by Laura Alden
“I’m shocked, shocked to hear this,” he said.
Glenn was an actor.
“Shocked about what?” I asked.
The entire group turned as one unit to face me.
“Well,” Glenn said heartily. “If it isn’t our friendly neighborhood bookstore owner. What brings you out so early on a Monday morning?”
I gave him a look. “What are we so shocked about?” I scanned the faces. “Anyone?” Not one of them met my gaze. “Randy?” I asked over my shoulder. “Were Claudia and Tina in here earlier?”
CeeCee gasped. “How did you know?” she asked in her high, little-girl voice.
Ever since she’d been a happy collaborator in the picketing of my store, I’d found it hard to be anything more than polite to CeeCee. And even politeness was difficult some days. This was one of those days.
I ignored her question and turned to Randy. “What were they saying about Summer?”
Randy sipped at a cup of coffee. “That she’d been fighting with Dennis before the meeting the other night.”
“An argument?”
“Yeah.” Randy nodded and laid his fleshy arms on the counter. Which must have been hard to do, considering the size of his stomach, but maybe his counter had been specially designed. “Claudia said that’s how things get started, is with fights.” He looked at me sorrowfully. “She’s right, you know. And they say Summer has a mean temper.”
A pox on Claudia. And whoever “they” might be. “Did you hear the argument?” I asked.
Randy shrugged. “Just what Claudia said.”
I whipped around and faced the others. “Did any of you hear Summer and Dennis Halpern arguing?”
Kirk spoke up. “I saw Summer looking plenty mad right before the meeting started.”
“But you didn’t hear or see her talking to Dennis.”
“Well, no, but . . .”
I waited. When he didn’t go on, I prompted him. “But what?”
He shuffled his feet. “Nothing.”
What he was thinking and not saying was probably along the lines of: But Claudia said Summer’s your hand-picked PTA secretary and you won’t believe anything bad about her, that you won’t see the truth if it’s about to bite you on the nose.”
“Repeating what Claudia said about Summer is, at best, sheer gossip.” I said this loudly and clearly. “At worst, you could be interfering in a police investigation. If you have solid information, talk to Gus. If you don’t, maybe you should consider keeping quiet.”
I fixed each and every one of them with a hard mom look, the one that says “pay attention to what I said or you’ll be sorry.”
But even as I walked away, I was regretting my outburst. My mom powers didn’t have any hold over adults.
Instead of helping, what I’d done might have made things even worse for Summer.
• • •
“You said that out loud?” Marina stared at me. She was in the act of handing me a skirt with a slit up to there and a knit shirt with a deep V-neck down to here, and I welcomed the pause in the action. Marina’s latest improve-Beth scheme was a makeover of my wardrobe, and it was starting by way of her asking if I wanted any of her old stuff she was getting ready to donate. “You said that in front of real live people? Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Afraid?” She shook the clothes. “Take these. Go into the bathroom and try them on. What are you afraid of, exactly?”
I tossed the skirt over my arm and held the shirt up against me. “In these clothes, I’d be afraid of hypothermia.”
“Just put them on. You were defending Summer. What’s wrong with that?”
“Because I’m sure it came across as me being”—being what? I thought back to what I’d said and tried to hear the words from the point of view of a listener—“being snotty.”
“Oh, fiddle-faddle. It was the truth.” Marina pointed at my shoes. “And those have to go. How can anyone get mad at you for telling the truth?”
I looked at her.
“Okay, okay.” She grinned. “Maybe there’s lots of reasons.”
The bottom of the V-neck was landing somewhere in the land south of my bra and north of my belly button. I pulled it higher. “What I’m afraid of is that my outburst will hurt Summer.”
Marina reached out and rearranged the shirt so the V was an inch lower. “Do you really think any of them will tattle to Gus about Summer fighting with Dennis just because you called them gossips?”
I laid the clothes over the back of one of Marina’s kitchen chairs. The only possible way I’d ever wear that skirt or that blouse was on top of a pair of overalls. “I suppose not, but I sounded like a mom. Scolding adults never does much good.”
“What, you think kids pay any attention when they’re being yelled at?” Marina asked.
“Sure. Until they start school. Then not a chance.”
“Speaking of chances . . . ,” she said, fingering the clothing I’d rejected.
“Not a single solitary one.”
“You’d look like a goddess in this.” She put the skirt up against her waist.
“I’d feel like an idiot. And where would I wear something like this? If I’m ever invited to a wedding in Las Vegas, I’ll call and ask to borrow it.”
She sighed. “I wore it when the Devoted Husband and I went dancing, back in the day.”
I eyed the skirt’s waistband. It might have reached halfway around her, but probably not. “What day was that?”
“The one right before we got married.” She twirled and the deep red skirt flared out.
A vision of Marina’s engineer husband dancing the night away was not something I wanted to come sneaking into my dreams on little cat feet. “Anyway,” I said, “I shouldn’t have said anything to that group. It’ll just get back to Claudia, and it’ll be harder than ever to work with her.”
