Auld Lang Syne

by Judith Ivie

  “The Wethersfield police?” I squeaked. “What exactly am I going to say, that I’m not really sure, but I think some nut case murdered a woman I went to high school with in 1978, and now he or she is stalking me because I might have seen something incriminating? Or not,” I huffed.

  “We must at least discuss these events with our good friend the lieutenant,” Armando insisted.

  “I don’t think John Harkness is even back in town yet. Margo said he was flying in sometime today, and I’m certainly not going to burden him with this wild goose chase tonight.”

  “Why not? He has already heard the first part of this story and has made one or two calls to the Brewster police, has he not?”

  “Yes, but nothing you can say will persuade me to call him tonight. He’ll be busy,” I smiled, “and Margo would skin me alive. My little problem can wait until tomorrow.”

  As I peered around the empty parking lot once again, I silently hoped my little problem wasn’t getting bigger by the moment, but I had my doubts. Still, having my hotheaded Colombian husband get the wind up wasn’t going to help.

  “Home, James,” I urged cheerfully, doing my best to look unconcerned. “The laundry awaits, and if you want any dinner, I’d best get on it.”

  Twelve

  “So the bottom line is you have a bunch of unlikely suspects with ancient motives who had virtually no opportunity to murder Mindy but decided to do it anyway in the middle of a public function,” Strutter summed up when I finished telling her about my activities over the previous two days. She sat across from me in our regular booth at the Town Line Diner and dabbed her lips with a napkin. Margo hadn’t joined us this morning, presumably because she was still enjoying her reunion with her husband.

  “You would think after the past few years I’d be better at this investigating stuff, but I’m getting nowhere fast on this one,” I groused and drained the last of my coffee. The after-church crowd was beginning to file in. I signaled our waitress for a check so we could make the table available.

  “There are almost too many people who had legitimate grudges against Mindy, and most of them were at the reunion,” Strutter mused, “although how anyone could pull off a stunt like that in a tiny, cramped bathroom before someone else came in is beyond me. They would have had to knock Mindy out with something, administer the fatal dose, glue her eyelids shut, plant the phony insulin syringe and leave without anyone noticing anything peculiar. That’s just crazy.”

  I nodded. “I agree with you, but I’m afraid crazy is what we’re dealing with here—a nut case who not only planned and carried out this bizarre execution but is now showering the entire planning committee with veiled threats and stalking me, to boot.” I sighed in frustration. “I wish I could talk to John Harkness about this.”

  “So you will when he and Margo come up for air,” Strutter soothed.

  I gave up and changed the subject. “What’s going on with Charlie and Duane? Still working on some top-secret project?”

  Strutter’s smile transformed her face. “As a matter of fact, they are, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy, so I can’t tell you about it yet.”

  I frowned. “Well, when can you let me in on it? I’m feeling clueless enough at the moment. Can’t anybody tell me anything?”

  “Another few days should just about do it. Unless I miss my guess, everyone in Wethersfield and lots of other places besides will know all about it then. You do have a Facebook account, right?”

  “No,” I moaned, “anything but that. I used to have one, but I was so appalled at the constant stream of drivel, I quit using it. Quite frankly, I don’t care if Susie Smith has to go do a load of laundry now or if Jim Jones has a cold today. The level of discourse, if you can even call it that, is pathetic. Leave it to the kiddies, I say.”

  Strutter picked up our check as I left a tip on the table. “Normally, I’d agree with you, but this is a special occasion. Just reactivate your account and invite me to friend you.” She winked. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  “Okay, but I’m using an alias. Look for a friend request from Kate Velasquez. What’s on your agenda for the rest of the day?” I asked as we picked our way through slushy ruts to our respective cars in the parking lot.

  “J.D. and I have to endure a dance recital at Olivia’s pre-school, God help us, and I have to make a supermarket run. That’s about it for my suburban excitement today. Margo promised Suzanne and Dennis Flaherty another open house this afternoon, but we don’t expect much traffic. Even the looky-loos will stay home on an afternoon like this. How about you?”

