Of course, I spent the next half hour or so wallowing in self-pity. My usual support network was unavailable. Gone. Vamoosed. On to other things.
I thought about calling Deanna at the hair salon, to see if she could fit me in for a quick styling, but I’d just had my hair done so I’d look extra fabulous for the reunion. And, as Jim is constantly reminding me, we need to watch our pennies. Another visit to Crimpers was not in the cards. Or in the Andrews budget.
So here I was, all alone except for the dogs, carrying a tremendous burden of guilt. Because I knew – I just knew! – that Meg’s note was meant for me.
Forgive me, she’d written. And avenge me.
Meg really didn’t write that last part, of course. But I knew that’s what she meant. And I finally figured out who the perfect person was for me to talk to. Someone who was guaranteed to help me put all this in perspective.
Sister Rose.
“Carol, what a nice surprise,” said my former high school teacher. “We’re very short-handed today. I hope you can pitch in. I could really use you.” She propelled me into the back of the shop before I could tell her the reason I’d stopped in, and handed me a purple volunteer apron.
“I’m happy to help for a little while,” I said, tying the apron strings around my middle. “But I really came to talk to you. About Meg. And her death.”
“Truly tragic,” Sister Rose said. “But you girls were right not to make an announcement at the reunion. It would have been…unseemly.” She crossed herself. “God rest her soul. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Sister Rose, do you know that the police are ruling Meg’s death a suicide?”
“A suicide? One of my girls? Why, that’s not possible.” Sister Rose looked as shocked and upset as I felt.
“That’s just not possible,” she repeated. Visibly shaken, Sister Rose turned her back to me. I was unsure if I should continue the conversation or take myself out to the shop itself and tidy up or something. So I just stood there. Like a dope.
“Carol, I need some time alone to adjust to this information. It’s very upsetting to me,” Sister Rose said.
She turned around to face me. “I’d appreciate it very much if you’d go through the shop and be sure all the merchandise is in order. Unfortunately, customers aren’t always considerate about putting clothing they don’t want back in the proper places. And would you check the dressing rooms, too?”
“Sure, Sister. I’d be glad to.”
Truth to tell (and you better not tell anyone else I admitted this), I was glad of the opportunity to go through the shop on official business for Sister Rose. I confess, I am a retail therapy junkie. Since I was definitely in the dumper because of Meg’s death, I figured that cheering myself up by scoring a major bargain in a thrift shop that benefitted domestic violence victims was almost heroic. Saint-like, even.
Even Jim couldn’t complain if I made a donation to such a worthy cause, right? Of course, right.
In fact, this was the most cheerful I’d felt since Nancy and I opened the door to our room and found an unexpected, unwelcome guest.
I was whipping through the racks, straightening hangers, arranging clothes in their proper sizes, when the bell above the front door announced the arrival of a customer. Putting on my most friendly smile, I greeted her with a cheery, “Welcome to Sally’s Closet. We have the best bargains in Fairport, and all the proceeds benefit such a worthy cause.”
“Is Sister Rose here?” the woman asked. She took a closer look at me, then said, “I know you. You’re Carol Andrews, right? We met at Mount Saint Francis Academy. Or, I should say, Fairport Manor.”
I was embarrassed. “You look so familiar,” I said, “but I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name. Were you at our reunion?”
The woman laughed. “I was there, but in a staff capacity. I’m J.T. Murray. We met a few months ago when you and some friends came to take a tour of the facility. I’m the marketing director at Fairport Manor.”
I realized that a golden opportunity to ask some questions had just fallen into my lap. But I couldn’t appear too eager. Or too nosy.
At least, not at first.
It was entirely possible that J.T. had been overseeing last-minute details before the next day’s lunch. Maybe she’d even seen Meg arrive.
When in doubt, start with compliments. Then throw in a few casual questions. This technique works most of the time, even on Jim.
“Everything last Sunday ran like clockwork,” I said. “We really appreciate all the hard work you must have put in to make the reunion such a success.”
I paused, then asked, “Were you at Mount Saint Francis the night before our reunion, too?”
My question seemed to throw J.T. completely off. Her eyes flicked to the right for a millisecond, transmitting that she was about to tell me a whopper of a lie.
“I was there until late Saturday afternoon,” J.T. said. “But when the catering staff seemed to have everything under control for the reunion lunch on Sunday, I went home and took a nice, long bath. And went to bed early.”
Alone?
I didn’t really ask her that, of course. But I wanted to.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” I lied right back, “but I’m sure you know that one of our classmates was found dead the night before the reunion. In the room that had been assigned to Nancy Green and me. In fact, Nancy and I are the people who found her.
“The police have ruled Meg’s death a suicide, and a cousin has already claimed her remains. She’ll be buried in a private ceremony in upstate New York.”
“I did hear that someone died the night before your reunion,” J.T. said. “That’s very sad. I appreciate your bringing me up to date on what the police have concluded.”
