Death Comes eCalling (8 page)

The muscles in Jack’s jaw tightened and his eyes flashed in anger. There was an awkward silence. Everyone in the room was probably thinking: How long till I can make a graceful exit? That was certainly my thought pattern, and I lived here. Preston put his arm around Stephanie.

“So, I take it you didn’t bring your children,” I said.

“Good heavens no,” said Stephanie. She flicked at me with a manicured paw that sported a wedding band and a diamond so large she must have listed to the left. “We’d owe my daughter another trip to Disneyland to reward her for having to come here tonight.”

I turned a growl into a clearing of my throat, “Think I’ll go see where Lauren’s putting that cheesecake.”

“Need any help in the kitchen?” Stephanie called after me.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Mind helping me whip up a main course?”

She blinked, then said, “You
are
kidding, aren’t you?”

I pushed through the kitchen door, letting it swing shut behind me. Lauren was leaning against the counter, gulping a glass of burgundy. She looked a bit sheepish.

“Don’t get the wrong impression.” She lifted the bottle. “I just get nervous at parties and need to toke up. Want some?”

I shook my head. I’d learned my lesson from a painful alcohol-related incident years ago, and now rarely drank even socially. “Lauren, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you. Is it just me, or is that woman a bitch?”

She didn’t need to ask which woman. “It’s her all right, but you bring out the worst in her.”

“How? What is it about me that makes her act like that?”

“Maybe she’s jealous of you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Nobody’s ever been jealous of me. Except maybe my mother-in-law, for stealing her only son.” That reminded me. Jim was supposed to call at eight tonight, Fridays and Saturdays being the rare days that the considerable time difference was workable. With any luck, I could play up his phone call to let it be known that I did indeed have a loving husband.

Lauren turned, studied my face, and said wistfully, “We can never see ourselves as clearly as we see others. That’s why, as friends, we hold up a mirror. And I see so much beauty in you.”

I was taken aback by her words and muttered through my embarrassment, “Jeez, Lauren. You’re getting philosophical on me.”

She smiled slightly and blushed. “You wrote that in a letter to me seven years ago.”

I looked at her in surprise, and she continued, “I’d sent you pictures from our tenth reunion and was obsessing about my weight. Remember?”

I did, vaguely, but we were soon deluged with party guests who’d swamped into the kitchen. I should’ve known how guests gravitate there if the hostess leaves them unattended for any length of time. Lauren helped with my hostessing duties and we were soon actually eating at the dining table like real adults.

Our food was not the disaster I’d envisioned. The stuffed spinach-and-cheese manicotti was moist, the salad crisp, and even the garlic bread was just the way I liked it, crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside.

My daughter, Karen, self-appointed hostess of the basement party for the younger set, kept periodically moaning that the pizza’d better arrive soon or she’d starve to death. It did, and she didn’t.

Lauren continued to hit the wine as we ate, matched in pace only by Tommy, who acted truly smitten by Carolee. She kept excusing herself to “check on the children.” I wasn’t sure how much of that was sincere interest and how much was an attempt to impress Tommy with her mothering skills. In any case, it was a wonderful convenience for me.

On a final trip up the stairs, carrying an empty pizza box and paper plates, Carolee announced, “Rachel just did the cutest thing. She showed your children how to print out letters on your computer.”

I tensed. I’d deliberately turned off my computer and fax machine/printer. A subscriber to Murphy’s Law, I’d wanted to avoid the possibility of an obscene fax or email arriving, to be read aloud by Karen to our dinner guests. “What did she send?”

“Oh, just some little doodles she drew.”

“Excuse me. I don’t want my children to figure out that they can use my computer to edit my eCards. It would crush my ego to discover that they're better artists than I am.” Forced to reveal my possessiveness about my office equipment, I might as well get in some plugs for my company.

I headed down the stairs, an idea for a humorous non-occasion card came to me. After chasing the three children out of my office, I made a quick sketch so I wouldn’t be mulling it over during dinner. It was a drawing of a mother and son in a kitchen. The mother’s back is turned while the boy fearfully duels a live swordfish. The mother is saying over her shoulder, “It’s called sushi, and it’s good for you! Now for the last time, stop playing with your food!”