“But Gus probably knows about Summer already, don’t you think?” Marina reached into the bag she’d dragged down from her attic and pulled out another ensemble. This one included an iridescent pair of pants that looked like something from a harem and a blouse that looked suspiciously see-through. “About Summer and Dennis fighting, I mean.”
I thought back to the night of the murder. Of how long Nick and I had sat in that room. Thought about the carefully worded questions Gus had asked. “You’re right,” I said. “He probably does know.”
“Of course I’m right.” She brandished the clothes at me until I took them. “Someday you’ll quit arguing with me about every little thing and start agreeing with me right off the bat. It’ll save us mountains of time.”
“What, and miss all this fun?”
I started to put the new clothes on top of the others, but she tut-tutted. “Now, now. No rejecting without at least giving them a chance.”
I held out the pants, then laid them on the chair. Held the top up to myself, then laid it on the chair. “Of course you’re right? Are you saying you’re never wrong?”
“Moi?” She dug back into the bag. “Since you’re rejecting the glorious outfit I wore to a New Year’s Eve party the year we got married, I’ll go straight to the dress you’re guaranteed to fall in love with at first sight. And speaking of right and wrong, what’s wrong with Oliver?”
I looked down the hall to the family room, where Zach, Marina’s youngest, was playing Wii bowling with Jenna and Oliver. The sounds of electronic pins tumbling down were drowned out by young cheers.
“Nothing’s wrong with Oliver,” I said.
Marina halted, her arm thrust deep into the bag. “You haven’t noticed anything?”
“No. He’s fine. Or he was this morning. Do you think he’s coming down with a cold?” I turned and made a move for the living room—Mom to the rescue!—but Marina called me back.
“It’s not like that,” she said. “It’s more like . . . like he’s worried about something.”
My mothering cells went from a full-red alarm alert to a soft orange s
tatus. “I’ll bet it’s because his classroom is right down the hall from where Dennis was killed. He was upset after Agnes died. Maybe this is bringing back the memory.” Two years ago, the principal of Tarver Elementary had been murdered. In her home, not at the school, but her death had troubled then seven year-old Oliver deeply.
But Marina was shaking her head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. He and Zach were trying to one-up each other on who had talked to the forensics team the most.” She pulled a garment half out of the bag, glanced at it, glanced at me, then pushed it back down. “Oliver won, by the way, because Pete Peterson said hello to him.”
Good old Pete. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“He didn’t want an after-school snack today.”
“No snack?” That didn’t make sense. Oliver always claimed that he was starving to death when he was done with school.
“Nope. Tried apples, bananas, and pears. Tried potato chips, cookies, and brownies. Nothing.” She held out a glittery silver sheath.
I took the dress and put it on the seat of the chair. I was afraid that if I draped anything else over the back that it would tip over in one of those slow-motion topples. I’d lunge forward to save the clothes from hitting the floor, Marina would do the same, our heads would thunk together with a sickening noise, and we’d both fall to the ground, unconscious, while our children went on with their virtual bowling game, oblivious to our injuries.
Far better to put the dress on the chair’s seat. “Other than the snacking—”
Marina interrupted. “The nonsnacking, you mean.”
I looked at her. She’d spent almost fifty years in the land of hyperbole and exaggeration; now she was going to start living a life of accuracy? “Okay, the nonsnacking. Other than that, have you noticed anything wrong?”
“Not unless you think his dedication to trying to beat his sister in Super Mario is cause for concern.”
When Oliver started getting up at three in the morning to sharpen his video game skills, I’d start worrying. Until then, it wasn’t exactly high on my worry list. The nonsnacking thing, on the other hand, was a very bad sign.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “He’s probably going through some kick on . . . on . . .” There had to be something appropriate to fill in the blank, but nothing was popping into life. “. . . On a gluten-free diet.” Which didn’t make any sense at all. “Who knows what lurks in the minds of nine-year-old boys?”
“Probably nothing we really want to know about.” Marina made a face.
But I did want to know. I wanted to know what my children were thinking from the minute they woke up in the morning to the second they went to sleep. It couldn’t happen, of course. I didn’t even know what I thought about all day long. And if I did know what was going on in the heads of my offspring, I’d probably be alternately proud and horrified with a heavy emphasis on horrified.
Which led to another complication. If I did know what they were thinking, would I have to punish them for their thoughts? That didn’t seem fair. Then again, actions spring from thoughts and—
“Speaking of things lurking in minds,” Marina said. “What’s in yours?”
“Nothing,” I said. Nothing worth repeating, anyway.
“Please, my deah,” she said, suddenly in Southern-belle mode. “Ah do declare that you are a worse liar now than evah.” She shook her head sadly. “You didn’t even say a word and those little eahs of yours started turning pink.”
I touched my earlobes. “They are not.”
“Just the teensiest bit.” She held her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “And if you don’t believe me, go look in the mirror. No need? I didn’t think so. Now, tell Aunt Marina what’s troubling you.”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Please. Oliver isn’t snacking, and you’ve been sitting in my kitchen for half an hour and haven’t once looked at the clock.”
“You’re calling me a clock watcher?”
