldster like me at a bash like this?
The music had everybody on the dance floor. Nancy whirled by in the arms of someone who definitely wasn’t her husband, Bob. Even Claire and Larry made a valiant effort. Mary Alice was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t surprising.
I was just wondering if I’d have to hitchhike back to our apartment when I felt a tap on my shoulder. To my amazement, it was Detective Paul Wheeler. “I wanted to thank you for your tip about Marcia Fischer, Mrs. Andrews,” he said. “You were right, and I was wrong.”
Whoa. Quite an admission, coming from him. I started to respond, but he melted away into the crowd before I could. Of course, being so short, that was pretty easy for him to do.
Something nuzzled the back of my neck. Then My Beloved whispered in my ear, “Hey, gorgeous, wanna dance? I haven’t seen you all night, and the band’s playing a slow one.”
I knew those dance lessons I gave Jim for Christmas a few years ago would pay off.
So we took it nice and slow around the dance floor, celebrating this wonderful night. And then we went back to our apartment and celebrated a little more.
But I’m not going to tell you about that.
An hour later, I sat in our darkened living room/dining room/kitchen, Lucy snoring in the chair beside me. Sleep wouldn’t come, despite the wine I’d had and, um, the exercise.
So, naturally, I had to replay the events of the party over and over in my head, especially my talk with Sara Miller. Something just didn’t fit. Like that cute pair of shoes you try on in the store, and they are soooooooo comfortable that you have to buy them, and then you get them home, try them on, and they hurt like the dickens. Has that ever happened to you? And, oh yeah, you can’t find the receipt to return them.
I decided to talk things over with Lucy. She was a great listener, and shared space with me as long as she got more than I did.
“It was a great party, Lucy,” I whispered. “Too bad you had to miss it.”
Lucy opened one eye and looked at me reproachfully. I wasn’t invited, she said.
“Don’t feel bad, Luce. There weren’t any other dogs there, either,” I said and stroked her head. “And you and Ethel did go to lots of parties that Jim and I had at the house over the years, remember? You really loved Bunco parties the best, especially the leftovers. You got to sample all the neighbors’ cooking. But the kitchen doesn’t look the way you remember it. Believe it or not, the kitchen counters are red!”
I closed my eyes and pictured my old kitchen with its bead board cabinets, black granite countertops, and large center island. A memory, quite unbidden, flashed into my head. The Bunco party I’d hosted the night I listed the house for sale. All the neighbors packed around my island, sampling the goodies. Sara Miller, bragging about her top-secret family recipe, Great Aunt Sharon’s Marvelous Meatballs. I could hear her saying, “I never use frozen meat. I buy it fresh every day. That’s why my meals always taste so wonderful.”
My eyes snapped open. But she’d brought the Marvelous Meatballs to the party tonight. And she definitely said she’d had the beef “languishing in her freezer” for a while and wanted to use it up. This was, pardon the pun, food for more thought.
“OK, Lucy, by itself this probably means nothing,” I whispered. “But add to it the fact that Sara’s son-in-law had a history of domestic violence. She had to know about that. No matter what she said to me tonight, I don’t believe that Jack’s basic personality changed when they moved to Fairport. What if Sara saw Jack abusing Alyssa? As a mother, she’d want to protect her daughter, right?”
Hmm. How did this fit in with the Marvelous Meatballs? Because, somehow, I knew it did.
“This is too much for me to figure out tonight, Lucy,” I whispered. “But I still can’t sleep. How about if we put the television on really low, so it doesn’t disturb Jim? Whatever’s on at this time of night is bound to be boring.”
I channel-surfed for a few minutes and settled on Classic TV. Tonight was a real smorgasbord of shows: Dragnet, The Ed Sullivan Show, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I might have bags under my eyes in the morning, but at least I was going to enjoy myself.
“Alfred Hitchcock was kind of a weird guy,” I told Lucy, since these shows were way before her time, “but he was a genius, too. You would have loved this one show about the woman who clocked her husband over the head with a leg of lamb.”
Holy cow. Was that it? Did Sara hit Jack over the head with the beef tenderloin and then freeze the evidence?
Oh, Carol. You’ve really lost it this time.
What did Sara do? Bring a beef tenderloin to our house the night before the closing, and during the final walk-through with their real estate agent, say to Jack, every so sweetly, “Do you mind standing still for just a minute while I hit you on the head?” Smack him, and leave?? And what about the Realtor? Jeez, you’d think she would have noticed something like that, no matter how fixated she was on getting her commission at the closing.
No, you’re crazy. You’re way over the top. You’re wrong.
Except. How about this? I remembered reading about the tragic death of a young woman a few years ago. She had been in a skiing accident, fell, and hit her head, really hard. Initially, except for a minor headache, she appeared fine. But she died, because the blow to the head had done terrible damage that the doctors didn’t initially pick up on.
It was possible. Yes, it was certainly possible. Sara could have witnessed a violent incident between Jack and Alyssa in her kitchen, and in an effort to save her daughter, smacked Jack on the head with whatever was handy -- the beef tenderloin she’d purchased at the market that day. He could have fallen, even been unconscious briefly, then come to. All apologies. It won’t happen again. I was out of control. Blah blah blah.
Jack meets the Realtor, does the walk-through, and appears fine. The Realtor leaves. Jack collapses in our living room, and dies.
Yes. It was plausible. Just as plausible as Marcia Fischer. Maybe even more so.
But would Paul Wheeler believe me? Because I had absolutely no proof.
I had to get some evidence. Because Paul wouldn’t pay any attention to me if I had nothing to back up my wild theory.
I looke
d at the lighted dial on the kitchen microwave. It read 2:12. That would be a.m., in case you were wondering. I rapidly calculated that today, Saturday, was garbage pickup day in our part of Fairport, if residents chose to pony up and pay the exorbitant fees the local trash haulers demanded. In our fair town of Fairport, garbage pickup wasn’t included in our taxes. So residents either went to the dump – excuse me, the transfer station – or they paid some guys lotsa money to haul away their trash. I was betting that Sara was of the latter persuasion.
And if I found a certain cellophane wrapper from a particular piece of meat, perhaps Paul would take my new theory seriously. I wasn’t sure if cellophane would show traces of human blood or hair – yuck! – but it was worth a try.
I need to tell you all something about English Cocker Spaniels. First of all, they look absolutely nothing like their American cousins who are -- dare I say it? – much more common. Think Springer Spaniels, only smaller, and you’ve pretty much got a snapshot of the breed.
And they eat, well, everything. I mean, everything. I don’t want to gross you out and tell you about some of the things the girls’ve chomped on in our yard over the years. But suffice it to say that Tucker, one of our earlier English cockers, once ate an entire loaf of whole wheat bread – including the wrapper – while I was packing our car to go to the beach. Need I say more? And I’d match their olfactory powers against a bloodhound’s any day, especially where meat was involved.
So I knew that if I needed a partner in crime for the upcoming caper – which would involve going through Sara Miller’s garbage can, placed at the curb, Lucy was my number one choice.
I had to act fast, because the clock was ticking and the garbage guys arrived soon after sunup – 5 a.m.
Moving Can Be Murder Page 22
