Retirement Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

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  Chapter 23

  Whether a man ends up with a goose egg or a nest egg when he retires depends a lot on the kind of chick he marries.

  “We’ve got to swing into high gear,” I said to Lucy and Ethel. “I’m now officially on the staff of Jim’s P.R. agency and the local police department. Aren’t you proud of me?” Both the dogs looked at me re-proachfully. They can always tell when I’m exaggerating. “Ok, maybe I’m on their staffs unofficially. But at least I’m not going to get criticized this time for sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  Talking out loud had bolstered my confidence. A little. I knew that the sooner I contacted Sheila, the better. Once we started working together on the memorial service, maybe I could get her to open up to me.

  Especially since I had adopted my new mantra: keep quiet and let others do the talking.

  I finally worked up my nerve and called her, after rehearsing what I was going to say over and over to the dogs so I would get the tone just right. I was completely bowled over when Sheila told me that My Beloved had already called and convinced her that I was an expert at organizing all sorts of special events. That was stretching the truth more than even I would dare, since my main special events expertise came from orchestrating our children’s birthday parties. But Sheila bought it completely.

  In fact, she seemed surprisingly grateful for my help.

  “I’m pretty new in Westfield and don’t have too many local contacts, much less friends,” Sheila confided to me. “Jim tells me you’re an absolute whiz with organizing and producing this kind of thing. I can’t wait to meet with you and get your ideas about the memorial service. I see it as a tremendous marketing tool for the Center.”

  Interesting take on the situation, I thought. Sheila certainly was expert at hiding her grief.

  Then, as if reading my thoughts, she added unconvincingly, “This is such a sad occasion for me. I need all the support I can get.”

  Yeah, right.

  I decided it wasn’t smart to meet with Sheila by myself. I wanted another set of eyes and ears to go along with me to pick up on things I might miss, as well provide me with moral support. I was very nervous about living up to the big build-up Jim had given me. If Sheila was as smart as I thought she was, she’d see through my act in a flash.

  Nancy was with clients for most of the day. I knew Claire was still away in the Berkshires with Larry. “Besides,” I said to the dogs, “Larry would kill her if he found out she was snooping with me. Especially since he’s Jim’s lawyer. He’d worry about the appearance of conflict of interest or something.

  “I wonder if I can talk Mary Alice into coming with me.” The dogs danced around at the mention of Mary Alice’s name. Another one of their favorite humans.

  I agreed with their decision. In fact, the more I thought about bringing Mary Alice along, the more I liked the idea. True, she was the most serious member of our group, and always had been. But she was full of the devil, as my mother used to say, when she was in the right frame of mind.

  The most perfect part of all was that Mary Alice really was retiring soon, and I could introduce her to Sheila as a potential client for the Center.

  Carol, you are so clever!

  Unfortunately when I called Mary Alice with my proposition, I woke her up. And she was grumpy.

  “I just got to bed after working the night shift,” Mary Alice said crossly.

  “I feel like I’ve only been asleep for ten minutes, and then you call and wake me up. What do you want and why can’t it wait till later?”

  “I didn’t remember that you’re working the night shift for the next two weeks. I’m really sorry I woke you. But this is important and could help Jim. He’s in big trouble. A lot has happened since I last talked to you, and none of it is good.”

  I knew I had her attention now. Mary Alice is a sucker for helping people. That’s why she’s such a good nurse.

  When I finished bringing her up to date, she agreed (reluctantly) to meet me around the corner from the Retirement Survival Center at 3:30 that afternoon. “I’ll do anything you say, as long as I can get a few hours’ sleep.” Then she banged the phone down in my ear.

  I just hoped she’d remember to show up.

  I needn’t have worried about Mary Alice. She was actually five minutes early, fully made up, perfectly coiffed, and raring to go. “This is exciting, Carol,” she said. “I’m sorry about being crabby when you called me. Being sleep-deprived has that effect on me. But I got a few hours of quality rest, and I had the craziest dream. I was the star witness in a murder trial, and my testimony saved the accused from being convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. Isn’t that something? Must have been my sub-conscious working overtime. So, what do you want me to do?”

  Stop having my dream for starters, I thought. I’m the one who’s going to save Jim. Then I mentally slapped myself. Who cared how many of my friends had delusions about being the one who exonerated my husband?

  Hell, Mary Alice had been one of the bridesmaids in our wedding. She had a stake in this, too.

  “Just be yourself and follow my lead,” I told her. “I’m going to introduce you to Sheila as a friend of mine who’s getting ready to retire. But don’t tell her you already have a retirement strategy mapped out for yourself. We need her to think you’re a potential client of the Center, and see how she responds.”

  “Got it,” Mary Alice said. “Gosh. I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s kind of like working undercover for the CIA, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I snapped. “We have a perfect right to see Sheila. I’m there to help her plan the memorial service, and you’re there for retirement help. We’re not spies, for heaven’s sake. And don’t forget, Jim’s asked me to do this. We’ll take both cars so you can go right home from the Center. Let’s go.”

  There were no other cars in the Center’s parking lot when we pulled into the driveway. Perhaps Sheila wasn’t taking on any new clients until after the memorial service. I was willing to bet, though, that once the word was official that Rhodes had been murdered, business would really pick up. Some people can’t resist being at the scene of a crime.

  I shrugged off the thought that maybe I was one of those people and raised my hand to ring the doorbell. I needn’t have bothered. Sheila must have been watching for me out the window, because the door flew open and a blonde vision greeted us. Sheila was wearing a classic black Chanel suit with three-quarter-length sleeves, medium-heeled black pumps, black leather gloves, and a pillbox hat with a heavy veil.

