by Lois Winston
I leaned forward on the sofa. Now we were getting to the good stuff.
“You see, Mary Alice,” Sheila said, completely ignoring me, “Dave wasn’t legally divorced from his first wife.” Her eyes narrowed. “That woman, Grace, had the nerve to show up here and tell him so. I was livid. I thought he’d lied to me. And after all I’d done for him, working with him for all these years to start up the Re-tirement Survival Center. I wasn’t going to take the chance he’d dump me and go back to her. No way.”
Ooh, this was a good motive for bumping him off. Hell hath no fury and all that stuff.
“And then he died,” Sheila said. “He died before I had a chance to tell him I forgave him, that I’d stick with him no matter what. And that I loved him and knew he’d never deliberately deceive me.” Sheila was crying in earnest now. “That’s the last time I saw him alive. I feel so guilty. That’s why I want this memorial to be so perfect. I want to make it up to him, somehow.”
Brother. This was a little hard to swallow.
But Mary Alice had exactly the right answer for Sheila. “You have survivor’s guilt,” she said. “You’re alive, and he’s dead, and you never had the chance to say you were sorry. Believe me, I know about that too. The day Brian died, we had a big fight over something stupid. I don’t even remember what it was about. He left the house angry, and an hour later he was dead.”
What? This was news to me. You go, Mary Alice! Sounds good.
We left soon after that revelation. What else was there to say? To her credit, though, Mary Alice promised to keep in touch with the still weeping Sheila.
I waited until we were safely in the parking lot and then said, “Mary Alice, you were amazing in there. That phony story about you and Brian really made Sheila open up. I need to get home right away and get in touch with Mark Anderson. He’s going to want to question her.”
Mary Alice got into her car and slammed the door. “I’m not proud of this, but it wasn’t a phony story. I just never told anyone about it before.”
She turned the key, pressed her foot down on the accelerator, and sped down the block, leaving me standing on the curb with my mouth hanging open.
TWENTY-FOUR
Q: What’s the downside of doing nothing?
A: You don’t know when you’re done.
All the way home, I stewed over Mary Alice’s unexpected revelation. There were so many times over the years that Jim and I would have harsh words over trivial things, and then he’d storm out to catch his train, leaving the matter unresolved until that evening. I’d always taken it for granted that he would come home, and that we would (eventually) talk things over and reach an agreement on such earthshaking subjects as what brand of paper towels to buy, how many friends Jenny was allowed to invite over for her next sleepover, if Mike could have a girl over for a study date, and whether he could keep his bedroom door closed when she was here. That last one caused a lot of arguments, because I always feared the worst (naturally) and Jim was of the “boys will be boys” mentality.
I resolved to take Mary Alice’s lesson seriously, and become kinder and gentler toward my husband. At least, I would try.
~*~
After I got home and let the dogs out for a quick run in the yard, I reviewed my options for the rest of the afternoon. I really wanted to talk to Mark Anderson, but after our phone conversation earlier today, that didn’t seem like a very good idea. Then I noticed the red light on my phone was blinking. The message was from Jenny, who’d had still another car problem and, when she couldn’t reach me, had called Mark on his cell phone. Luckily for her, he was able to come to her rescue and was following her to our mechanic’s, where she’d drop off her car. They were going to have an early dinner together and then she’d be home.
Well, that was certainly interesting. Two “dates” in such a short period of time. It sure would be funny if they got together after all these years, I thought. I wondered if Mark spent any time complaining to Jenny about what a nosy mother she had. Or if he discussed any part of the Rhodes case with her.
Nah, I thought. Not likely. Mark was obviously trying to impress Jenny, and criticizing her mother would not be helpful. Besides, Jenny already knew I was nosy. Discussing the pros and cons of her father as a murder suspect wouldn’t win him any brownie points either.
