Class Reunions Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story; A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery

by Susan Santangelo

  Hmm. That was weird. Sister Rose ran away from me as quickly as I tried to run away from her in junior year. Before I could pin her down and ask her more questions. I wondered how she managed that feat. I never could.

  Well, if Sister Rose wasn’t worried about Fifty Shades of Navy ruining our fortieth class reunion, why the heck should I?

  Because usually, when you jump to conclusions, like you’re doing right now, it turns out that you’re right.

  “Earth to Carol,” said the volunteer, bringing me back to the current century with a thud. “It’s me, Mary Beth. Or, if Sister Rose is listening, it’s I, Mary Beth. She always was such a stickler for grammar. Remember? What the heck was that all about? I’ve never seen her move that fast in the thrift shop.”

  I laughed, gave my classmate a big hug, and ignored her question. “I didn’t know you volunteered here, Mary Beth. It’s good to see you.” I turned my attention to the cart she was pushing. “What kind of goodies do you have? Anything we can use to decorate tables for the reunion this weekend?”

  “Hardly,” Mary Beth said. “To tell you the truth, the donations have been down the last few months. I think that, with the economy so bad, more people are consigning things to make a little extra cash than donating them here for a tax deduction. I worry sometimes that we’ll eventually have to close the thrift shop, and that’ll mean cutting off a major revenue stream for the domestic violence program.”

  “How long have you been volunteering here, Mary Beth?” I asked, picking up a crystal candy dish and holding it up to the light. “This is pretty.” I set it back down on the cart and sighed. “But I don’t need to add one more thing to my house. I’m trying to pare my inventory down. At least, that’s what I tell my husband.”

  Mary Beth took the candy dish and placed it on a shelf in the window so it could sparkle and, hopefully, catch a customer’s eye. “I’ve been here about six months,” she said. “I wandered in here one day to kill a little time while I was waiting for a train to the city. As many times as I’d been to the train station, I never noticed this shop before. And Sister Rose swooped in and cornered me.”

  She shrugged. “The rest, as the saying goes, is history. Who can say no to Sister Rose? Certainly not me.”

  I laughed. “She got me exactly the same way,” I said. “Although, I have to confess that I haven’t been in to volunteer for several months. As Sister Rose just reminded me in her own, not-so-subtle way. My daughter was married recently, and I was involved in planning the wedding. Time just got away from me.”

  Ok, some of you know that I wasn’t that involved in planning Jenny’s wedding. But I was involved in several things that revolved around the wedding. And as the mother of the (recent) bride, I’m entitled to stretch the truth when I feel the need.

  “Here, let me give you a hand,” I said to Mary Beth. “I have a little time to spare before I have to get home. I’m not going in the back to put on a volunteer apron, though. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  Mary Beth laughed. “You mean you don’t want a chance to continue your conversation with Sister Rose,” she said, giving me some linens and directing me to fold them and put them on their proper shelves. “We like to separate everything, to make it easier for customers to find what they’re looking for,” she explained to me. “Although, by the end of the day, everything is usually all mixed up.”

  “Like I am at the end of a day,” I said. “At least, that’s what my family says.”

  Mary Beth laughed. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “You know,” I continued as I struggled to fold a contour bedsheet, “I’m really glad that you joined our reunion committee. You and Mary Catherine and Mary Ann. I finally figured out who’s who.”

  “It’s been such fun getting reacquainted,” Mary Beth said. “Or maybe, as far as you and I are concerned, I should say that it’s been such fun getting acquainted in the first place. Since we were never that friendly in high school.”

  “I wonder why that was,” I said. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  “You were so involved with the school newspaper, and so important in high school, that I figured you didn’t have time for someone like me,” Mary Beth said.

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “I was the most insecure person in our class.”

  “No way,” Mary Beth retorted. “That honor is all mine.”

  She turned away and busied herself with some towels for a minute. “I never told you this,” she finally said, turning to face me again. “But I was jealous of you.”

  “What? Jealous of me? Why? For what?” I was truly amazed at this revelation from my classmate.

  “I envied your ability to write,” Mary Beth said. “And have things published in the school paper. Your columns were so witty. I don’t know how you did it. I always wanted to write. But, like a lot of the other girls in our class, the most I ever wrote was jottings in a notebook. And they were pretty pathetic.” She colored slightly. “Ridiculous stuff, really.”

  “We all did that,” I said. “I wrote in my diary every single night before I went to sleep. I looked at it a while ago and realized it was filled with really boring stuff. If my kids ever saw it, they’d think I had no life. And, come to think of it, I guess I didn’t.”

  We both laughed.

  “So, what were you and Sister Rose talking about before she took off for the back room of the shop?” Mary Beth asked. “Like I said, I’ve never seen her move so fast. Except when she has to get to a meeting with a prospective donor.”

  Careful, Carol. Mary Beth doesn’t need to know about Fifty Shades of Navy. And no one else in our class does, either. At least, not from you.

