by Sara Rosett
But where was her EpiPen? Had it been in the car and she was too overwhelmed to find it and use it? I’d ask Joe when he called again. I wondered if the police would call him and ask about the wasps and the EpiPen.
I left the computer and went outside. Mitch joined me in the backyard a few minutes later. He carried Livvy. He’d dressed her in her pajamas dotted with violets. She grinned and gurgled at me. I kissed her fuzzy head and inhaled the scent of baby powder and lotion. “Are you feeling better?” I asked her.
She punched out her legs in a kick for an answer.
“What are you doing out here?” Mitch asked.
“See that?” I pointed to our trash cans in the alcove behind the shed. Two wasps dipped and dove around the cans and then disappeared under the rim of the lid. “Yellow jackets. The same thing I found in the van.” I described the information I’d read online. “If we’ve got two in our yard, they must be pretty common. Anyone could attract them and then put them in the van.”
“Yeah, but how would you do it? Wasps aren’t the most cooperative things around,” Mitch said as we watched one wasp emerge and fly to our neighbor’s yard.
“A site online sells traps for bees. Apparently some people want to catch them. Or a bowl of water with sugar or rotting fruit attracts them. They’re less active at night when it’s cooler. They can even be refrigerated. And smoke calms them down, too.”
Of course, if you grew up with beekeepers for parents you’d already know this stuff. I didn’t say my thoughts aloud. Jeff and Mitch went way back. My worries could be coincidences.
I hoped they were coincidences. “The murderer could have trapped the wasps, cooled them down, and then moved them to Cass’s van at the last minute. It would take a little time for them to warm up, but when they did …”
“She’d be on the road to the back gate, which is usually deserted.” Mitch finished the thought for me.
“Whoever did it picked the base because it was farther from medical care,” I said.
“And I suppose, if you weren’t allergic, a sting or two wouldn’t bother you,” Mitch said. His words stirred a memory, but it flitted away before I could pin it down.
“Let’s go inside.” I felt cold even though the night was still warm.
I logged off the computer. Mitch placed Livvy in the middle of the bed and propped himself up beside her with his head resting on his arm. I settled on the bed on the other side of Livvy.
“Look, she’s finding her hands,” I said. Livvy stared intently at her right hand. She pulled it closer and closer to her face until she bumped herself in the nose and we laughed.
He looked at me over Livvy’s flailing arms. His eyes turned troubled as he put his finger out for Livvy to grab and said, “It was probably someone from the squadron.”
I thought back to the day of the barbeque. “There was a one hundred percent ID check at the gate that day. It is possible that someone could have gotten on base with a visitor’s pass or as a passenger in a friend’s car, but I’m sure the Security Police will check it out.”
Mitch said, “It’s much more likely that it was someone from the squadron.”
I sat cross-legged, Indian style, on the bed and rubbed my arms. I just couldn’t seem to warm up. I was chilled from the thought that someone we know, maybe someone we had talked to that day, had purposefully put an end to Cass’s life. “What kind of people are you working with up there?” I asked.
Mitch didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “It could be someone I don’t work with.” Livvy started huffing, so I picked her up and moved to the chair in our room to breast-feed her. Once I was settled I realized what Mitch was saying. “You mean one of the spouses!”
Mitch rolled onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head. He looked relaxed, he usually did, but I could tell from the wrinkle between his eyes he was troubled. “There were plenty of spouses there.”
I shook my head. What could drive a person to kill another?
Jeff had been angry with her. Angry enough to kill her? As soon as the thought formed, my mind skittered away from it. Not Jeff. Please not Jeff. Who else could have done it?
“Cass had a big argument with Diana at the spouse coffee. She was hot,” I said.
“Who?” Mitch asked. “Diana was mad?”
“No. Diana was pretty subdued. That new subdivision came up after the meeting.”
