Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  I settled myself into the family room couch again and the dogs hopped up beside me. I let them snuggle in close. What the heck, I could always vacuum off the dog hairs later, and right now I needed all the empathetic company I could get. I even had a ballpoint pen and lined pad handy, in case I decided to make a few notes during Sheila’s interview. Contrary to other people’s opinions, I can be organized, when I set my mind to it.

  I was especially curious to see if Wake Up New England had sent a reporter out to interview Sheila, which would make Rhodes and his death a really important story.

  When the interview began, it was obvious a local camera crew was at the Center with Sheila, and the interview was going to be conducted via remote. I strained to see where the conversation was taking place, and realized Sheila was in the elegant living room of the Center. Dressed impeccably in a basic black dress (widow’s weeds?) with the obligatory pearl choker at her throat and tiny pearl stud earrings, her blonde hair was flowing over her shoulders. She looked very fragile.

  “Ms. Carney, first of all,” said Dan, “please accept the condolences of all of us on Dr. Rhodes’s tragic passing. We were looking forward to our interview with him this morning so much.” Marni nodded her head in agreement.

  “Thank you,” replied Sheila, graciously accepting their condolences. “And it’s Dr. Carney, not Ms. Carney.” Her hands fluttered to her pearls. “But you both may call me Sheila.” She smirked, just a little, into the camera.

  Whoa, I thought. I was surprised Sheila was acting so bitchy to Dan and Marni. Didn’t she care how she came across on camera? This prima donna wasn’t the professional woman I’d met when I visited the Center with Jim for that first meeting. I wondered what the relationship had been between Sheila and Davis Rhodes. Professional? Personal? A little bit of both?

  I made a note on my pad to check that question out.

  Both Dan and Marni looked startled at Sheila’s response, but quickly recovered, pros that they are.

  “Well, Sheila,” Marni put just a little emphasis on the name, “I’m sure this has been a terrible shock to you. Dr. Rhodes’s re-treading approach to retirement was certainly revolutionary, and I’m sure millions of baby boomers would have benefited from his wise counsel. It’s very premature, I’m sure, but has the staff of the Center given any thought as to how, and by whom, his great work will be carried on?”

  Sheila smiled insincerely into the camera, revealing a dazzling set of teeth in a shade so white that it couldn’t possibly be natural. “Why, Marni, of course the work of the Re-tirement Survival Center will go on. How could we not go on? The Center will be a lasting tribute to Dr. Rhodes and his pioneering work, a memorial, if you will. And as far as someone to lead the Center, why,” her blues eyes widened, “since I worked so closely with Dr. Rhodes in developing the re-treading method, of course I will now be the Center’s director.”

  Sheila’s eyes widened even further, if possible, and she stared directly into the camera. Her lip quivered slightly. “It’s the least I can do to honor a genius whose work will impact the lives of millions of baby boomers in the coming years.”

  Sheila was certainly giving an Academy-Award-winning performance. How well I remembered the interaction Jim and I had witnessed, when Rhodes treated Sheila like a flunky in front of us, not a professional colleague. Hmm. I made another note on my pad.

  “That’s truly wonderful news to all Dr. Rhodes’s clients,” said Dan. “How selfless of you to devote your life to such a noble cause. Now tell us….” He leaned forward in his chair. “Has there been any progress in determining the cause of Dr. Rhodes’s death? Are the police still on the premises doing some investigating? Will any public memorial service be scheduled, and if so, when?”

  Sheila leaned back in her chair, as if to ward off this new line of questioning. “Dan, as you know, Dr. Rhodes only died last night. We’re waiting for the final determination of the cause of his tragic death, pending the autopsy results. This will take several days, I’m told by the police. Of course, we will have a public memorial service to honor his memory when the time is right, but in the meantime, the Re-tirement Survival Center is open and ready to serve our clients. That, of course, is the most significant memorial of all to the important work Dr. Rhodes and I pioneered together.”

  The interview ended on that note.

