Dead Ball

by Judith Arnold

  She slowed to steer around Brad and up the driveway. He wore a pair of sweatpants cut off at the knees and a gray T-shirt reading “Property of Tufts Athletic Department.” He signaled for her to stop, and she lowered her window.

  “Hey, Mrs. Lovett,” he greeted her with a smile that was as oversized as his muscular calves. “Leave your car out here. I’ll wash it when I’m done with Karen’s.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Lainie assured him.

  “It’s good to clean off all the winter salt and crud. And I’ve got the hose out, and the soap and everything. Just put up your window and leave the car. I’ll take care of it.”

  She lacked the fortitude to argue. After closing the window, she turned off the engine and climbed out, picking her way carefully around the soapy puddles and rivulets marking the driveway. Brad continued to beam at her, and she didn’t question why his grin made her feel better. She simply accepted it.

  She entered the house through the garage and removed her shoes as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. Even though the heels weren’t that high, she preferred walking flat, not teetering around on her toes. A noise from the laundry room off the kitchen alerted her to Karen’s location. She reached the open doorway and saw Karen transferring wet laundry from the washer into the dryer. A few of Lainie’s blouses were draped on hangers hooked over the rod above the dryer.

  Brad had volunteered to wash her car. Karen had laundered Lainie’s blouses. So many good deeds must mean something was wrong. “What happened?” she asked.

  Karen spun around and smiled. “Hi, Mom. Nothing happened. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re doing my laundry.”

  “I was doing mine, but I didn’t have a full load.” Karen shrugged as if washing her mother’s clothes was an everyday activity for her.

  It wasn’t. Nor was Big Brad’s washing Lainie’s car. “Is this about the lasagna?” she asked. “Because really, I don’t mind that you and Brad ate it.”

  Karen turned back to the washing machine. “You just got back from a funeral,” she said. “Can’t we be nice to you?”

  “You can be as nice as you want.” To be welcomed by kindness after not just a funeral, but all the nonsense Karen and Brad didn’t know about—Knapp’s insane suspicions and Stavik’s unwanted attentions—soothed Lainie’s stomach and her soul. At that moment, words didn’t exist that could express just how much Lainie adored her daughter. She engulfed Karen in a crushing embrace.

  Karen tolerated the hug without complaint. After a minute, Lainie released her and said, “I’m going upstairs to change. Three hours in pantyhose is my limit.”

  “Twenty minutes is mine,” Karen shot back, then returned to the task of dumping clean, damp clothing into the dryer.

  Lainie padded through the kitchen, down the front hall and up the stairs to her bedroom. She’d made some changes to the room since Roger’s death, but the only significant one was her new bed. The old mattress and box spring had been in excellent condition, but she’d been unable to sleep on them once he was gone. She’d gotten rid of them and purchased a new set, which was significantly higher off the ground. Why did bed manufacturers think people wanted to climb onto a bed as if it were a peak in the Himalayas? Most of the time, Lainie wanted to fall into bed. She couldn’t fall into something so high.

  She hoisted herself onto the elevated mattress and shrugged out of her jacket. Her phone rang while she was peeling off her nylons. “Hello?” she said warily.

  “Elaine.”

  Considering all the people who could have phoned her—people she did not want phoning her, like Knapp or Stavik—she was greatly relieved to hear her mother-in-law’s voice. “Hi, Margaret.”

  “I take it you’re back from the funeral?”

  “I just got home a few minutes ago.”

  “How was it?”

  How would a funeral be? “It was sad,” she told Margaret, then added, “It was long.”

  “I understand the widow hired some string musicians from the BSO to perform at the church.”

  If Margaret knew that, she didn’t need to hear Lainie’s description of the event. “That’s right,” Lainie confirmed. “Who told you?”

  “We had dinner at the club last night. Janelle Partridge is on the symphony’s board. Of course, everyone was talking about the murder. Murders in Boston aren’t that interesting, but a murder in Rockford is unique.” She sounded oddly invigorated. “Have they arrested anyone yet?”

  “No,” Lainie said, keeping her voice neutral and sending herself a mental reminder to contact a criminal attorney as soon as possible.

  “I worry about you and Karen living there all alone.”

  “Arthur Cavanagh’s murder wasn’t a random act. I’m sure whoever did it had a reason. No one has a reason to hurt Karen or me.”

  “It’s just that those small-town police departments . . . What do they know about murders? They specialize in arresting jaywalkers.”

  “I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.” Which isn’t very good, Lainie added silently.

  “What they need are some pros. A real detective. Over dinner at the club, I got to talking with Lucinda Whippletine. Have I ever mentioned her to you?”

  “No.” Lainie would have remembered such a name.

  “She was telling me about this fabulous detective she’s been working with. Her husband—Tom, and he’s a real tomcat, too, according to Lucinda—well, this detective caught Tom in not one, but two compromising positions. Only one of them involved another woman.”

  “Did the other one involve a man?” Lainie asked, wondering why she should care about the possible bisexuality of a total stranger.

