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

by Susan Santangelo

  “Mark?” asked Jim. “Why would he have seen Meg?”

  There was no way to do this gently, so I blurted it out. “Mark saw Meg last night after I called the police to report finding her dead body in my bedroom.”

  Chapter 28

  I never gossip. I share important information

  on a need-to-tell basis.

  “I guess I have to forgive you,” I said to Mark when I finally caught up with him a few days after the reunion. “You’re family now. But why did you leave me to do all the explaining to Jim and Jenny about Meg’s death? You were there, too, remember? In an official capacity. Nancy and I were just the unlucky people who found her in our bedroom at school. And we didn’t even know it was Meg at first. Until you made us come back into the room and identify the … deceased person.”

  I fixed my son-in-law with a hard stare, which had no effect on his demeanor whatsoever. The fact that I was sitting in his office at the Fairport Police Station – on his own turf, so to speak – probably had a lot to do with that. If he’d been in my kitchen, I would’ve had the upper hand.

  I was surprised that the local press had ignored Meg’s death. After all, a dead body at a high school reunion doesn’t happen very often. There wasn’t even a brief obituary. I wondered if any next of kin had come forward to take charge of the final arrangements.

  And I wondered if I had to attend the funeral. Or how I could get out of it.

  I know, I know. I’m a terrible person.

  Mark was wearing his official Fairport police detective face today. All business. There was no sign of the nice young kid who used to sit at my kitchen table and do his homework with Jenny all those years ago.

  “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” Mark said. Which was probably as close to an apology as I was going to get out of him. “But Meg did die at your reunion. And you and Nancy did find her. I knew you could handle Jim’s questions without compromising our official investigation.”

  “I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” I said. But I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. “What’s happened this week? Have you determined the cause of Meg’s death? And don’t tell me it’s none of my business, Mark. As you just pointed out, she was my classmate, and I found her.”

  Mark leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you that we have no reason to suspect that foul play was involved in your classmate’s death.” He paused. “I shouldn’t share this with you.”

  I sat back in my chair and waited, a technique I’ve picked up from all the mysteries I read. It wasn’t easy. Because, of course, when my son-in-law said he knew something that he shouldn’t tell me, I absolutely had to know what it was.

  The silence was killing me. (Sorry about that, but it was true.) I finally said, “I won’t tell anyone, Mark. I promise. If I’m going to be related to a police detective, I have to learn to keep my mouth shut. I know most of the information you get is confidential. I respect that.”

  Of course, my fingers were crossed in my lap, but I was hoping that Mark didn’t notice.

  Mark nodded. “Ok, Carol. It’s probably going to come out anyway. Your classmate committed suicide.”

  I was shocked. “No way, Mark. Meg would never do that.”

  “She did, Carol. We found a note near her body. Short and to the point. And the toxicology report confirmed it.

  “She died from an overdose of Vicodin.”

  “A drug overdose? Are you sure? I can’t believe it. Maybe it was just an unfortunate accident. I can’t believe someone I went to high school with would do that.”

  I shook my head. “No, Mark. You’re wrong. Meg did not commit suicide.”

  “Carol, I understand your reaction. But it’s true. The case, if there ever was a case, is closed.”

  Mark rose to his feet and pointedly looked at his watch, indicating that, as far as he was concerned, our little chat was over.

  I sat up straight in my chair and crossed my ankles. Daintily, just like the nuns taught us. “I’m not leaving yet, Mark. In fact, unless you tell me everything you know, you’ll have to remove me bodily from your office.”

  I didn’t really mean that, and I prayed he wouldn’t take me up on it. Besides, he probably couldn’t lift me.

  “No way, Carol. I’ve said too much already. You’re really putting me on the spot. I can’t tell you anything else until I have clearance to do it from my commanding officer. You don’t want me to lose my job, do you?”

  “What did the note say, Mark? Can you at least tell me that?”

  “Boy, you don’t give up, do you?” Mark said, sitting down at his desk again. Was it my imagination that he meant that as a positive thing? Maybe, even admiring my powers of interrogation?

  “We could use you in the department. You’d be great wearing down suspects. Anyone would talk to stop you from hammering away at them.”

  I gave Mark a sweet smile, then got right back to business.

  “Now, what did Meg’s supposed suicide note say?”

  “It said, ‘Forgive me,’ ” Mark said. “Obviously, she wanted forgiveness for what she was about to do. End her life.”

  “That is just plain ridiculous,” I exploded. “Meg never asked anyone for forgiveness in her whole life. She lived her life exactly the way she pleased, and never apologized for anything she did. Because she never thought she had to.”

  I sat back and considered the so-called suicide note. Then I had a sudden inspiration. “Was there a pill bottle found, too?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Mark said. “Right next to her body. And it was empty.”

  Rats. I had been so sure that the police had gotten this all wrong. But it looked like I was the one who had.

  I knew when I was licked. “When will Meg’s body be released?” I asked. “And when will the funeral be?”