  I flicked off the television and my imagination went into overdrive. Probably as a result of reading too many mysteries. But what if it turned out that Rhodes really was murdered? And that Sheila had murdered him to gain control of the Center?

  Now, that would really be something.

  ELEVEN

  Q: Why do retirees count pennies?

  A: They’re the only ones who have the time.

  I had just begun to scribble a few more notes to myself when the phone rang. I checked the caller I.D. It was Jim. Probably calling to tell me he’d either been fired or arrested. I took a few deep cleansing breaths to calm myself, then answered it. “Hi dear. How’s everything?” Are you being measured for a prison jumpsuit? I didn’t say that last part, of course.

  “So far, so good,” Jimassured me. “Did you see Sheila Carney’s interview on Wake Up New England just now? Wasn’t she great? I think it’s fabulous that she plans to keep the Re-tirement Survival Center open as a tribute to Dave. I’m wondering if I should give her a quick call and express my condolences. And also congratulate her on how well she handled herself on the air. What do you think?”

  I was completely flabbergasted. In our thirty-plus years of marriage, Jim had never asked my advice about anything work-related.

  “Well, Jim,” I said, hedging my response, “that could be a kind thing for you to do. I’m sure Sheila is feeling very upset and emotional right now over Rhodes’s death. It must be horrible for her.” Not that she seemed all that heartbroken in the interview. More like she couldn’t wait to get on with her role as new director of the Center.

  “But maybe it’s not a good idea for you to contact her so quickly,” I cautioned. “After all, you found Rhodes’s body, and the police haven’t released the cause of his death. You may still be under some suspicion.”

  “Carol, you’re exaggerating my involvement,” Jim countered. “After all, I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been anybody who discovered Dave’s body. It was just a fluke that it was me,” he said, a defensive edge to his voice.

  “I don’t think I’m overreacting to this,” I said. “The police may want to question you again. What if they find out that Rhodes was supposed to be your client, not the other way around? And how angry you were about his arrangingtodo a major television appearance behind your back? Jim, don’t you get it? The fact that you went to his office to have it out with him makes it look like you could have killed him.”

  There, I’d said it. My deepest fear was that Rhodes had been murdered, and the police would think Jim was responsible.

  “That’s just ridiculous,” said Jim, his voice rising slightly. “Leave it to you to over-dramatize the situation. That’s why I asked you to call Larry last night. He assured me that all those questions were standard police operating procedure, because I found the body. And I don’t see why calling Sheila to express my condolences was going to raise any suspicions with the police about me. Your imagination is really working overtime again, Carol.”

  “But Jim,” I persisted, “what if Sheila had something to do with his death? Who would have had a better opportunity to harm Rhodes than Sheila? And he treated her like a secretary, not a partner, from what we observed, remember? I saw her on television this morning, too, and she sure didn’t seem that broken up about Rhodes’s death to me.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say,” Jim snapped. He paused, then said more gently, “Honey, I know you’re worried about me, and I appreciate that, even though I don’t think it’s necessary. I have to go. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Well, maybe Jim had deluded himself into thin
king everything was hunky dory, but I certainly had my doubts. I remember when we were first married. One of the reasons I was so attracted to Jim was that nothing seemed to throw him. No matter how trivial or how important the problem, Jim always seemed to know exactly what to do to make things right.

  I admit that I have panicked in certain situations, especially ones involving the kids. There was that time when Mike was three, fell off his tricycle in the driveway and hit his head. God, the blood! I was absolutely paralyzed. Then I started screaming. Jim came running out of the house, took one look at the situation and immediately ran inside for a cold cloth to stop the bleeding. He picked Mike up and pressed the compress to his head for a good five minutes, all the while comforting him, and me. When the bleeding stopped, it turned out to be just a small cut on Mike’s forehead. Only two stitches were needed to close the wound, and Mike doesn’t even have a scar today.

  Yes, Jim was great at emergencies like that.