“When you have to get home and start dinner for your kids, you are.”
“That’s not clock watching; that’s taking care of my children.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” She flipped her hand back and forth. “Does anyone actually say tomahto? Never mind. What I really want to know is if there’s something you want to talk about.”
Then she sat back in her chair and waited.
It was moments like this that reminded me why Marina Neff had been my best friend for two decades. On any given day she could try the patience of a canonized saint. Her children, both Zach and the older ones who’d already left the nest, had learned to tolerate her by ignoring eighty percent of what she said. Her DH rarely heard anything anyone said, so that worked out. Then there was me, and I’d long ago learned to look past the over-the-top antics and listen to the kind heart underneath. Some days it was harder than others. Today, not so much.
I sighed. “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t sleeping well because I’ve been troubled about the devaluation of the dollar?”
“Nope.”
I studied my dull reflection in the oak tabletop and thought about what I didn’t want to think about.
“It’s Dennis, isn’t it?” Marina asked.
Using my index finger as a paintbrush, I traced an outline of my head.
“Please don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty about his death.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
Her shoulders rose and fell as a small sigh gusted out of her. “And how many times will I have to tell you it’s not your fault before you start believing me?”
“You’ll have to get in line behind Gus and Pete,” I muttered.
“Two smart guys. You should listen to them.”
I drew my outline again. It didn’t look any better the second time. “I’m the one who asked Dennis to come to the meeting. He didn’t want to, but I called him and called him and he finally agreed.”
“Not your fault.”
“And now Summer is being pilloried by the entire town.” My words cracked, and guilt came pouring out. “If there’s a fly in her house, Summer traps it in her hands and takes it outside. There’s no possible way she could have killed a human being. So she had a fight with Dennis, what of it? She knew him from somewhere before; that’s all. She was the one who gave me his name in the first place, so she must have thought he was okay. It’s a small town, they could be neighbors, for all I know, and arguing about . . . about tree trimming.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I try and think that. Over and over. And just when it’s starting to work, I suddenly get this feeling that if it weren’t for me, Dennis would still be alive.”
Marina reached across the table and held my hand quiet. “Beth, listen to me. None of this is your fault.”
I looked straight into her understanding eyes. “How can it not be?”
She patted my hand. “Because it isn’t, okay? And you’d better not doubt me. I’m a mom, and moms know these things.”
“Does it work when you’re not my mother?”
She ignored that. “There’s one way to get you off this guilt trip, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Find the killer.”
“Oh, no. Not that again. There’s no way I’m going to—”
She plowed right over my objections. “We’ll start tomorrow, right after lunch. Wear black.” One final hand pat; then she stood. “Zach?” she called. “Turn off that TV. It’s almost time for dinner.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. There was the odd chance that she was right. I thought of all the wondering I’d done the last few days. Wondering about Claudia and Summer and wondering about the door at the end of the hallway and about Dennis and about all the whys and whens and what-ifs.
It was time to stop wondering. And time to start thinking.
Chapter 6
There are a lot of things in this world that I don’t much care for. When I
was a child, I thought growing up would mean never having to do anything I didn’t want to. How kids get that idea, I do not know, but we all did and they all do. Of course, if we knew at age seven that every day of our lives would be filled with doing things we’d really rather not, none of us would choose to grow up at all.
“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” I said.
“What’s that?” Marina asked. She was just ahead of me as we walked into the Rose Room. The noise level was that odd muted loudness peculiar to funeral homes and really bad parties.
“Wearing black is a bad idea,” I said, picking an imaginary dog hair off my black pants, “when you have pets.”
She slid me a glance. “Your cat is black and your dog is brown. If you’re picking off white hairs, they’re your own and not a household mammal’s. So what, pray tell, is a bad idea?”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Marina knew how I felt about funerals, and since visitations at funeral homes were an extension of the funeral experience, I hated them, too. A character flaw, without a doubt, but it was thick and deep and no matter how many times I went through the visitation/funeral sequence, I hadn’t learned to embrace it. Any of it.
“Oh, come on.” Marina hooked her arm through mine and nodded at our surroundings. “Lovely room, soft music, fresh-cut flowers. What’s not to like?”
It was a lovely room. The Scovill Funeral Home was in what had originally been the residence of a family who’d made their late 1800’s fortune in Wisconsin lumber. When the lumber boom had ended, the family moved away to find greener entrepreneurial pastures.
The Scovill family had owned it for almost fifty years, and they’d done a tremendous job of restoring, renovating, and maintaining the Victorian-era building. There were polished oak doors and polished oak trim. Beveled glass in the windows, period wallpaper everywhere. Plaster medallions decorated the ceiling, and the carpet was so thick it almost needed mowing.
But no matter what the decor, no matter what the music, and no matter how nice the flowers were arranged, I couldn’t get my thoughts away from the sad fact that the place existed because people died.
I hated funerals and I hated funeral homes. Every time I said so, Marina told me I should quit being so afraid of death. She was probably right, but how does one go about doing that? It’s not like you can try it once and see how you like it.