  “Oh, we were just having a discussion about final arrangements for the reunion,” I said, not looking at Mary Beth directly. “Sister Rose wanted nametags for the cocktail party, and I reminded her that the committee had already nixed that idea.”

  I sensed that Mary Beth knew I wasn’t telling her the truth, but she’d decided to let the matter drop.

  And later, during reunion weekend, I really wished she hadn’t.

  Chapter 22

  I’m so old I don’t even buy green bananas.

  The brilliant October sunshine streaming in my bedroom window forced me to open my eyes and focus. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I had yet to don my specs, I focused on the fact that my bedroom window was streaked with the remnants of a recent rainstorm. Which was magnified by the brilliant sun.

  Yuck. Add washing windows to my ever growing list of household chores to avoid as long as possible.

  Hmm. On second thought, maybe I could pass this one over to Jim. He’d become my little helper ever since his retirement, often eclipsing me in household duties. Taking some of them over completely, to tell the truth.

  Of course, he doesn’t do them nearly as well as I do. Not that I’d tell him that.

  I squinted at the clock and realized it was almost eight. Wow. I hadn’t slept this late in a long time. And I realized that I didn’t even hear Jim get up. Again.

  I rolled over in my nice warm bed and right on top of Lucy, who made it crystal clear with a low growl that I’d intruded on her personal space. “Sorry, Luce,” I said. “I didn’t know you were there. And where’s Ethel?”

  I attempted to put my feet on the hardwood floor next to the bed and, instead, encountered the other Andrews canine, snoring gently in a patch of sunlight. With a scribbled note attached to her collar.

  It’s going to be a helluva reunion. I’d crash the whole thing, if I thought I could pass as a female. Turn on Channel 9. Love, Jim.

  I reached for the remote on the bedside table and turned the television on to Channel 9, as Jim had suggested. I was just starting to focus on the interview, which consisted of Marni Barker, Wake Up New England’s cheery co-host, talki
ng to someone who was inexplicably hiding behind a screen, when my cell phone beeped, indicating an incoming text. Then another beep. And another.

  Holy cow. What was going on?

  Then, the house phone rang. I picked it up to hear Nancy screeching in my ear. “Good God, Carol. Did you see the story on Wake Up New England this morning? A horrible book, Fifty Shades of Navy, was released today and everyone will think it’s about us! The reunion will be a disaster. We’ll have to cancel. Or be the laughing stock of Fairport. Say something, Carol. Are you there? Do you hear me?”

  I looked at the clock again. It was only ten minutes after eight. I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. I wanted to brush my teeth, wash my face and perform my other usual morning ablutions.

  And, most of all, I wanted coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. I wondered if it was too early to add some brandy to it.

  Heck, it had to be five o’clock somewhere.

  “It’s too late to cancel,” Claire said. “And why should we? This book has nothing to do with Mount Saint Francis Academy, or any of us.” She looked around at the rest of the reunion committee huddled around my dining room table. “Unless someone here has a secret life. Anyone want to ‘fess up?”

  “Claire’s right,” Mary Catherine said. Usually the most timid member of the committee, we were all startled to hear her voice an opinion. Heck, we were all startled to hear her voice, period.

  “I think it’s just a coincidence that the book is being released the same weekend as our reunion,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “I bet there are hundreds of other reunions going on all over the country this weekend. And a good percentage of them are for graduates of high schools just like ours.” I trained my sights on our jittery leader. “Nancy, you’re completely overreacting here.”

  Overreacting is something I’m always accused of by my nearest and dearest, so I knew what I was talking about. And the accusations against moi were unjustifiable and untrue, in case you were wondering.

  Nancy’s face flushed dark crimson. She does not like to be criticized, in public or in private. Another behavior pattern I can completely identify with.

  We were diverted from additional conversation by the sound of my front doorbell. Thank the Good Lord. And I knew who it was. The one person who could make some sense out of this very disturbing situation.

  “Sister Rose is here,” I announced, leading her back into my dining room with as much speed as I could get away with and still be polite. “I thought it would be good to invite her to this meeting. To calm everyone down and put things in the proper perspective.”

  I hope.

  “So, Sister,” I said, pulling out a chair and gesturing her to sit, “can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A soft drink?”

  “Thank you, but no, Carol,” Sister Rose said. “I’m too upset. I saw Wake Up New England this morning. I’m sure all of you did, too. About that terrible book, Fifty Shades of Navy. What a disgrace, to give that kind of filth major publicity.”

  “We were just talking about the book, Sister,” I said. “And whether we should cancel our reunion. What do you think? You have to admit that the timing is pretty bad.”

  “I see no reason to cancel the reunion,” Sister Rose said. “But that’s really up to all of you. You’re the committee, after all. I’m merely an advisor.”

  Yeah, right. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be doing this stupid reunion in the first place. Are you conveniently forgetting this was partly your idea?

  I didn’t really say that, of course.

  “At this late date, I don’t see how the reunion could be cancelled,” Sister Rose continued, in case she hadn’t made her point crystal clear. “I understand that there are classmates coming in from all over New England. Am I right?” she addressed Mary Ann, the keeper of the official attendance list, who nodded in agreement.