I heard angry male voices and rushed back upstairs. It was obvious the party was not going well. For one thing, now no one was speaking. Much as I’d like to have attributed that to my good cooking, no one was eating. All three Wilkinses looked upset; Rachel had come upstairs and was standing near the table, kicking at the carpet.

Steve threw his linen napkin on the table. “I will not sit here and be accused of overcharging my customers. I work my tail off for you people.” He rose. “Lauren. Rachel. We’re leaving.”

“Don’t go.” I felt desperation, bordering on panic, as I scanned the faces of my guests. Stephanie looked oblivious, but Preston was red-faced, as were Denise, Sam. and Jack. Carolee and Tommy had rotated in their seats and appeared to be watching with curiosity.

I put my hand on Steve’s shoulder. “What’s a party without a good-spirited debate, right? Talk about overcharging! Has anyone seen the tax tables for this year?”

Actually,
I
hadn’t seen them, but surely the IRS was one enemy everyone had in common. Steve ignored me and headed to the door. “We’ve got ice cream and a whole cheesecake in the kitchen,” I called after him. “Made from scratch.”
What the hell had I missed?

“Sorry, Molly,” Lauren muttered. “Steve isn’t feeling good all of a sudden.” She glared at him. They were soon gone, leaving only a trail of apologies behind them.

Still, no one at the table was speaking. Preston shot an angry glare at Sam, who quickly looked away.

“Did I miss something while I was downstairs?” I asked as casually as I could.

Jack stood up. “Great dinner, Molly. I’d, best be going.”

“It’s only eight o’clock.”

“Yeah, we’d better shove off as well,” Preston said. “We can just take your cake with us, sugar, and we’ll have some at home.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “Did a stink bomb go off up here while I was downstairs?”

Denise, Stephanie, spouses, and cheesecake promptly left. I escorted them to the door, but the instant they were outside, I locked the door and whirled toward my lone remaining guests.

“Tommy. Carolee. Neither of you is leaving this house till you tell me precisely what went on while I was downstairs.”

At least I’d managed to suppress the wagging finger that would’ve punctuated my words had I been speaking to my children.

Carolee and Tommy exchanged a look of shared perplexity. Tommy shrugged. “Beats me, Molly.”

In wide-eyed innocence, Carolee said, “Steve was sharing some anecdote about a computer job or something. I wasn’t listening because Tommy was telling me about his sons. Then Preston said something and Jack said something, then Steve said, ‘Oh you think so, do you?’ And, well, next thing I know, there was this dead silence, and you came upstairs, and Steve said they had to leave.”

“No offense, Carolee,” I said, “but that story seems to have lost a lot in the translation.”

Tommy held up his hands. “Like Carolee said, we were talking to each other at the time. Didn’t hear what was bein’ said at the rest of the table. What kinda ice cream you got?” His lopsided smile warned me that he was not entirely sober.

Tommy and Carolee left together a half hour later. I called Lauren’s house, but got their machine. I left a message to please call me back and tell me what was going on. I glanced through the window. The house lights were on and I could see an adult-sized shadow move across the drawn curtains in their kitchen window.

When my phone rang later, I rushed to it, hoping it was Lauren.

“Hi.” It was Jim. “I called late on purpose. Your email said you were having a dinner party tonight, and I didn’t want to interrupt it.”

“That was thoughtful.” Next time I wanted witnesses when he called, I’d better clue him in first.

I told him about my teacher’s heart attack, but suddenly decided not to tell him about the threats. It felt as if telling him about them would make my peril real.

We chatted for a while, and I put the kids on the line with him before getting them to bed late, but allowing them to talk with their dad was more important than a little extra sleep, especially on a weekend. Then I decided to tackle the kitchen.

After loading the dinner plates into the dishwasher, I started on the remaining cooking utensils. I soon discovered something strange. After a few minutes, I checked the dishwasher, then every drawer and shelf in the house.

The search only verified my fear: someone had stolen my carving knife.

Chapter 7

Finally. Some Shade!

An empty car was in my driveway. That had to be Sergeant Tommy’s. He must have walked Carolee home and stayed for some tutti-frutti.