  I considered my options. Vacuuming and dusting went down in flames as I had a thought. “Maybe John will keep Margo company at the Flahertys’, and I can crash the open house and pick his brain,” I said, cheered by the idea.

  Strutter shivered and beeped open her car door. “Good luck with that. John’s had a hard week, and he probably just wants to hunker down in front of a game on TV.”

  “You could be right, but I’m going to call and ask anyway. John could invite Armando to watch the game with him, and I can talk to him during breaks.” I gave her a little wave and headed to the Jetta.

  “You’re relentless,” she called after me, and I had to admit she was probably right about that, too.

  To my surprise Margo informed me when I phoned her that John was already planning to accompany her to the open house. “He can watch the game there as well as at our house, and I want him to see the place and meet Dennis and Suzanne. Did you know Dennis attended the police academy a few years back?”

  I hadn’t known that and told her so. “Did he ever join a department?”

  “My understandin’ is that he never actually graduated. Somethin’ about a family emergency and his bein’ needed at home. Then he and Suzanne got married, and he wound up workin’ for some big security company, the one that laid him off about a year and a half later.”

  “They sure have had a run of bad luck, and now he’s out of work, and she’s expecting a child. I wonder if Dennis knows about that yet?”

  “He’d almost have to. Last week Suzanne’s baby bump was startin’ to show, which is what gave me the idea.”

  I frowned at the phone. “Idea about what? Are you and John planning to adopt?”

  Margo’s ladylike laugh tinkled in my ear. “Not their baby, no. Heaven forbid.”

  “I think Dennis and Suzanne already have parents,” I warned, only half-kidding. For a woman who lacked maternal instincts, Margo was certainly acting motherly these days. Usually, she lavished such feelings on Rhett Butler, her ancient chocolate lab, and his companion Sassy, a female rescue dog she and John had adopted just a year or so ago.

  “Like I told you, Sugar, everyone needs a fairy godmother from time to time and maybe a godpapa, too.”

  “I don’t think there is such a thing,” I pointed out tartly, “at least not the kind that waves a wand and grants wishes.”

  “Oh, now, don’t pout. You’re nitpickin’ because I’m not revealin’ my absolutely wonderful idea to you at this moment. Tell you what. John and I will drop by your place after the open house, and I’ll give you the details then, dependin’ on how things go with John and the Flahertys.”

  “And I can fill John in on the Mindy situation,” I agreed, warming to the idea. “Poor John. Everyone seems to want his advice at the same time.”

  “It’s good for his ego, makes him feel missed and needed.”

  “He was, and he is,” I reminded her.

  “Damn straight,” Margo agreed. “See you later, Sugar.”

  Despite my earnest efforts to avoid housework, the prospect of having visitors later in the day motivated me to attend to the vacuuming and dusting while Armando finished up the laundry. As I pushed my old Hoover upright over the rugs and flipped a duster over the furniture and lamps, I sorted through the events of the previous two days and attempted to make some sense of them. I’d had conversations with Detective Hagearty and Harold King. I’d
met with Joanie, Maryellyn, Jean and Joanne, all of whom had received anonymous warning notes along with Ariel, who was currently among the missing. I had also met with Pat Connelly, who had not received a warning note but had been captured on film outside the restroom in which Mindy had perished. In the course of all of these conversations, I’d learned quite a bit about my former classmates but nothing at all about Mindy’s demise.

  I returned the Hoover to the front hall closet and set about putting out cheese, crackers and fresh fruit for nibbling while we enjoyed a glass of wine, and Armando carried in logs and laid a fresh fire in the fireplace. The prospect of a warm blaze brought Gracie running, and Armando brushed her thoroughly in deference to Margo. Animal lover that she was, whatever designer outfit she wore would not be improved by a layer of ginger-colored hair.