  “It involved his business. Downtown real estate. If you read the business pages, you’d have heard of Tom Whippletine.”

  One good reason to skip the business pages. “So, this detective caught him in some business moofky-foofky?”

  “What?”

  Lainie realized she’d used one of her mother’s favorite phrases. Moofky-foofky was like hanky-panky, only more Yiddish. “Was he arrested?”

  “Oh, no. Lucinda doesn’t want him in jail. She wants him to give her lots of money. Which he’ll be doing. She anticipates a divorce settlement that would make your eyeballs pop out of their sockets. All because this detective got the goods on Tom, and Tom doesn’t want her to tell anyone about his underhanded deals. She’s got a forensic accountant going through Tom’s books right now. She’s going to wind up extremely rich.”

  Lainie would have thought Margaret’s club would offer membership to classier people, not vindictive wives who hired detectives and forensic accountants to find evidence with which to bleed their unfaithful husbands dry. “It sounds a little . . . sleazy,” she said.

  “It’s called survival. Lucinda got what she wanted, thanks to this detective. According to Lucinda, lots of women hire him to find out what their husbands are up to.”

  “That’s handy to know, if you ever want to check up on Henry,” Lainie said.

  Margaret’s indignation vibrated through the line. “I most certainly don’t want to check up on Henry. I was only saying, there’s a murderer running loose in Rockford, and your police don’t have the skills of this detective.”

  Her town’s police didn’t have the skills of Freddy the Pig. Or, for that matter, Nancy Drew, Encyclopedia Brown, or any of the other heroes in the children’s mystery novels her fourth-graders devoured. Whether Rockford’s men in blue should hire a private detective to help them figure out who killed Arthur wasn’t for her to decide, however.

  “Anyway,” Margaret continued, “call it a curious coincidence, but Lucinda said her detective was working for Patty—is that her name? Your murder victim’s wife.”

  “He’s not my murder victim,” Lainie said defensively as h
er brain shifted into high gear. Why would Patty have hired a hotshot Boston detective? Did she have as little faith in the Rockford Police Department as Lainie and her mother-in-law did? If so, when had she hired him? Arthur had been murdered a mere five days ago.

  Maybe when she’d gone downtown to buy a new dress for the funeral, she’d also stopped by this detective’s office. Maybe hiring the detective had been her primary reason for traveling into Boston, and then, since she’d already been in the city, she’d decided on a whim to stroll down Newbury Street in search of a smashing outfit to mourn in.

  And maybe this detective wasn’t so great, if he was blabbing to one client about another. “The detective actually told Lucinda he was working for Patty Cavanagh?” she asked.

  “The forensic accountant’s secretary let it slip,” Margaret told her. “Lucinda said she talks too much.”

  Lucinda talks too much, too, Lainie thought. “I suppose Patty’s impatient to find out who killed her husband. If she can afford this detective—”

  “His services don’t come cheap,” Margaret pointed out.

  “Patty doesn’t discuss her finances with me,” Lainie said. Then again, wearing a thirty-thousand-dollar diamond ring to soccer practice might be her way of discussing her finances. “If the detective can figure out who killed her husband, a lot of people would be very happy.”

  “Including me. I would sleep better at night, knowing you and Karen are safe.”

  “We’re safe,” Lainie insisted, although it wasn’t exactly true. They were undoubtedly safe from the murderer, but Lainie wasn’t certain she was safe from Howard Knapp. “Margaret, I’ve got to go.”

  “Of course. Take care, Elaine. Don’t go near anyone wielding a nail gun.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And don’t let Karen—”

  “She won’t. I’ll talk to you soon.” Before Margaret could continue blathering, Lainie hung up. Her shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. Talking to Margaret exhausted her.

  Jogging would help her recover. She wasn’t a compulsive jogger, but she tried to run a few times a week during the winter to stay in shape between the fall and spring soccer seasons. Jogging was ridiculously boring—nothing to kick, no defense to get past, no points to score—but she always felt better after completing her four-mile route.

  The phone rang as she finished tying the laces on her jogging shoes. She visualized Knapp on the other end of the line, his glossy black eyes staring accusingly at her. Then she visualized Stavik, with his much prettier blue eyes and his tailored gray suit. Grimacing, she lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom, it’s Randy,” her son said.

  Worry crashed over her like the surf on the eastern shore of Cape Cod. Randy never called unless he needed money or medical attention. The last time he’d phoned her was to inform her that he’d gotten a removable splint for his pinkie at the health center and the doctor had assured him it was a simple bone chip that would heal in a few weeks, and no, he hadn’t been under the influence when he’d injured himself.

  “Randy,” she said cautiously. “What’s up?”

  “Not much.” He launched into a rambling monologue about the research he’d been doing on some obscure protein for his biology class, and about how his iPod had been acting weird, but his roommate was such a techno-whiz he’d been able to fix it in ten minutes, and about how his pinkie was completely healed, so even though he’d missed the last few weeks of intramural basketball, he was all set for intramural softball. Lainie listened with bated breath, expecting bad news or a plea for cash every time he started another sentence. But he only talked about school.