I saw Mitch’s puzzled look and said, “You know, the really expensive one that’ll have a golf course. Anyway, Cass and Diana started out being extremely polite to each other. Cass gave Diana a compliment, but her smile was fake, kind of plastic. But Diana just said thanks. I thought she didn’t notice. Then Cass started needling Diana about Wilde Creek. Diana’s a realtor and I guess she’s got the listings in there. Cass said something about how Diana must be raking in the bucks and that there wouldn’t be one wild thing left when the development was finished. Cass started to simmer. I saw her flush and I thought the chips and salsa were going to vibrate off her plate because her hands were shaking so much.
“Diana just wiped her mouth with a napkin and explained the subdivision was going to maintain open space and preserve natural beauty. She talked about large lots and keeping trees. They have an arborist on retainer.”
“What did Cass say?” Mitch asked.
“It was like the calmer Diana was the madder Cass got. She was flaming by then. She said, ‘Don’t give me that. You care more about your manicure than the environment. Don’t kid yourself.’ I could picture her at those anti-Wal-Mart rallies, appealing to the crowds, when she said, ‘Acres of trees will be razed for the fairways on that golf course. And the chemicals, the pesticides and fertilizers. Wilde Creek will be as natural as one of those casinos on the Las Vegas strip.’
“That finally got Diana going. She stood up and said, ‘You think I don’t care about the environment? Then why would I take half my normal commission to handle the sales in Wilde Creek? Because I care.’ As she said that she jabbed her drink at Cass and a few drops of water sloshed onto the coffee table. Then she said, ‘But, unlike you, I’m practical.’ She thinks controlled development with open spaces and upscale homes is better than a strip mall or condos covering every inch of the valley. She even challenged Cass and said, ‘You fought that Wal-Mart with everything you had. You should be on my side.’
“Cass stepped closer to Diana and said, ‘What’re you saying? That keeping the valley unspoiled is an impossible dream?’
“Diana snorted. I had to smile at that because Diana seems so particular. She looks like the kind of person who wipes down the grooves in the jelly jar or the ketchup before she puts the lids on, you know? Snorting didn’t quite go with the image, but she didn’t back down. She said, ‘More like a fantasy.’
“Jill ended it when she told them to stay on squadron-related topics if they couldn’t be civil.”
Mitch said, “It sounds like they were arguing more over philosophy than anything else.”
I had to agree with him. “Diana did say the houses are already under construction, so their whole argument was kind of pointless anyway.”
“The way you describe it Cass was the volatile one, not Diana,” Mitch added.
“I know. She was passionate about the environment.” I thought back over my interactions with Cass. “You know, Cass wanted to tell me something about Gwen. I had the feeling it was some juicy gossip, but I cut her off.”
“That’s kind of far-fetched, isn’t it? To kill someone over gossip.”
I murmured an agreement, but I still wondered what Cass had been about to say about Gwen. Who would go to such an extreme to murder another person? “Who hated her so much?”
“If we knew that we might know why she died and who killed her,” Mitch said.
We didn’t talk about it anymore because Livvy pulled away and cried, as if she didn’t want to eat, but then she latched on again and gulped the milk. A few seconds later she pulled off again and cried. After a few minutes of t
hat routine I was so frustrated I wanted to cry, too. Finally, I put her to bed and she fell asleep with a sigh of relief.
An Everything in Its Place Tip for an
Organized Move
Stay in Touch
Buy a small address book or notepad to carry with you to farewell get-togethers. Pass it around to get contact info, especially e-mail addresses.
If your friends are military, exchange permanent addresses of parents or a relative who can forward mail in case you lose touch with friends between moves.
Chapter
Seven
How do I get myself into these things? There were about a hundred boxes left to unpack while Livvy napped, but instead of unpacking, I clutched a utility knife, masking tape, a black marker, and the baby monitor. I almost headed down the stairs to our basement garage, but the creaky steps might wake Livvy, so I changed direction. I eased the back door open, ready to sort and price things for the squad’s garage sale.
As I turned toward the steps, my feet skidded across the tiny porch. I reached for the iron porch railing with my free hand, but it swayed under my weight. I let go of it.