  But over the years, I’ve realized that there are lots of things that Jim can’t fix, whether he thinks he can or not. Nobody makes terrific choices all the time, but as Jim became more and more disillusioned with his job at the agency, he didn’t seem to care whether the choices he made, especially in his professional life, were good ones or not. And the way he was handling Davis Rhodes’s death was unfathomable to me.

  On the other hand, I’d never found a dead body. How did I know if he was reacting normally? Maybe Jim was just protecting himself from what had to be a horrible scene, one that would give most people nightmares for months.

  My mother always told me, “Don’t borrow trouble, Carol. It’ll find you soon enough.” Maybe she was right.

  I sighed, then said to the dogs, “It’s shower time. I’m going upstairs and wash away all my troubles down the bathroom drain.”

  There’s a meditation I do sometimes when I’m in the shower, which helps center me for the day. In the meditation, as the water rushes over me, I let go of any negative feelings that may be in my head. When I turn off the water, I will them all to be gone, and to stay gone for the remainder of the day. If there ever was a day when I needed to practice that meditation, it was today.

  Even if I stayed in the shower until I wrinkled up like a prune.

  ~*~

  Predictably, three people had called and left messages while I was washing away my troubles: Nancy, Mary Alice and Claire.

  Nancy was the first. “I’ve got to talk to you!” she shouted into the phone. “I was reading the morning paper before I left to go to Realtor open houses, and there’s a small article on the bottom of page one that says Davis Rhodes was found dead at the Re-tirement Survival Center last night. The police aren’t releasing any more information right now. All I could think of was how angry Jim was with Rhodes. DidJim actually see him yesterday? What’s going on? Call me on my pager or my cell as soon as you get this message.” She rattled off a series of numbers and hung up.

  Oh, boy. It had never occurred to me that there would be something in the local paper about Rhodes’s death. At least, not this soon. But that’s stupid, Carol, I chided myself. It was announced on television an hour ago. What made you think it wouldn’t be in the paper too?

  I dressed hurriedly and ran downstairs. Our hometown paper was still sitting on our front porch, beside the blue plastic bag containing The New York Times. It was raining slightly, so the local paper was wet and the pages were stuck together.

  Normally, I would spread the paper out all over the kitchen so the pages would dry before I read it, but today I was in too much of a hurry to bother. I scanned the front page and didn’t see anything about Rhodes. What was Nancy talking about?

  I skipped to the second section, which featured regional news, and there it was, a small news item at the bottom right corner.

  Local Retirement Coach Found Dead

  Davis Rhodes, Ph.D., founder of the Re-tirement Survival Center and author of the recently published book, Re-tirement’s Not For Sissies: A Baby Boomer’s Guide To Making The Most Of The Best Of Your Life, was found dead at his office in Westfield last night. As of press time, police were releasing no information as to cause of death, but one source, who asked not to be identified, termed Dr. Rhodes’s death ‘suspicious.’ An autopsy has been ordered.

  Well, I consoled myself, it could have been a lot worse. At least Jim wasn’t identified as being the person who found Rhodes’s body.

  But the police were terming the death “suspicious.” That wasn’t good. I resisted the urge to call or email Jim about this. He’d probably seen the story already. Instead, I listened to my other voice mail messages.

  The next one was from Mary Alice. “I just saw the paper and I’m checking to be sure everything is all right. I’m not working today, so if you want to talk, I’m at home. What can I do to help?” That message was typical of Mary Alice. Ever the caregiver, she was such an ideal nurse. I wished with all my heart that there was something she could do to help, but I was at a loss about what that could be. Except listen to me and hand me tissues when I cried. Or give me drugs to calm me down. Which was probably illegal.

  The last call was from Claire. “Carol,” she said, “it’s nine-forty-five and I’m checking in to see how you and Jim are doing today. Did he go to work? When Larry got home last night, he assured me that there was nothing to worry about. But finding a dead body must have been awful for Jim, especially when it was someone he knew. And there was a little squib in today’s paper about Rhodes’s death. Did you see it? Thank God it didn’t mention who found the body. Call me whenever you can talk. I’ll come over if you want me to, but I don’t want to intrude in case Jim is still home.”