  “A cousin claimed her remains this morning,” Mark said. “Her service will be somewhere in upstate New York. I have no details.”

  He slapped his hand on the desk. “And that’s it, Carol. Thanks for coming in.”

  Well, don’t let anyone tell you that I can’t take a hint. So I gave my son-in-law a quick peck on the cheek and got the heck out of there.

  To go home and ponder the meaning of life. And death. And how it often makes no sense at all.

  “Maybe talking to you two about Meg’s death will help me,” I said to Lucy and Ethel. “It’s a good thing that I can make the drive from the Fairport Police Station to our house on autopilot, because that’s what I did today.”

  Lucy gave me what I call her reproachful stare. “I know. I should be more careful when I’m behind the wheel. But wait till I tell you what I found out. Maybe then, you’ll understand why I wasn’t concentrating on my driving.”

  Ethel padded across the kitchen tiles and stood by the dog biscuit tin. Just in case I didn’t get the message, she made a half-hearted attempt to jump on the counter.

  “Ok, I get it. Snacks first, then talking. I guess that’s fair. Psychiatrists charge a lot of money for a consult. You two can be bought for just a few Milk Bones. And I don’t have to make an appointment, either.

  “Here, catch.” I tossed each of the dogs a few biscuits, being careful that Ethel got her share as Lucy tend to eat Ethel’s share as well as her own.

  “I think we should sit down on the family room couch for an official consultation,” I said. “That’s what all the pros do.”

  Grabbing a few more Milk Bones in case their attention waned, the three of us – me in the middle – headed for the next room to snuggle on the couch. Then I got down to business. And told them both the whole, sad story about Meg’s death.

  They both listened attentively, which is one of the things I love best about dogs. They never complain if I go o
n and on with a story, urging me to get to the point already – like some humans I could name.

  I began to wrap up my story. “So you see, Meg would never commit suicide. That can’t be what happened. Even if a pill bottle was found with her…body.”

  My eyes welled up with tears, which I brushed away angrily. There was no way I’d allow myself to cry for a person who had made my life such a misery in high school.

  “And, according to your brother-in-law Mark,” Lucy’s stubby tail wagged at the mention of his name (he always has treats for the girls when he comes over), “some cousin has already claimed her remains, and she’ll be buried in upstate New York. None of us will even have the chance to say goodbye. I think that really stinks.”

  “And what exactly do you propose to do about that, Carol?” asked My Beloved’s voice from the doorway. I jumped a foot. Well, maybe only a couple of inches.

  “Jim, you startled me. How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to get the gist of what you were telling the dogs,” Jim said. “To tell you the truth, even though I usually think your ideas are crazy, you could be right about this.”

  I wasn’t sure at first what I was right about – not being able to attend a memorial service for Meg, or the way she died. But since Jim rarely agrees with me when I allow myself to jump to conclusions, I decided to hear the guy out without interruption. For once.

  “I’m not saying that Meg didn’t commit suicide,” Jim clarified, a thoughtful look on his face. “It’s the method that mystifies me. I doubt that she was able to swallow enough pills to cause herself any serious harm, much less kill her.”

  “And exactly how do you know that, Jim?” I asked. “You hadn’t seen her in years. Or, had you?”

  “I hadn’t seen her since high school,” Jim said. “But I remember something that happened while we were on one of our very few dates. It was junior year, and we had gone to the movies. When we came out of the theater, Meg complained of a blinding headache. The kind that makes you sick to your stomach. Do you know what I mean?”

  I nodded. I’d never had one that bad, but I knew it could be debilitating.

  “I offered to get her some aspirin, but she refused. She told me she couldn’t swallow pills. No matter how much water she drank, or how small the pill was, just trying to swallow one made her choke.”

  “I’ve heard that some people have problems like that,” I said. “I never knew Meg did, though. Of course, why would I? We weren’t exactly the best of friends in high school.”

  “It could be a condition that people outgrow when they reach adulthood,” Jim said.

  “Of course, you’re right,” I said. But Jim’s story had unsettled me.

  “As far as a memorial service for Meg,” Jim continued, “I’m sure her family had some sort of service for her in upstate New York. If they chose to make the burial private, that’s entirely their prerogative.

  “Let it go, Carol. Meg’s gone. And there’s nothing you can, or should, do about it. Agreed?”

  I sighed. For once, I had to agree with him. And I let it go.

  Well, of course my resolution to let Meg’s death go lasted about as long as it took me to prepare supper, clean the kitchen, and watch an hour of mindless drivel on television. I bet that, if you know me well, you’re surprised it lasted that long.

  Anyway, at 10:00, right after checking The Weather Channel for the latest forecast, Jim heaved himself out of his chair and announced he was going to bed.

  I waited another half hour, until I heard the sound of Jim’s snoring, then whispered to Lucy and Ethel, “Come on, girls. We’re going to check out a few things on the Internet. But be quiet. Don’t wake Jim.”

  Both dogs raised their heads, sighed deeply, then went back to sleep again.

