Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (25 page)

Which, I guess, isn’t really the same thing.

Unless a person is looking for things that hurt her feelings. Which I definitely was.

“Why doesn’t anybody ever listen to me?” I asked the dogs in complete frustration. “Why don’t people do things the way I want them to every once in a while? Is that asking too much? No, it certainly is not.” I sighed deeply. Hell has no fury like a mother-in-law scorned. Or something like that.

When I get in the dumper – and that’s where I was, in case you haven’t figured that out by now – I usually counted on retail therapy to restore me. There’s nothing like scoring a major bargain to cheer me up.

“If I knew that Jenny and Mark were going ahead with the wedding here at the house, I could go to my favorite boutiques and see what I could find to wear,” I said to the dogs. “But nobody tells me anything! I absolutely hate that. For all I know, with Tiffani dying so suddenly, the kids might decide to postpone the wedding until the spring.

“But Jenny has so much going on, I can’t blame her for not keeping me in the loop.”

I sighed again. “I sure wish I knew what she was thinking, though. I am so frustrated!”

Ok, that self-pity rampage was over. Time to move along and actually accomplish something today. That would definitely cheer me up.

A day with endless possibilities stretched out before me. Or, maybe, it was a possibly endless day. But I knew that if I didn’t get cracking on something pretty quick, a 24-hour day could seem like a week.

Despite the siren song of the computer, calling to me, I decided to tackle a task I avoid as often as possible. I changed into an old sweatshirt and jeans, got out the vacuum cleaner, and prepared to wage the ongoing Battle of the Dust Bunnies.

I soon realized, once again, that the road to hell and a clean house are both paved with good intentions. And I knew Jim would be angry at me if I moved any of his clutter – excuse me, I mean any of his precious papers – which were strewn all over the desk in an upstairs bedroom and heaped in piles on the floor. So I had to vacuum around them.

I have been known to get sick of looking at the aforementioned mess and finally tidy up things that have been lying around for over a month. This was inevitably followed by an outburst from Jim, informing me that I’d managed to lose the single most important piece of paper he needed to finish a very important article he was working on under a very tight deadline.

Sheesh.

So I really don’t make much of an effort any more. If we’re having company, I’ve been known to throw some clutter into a nearby closet, slam the door shut and pray it won’t burst open at an inopportune moment.

Hey, we all have our methods.

After an hour of strenuous (for me) vacuuming in corners of the bedrooms where dust hadn’t been disturbed for quite some time, I’d had enough and waved the white flag of defeat. Or, rather, the white dust rag.

“The upstairs looks a little better, doesn’t it, girls?” I queried the two dogs who’d arrived to inspect my efforts. I didn’t want to point out to them that a lot of what I’d vacuumed up was dog hair. They’re very sensitive to criticism.

“Well, even if you don’t think so,” I said, “it’s as good as it’s going to get until Jim comes home and cleans up his mess.” Then a great idea sprang, unbidden, into my mind. I just love when that happens. It’s like my mind has a mind of its own, if you know what I mean.

Generous to a fault, however, I credited Lucy and Ethel with coming up with the idea and telegraphing it silently to me. Which I swear has happened many times before, whether you believe me or not.

“That’s a terrific idea, girls,” I said. “We’ll leave a note for Jim in his Honey-Don’t jar.”

“We need to use the jar more,” I said to the dogs as we padded down the stairs in the direction of the kitchen. “It prevents a lot of squabbling over silly stuff.”

I stopped short when I saw an envelope with my name printed on it, propped up against the microwave.

For a split second, I was frightened, realizing someone had been in the house while I was upstairs. When you’ve recently discovered a dead body, a person tends to frighten pretty easily.

Then I squinted and recognized the scrawl on the envelope as Jim’s. “Phew,” I said, willing my heart back to a more normal rhythm.

“Some poor watchdogs you guys are.”

Lucy gave me a withering look, which indicated she’d heard noises downstairs, realized it was Jim, and decided not to bark. Ethel, following Lucy’s lead, ignored me completely.

The proof positive was a dirty glass and plate on the granite counter, which was sprinkled attractively with powdered sugar and a dollop of raspberry jam.

“Snack break,” I deduced from the evidence. And sighed. When would Jim learn to clean up after himself?

I snatched the envelope and opened it, hoping for a sweet note from my husband. Or, even better, a suggestion for a romantic way to spend the evening.

Boy, was I ever wrong.

“Carol, I know how upset you are about the wedding, and finding poor Tiffani, so I came home to be sure you were ok. I also know that when you get like this, you need to feel like you’re accomplishing something positive. Which frequently involves your tidying up and cleaning. I heard you vacuuming upstairs. Please see your Honey-Don’t jar for the conclusion of this note. Love, Jim”

Mystified, I headed toward the cupboard and saw that my jar had a new note in it. I could tell it was new, because it was the only one written on a yellow sticky note.

It had today’s date on it, just in case I didn’t get the fact that this was a new Honey-Don’t, and it said, in HUGE capital letters, “DO NOT Touch, Rearrange, Or In Any Other Way Try To Clean Up My Stuff.”