  “End of messages,” the automated voice mail said.

  For now, that’s the end of our messages, I thought. Once word got out about Jim being the person who found Rhodes, everybody in town will be calling here to offer advice, sympathy, or pump us for information. I ran my hands through my hair. God, what an awful mess.

  Then the dogs started to bark uncontrollably. And the front doorbell rang.I peeked out through the dining room drapes and gasped. There was a police car parked in front of the house, and I could make out the silhouettes of two uniformed patrolmen standing on my front steps.

  TWELVE

  Re-tire: verb; to go away or withdraw to a private, sheltered, or secluded place.— Webster’s Dictionary

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. I felt like I was going to be sick to my stomach, like I’d taken a body blow which had knocked the air out of me.

  I deluded myself into thinking that the police couldn’t tell I was home. Maybe, if I crept up the stairs to the bedroom with my back pressed against the wall, they wouldn’t see me.

  The dogs, of course, continued to bark wildly and jump at the front door. I knew I couldn’t shush them without giving my presence away.

  Suddenly, I realized that if I hid from the police, it would look suspicious. My cowardly behavior could make things worse for Jim. That was the last thing I wanted to do.

  I pasted a false smile on my face and opened the door.

  Lucy and Ethel, sensing an opportunity for unexpected freedom, immediately tried to make a break for the front yard. I grabbed each of them by their collars and said, “Easy, girls.”

  One of the officers, the younger one, flashed a badge and said, “Mrs. Andrews? Hi, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Mark Anderson. I went to school with Jenny.”

  “Mark?” I repeated. “You’re Mark Anderson?”

  I tried not to react, but if this was really Mark, he’d come a long way from the pimply-faced boy I remembered. In fact, he was downright handsome, reminding me of a younger Brad Pitt. He smiled, and I saw just a flash of that young boy who used to tell jokes at the kitchen table when he and Jenny were supposed to be doing their homework. I remember they seemed to spend more time laughing together than actually studying.

  “Yes, Mrs. Andrews. I guess I’ve changed a lit
tle since you saw me last.”

  “Why, Mark,” I said, “I never would have recognized you. It’s so nice to see you again.” Then I clapped my hands over my mouth. “Well, it’s not nice to see you. Oh, damn. You know what I mean.”

  Mark laughed and shook my hand. At that exact moment, the dogs took advantage of my lack of vigilance and made a beeline out the door. “Oh!” I screamed. “Stop them! The gate’s not closed and if they get out on the street, they could get hit by a car!”

  In less than a second—I swear—Mark had turned and raced after Lucy and Ethel. “Gotcha,” he said, collaring each of the offending canines. “Back inside with you two.” He led them gently back to me.

  “Would you mind if we all went inside for a minute?” Mark asked, handing the dogs off to me.

  Gesturing to the other policeman, he said, “This is my partner, Paul Wheeler, Mrs. Andrews. He was with me last night when we answered your husband’s emergency call at Dr. Rhodes’s office.”

  Paul Wheeler had to be just about the shortest adult male I’d ever seen, was bald, and sported a thin moustache. Rather than say hello like Mark had done, he simply gave me a hard, level stare. I disliked him on the spot. Like a lot of very short men, he overcompensated for his size by trying to appear macho. Nancy calls this behavior Short Stature Syndrome. I decided to ignore him as much as possible during my interview, and concentrate on talking to Mark instead.

  “I’d shake your hand, Paul,” I said with a little laugh, “but you saw what happened the last time I let go of the dogs’ collars. Come on into the kitchen. It’s more comfortable in there.”

  I was feeling less nervous now. After all, I’d known Mark since he was a little boy. Someone can only intimidate you if you let them, I reminded myself.

  We all sat down around the kitchen table, and the dogs settled themselves at my feet. “Anyone want coffee?” I asked brightly, ever the perfect hostess. “I can make a fresh pot in just a few minutes.”