I decided the most productive use of my precious time before Jim came home from the office was to go over the notes I’d taken about the memorial service. Dinner could wait. Maybe we’d even get takeout for a change—Chinese or a pizza.
I was so deep in concentration, trying to decipher my chicken scratch handwriting, that I didn’t realize Jim was standing over me. And he had a bouquet of flowers in his hand. What was going on? The last time he’d brought me flowers was when Mike was born.
“You startled me, Jim. How long have you been standing there?”
He thrust the flowers at me, slightly embarrassed. “Here. These are for you. I just want you to know how much I appreciate your helping me.”
I started to protest that flowers weren’t necessary, but then Jim said, a little impatiently, “Don’t make a big deal out of this. I got the flowers from one of the vendors outside Grand Central. It’s not like I went to a florist or anything.”
Typical, Carol. Jim does something nice for you, and you put him on the defensive for doing it. What’s the matter with you?
“That’s so sweet of you, honey. Thank you.”
Jim pulled me up from my chair and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s the least I could do for my best girl. Now, why don’t you fill me in on what happened today. Did you see Sheila? How did it go? And before you ask me, no, I haven’t heard anything more from the police. Which I assume is a good thing.”
That bit of news reassured me that perhaps we could have a “normal” evening at home, whatever that meant under the current circumstances.
Knowing that the way to Jim’s heart was through his stomach, I announced that, before I brought him up to date, we were going to order a takeout meal. His choice: Italian or Chinese. And we were going to shoot the budget tonight and pay the extra money to have the meal delivered.
Jim started to argue that he could easily go and pick up the order. I knew what he was really thinking—bringing me flowers should have been enough. Paying a delivery charge was way over the top.
But I stuck to my guns and after just a little more bickering, we agreed on a Chinese feast from The Lotus Blossom, a scant two miles away. Jim grudgingly called and placed our order, warning the woman that if the meal was delivered cold, there would be no tip for the driver. Ordinarily, I would have commented on that, but I let it go. A kinder, gentler Carol, that was the new me.
“Now,” I said, “do you want to sit down and get comfortable? I have such a lot to tell you. I know that sometimes you think I go on and on without getting to the point, or skip from one subject to another, and that drives you nuts.
“I have an even better idea,” I said, not giving the poor man a chance to get a word in. “If you want to go upstairs, change and wash up first, go ahead. I’ll make up an agenda for all my news. How’s that?” I’ve found that having an agenda for spousal discussions can be quite helpful. This may not work for everybody, but it’s prevented several serious arguments for us over the years. For one thing, it forces both of us to focus on the same thing at the same time. A novelty in marriage.
I fired up my computer and, before doing my agenda, sent off a quick email to Mike, assuring him that his father was not about to be fitted for an orange prison jumpsuit and promising to keep him posted on what was going on up north. Then I remembered Jenny’s suggestion about Mike’s Internet expertise, so I added:
May want to use your sleuthing skills long-distance. Can you track down people on the web if I just give you names, not addresses? That could be a great help.
Love from your Geriatric Cosmo Girl.
I could hear the sound of the shower running upstairs. Good, I thought. H
opefully that would relax Jim and put him in a receptive frame of mind for all I had to tell him.
First on the agenda, the purpose of the meeting. That was an easy one—to keep Jim from getting arrested. But I didn’t think he’d react favorably to that wording, so instead I wrote: To share information on anything pertaining to Davis Rhodes investigation. I hoped that was broad enough. There have been times that one or the other of us has abused the meeting agenda and branched out into other things that were bugging us. Not fair.
I kept the agenda topics loose:
Report on Gibson Gillespie/Re-tirement Survival Center client relationship: Jim
Report on Davis Rhodes personal data: Carol
Report on meeting with Sheila Carney: Carol
Report on conversation with Mark Anderson: Carol
Next Steps: Carol (with some input from Jim)
Next Meeting Date
I put a time limit for discussion by each of the agenda items. It didn’t mean a thing as far as I was concerned, but that tactic pleased Jim immensely. He believes all meetings should be kept to an hour, maximum. After that, he says, you’re just wasting time.