“Well,” I huffed. “Two can play this game.”

I put a note in Jim’s Honey-Don’t jar, also in HUGE capital letters. “DO NOT Clutter Up Our Space With Piles Of Paper, Old Correspondence, Magazines And Newspaper Clippings Which Should Be Either Filed Or Tossed.”

Heh heh heh.

I wondered if the two Honey-Don’ts cancelled each other out, but decided I didn’t really care.

And went to clean up the mess Jim had left in the kitchen. Again.

In no time at all, I was seated in front of my new favorite spot in the house, my computer. I was deeply absorbed in deciphering an e-mail message that had gone into my Spam filter from Classmates.com which said someone who purported to be one of my grammar school classmates – who can possibly remember that far back? – was trying to find me, when I got an Instant Message from Nancy.

“Sorry I haven’t been in touch. All is forgiven – don’t worry. Even though you were way out of line with what you said to me. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know that my big date last night was a complete fiasco. What a jerk! I’m on my way to Cape Cod to see Bob. After suffering through a match from Dream Dates, I decided that Bob doesn’t look so bad. Even if he is a murderer. Strike that. You and I both know he’d never have the nerve to murder anyone. Unless he’d talk and talk and bore them to death. Anyway, I know the past few days have been horrible for you, and if you want to feel sorry for someone who’s having a really hard time, check out the video on YouTube from a desperate mother in Puerto Rico who’s looking for her missing daughter. At least we know where our kids are. I hope. Click on this link and you’ll see what I mean. Will check in when I get back. Wish me luck!”

I never go on YouTube or Twitter. The latter, especially, is a complete mystery to me. I have enough trouble telling a story in the first place – some people actually have the nerve to say that I take too long to get to the point. Not mentioning anyone in particular, but his initials are J.A. To try to boil down a story post into just a few words is a task I don’t care to tackle. And I’m not much into abbreviations either.

But I’m a sucker for a sad story, so of course I clicked on the link Nancy had sent me. And she was right. What this poor woman was going through made my own problems shrink dramatically.

The video began with a close-up shot of a very attractive, dark haired woman who looked to be in her middle fifties. At first, she appeared very composed, but as she began to speak, her voice quavered.

“My name is Isabella Martinez. Please, help me find my daughter. She’s been missing for six months.”

The camera pulled back from the close-up shot, which was merciful because the woman was having great difficulty controlling her emotions. As any mother would, under these circumstances.

She wiped her eyes and began again. “I’m sorry. This is very hard. But I appeal to you to help me find my daughter. Her name is Maria Louisa, and she’s twenty-six years old. She was engaged to be married, and six months ago she flew from our family home in Puerto Rico to Miami, Florida, to go shopping for her trousseau.”

She broke down again.

“My baby. She didn’t return. And none of us have heard anything from her. Not even her fiancé, who’s loved her since she was a little one. My husband and I are worried sick. The Miami police have been wonderful, but so far have been unable to come up with any clues as to what happened to her. She’s such a beautiful girl.”

She paused and took a drink of water, then gave the cup to an unseen person off-camera, who then handed her a framed photograph.

“This is my daughter. This is Maria Louisa. Our family is offering a fifty thousand dollar reward for any information as to her whereabouts. Please, please, help us.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the photograph. Because the missing woman, Maria Louisa, bore a remarkable resemblance to my elusive daughter-in-law, Marlee.

Chapter 31

Sometimes I wake up grumpy. Other times, I let him sleep late.

I sat back and took a deep breath. Then I shook my head, hard, to clear it.

You’re crazy, Carol. There’s no way that this missing young woman is Mike’s wife. You have an overactive imagination. Plus, a tendency to overdramatize things. You…are…wrong.

Then, I looked at Lucy. “What do you think, Luce? Am I losing it for sure this time?”

No comment from my usual canine critic. Clearly, I was on my own this time.

“I know what I’ll do,” I said, trying to calm myself down. “I’ll watch the YouTube video again. And this time, I’ll take a closer look at that photograph the mother was holding. I bet if I look at the photograph again, I’ll know that it’s just a weird coincidence that Marlee looks so much like the missing girl. She’s no runaway bride. And after all, everybody’s supposed to have at least one other person who looks exactly like her. Or him.”

A scary thought, in my case.

After viewing the YouTube clip at least 20 times (I was not taking any chances), I still wasn’t completely sure if I was right or wrong. Which is an unusual situation for me. There was something about the way the girl, Maria Louisa, tilted her head in the photo that reminded me of Marlee.

Who, I reminded myself sternly, I’d seen for less than 12 hours in person, and in only a handful of short video conferences on Skype. I was in no position to make a judgment one way or the other.

But what if it is Marlee? And why would she disappear for such a long time? You’re a mother, too, Carol. What if Jenny were the missing bride? Wouldn’t you do everything in your power to find her and bring her home safely? What if you could reunite that poor woman with her long-lost daughter? Shouldn’t you at least try?