  As I was getting some wine glasses out of the cupboard, the doorbell rang, and hellos could be heard in the hall as Armando helped Margo and John hang up their coats. I beamed at Margo’s handsome husband, who had become a good friend since she and I and Strutter had gone into business together. As always, I noticed how immaculately groomed the lieutenant was, his barbered good looks set off by a tailored charcoal blazer and blue pinstriped shirt. The shirt was open at the neck, and his black loafers shone with polish. Blond, blue-eyed men sometimes don’t age well, but John Harkness was doing just fine. Since his marriage to Margo a couple of years ago, even the little tension lines around his eyes had eased.

  We all settled companionably in front of the fireplace. Armando and I lounged in the big double recliner with Gracie between us. Margo and John left their shoes at the front door and sat on the sofa, their stocking feet propped side-by-side on the coffee table. They held hands like newlyweds. No one in the Wethersfield Police Department who had known “Lieutenant Hardnose” in his pre-Margo days would believe the transformation she had wrought in him.

  “How did the open house go?” I prompted. “Any lookers?”

  “Not unless you count my husband, but he gave the house a good goin’ over. He was up in the attic with a flashlight, down in the cellar lookin’ for signs of water damage, the whole nine yards.”

  “I like to take my time with important things,” John pointed out. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Margo smirked. “Not a thing, Darlin’. I like that about you, too.” She winked at us over her wine glass, and John’s face grew rosy.

  I cleared my throat and tried again. “Do you know someone who might be interested in buying the house? It’s such a cute place. I hate to see Dennis and Suzanne lose it, but I don’t want to see them go bankrupt either.”

  “Especially now that a little one is on the way,” Armando added. He scratched Gracie gently, and she spread her toes in bliss.

  “Does Dennis know he’s going to be a father yet?” I asked. Is he happy about it?”

  “Yes, and yes,” Margo replied. “He wasn’t all that tickled about it at the beginnin’ of the afternoon, Suzanne told me privately, but he’d cheered up considerably by the time we left.” She and John exchanged grins.

  I arched an eyebrow at them. “And what brought about this attitude adjustment?”

  “Do you want to tell them, or shall I?” Margo asked John.

  He made an after you gesture. “It was your idea, Blondie, so go for it.”

  My impatience was starting to show, and Margo abandoned her cool demeanor. She put down her wine glass and clapped her hands in delight like a little girl.

  “John and I made ‘em an offer. It’s not the full askin’ price, but it’s enough to cover their debt and then some, plus they won’t have to pay me a sales commission.”

  My jaw dropped open, and even Armando looked surprised. “You already have a home, do you not? I did not know you had plans to move.”

  “We don’t,” John confirmed. “This is strictly an investment. We plan to rent this house to some nice young couple.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Margo, and I began to get the drift.

  “Like, say, Dennis and Suzanne Flaherty?” I asked, amused and touched.

  “Yup, but just until they get their feet back under them financially. Then we’ll sell them back their house for exactly what we paid for it,” Margo beamed.

  Armando and I looked at each other, puzzled. “Um, how is this a good investment for you if you do not make any profit on the transaction?”

  “Tax breaks,” John told him, “a little accounting magic. I have the money from my parents’ estate socked away, so we won’t have to take out a mortgage on this purchase. It will be a private sale for cash, which should make the bank very happy. Anyway, it won’t be for long.”

  “How can you know that? In this struggling economy it is impossible to determine how long the young husband will be out of work,” Armando protested.

  “Oh, not too long. With a degree in law enforcement and an almost-completed stint in the policy academy, I predict Dennis will be on the job within the year,” John said confidently.

  Margo said nothing, but her eyes shone as she gazed adoringly at her husband.

  “Things are looking up, but it’s still a very tough job market. How can you say that?” I demanded.

  John took pity on us. “I happen to know that Wethersfield PD will be hiring in the next few months. An entry level position has already been approved in the budget, and priority is given to town residents in the application process. Dennis has above-average credentials, and I believe my personal recommendation might carry some weight.” His tone was light, but what he said was true. If anyone could help Dennis Flaherty get on the job in Wethersfield, it would be Lieutenant John Harkness.

