“That was her parents’ idea,” I explained. “And Neecy said that Meg attended Anthony’s funeral just to ask for money. Apparently, she asked Neecy for money several other times, too. And Neecy always gave it to her.
“And then, Meg showed up on Neecy’s doorstep before our class reunion and expected a warm welcome. I can’t imagine anyone else having that kind of nerve.”
“Perhaps Meg came back to Fairport to apologize to all the people she’d wronged in the past,” Sister Rose suggested. “Starting with Neecy and her husband. And then, she was overcome with her guilt. So she committed suicide on the eve of the class reunion. Remember, the note that was found next to her said, ‘Forgive me.’ ”
It sounded plausible. If I didn’t know Meg as well as I did, I could almost force myself to believe it.
But I didn’t. Not for one second.
“Neecy doesn’t believe that Meg committed suicide,” I said. “And she’s worried that, if the police figure out how much she hated Meg, she’ll be accused of her death.
“I know this doesn’t make any sense,” I said, heading off Sister Rose’s objections before she could voice them, “but I don’t think Neecy is very stable, Sister. She’s not thinking rationally. She’s trying hard to support her husband in his election campaign, too. I’m sure that’s causing even more stress for her. ”
Sister Rose gave me one of her famous icy stares – the kind she used to give me in English class when I’d turned in a less than stellar homework assignment. “Then it’s time for you to stop, Carol. By asking questions about Meg’s death, you’re causing innocent people a lot of unnecessary heartache.”
Her expression softened. “I’m sure you don’t want to do that.”
“But Sister Rose,” I said, stung by her criticism, “even though Neecy’s terrified that Meg’s death wasn’t suicide, she wants to know the truth. In fact, she offered to pay me to find out.
“Of course, I refused,” I said. “But if we don’t find out what really happened, Neecy is always going to be afraid of being blamed for Meg’s death. Don’t you see? I have to keep going.”
I wasn’t sure if this train of thought made sense to Sister Rose. But it made sense to me. I was the one who saw how upset Neecy was yesterday.
“Poor Neecy,” Sister Rose said. “She’s such a lovely girl. I don’t think she’s been the same since her son died.”
“I’m not asking questions to stir up trouble or heartache for anyone, Sister,” I insisted. “Just the opposite. For some reason, people feel safe talking to me. And, not to brag, but I have been lucky enough to put a few puzzle pieces together and help the police solve a crime or two.”
“You’ve been lucky, yes, but you also have a great deal of good old-fashioned common sense,” said Sister Rose. “You are, after all, a Mount Saint Francis girl. I hope we trained you to think before you act, though. I do worry about that, dear.”
Wow. A compliment, sort of, from Sister Rose. Nancy, Claire and Mary Alice would be very impressed. And, even more, surprised.
“All right, go ahead with your questions. But be careful. Don’t ask questions willy nilly.” Sister Rose smiled. “I don’t think I’ve used that expression in years. I’ll help you if I can. And please, keep me informed on what you’re doing. I don’t want any unpleasant surprises at my age.”
Since Sister Rose was only a few years older than I was, I chose to ignore that comment.
“I agree with you that Neecy has been in a deep depression since her son, Anthony, died in his senior year of high school,” I said. “My daughter Jenny told me this morning that J. T. Murray was Anthony’s high school sweetheart. Jenny was a freshman at Fairport High School when Anthony and J. T. were seniors.
“J.T. is the now the marketing manager for Fairport Manor,” I said, in case Sister Rose hadn’t made the connection. “It seems very coincidental to me.”
“I know who you mean, Carol,” Sister said. She shook her head and stood, bringing our brainstorming session to an abrupt close.
“I hope you figure out how all these pieces fit together, Carol. But in the meantime, we’d both better get back to work.” Sister Rose pointed to a cart that was overloaded with boxes of books. “This is a terrible job, but would you please sort and price this donation? Then I’d appreciate it if you could shelve the books according to fiction and nonfiction. We don’t divide them any more than that. Oh, and please separate the hard covers from the paperbacks, too. Ask Julie to help you if she’s not busy with a customer. Who knows? You might find a first edition or something else of value. It does happen.”
Sister Rose opened the door to the sales floor, and the cart and I were summarily dismissed.
Have you ever been in the grocery store and had a shopping cart that had a will of its own? You know, one whose wheels refuse to go the way you want? Or, even worse, lock when you’re trying to push it?
Imagine a flat, double-decker cart, laden with books of all shapes and sizes, slipping and sliding all over the place, that persisted in veering to the left, no matter how hard I tried to control it. And the darn thing squeaked, too.
I figured Sister Rose must have gotten the cart as a donation. No way would she have paid any money for it. I hoped the donor didn’t get a tax receipt.
It was no wonder that, when I tried to turn the cart and push it up the ramp onto the main selling floor of the thrift shop, the cart stopped completely. And tipped over. Spilling books all over the floor.
I was reminded of the old saying, “No good deed ever goes unpunished.” I was certainly being punished today.