  Ok, I was on my own. I was curious to find out about this difficulty to swallow pills thing that Jim had talked about. And once I got that information, I promised myself that I’d go to bed.

  Before I started any research, though, I felt compelled to check my e-mail. I hadn’t been online for a few days, which is a record for me. I’m the type who reads her e-mail several times a day. I’m always expecting something of major importance to be there – optimist that I am – and usually get more than my share of spam mail instead.

  This time was no different: Important Messages, zip/ Spam Messages, 50. But I realized as I pressed Delete over and over again that I was getting more than my usual alerts from e-book sites. I’ve always been hesitant to click on one of those links, but what the heck. I was curious.

  I was immediately led to a promo for the Book of the Year – that’s what the e-book site called it. Yep, you guessed it. Fifty Shades of Navy. With everything else that had been going on the last few days, the book had slipped to the back of my radar screen. Where I intended to keep it. Delete. Delete. Delete!

  And onward to Google.

  Hmm, this was interesting. The Google gurus told me that the inability to swallow pills was a condition called Phagophobia. Emphasis on the word phobia. According to several random Internet sites, Phagophobia is not a physical condition at all. It’s a psychological one.

  I pondered my new-found knowledge. If Meg had Phagophobia when she was in high school, she could have outgrown it when she got older. Maybe she had an “aha!” moment and decided to get over a childhood phobia. Mind over matter, if you will. For all I knew, she spent some time in therapy to deal with it. And a few other things.

  For all I knew.

  But the truth was, I didn’t know much of anything about Meg the Adult. Except for the fact that, when she showed up in Fairport several months ago after a forty-year hiatus, she was still a pain in the patootie. At least, in my patootie.

  What had she done with her life? And – here comes one of the big questions – why the heck did I care? It was more than my usual curiosity, which some people have unfairly labeled my penchant for snooping.

  No, if I was going to be completely honest with myself – and if I can’t be honest with me, who can I be honest with? – this was personal. Meg’s life had ended in what was supposed to be my bed. Or Nancy’s bed. Either way, we were involved.

  And Meg had left a note. Forgive me. Who was that note intended for? And what did she want forgiven? I somehow doubted that it had anything to do with her making fun of my homemade powder blue dress at a freshman year dance.

  No matter how I looked at it, Meg was asking for help.

  And, by golly, she was going to get it.

  Chapter 29

  I want to be the wife of the party.

  Knowing that Jim’s reaction to my conclusions about Meg’s death would be of the “What are you, nuts, Carol?” variety, I steered the next morning’s breakfast conversation into safer topics. You know the kind I mean, right? What’s on your schedule for today, dear? What time do you think you’ll be home? Will you pick up something for lunch, or do you want to bring a sandwich with you? And so on. And on.

  What I really wanted to know from Jim was when the heck he was getting out of the house, so I could get on the phone and rally the troops – Nancy, Claire and Mary Alice. Of course, because I couldn’t wait for him to leave the house, he diddled and daddled in the office for what seemed like an eternity.

  So I diddled and daddled myself, taking a leisurely shower, changing the sheets on our bed, anything I could think of in the housekeeping department to pass the time. I refused to get out the vacuum, however. Let him fight the battle of the dust bunnies. He enjoys it much more than I do. My hero.

  I finally heard him yell, “Bye, Carol. See you later this afternoon,” followed by the slam of the kitchen door, and then – oh, joy – the sound of his car engine revving up.

  In no time flat I was on the phone to Nancy, telling her that the police determined Meg had c
ommitted suicide, and sharing my own conclusions about Meg’s death. “We have to figure this out, Nancy. You know as well as I do that Meg was too self-centered to kill herself. Especially if she had the chance to be the center of attention by showing up at the reunion as a surprise. She wouldn’t have missed that for the world. What time today can we get together and brainstorm?”

  “I think you’re nuts, Carol,” my ex best friend said. “But creative. Your thought process always impresses me.”

  I was tempted to bang the phone down in her ear. But I restrained myself. Instead, I didn’t say anything. Not one word.

  Sometimes, my self-control amazes me.

  Nancy finally got the message. I was angry. And, yes, hurt.

  “You know I love you, sweetie,” she said. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. But some of us have to earn a living. Mary Alice is working at the hospital today, and I have three open houses to run. Claire and Larry have skipped off for a long weekend in the Berkshires. I guess they wanted to leaf peep before all the leaves were gone. They’re staying at the Red Lion Inn. I can give you her cell number.”

  “I already have Claire’s cell number,” I snapped back. “I don’t need you to give it to me.” Yes, I was being snippy. And, yes, I was hurt that I hadn’t been privy to Claire and Larry’s travel plans, and Nancy had. But hey, I’m a magnanimous person. Not the least bit petty. Despite what you may have been led to believe.

  “I’m not going to bother them. Maybe they need some time alone. I hope your open house events go well, and you sell all the properties for above asking price. I’ll talk to you soon.” And I hung up. Gently.