When I read what I had written, I realized that I had given most of the agenda to myself. Oh, well. I knew Jim would interrupt me whenever he felt the urge, which was allowed according to our own unique interpretation of Robert’s Rules of Order. At least, this gave us a place to begin an orderly conversation.
I made sure there was plenty of room between each agenda item for notes, printed out two copies and put them on the dining room table. In my opinion, serious discussion means an upgrade of locale from the usual kitchen hangout to the formal dining room.
Just in time. The front doorbell rang and I rushed to let in the deliveryman before Jim could come downstairs and check over the bill. He’s never figured out that there’s a direct relationship between how long it takes him to ponder over the bill before paying it and the temperature of the food when we finally eat it. The more bill-pondering, the colder the food.
I needn’t have worried about his checking this one, though. It was written entirely in Chinese. I gave the deliveryman a generous tip and sent him on his way.
~*~
By the time my freshly showered husband came downstairs, I had set the table and put his flowers in a vase to use as the table centerpiece. The steaming Chinese food was ready to serve, and smelled delicious. There was an agenda at each of our places. I was set to start my dinner meeting.
“What’s the occasion?” asked Jim when he walked into the dining room. “We never eat in here.” He looked at me and raised one eyebrow. “What are you up to?”
“I might ask you the same question,” I retorted. “You never bring me flowers. What are you up to?”
“Touché,” said Jim. “You’re right. We have to start treating ourselves, and each other, better. If there’s one thing this whole Rhodes fiasco has taught me, it’s that no one can predict what’s going to happen in life. We should enjoy each day.”
Huh? Was this my cynical husband talking? Maybe some good would come out of this mess after all.
“Where’s Jenny tonight?” asked Jim as he dug into one of his favorite Chinese dishes, Chef’s Special Flavor Chicken. “This is so good. What a treat.”
“She had more car trouble today.” I watched Jim’sreaction as I added, “She called Mark Anderson to help her. He followed her to the mechanic’s and then they’re having dinner together.”
Jim didn’t even react when I mentioned Mark’s name. He was too busy eating.
“You realize that Mark will be bringing her home, right?” I asked. “He may come in to say a quick hello. Just so you’re prepared.”
“It’ll be fine,” Jim said. “He’s always treated me respectfully. I wish I could say the same for that partner of his, though. Hopefully, this whole nightmare will be over soon and we can all get back to our normal lives.”
“Amen to that,” I said fervently.
Since most of the agenda items were mine, naturally I monopolized most of the conversation for the next hour. The only piece of information that Jim was willing to share with me about his office situation was, “I’m handling it. It’s not a problem.” Oh, well.
Jim was amazed to learn that “Davis Rhodes” was really Dick Retuccio. “That’s incredible. So he was using an assumed name. I wonder why. That story about the name Retuccio being a turnoff to clients doesn’t sound plausible. I wonder if someone from his past had it in for him.”
“Someone like his wife Grace,” I said. “I think she’s a prime suspect. Plus, she rented a house right around the corner from the Center. Pretty convenient if you wanted to bump somebody off, I’d say.” I ticked off items on my fingers. “She had motive and opportunity. And if Rhodes—I can’t stop calling him that—had any kind of drug allergy or medical condition, who’d know that better than his wife? Now, let’s move on to Sheila.” My favorite suspect.
I filled Jim in as succinctly as I could on my meeting. He approved of my taking Mary Alice along with me. “Always good to have someone else with you, Carol. Especially in a tricky situation like this.”
When I got to the part about Sheila’s suggestions for the memorial service guest list, Jim started to laugh. “She didn’t mention most of these people to me when we last talked. Does she seriously think the entire Connecticut congressional delegation is going to come?”