“I wonder if Sister knows how dangerous this contraption is,” I grumbled as I scrambled to pick up books as fast as I could and stack them on the cart in some semblance of order. “I’m lucky I didn’t hurt somebody.”
The volunteer cashier – Sister Rose said her name was Julie – hurried over to give me a hand, clearly demonstrating that she felt I was unable to handle the job on my own. At least, that’s how I interpreted her unasked-for assistance.
“I’ve got this under control,” I snapped. Then, I remembered my manners. “Thanks anyway.”
“I just don’t want Sister Rose to get angry,” Julie said. Her eyes filled up – an automatic response I could completely identify with. “I’ve already jammed the cash register a couple of times and had to call her to help. She was not pleased.”
“Hey, you’re a volunteer,” I assured her, forgiving Julie’s earlier rudeness since I now understood the reason behind it. “Don’t worry about it. Sister’s under a lot of pressure, because the shop is so short-staffed today. Believe me, her bark is a lot worse than her bite. And she’s a lot mellower now than she was when I had her as my English teacher.”
“My mother had her in class, too,” Julie said. “Fortunately, I was spared. I went to public school.
“Oh, no offense,” she said, realizing how her remark sounded.
“None taken,” I assured her, holding onto the cart and pulling myself to a standing position. “There. All the books are back on the cart. Now, if you’ll just give it a boost, I think I can get the cart up the ramp and push it to the book section.”
“Wait,” said Julie. “You forgot one. This was under the front wheel.” She handed me a bright yellow coil-bound notebook, the kind that we used in high school about a thousand years ago.
I looked at the notebook. “Property of The Golden Circle Club,” the cover announced. “No Peeking. Private. Very Very Private.”
I opened it. And found, scrawled in variety of penmanship styles, a series of diary entries titled, “How I Survived M.S.F.A.: The Tricks Of My Trade. Volume 2.” Complete with a few diagrams that I...well. My goodness.
I snapped that book shut before Julie could take a quick gander at it.
I had another title for this noteb
ook: Fifty Shades of Navy –
The Prequel!
Chapter 38
I tell my husband all my secrets,
because he never listens to a thing I say.
I jammed the notebook in my apron pocket as fast as I could. I could feel my cheeks flame. My apron pocket felt like it was on fire, too.
I made a snap decision – I would not let Sister Rose see this notebook. It would only upset her. Or make her angry. I’d take it home when my volunteer shift was over and try to decipher the handwriting. And see if my instant assessment was correct.
But I knew I was right. Someone involved in this diary had to be the same mysterious person who wrote that filthy book. And that’s why Sister Rose received an advance copy for comment. The author was a Mount Saint Francis girl.
All of these thoughts flashed through my mind in a nanosecond. Time to get back to work.
Act natural, Carol.
As if!
Julie looked at me curiously, and I managed a small smile. “Sister Rose asked me to sort the books, too, before I priced and shelved them. This one should be tossed, so I separated it out right away. I guess we need to find another place to put the discards.” I laughed. Feebly. “My apron pocket isn’t that big.”
This was not one of my best on-the-spot explanations – I’m usually much more creative – but fortunately, Julie went along with it without question.
“I think you have a customer,” I said, pointing in the direction of the check-out counter. Thank God.
“Oops! I better take care of this sale or Sister’ll have my head.” And Julie scurried away.
Phew. Saved by the cash register. And for once, it didn’t cost Jim a single cent.
I think clearly when I’m driving. Some people (not mentioning anyone specific, understand) have been known to suggest that I should drive more often. Until the price of gas sky-rocketed.
Anyway, when I’m in the car, I can talk to myself without interruption, cry if I feel like it, or sing at the top of my lungs if a song comes on that I like. I bet you do some of those things, too. Of course, I have to be careful I don’t get so distracted that I’m not paying attention to my driving. We “mature” drivers have a bad enough reputation as it is.
Especially since my license plate is not unknown to the Fairport police. Thanks to my son-in-law being on the force, lest you mistake my meaning.
The long shadows on Fairport Turnpike reminded me that the sun would be setting within the next hour. I hate it when the days get short and we lose daylight so early.
I wanted my house to be empty, so that I could go through the notebook without having to explain to You Know Who what I was doing. But, of course, that was not going to happen.
My heart sank when I saw Jim’s car parked in front of the garage. He was home and, no doubt, hungry. No, scratch that. He was home and ravenous. And hell has no fury like a ravenous husband who has to wait for his dinner.
I debated the merits of a quick drive to Seafood Sandy’s for a takeout meal. Nah, no time. Better to go in and see what I could whip up from the refrigerator.
To my complete surprise, my husband was dressed in a suit and tie, fresh from the shower, and greeted me with a big hug. Hmm. What had he been up to today?
And what was he up to now?
“I’ve fed the dogs, Carol, and they’ve run around the yard for half an hour.”
Jim made a big show of looking at his watch. “You have exactly thirty minutes to shower and change. Wear something a little dressy. I love the way you look in that slinky red dress.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “I should tell you things like that more often.
“And then we have to leave. We don’t want to be late.”
“Late? Late for what? Where are we going?”