  I had the urge to genuflect and kiss her ring, but managed to control myself just in time.

  I could sense Mary Alice’s reaction behind me. She sounded like she was trying not to giggle.

  Sheila reached forward, grasped both of my hands in hers, and put out her cheek for a kiss. Jeez! I’d only met the woman once!

  I settled for squeezing both of her hands and offered my condolences.

  Sheila, playing the role of widow to the hilt, graciously ushered us in.

  Remembering my manners, I introduced Mary Alice as a dear friend of mine who was thinking about retirement, and who occasionally helped me in my event planning, which was not a complete lie. (She did lend me some games for Mike’s fifth birthday party.)

  Once again, I was back in that lovely living room. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Mary Alice was impressed by the decor. Hey, it was gorgeous by anybody’s standards. Mary Alice and I sat side by side on the plush camelback sofa, and Sheila sat opposite us in an equally plush wing chair.

  I coughed nervously.

  “Sheila, I know this must be so difficult for you,” I began.

  She raised a lace hanky to her eyes. “You have no idea how difficult,”

  she said. “Dave and I were very close. Closer than most people realized.”

  I wondered if she were close enough to “Dave” to know that his real n
ame was Dick Retuccio, and that he was married to a woman named Grace, but decided I wouldn’t get anywhere if I asked her those questions.

  “I feel I should explain why I’m dressed this way,” she went on. “This is what I was planning on wearing to the memorial service. I wanted your opinion. Do you think it strikes the right note of classic grief? I really feel I must be a role model for all the clients whose lives Dave touched, who are undoubtedly devastated by his death.”

  Was she kidding? How in the world did I warm to this woman the first time I was here? She was as phony as a three-dollar bill.

  “Well,” I said cautiously, “it is a classic look. It reminds me of someone.

  I can’t quite think of who.”

  She leaned forward eagerly in her chair. “Do you think it’s reminis-cent of what Jackie wore to JFK’s funeral?”

  I couldn’t look at Mary Alice. I knew I’d start to laugh if I did, and this was serious business.

  Mary Alice spoke for the first time. “I don’t know. With your blonde hair, Sheila, you remind me more of Princess Grace.”

  Sheila beamed. “How kind of you. I know we’re going to be great friends.”

  I cleared my throat. “Now, Sheila, let’s talk a little bit about the memorial service itself. I’m not sure how far you and Jim had gotten in the planning. Do you have a guest list in mind? How many people are you thinking of? Will you want food served? A tasteful buffet after the tributes are over, perhaps? And flowers? Any favorites? Music? Oh, and…” I gave a little laugh.

  “Do you have a budget for the event?”

  Forty-five minutes later it was clear to me that Sheila would have invited the Pope himself if he happened to be touring the United States next week. She wanted the governor invited, our two U.S. senators, the entire Connecticut congressional delegation, any prominent local legis-lators, the mayor, the list went on and on. And she wanted media coverage. Lots and lots of media coverage. It sounded more like a political rally than a memorial service.

  I was writing furiously while she was talking. So far Mary Alice hadn’t said another word. I think she was in shock. Or perhaps she was thinking hard about how we could really imitate JFK’s funeral and where we could find a few horses for the procession.

  I snapped my notebook shut. “I think I have a good idea of what you’re thinking of for the service. Of course, if everyone we invite shows up, we’ll have to put up a tent in the garden. Maybe two tents.”

  I paused. I wasn’t too sure how much more I could say about Rhodes’s memorial service. This was a little more complicated than ordering a clown to show up at a birthday party and juggle a few balls for the kids.

  Sheila tapped her foot impatiently.

  “I know our office has addresses for the people you want invited,” I said. “It’s important to get the invitations out immediately, because we have such a short lead time.” Lead time. Now that was an official word I’d heard Jim use many times. I never thought I’d hear it coming out of my mouth.

  I decided it was high time I switched from my role as official events consultant to womanly confidante and see how far I could get.

  “Sheila,” I said as sincerely as I could, “both Mary Alice and I want to support you in your hour of grief. I hope you’ll think of us both as your friends.”

  Mary Alice nodded her head in complete agreement. And then she surprised me.

  She leaned forward and took Sheila’s hand. “I know we’ve just met,”

  Mary Alice said, “but you and I have much more in common than you realize. I lost my husband several years ago, and I’ve never completely gotten over it. I don’t think Carol can empathize with what you’re going through, but believe me, I can.”

  Sheila’s eyes spilled over. I was impressed that she could whip up tears so quickly.

  “I’m also a nurse,” Mary Alice went on. “In my job I deal with lots of families going through the grieving process. Everyone does it differently.

  Losing your husband is a profound thing. After listening to your plan for your husband’s memorial service, I want you to know that I think it’s wonderful that you want to pay tribute to him this way.”

  Huh? This wasn’t in the scenario I’d envisioned. Mary Alice and Sheila were bonding over their “widowhood,” and I was the odd woman out.

  “That’s so kind of you to say,” said Sheila. “But I want to clarify something. Dave and I were kindred spirits as well as colleagues. We were also very much in love. But unfortunately, we weren’t married. We planned to be, very soon, but something got in our way. Or should I say, someone.”

  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 a few weeks ago 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 Retirement 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. 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.

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  Chapter 24

  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 many 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 My Beloved 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.”