And everything else. The utility knife, pen, tape, and baby monitor rained down around my feet as I flailed my arms like a novice ice skater. The railing fell away from the porch in a slow dive to the grass a few feet below and I thudded down on top of it with an impact that jarred me.
I took a few deep breaths and looked around. Had anyone witnessed my solo rendition of a scene from the Three Stooges? Apparently not. No walkers or joggers and—thank goodness—Mabel’s house was on the opposite side, so she hadn’t seen what happened.
I stood up and propped the railing against the porch. I’d leave it for Mitch. I had to sort boxes. I walked down the sloping driveway to the garage, shaking my head. If I’d been carrying Livvy, one of us would’ve been hurt for sure. Our house was old, but I didn’t expect parts of it to break off in my hands.
In the garage, I opened a box and shifted through a mixer, paperbacks, and scuffed shoes. I closed it, scrawled “Garage Sale” on the side, and shoved it to one side of the garage. The cool of the concrete floor pressed against my knees and seeped through me. The garage was still the coolest place in the house, even with the window unit. I should have said no at the coffee. But I hadn’t. How had I lost control of my vocal cords and volunteered for garage sale duty? I realized I was clenching my teeth and forced my jaw to relax.
I felt a surge of guilt. After all, Cass was dead and here I was mentally whining about a few boxes. Not a big deal compared to what Joe and their family were going through. It was hard to believe that lifeless body I saw in the ditch was Cass because she’d been so energetic at the coffee. Pushy, too. But vibrant.
She was the first person I noticed that night, as she flitted around the room like a hummingbird as she performed introductions and pulled little clumps of people together or broke up other knots of conversation. When Jill Briman, the squadron commander’s wife, called the meeting to order, Cass hurried in from the kitchen with a huge bowl of punch. She subsided a little and lingered by the buffet table, but she still seemed to hum with barely suppressed energy as she twitched a napkin into place and readjusted a row of forks.
I had refocused on Jill as she snapped, “Sign-in sheet,” and held out a clipboard. “Here’s a list of dates for the monthly coffees.” Jill was petite and pixie-like with short dark hair, pale skin, and gray eyes, but she ran the coffee with quick efficiency and an authority worthy of Patton. “Sign up to host one at your house.” She passed another clipboard sharply toward the spouse on her left, who was still fumbling with the first one. Jill’s steely eyes ran over the group and commanded we follow through or risk—what? Demerits? The bad spouse award? I felt a case of the giggles coming on.
“I feel like I’m in junior high,” Abby said in an undertone.
“Or boot camp.”
“All right. Fund-raising,” Jill barked from the front of the room in her staccato voice. She absently rubbed her sunburnt nose and consulted her agenda. “We have an account at the thrift shop. Drop off things there and the proceeds go to our squadron account. That’s an easy way for all of you to help raise money.”
“What are we raising money for?” Abby asked quietly.
“I have no idea.”
“The garage sale is the first fund-raiser. Clean out your closets. Bring your items to Cass.” Jill’s commands were beginning to annoy me. I wasn’t in the military and didn’t have to do one thing for the squadron if I didn’t want to. Jill motioned that Cass had the floor. She stood up and waited until all eyes were on her. She soaked up the attention like a sponge.
“You’ve been great about bringing your things over, but don’t stop there. We need you to sign up to work the checkout table. I think Jill has a sign-up sheet? Oh, good, it’s already going around. I really need someone to help me organize everything.” I’d only been half-listening to Cass. I longed for the meeting to be over. How was Livvy doing? Had she taken her bottle? Of course, the measly four ounces that I’d been able to pump, one of the most frustrating experiences of my life, wasn’t exactly a bottle.
“Oh, you’d be great for that job!” Abby exclaimed.
“What?”
Abby turned to the curious heads that had swiveled toward us. “Ellie is a professional organizer. She helped lots of people in our squadron in California get organized. And she’s worked with businesses, too.”