I took a closer look at my husband. He was looking pretty smug, all right. And in all the years we’ve been married, he’s never told me what to wear. Sometimes, I think he doesn’t even notice.
He notices the bills for my clothes, of course.
“I took the campaign mailing over to Tony Prentiss’s election headquarters this morning,” Jim said. “I had a chance to catch up with him. I hadn’t seen him in years – not since high school. And he was nice enough to give us two comp tickets to a big fundraising shindig his committee is throwing at Westfair Country Club tonight. I didn’t warn you in advance. I wanted to see the look on your face when I told you we were going to rub elbows with local high society tonight. You always say you have no excuse to get dressed up since I retired and we don’t go to any fancy New York City parties anymore. Are you surprised?”
Surprised? Heck, yes.
I forgot all about the notebook. And that I really needed to check my e-mail to see how Mike was doing with his Internet sleuthing.
Instead, I worried that I’d never get the zipper to close on that darn red dress.
Rats.
“Wow, this sure is a crowded party,” I said, clutching Jim’s arm as we threaded our way across the ballroom of the Westfair Country Club. “Who are all these people? Do you think they’ll all vote for Tony Prentiss on election day? If they do, he’ll win by a landslide.”
“Some people can’t resist the lure of free food,” Jim said. “For all I know, Tony is paying for this party himself. After all, he comped us.”
“That’s because we helped him out with the mailing,” I reminded him as I looked around the room. “This is exciting. I’ve never been to a big political event before.”
Jim squeezed my arm. “I see a few people I need to talk to. For the newspaper. Why don’t you mingle for a few minutes? I’ll be back.”
And just like that, I was all by my lonesome. Just like at a high school mixer, when nobody asked me to dance.
Lordy, you are pathetic, Carol. Grow up and get yourself a white wine spritzer. At least that’ll give you something to hold in your hands.
I was painfully aware that the red dress I had on – per my husband’s request – was a little tighter than it had been the last time I’d worn it. So I avoided the siren call of the hors d’oeuvres, which looked delicious but loaded with calories I didn’t need, and headed across the room to join the long line snaking toward the bar.
And nearly collided with my classmate, Mary Beth, who was headed in the same direction. “Carol!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see a friendly face. Thank God.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” I said, realizing that we hadn’t talked since the reunion. And finding Meg’s body.
“I’m here to support Neecy,” Mary Beth said. “She asked me to come. She really hates these things, but she comes for Tony. You know how it is, when your husband is into something he thinks is so important. A wife’s gotta do what a wife’s gotta do, right?”
“I guess,” I said halfheartedly. “I don’t know how well I’d deal with the spotlight if Jim decided to run for office.”
I looked around the crowded room. “Where is Neecy, anyway? Is she here?”
“She and Tony usually make a grand entrance at these bashes,” Mary Beth said. “After most of the guests have had a chance to sample the food and have some wine. But, take it from me, the appetizers are the best part. Once we sit down to dinner, it’ll be rubber chicken and peas for everyone.”
I laughed. “Thanks for the tip. You can tell that I’ve never been to one of these things before, right? I’m glad I have you to show me the ropes. Since my dear husband seems to have gone temporarily AWOL.”
The line inched forward toward the bar. And I suddenly realized I’d been given a golden opportunity (sorry about the pun) to quiz a classmate about the yellow notebook I’d found at the shop.
“I was at the thrift shop today,” I said. “I stopped in with a box of donations, and Sister Rose grabbed me. You know ho
w persuasive she can be.”
Mary Beth laughed. “Do I ever! I try not stop in unless it’s my regular weekly shift. She always gets me to stay.” We made mindless small talk until we finally found ourselves at the head of the line.
“This one is on me,” Mary Beth said, handing me a white wine spritzer with lots of ice. “I remember that you only drink spritzers. Which is probably smart. I like red wine, myself.” She ordered a brand that I’d never heard of, gave the young bartender $30, and told him to keep the change. I was impressed.
“That’s a pretty big tip,” I said.
“I used to be a bartender myself in my younger days,” Mary Beth said. “Some people are really stingy tippers. I try my best to make up for them.”
“You won’t believe what came into the thrift shop today,” I said, taking a sip of my spritzer and trying to look casual.
Mary Beth laughed. “I’ve seen my share of surprises over the years,” she said. “Like the old cloth purse that came in from an estate sale, and we found five hundred dollars hidden in a secret compartment. Sister Rose was thrilled about that. So, what did you find today?”
“Sister gave me a few boxes of donated books to sort, price and shelve.” I said. “And when I was going through one of the boxes, I found a yellow notebook with the Mount Saint Francis logo on it. Remember those? The nuns used to dole them out to us every fall, so we could keep track of our classes.”
“You mean you found somebody’s old school notes?” Mary Beth said. “What a hoot. Too bad you didn’t find them before the reunion. We all could have had a good laugh.”
“It wasn’t exactly class notes” I said, my cheeks burning at the memory. “Have you ever heard of something called The Golden Circle Club? I took the notebook home to try to decipher it.”
Class Reunions Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story; A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery Page 19