In a rapid change of subject I found impressive, J.T. continued, “Is Sister Rose here?” She held up a folder. “I have papers that need her signature, and I can’t be out of the office too long. We have our very first residents moving in today. It’s pretty exciting.”
“She’s in the back,” I said. “Just go through the double doors. And I better get back to work organizing these racks.”
But my adventure in retail therapy had lost its appeal, replaced by another one of my favorite pastimes, jumping to conclusions. Because J.T.’s visit had raised many questions in my overworked brain.
Clearly, J.T. didn’t tell me the whole truth about her presence at Mount Saint Francis on Saturday. She was even worse at lying than I was. I wondered how late she’d really been at school. Was she the one who greeted Meg and showed her to a bedroom?
Our bedroom? And, if so, why our bedroom, when there were so many others to choose from?
Had she been privy to Meg’s arrival plans?
My mind was whirling with possibilities. Or maybe someone from the catering staff had let Meg into the building. They could have been working overtime, prepping for the reunion lunch.
Otherwise, Meg would need an access code to get in the building, the way Nancy and I did.
Then, I realized how stupid I was. The few of us who had made reservations to stay overnight at Mount Saint Francis on Saturday night had been given the access code as part of our Mount Saint Francis Academy Ruby Reunion packet. Meg could have been given the welcome packet and the building access code without involving any staff member.
If that’s what had happened, then someone on our committee knew Meg was coming.
Who? And why keep it such a secret?
Unless that same committee person never intended that Meg actually attend the reunion. And took steps to see that she didn’t.
Chapter 30
Ever stop to think, and forget to start again?
There was no way I could share my suspicion – ok, another of my wild ideas – with anyone els
e without thinking it through very carefully. And I knew I couldn’t leave the thrift shop until someone else came in to relieve me. As the Good Sister had said, she was short-handed today.
Unless I made up an excuse to leave. And promised to come back later in the week to help out again.
Nah. I dismissed that thought as soon as it flashed through my head. This was Sister Rose I was dealing with. She always saw through my ploys when I was in high school. There was no reason to think her skills in that department had dulled over the years.
When another volunteer backed out of the sorting room holding an armful of clothing, I was tempted to kiss the floor in thanksgiving. Until I realized two things. If I got down on my knees to kiss the floor, I probably wouldn’t be able to get up without help. And more importantly, the volunteer who was relieving me at the shop was Mary Catherine – one of my classmates, a fellow reunion committee member, and now on my newly created list of suspects.
Fearful that Mary Catherine was anticipating a cozy chat about the reunion and Meg’s death, and unsure about what I should say, I nipped that possibility right in the bud by giving her a quick hug and whispering, “Gotta go. I have a doctor’s appointment and I’m going to be late. We’ll talk another time.”
Then I whipped that purple volunteer apron off and hustled my body out of the thrift shop as fast as I could, mumbling the same lame excuse about my hasty departure to Sister Rose. Fortunately, she was deep in conversation with J.T. and barely heard me.
And I wondered all the way home if it was my imagination that Mary Catherine looked like she wasn’t all that thrilled to see me.
In fact, I’d swear she was just as anxious for me to vamoose as I was.
My two canine therapists, Lucy and Ethel, immediately caught on to the fact that I was preoccupied. And they were not pleased with having to share their human’s attention with anything or anyone else. When they bounded into the kitchen after taking care of doggie needs in the yard, I just sat at the kitchen table, staring into space, instead of snapping to it and rewarding them with two biscuits, per usual.
Ethel – yes, Ethel! – let out a whine that was so loud it brought me back into focus immediately.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, saluting the pair. “Sorry about the slow service. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Things that even a satisfactory snack couldn’t ease. Even a chocolate one. (For me, not the dogs.)
So, I gave myself a good talking-to. If I do this in front of the dogs, I can count on them not to squeal on me. Doggie confidentiality and all that stuff.
“Carol, you are really losing it this time. There is no way that any of your classmates could be involved in Meg’s death.”
I sat back in the chair, satisfied that I had successfully derailed my ridiculous thought process once and for all.
“Oh, yeah?” I argued back. “Have you forgotten about the fact that no one, including Meg’s so-called friends, was thrilled when she showed up back in Fairport after all these years and insinuated herself onto the reunion committee? What about that?”
Gosh, I hate it when I argue with myself. I never know which side I’m on.
“This calls for some drastic action,” I announced. “I’m going to do something you haven’t seen me do for a long time. It’ll relieve my stress, and make me feel good. And if I do it right, it won’t take too long, either. Although,” I frowned, “Jim usually takes care of this for me. He’s really good at it, too.”
And I went to the hall closet and got out the vacuum cleaner.
Surprised? Why? What did you think I was talking about?
Careful. Remember, I went to Catholic school.
It always amazes me, on the rare occasions that I perform a household task like vacuuming, how doing something completely mindless can make me feel good about myself. For some reason, vacuuming, washing the kitchen floor, or cleaning out a closet clears the cobwebs from my mind as well as the dust bunnies from my floors.