I suppressed a groan. I had worked as a temp doing office work after my PR job was downsized. In every office I filed, straightened, and generally cleaned up. I had said to Mitch I should do it for a living as a consultant and he said, “Why don’t you?” So I’d helped a few people organize their offices, helped a pregnant mom from the squadron get ready for her baby, and cleaned out a home for the children of an elderly woman who had to move to a nursing home. When I got pregnant all ideas of owning my own business flew out the window when I began to throw up every day.
“Ah, I don’t know. With just moving and …”
“Do you spell your name with an ‘ie’ or a ‘y'?” asked Jill, squinting at the scrawl on my nametag.
A little one-syllable word and I couldn’t say it. I’m not good at saying no. It must be my quasi-southern upbringing, but I feel rude and selfish when I turn people down. I gave up and spelled it.
My feet were beginning to feel tingly so I stood up and stretched, then moved to the next tower of boxes. “No. I can’t.” I practiced saying it aloud. I could have at least said I didn’t have any storage, but I caved on that, too. Abby and I were leaving the coffee and had almost tripped over some boxes in the entryway.
“Wait a minute,” Cass had said, “let me move these. Someone must’ve brought them tonight for the garage sale and just dumped them here. That’s the problem with these older houses, not much closet space. Hey”—she must have suddenly remembered my role as garage sale assistant—“do you have anywhere you could put a few extra boxes?”
“Sure,” I said resignedly and we lugged the extra boxes to my garage.
“I have a few more in the van. I’ll just grab those, too.” Cass was already walking back to her house. She headed down the single driveway leading to the one-car detached garage. Abby and I followed. I whispered, “How did I get into this? I don’t have time for this. And if anyone saw the inside of my house right now, I’d never get another organizing job again.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Abby said. “My big mouth—sometimes I don’t think. Look, I’ll help you all I can.” Cass passed her van and opened the front of the garage, which set off her dog alternately barking and whining inside the chain-link fenced backyard that ran alongside the garage.
“Hi, Rex. I’ll let you inside when everyone is gone. You’ve been such a good puppy.” Her voice was squishy but then changed abruptly as she called back to us, “I’ve got a dolly in here. It will go so much faster.” I rolled my eyes at Abby and looked over the fence. The little
puppy was a rottweiler with a dash of lab thrown in. I backed away from the fence.
Cass wheeled the dolly back to the van. She jerked open the passenger side door, brushed aside crumpled envelopes, an empty paper bag from Burger King, and an old newspaper before she loaded boxes onto the dolly. I was surprised she didn’t lock her van since it was parked outside and not in the garage. I looked around the peaceful neighborhood of bungalows, minivans, and tree houses. Living in Southern California, where carjacking and murder headlined most newscasts, had made me a bit paranoid. But I wasn’t going to stop locking my car doors.
On our third trip with her dolly loaded, Cass said, “You know, your garage would probably be a better place for the garage sale. You’re on a cross street and you have a two-car garage.”
“Ah, well, if I can get the moving boxes cleaned out, maybe …”
“Great!” Cass shifted the dolly from under the boxes with an expert twist. “Thanks. I didn’t know where I was going to put it all.”
I inched another box out of the pile Cass had deposited that night. Not much I could do about it now. I was stuck with all this stuff at least for a few weeks. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t,” I practiced with a new inflection. A cloud of dust hit me in the face when I opened the next box. I heard Mitch’s Altima pull into our driveway. I gave a quick wave and checked the box. But instead of old clothes or broken toys, papers and folders filled the box. I ran my fingers down the folder tabs. Armed Forces Insurance. Carson FCU—statements. Nevis Bank. Pay Stubs. Tax return—last year. Utilities. Definitely not garage sale material.
I wrestled one of the folders out of the tightly packed box. Brent David McCarter. Ugh. I’d drop this off on their porch when they weren’t home so I wouldn’t have to see Brent again. As I closed the box and shoved it aside, I heard a clatter of claws and then felt heavy breathing on the back of my neck.