It was almost eleven at night. I parked myself on my doorstep and waited, calculating that he would either stay overnight at Carolee’s or leave soon, but in any case, he would not leave his car in my driveway for everyone to see much longer.

The missing knife was just plain weird. I mentally sorted through my party guests’ attire. Who might have been able to sneak out a heavy knife with a nine-inch blade? Nobody had worn a coat, but at one point three purses were behind the stuffed chair close to the door. Whose were they?

“Ouch!” I slapped a mosquito on my arm. Talk about sharp blades. The mosquitoes were out in force. We have mosquitoes in Boulder, but the ones in upstate New York can be mistaken for hummingbirds.

Stephanie hadn’t brought a purse. Hers would have been some tiny gold or silver clutch to match the outfit, and I’d have remembered it. She had that covered platter, though, large enough to have hidden my knife. So all four women could conceivably have gotten the knife out of the house. A man could simply have stashed it inside his shirt or pants leg. Which was not to say he’d want to run a marathon that way.

What if the cutlery thief had slipped it out the window, planning to return for it? I raced across my lawn to the kitchen windows to see if that was feasible. It wasn’t. You would have to slit or remove the screen. They were intact on both windows. However, the sliding glass back door was directly off the kitchen. Perhaps the knife was still hidden outside. My back porch light was on. I made a quick search, but found nothing.

As I circled the house, I spotted Tommy crossing the street. His gait looked so carefree he was practically skipping. He passed below a streetlamp. He wore a dopey expression that made me suspect some love song was playing in his head.

“Tommy.”

I startled him so badly he reached for his hip as if to draw an invisible gun. He covered for the motion by scratching himself.

“What are you doin’ out here in the middle of the night? Catchin’ lightning bugs?”

We met in my driveway. “I’m really worried. “My carving knife is missing.”

He stared at me and blinked slowly. He seemed half asleep and perhaps a little inebriated “Carving knife? You mean like a knife you whittle with?”

“No! Carving knife as in carve the turkey. Kitchen knife. My kitchen knife is missing.”

He grinned and unlocked his car. “Some guest prob’ly washed it. Put it away in a different drawer.”

“I already thought of that. I’ve searched the entire kitchen. It’s been stolen.”

“Uh-huh.” He glanced at his watch, then apparently unable to read it, opened his car door and angled his wrist under the overhead light. “Next time a unit’s in your area, I’ll have ‘em come do a stolen-property report. Must be one hell of an expensive knife, since you’re so worried.”

“It’s not the knife itself that worries me,” I retorted. “Somebody sent a death threat to Mrs. Kravett that implicated me. The way things are going, I’m afraid my knife will show up in somebody’s back. And I want to go on record now as saying that I didn’t put it there!”

He held up his palms, reminiscent of a parent attempting to mollify his child. “Maybe you should check your drawers again.”

I barely bit back the urge to demand that he check his own drawers. I whirled on a heel and stormed into my house, letting the screen door bang behind me.

“Thanks again for dinner,” Tommy called after me. “Check downstairs. Maybe the kids took it to cut the pizza.”

Sputtering belated comebacks to Tommy’s suggestion that I’d allow seven-year-olds to use a lethal weapon to cut pizza, I ransacked the house. There was definitely no knife. My check of the dishwasher and cabinets verified something else rather odd. I’d either lost a cup or gained a saucer. The cups had been on the counter in anticipation of the dessert that only Carolee and Tommy had experienced.

“Hey diddle diddle/A cat with a fiddle/ My cup ran away with my knife/Run for your life.”

Nice rhyme, lousy meter. No sense reporting this second theft. No one ever got cupped to death.

Though it was late, I called Lauren’s house again. The lights were still on, but their recorder answered. I left a message for them to call and to please tell me what had gone wrong during dinner. I deliberately spoke slowly, but no one picked up.

Tires squealed. I raced to the window. A car zoomed off from the Wilkinses’ driveway. In the bad lighting I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Lauren, with the top of Rachel’s head just visible in the back seat.

It was half past eleven. Only horrible explanations for Lauren’s great haste in leaving with her child at this hour came to mind. She and Steve had a terrible fight. Rachel had a medical emergency.