  “Wow,” I breathed in admiration as Armando chuckled beside me. “You thought of everything. I think you’re a natural at this fairy godmother thing,” I told my friend.

  “Don’t forget godpapa here,” she reminded me as she squeezed John’s hand. “Now how about I go use your phone to order the biggest pie Village Pizza has to offer? I’m starvin’.”

  My stomach growled in happy anticipation, but I squelched it firmly. “Chicken Caesar salad with dressing on the side for me, I’m afraid, but enjoy yourselves.”

  “Sorry, Sugar. How’s that goin’?” she sympathized.

  “The scale finally moved down by two pounds, and I’m determined not to screw it up.”

  “Good for you,” she applauded me before heading briskly for the kitchen phone. Hunger pangs still trumped compassion.

  After she placed our order Margo exercised her usual tact and offered to accompany Armando to Village Pizza so that I could catch John up on the Mindy Marchelewski situation. As succinctly as I could I summarized my findings of the last few days, which admittedly didn’t amount to all that much. John listened with admirable patience. I had hoped on some level that his analytical mind and investigative experience would lead him to a “Eureka!” moment during my recitation, but no such luck. When I came to the end of my unproductive story and refreshed myself with a sip of wine, he shook his head in disbelief.

  “How do you get yourself involved in these things?” was his unhelpful comment. It was becoming my least favorite question, and I scowled at him.

  “It’s not as if I go around beating the bushes for dead bodies,” I snapped. These things, as you call them, just keep …” I flapped my hands in frustration, “ … happening, and people ask me to help them.”

  “What people?”

  So many conversations had taken place over the past week, I had to think about it for a minute. Then I remembered.

  “Joan Haines and her friend Ariel MacAfee, if you really need to know. Someone threatened one of them—we’re not sure which one, because they had identical evening bags—with an anonymous letter, and then I got one, too, and after that it became, well, personal.”

  John stared at me as if I had lost my mind, which was probably an appropriate response. I was beginning to suspect a loose marble or two myself.

  “I’m sure that all made perfect sense, but
remember, it isn’t even officially a homicide,” he reminded me, “just death under suspicious circumstances. The advanced tox screen confirmed that Mindy died from a morphine overdose, and there were other chemicals in her bloodstream.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called Hagearty of the Brewster PD this morning. I’m a cop. I can do that.”

  “Then it is a homicide.”

  “Not necessarily. The overdose could have been self-administered.”

  “In a public restroom? And then she dropped a phony insulin syringe and glued her own eyelids shut before expiring? Come on, John, that’s crap, and you know it as well as I do.”

  We glared at each other like a pair of scrapping siblings, totally hot under the collar. Then John’s mouth twitched, and his expression grew sheepish.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Hagearty thinks so, too, but Brewster has taken their investigation about as far as they can go without someone pressing charges, and they’ve got to turn the body over to the only relatives that would agree to dispose of it. The case will stay open and get cold like so many others do out here in the real world. Not all of them get tied up with a ribbon, and this one’s a beauty. Half the people at that reunion harbored major grudges against Mindy Marchelewski, but not one of them could have carried out a scheme that convoluted during a public event. It’s not possible.”

  I had come to the same conclusion, but hearing someone as experienced as John say it out loud pushed another theory to the front of my head.

  “You’re right. One person couldn’t have taken all the steps involved.”

  His smile became thoughtful, and I could almost see the synapses firing behind his steely blue eyes. “A cabal?” he ventured at length. “More than one of her bullying victims in on it? If anything, that’s even more twisted than one person trying to murder her at a reunion.”

  I shrugged. “Twisted is the name of this game, John, and how else could it have happened? We agree that one person couldn’t have pulled it off. We know lots of the people there had it in for Mindy. The method seems risky and extreme, but what other answer could there be?”