  After a while he wound down. “So, I just thought I’d say hi.”

  “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

  “No. Why would something be wrong?”

  “You called me.”

  He laughed. “Well, if you want to know the truth, Karen texted me about that funeral you went to. That murdered guy. I just thought I’d call and cheer you up a little.”

  Laundry, a car wash, and a call from Randy. The kids must really be panicked about her emotional state. “I hardly knew the murder victim,” she said. “I went to the funeral because his wife is a friend.”

  “Yeah, well, you know. Karen thought you might have flashbacks or something.”

  “You and Karen are sweethearts, and I love you both, and you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not having flashbacks. I’m fine, really.”

  Really, she tried to convince herself as she said goodbye and hung up the phone. She was perfectly fine, except for a few minor details named Knapp and Stavik.

  If Margaret’s information was right, and Patty had hired a professional investigator, he would find the culprit and clear Lainie. She’d resume her staid, stable existence as a teacher at Hopwell, and the only time she’d have to watch her back was on the soccer field.

  She wove her hair into a braid, pocketed her house key, and descended to the first floor. In the kitchen, she found Karen arranging lettuce on a slice of rye bread. A package of sliced turkey and one of sliced provolone lay open on the counter. “Brad deserves a treat,” she said. “He’s doing such a great job on the cars.”

  Lainie couldn’t argue, even if that turkey and cheese had been earmarked for a couple of next week’s lunches. “There are pickles in the door of the fridge,” she said. “They’ll go nicely with the sandwich. I’m heading out for a jog. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Lainie lifted an old visored cap of Roger’s from a coat peg in the mudroom, threaded her braid through the hole in the back, and pushed open the door to the garage. Before she could close the door behind her, she heard the phone ringing inside.

  Who now? Not Stavik or Knapp, she hoped as she U-turned and strode through the mudroom to the kitchen.

  Too late. Karen had the cordless handset tucked against her cheek. “Oh, wait—she’s still here. Mom?” She extended the phone to Lainie.

  “Who?” Lainie mouthed.

  Karen shrugged. “Some guy,” she mouthed back.

  Dread clenched the nape of Lainie’s neck as she lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Lainie? It’s Bill Stavik.”

  Dread clenched harder, causing her head to throb. She should have taken some aspirin, or maybe one of those prescription painkillers that caused heart attacks. A heart attack sounded kind of appealing right about now. She could black out, the EMTs would zoom over in an ambulance, and she’d be halfway to the hospital before Stavik could utter another word.

  “Hello,” she said again, carrying the phone into the mudroom to avoid Karen’s probing stare. “Look, I really don’t think—”

  “We have to talk, Lainie. We’ve got a situation here.”

  “What situation?” she asked, not really wanting to hear his answer.

  “We shouldn’t discuss this over the phone. Can I see you? Will you meet me somewhere?”

  Not at the Old Colonial Inn. Not at Olde Towne Olé . Not at any restaurant in town. For all she knew, the Rockford cops had every lounge and eatery staked out. For all she knew, they had her house staked out, too, and they’d follow her wherever she went.

  Fine. Let them jog after her through town. She was in good shape. Detective Knapp would never keep up.

  Meanwhile, Stavik had a situation, and according to him, so did she. “All right. I’ll meet you. Somewhere public, though.”

  “Somewhere public, the cops’ll see us together.”

  His words confirmed that his understanding of their situation was pretty similar to hers. “I’m not going anywhere non-public with you,” she warned.

  “How about the Natick Mall? We could meet at the food court.”

  “Too public.” Most shopping malls in t
he Boston area were teeming with security guards.

  “Hillside Orchard?”

  “Not public enough.” She ruminated. “How about Walden Pond?”

  He hesitated, then said, “All right.”

  “I’ll meet you by Thoreau’s cabin,” she said.

  “When?”

  She’d be damned if she’d let him keep her from her jog. In fact, he’d be damned, too, because if she didn’t burn off some of her nervousness she might tear his head off when she saw him. “Four o’clock.” Dispensing with courtesy, she disconnected the call.

  “Who was that?” Karen asked as Lainie returned the phone to its base.

  “Like you said,” Lainie told her. “Some guy.”

  YEARS AGO, A developer had applied for a permit to build a housing development on the shore of Walden Pond. Vigorous protests by environmentalists, community activists, Thoreau scholars, and assorted rock stars had kept the development from being built, and Walden Pond had retained its peaceful, semi-unspoiled state. The People for the Preservation of the Planet would be hard pressed to find anything to protest there.

  Lainie steered through the dense evergreen woods and onto the parking lot above the lake, slowing to a crawl so her tires wouldn’t kick dirt onto her newly washed and waxed car. Even on an overcast day, the lot was almost half-full, which was good. She didn’t want to be alone with Stavik.