This was the first time I’d heard Jim say anything negative about Sheila. Instead of tossing off one of my wisecrack answers, I opened my fortune cookie. “A problem clearly stated is a problem half solved,” it read. That was encouraging. At least someone thought I was on the right track.
“The agency has all these V.I.P.s on our master email list,” Jim said. “I guess it won’t hurt to send them an electronic invitation. Maybe also suggest that if they’re not able to attend, perhaps they could email back a tribute to Rhodes to be read at the service. I’ll have the office do that first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll see if any of the big shots respond. Did Sheila mention whether she’d gotten any tributes from clients?”
“She didn’t say a word about that,” I replied, pushing away my plate. “She seemed more fixated on the guest list. And playing the role of the broken-hearted lover. She admitted to Mary Alice and me that she and Rhodes had a personal relationship.”
Jim raised his eyebrow again. He seemed surprised at that revelation. And I was equally surprised that he hadn’t figured that out for himself. Men don’t have the radar that women have, I guess.
I refrained from describing Sheila’s Jackie Kennedy-like outfit. I knew Jim would think that was petty of me. Or, more likely, the analogy would go right over his head.
“I told Sheila I’d take care of ordering any food. She wanted to serve a buffet luncheon for the guests after the memorial service. But I can’t actually order anything until we know how many people will be coming. I thought I’d call Maria Lesco and see what she’d suggest. She’s supposed to be coming up with a menu for Mary Alice’s retirement shower, so I can check in with her about that, too. Maybe if she’s doing two events for me, she’ll give me a better price.”
Jim nodded his approval. Anything I could do to save some money was always great with him. Even if he wasn’t paying for it.
“Now, one more thing on the agenda before we get to next steps for both of us,” I said. “I want to tell you about my conversation with Mark Anderson this morning.”
At that exact moment, I heard a key turn in the front door. “Hello? Anybody home?” It was Jenny, back from her “dinner date” with Mark. “Mark is with me. He’s not feeling well. I think he ate something at that new Mexican place that didn’t agree with him.”
Jenny noticed us at the dining room table for the first time. “Oh, there you both are. In the dining room, no less. Pretty fancy.”
Mark was right behind her. His face was sweaty and pasty white. “Sorry to disturb you both,” he said. “But I wondered if you had
some bicarbonate of soda or Alka-Seltzer or something I could take to settle my stomach. I’ll never make it home otherwise. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me but I feel pretty awful. I guess the food I ate was too spicy.”
I immediately became the solicitous mother. “Mark, I think there’s some Alka-Seltzer in the master bathroom medicine cabinet. Do you want me to get it for you?”
“That’s okay, Mrs. Andrews,” Mark said. “You don’t have to. If you don’t mind my helping myself, that is. I remember where your bathroom is.” It occurred to me that Mark might have other uses for the bathroom and needed some privacy, so I just waved my hand and said, “Help yourself. Give us a shout if you can’t find it.”
Jenny started to help me clear the remnants of the Chinese dinner off the table. Jim hastily folded up our agendas and shoved them in his pocket. So far, he hadn’t said anything, and I know he felt as uncomfortable as I did having Mark here. But we were both trying to put a good face on it, especially for Jenny’s sake.
Less than two minutes later, Mark was back in the dining room. He looked even worse now than he had before, and he was holding something wrapped in a handkerchief.
“Mr. Andrews, Mrs. Andrews, I’m afraid I have to ask you some more questions,” he said. “This is very difficult for me.” He opened the handkerchief and revealed a little blue prescription pill bottle. “Can you tell me where and under what circumstances you acquired this?”
We all squinted at the label. It was something called Enalapril. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before,” I said. “Nobody in this house is on that medication. What’s it used for?”
“It’s a heart medication,” Mark said, “and we suspect it’s the drug that caused Davis Rhodes’s death.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Q: What is a wife’s common reaction to her husband’s retirement?
A: She realizes she never gave his secretary enough sympathy.