Maybe I should do it more often.
Nah.
Anyway, by the time I was through with the first floor of the house, I had come up with a plan. It was simple, like me. All the mysteries I’ve read over the years stress the fact that the clues to solve a crime frequently lie within the life of the victim. So, I was going to find out all I could about Meg’s life before she came back to Fairport.
And I was going to check out the three Marys, while I was at it.
I switched off the vacuum and plopped myself in a chair in the least-used room in our house – the formal living room – to figure out exactly how I was going to implement my simple, but brilliant, plan. And I realized I needed a partner. A cyber partner.
I would do the in-person interrogations, of course. Remember, even my son-in-law the Fairport detective had complimented me on my interview skills.
But I often get bored, even frustrated, with Internet research. Sometimes I strike gold right away, and find out exactly what I’m looking for. But when I’m searching for something and thousands of possible hits come up, I get disgusted after wading through the first fifty or so and give up.
Fortunately, I came up with the perfect partner – someone I had given birth to more than twenty years ago. My darling son, Mike. Who, although he was a successful restaurant owner in Miami, was usually willing to jump in and help his dear old mother when she needed it. And since his social life was probably in the dumper right now, due to a recent disastrous situation involving a lovely but mysterious young woman from Puerto Rico named Marlee (I think you already know about that), I was betting he had lots of spare time on his hands.
Unless, to heal his broken heart, Mike was throwing himself into the life of a Miami bachelor. And meeting/dating/hooking up with many nubile females who would never pass inspection in the Andrews house. Assuming Jim and I ever met any of them, which was doubtful.
Perhaps this time, when I needed his help so much, my darling son would be too busy between running the restaurant and his active social life to play Internet Doctor Watson to my Shirley – I mean, Sherlock – Holmes.
Then I remembered that Mike was the person who had first alerted me to the YouTube video about that horrible book, Fifty Shades of Navy. If I could talk him into checking out Meg Mahoney’s past life, maybe he could ferret out the identity of the mysterious author, too.
Mike was already clued in (sorry!) about my high school reunion, too. He just didn’t know about the unexpected guest. And her even more unexpected demise. And he, more than Jenny, had inherited the snooping – I mean, sleuthing – gene from me.
The fact that this “assignment” gave me an excuse to check up on him – not that I ever meddle in his life, of course – made my plan even more appealing. Absolutely perfect, in fact. One of my best.
I had successfully deluded myself into thinking that my son would jump at the chance, one more time, to help me out. So I fired off a quick e-mail giving the bare bones of “Guess Who Came To The Reunion And Didn’t Leave Alive?” And forced myself to give Mike the rest of the day to respond.
I never push my children. I am the soul of patience while I win them over to my point of view. No matter how long it takes. Honest.
I decided to start the in-person interrogation part of my investigation with Neecy. It was possible that she had no time to talk to me, of course, with the election for state senate less than a month away. I needed to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
At that moment, Lucy made a flying leap and landed on my lap. “Hey, Lucy,” I said, shooing her down, “you know you’re not allowed on the living room couch. In fact, you and Ethel aren’t supposed to be in here at all.”
Lucy gave me a doggy stare, the kind she does when she’s trying to tell me something and I’m too stupid to figure out what it is.
Enlightenment dawned. “Brilliant,
Lucy,” I said, heading toward the telephone. “That’s a great idea. I’ll call Neecy and suggest a doggie play date for you and Ethel with Neecy’s chocolate lab. That way, you two can be a diversion and have fun with Porter, while I’m grilling Neecy about Meg.
“Thanks, Lucy,” I said, reaching down and giving her head a loving pat. “I owe you an extra biscuit for that idea.”
Lucy telegraphed a look that told me, loud and clear, that I better be quicker on the uptake the next time. Swear to God. And she didn’t work that cheap. This brainstorm was worth at least three dog biscuits. And I better include three biscuits for Ethel, too, because they always worked as a team.
The biscuit compensation would be well worth it if Neecy could clear up some information for me. Starting with the identity of the wealthy family that Meg’s parents had worked for.
And I vowed to be so subtle that Neecy would never even realize she was being interrogated.
As I was reaching for the phone to invite myself and my canine co-conspirators to Neecy’s – I had already decided that I wanted to check out her house, too – I stopped myself.
“You know,” I said to the dogs, who by now had devoured down their treats and returned to napping under the desk in my office, “it might work better if I brought another human along on our little adventure. It’s not that I think any less of your detective skills, understand. You’ve both already proved how good you are. But another set of ears could be helpful to me, and after all, you’ll both be running around the yard with Porter.”
The only response I got from either dog was the sound of snoring. Loud snoring. Hmm. They sounded like Jim.
I ruled out calling Nancy again. She had shot down my idea without even hearing me out. That hurt my feelings. Forget her. And Claire was romping around the Berkshires with her favorite local lawyer.
Class Reunions Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story; A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery Page 15