  “That’s exactly what I was just saying, Sister,” said Claire. “And I still don’t see what everyone is getting so excited about. It’s just a novel.”

  Sister Rose took a deep breath. “That’s because none of you have seen Fifty Shades of Navy. Unfortunately, I have. The publisher had the gall to send me an advance reader copy and ask me for a comment.”

  “Who is the publisher?” Mary Alice asked. “And how did the company get your name and contact information?”

  “Exactly what I was wondering,” said Sister Rose. “The publishing company is called Tell-All Books.” She sniffed her disapproval. “I’d never heard of them before. Last week, the book arrived, Priority Mail, with a return address of a post office box on Long Island. There was a brief cover letter on cheap stationary asking me to read the book and submit a comment for review. When I read the back cover description, I was shocked.”

  Her voice trembled. “I’m not used to seeing books like that. It’s nothing but cheap trash. And how the publisher had the nerve to contact me, well, I was completely disgusted. And angry. I threw the book in the garbage before anyone else could see it.”

  “Sister Rose, with all due respect,” I said, “perhaps it would have been better if you hadn’t thrown the book away. I understand how shocked you must have been to get the book in the first place. But maybe there was a way to contact the publisher, or the author. Wouldn’t you like to know how they got your name?”

  “I am not a complete idiot, Carol,” Sister Rose retorted. “Of course I wanted to know why I was contacted.”

  I sat back in my chair, in my own dining room, in my own house, and felt like I was fourteen years old again.

  Sister Rose saw my reaction and said, “Oh, Carol, I’m sorry to take my frustration out on you. I’m just so upset.”

  I responded with a quick nod. And hoped none of the rest of the committee had noticed that my eyes were threatening to spill over onto my best white linen tablecloth.

  “I went on the computer,” Sister Rose continued, “and found a website for the book, which has the same contact information as Tell-All Books. I sent an e-mail, demanding answers. And got no response. None.”

  Hmm. Now, that was interesting. At the risk of being shot down once again, I said, “It’s pretty easy to get a book published these days. Sometimes, the author is also the publisher. I wonder if that’s what happened here.”

  At that moment, my cell phone chirped, indicating an incoming message. “Sorry, everybody,” I said. “I thought I turned the phone off.”

  Then I looked at the message and realized that it was a text from my darling son, Mike. Since his communications to Jim and me have been slim to none for the past few months, there was no way I was going to ignore that text. No matter now rude that appeared to everyone else.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the group. “This is from my son. It may be important. I have to read it right away.”

  “How about if I make another pot of coffee while you’re doing that?” Claire suggested. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but a shot of some fresh caffeine may help me think clearer.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Mary Alice, jumping up to clear a few dirty dishes from the table and follow Claire into my kitchen.

  “Thanks,” I said, so distracted by the message from Mike that I had to read it several times before I understood it.

  Hey, Cosmo girl! Check out this link:

  http://fiftyshadesofnavy.youtube.com/watch. You’re famous!

  At first, I was hesitant to click on the link, for fear it was a spam message. But then I realized that only Mike calls me Cosmo girl (a reference to my brief but brilliant copy editing career many years ago), so the text had to be legit.

  The link led me to a one-minute book trailer hyping Fifty Shades of Navy, which was mainly a series of images flashing on the screen, one after the other, to a rock and roll song. I think the song was, “Only The Good Die Young.” But I can’t be sure. />
  Because one image, although a very quick one, was unmistakable. And it was cleverly inserted several times among the other, more titillating images. It was the front portico of Mount Saint Francis Academy.

  Chapter 23

  I got great news at the supermarket the other day.

  Campbell’s alphabet soup now comes in a large type version.

  I got up so quickly I tipped my chair over onto the dining room floor.

  “Everybody up,” I said, ignoring my clumsiness. “And follow me into the office, where we can check out this YouTube link that Mike’s sent me. Now.”

  “What’s the matter with you, Carol?” asked Nancy. “You’re acting crazy. And your face is as white as a sheet.”

  “No questions. Just come on,” I urged my classmates. “You’ll soon see why.”

  Fortunately, Jim had left the computer on after he checked the credit card balances this morning. (I do what I can to support the economy. I feel it’s my duty as a United States citizen, not that Jim goes along with that argument for a single second.)

  In no time at all, with everyone, even Claire and Mary Alice, crowded around my computer, I entered the link that Mike had sent and there it was: the book trailer from hell.

  And irrefutable proof that, whoever the mysterious author of this book was, she had to be an alumna of Mount Saint Francis Academy. The chances of our high school portico being chosen at random for the book trailer, from among thousands of other schools nationwide, was impossible.

  “I can’t believe it,” Sister Rose said. “This makes Mount Saint Francis Academy look like a training school for…ladies of the evening.”

  One of our group tittered. I was afraid to look around and see who it was. But then, I hear someone else laugh. A little louder, this time.