Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (27 page)

I didn’t really say that, of course.

“Jim, that’s a great idea,” I said eagerly. “And very thoughtful of you to suggest it. But I’ll still do some food shopping today. Even Lucy and Ethel are complaining they’re low on dog biscuits.”

I reached down and snuck Lucy a tiny piece of my whole wheat toast. “How about if we ask Jenny and Mark to come with us?” I suggested. “Maybe we can get them to make a decision, finally, about their wedding plans.”

Jim shook his head. “No, Carol. It’s much better if we leave them alone to talk all this out. They need to decide what they want to do on their own. And then, they’ll let us know.”

I started to protest that the Nantucket wedding date was less than two months away, but Jim held up his hand to silence me.

As if!

“Tonight, let’s just make it the two of us.” He got up from the table, gave me a kiss on the top of my head, and announced, “I’ll take care of the dinner reservation. I have an appointment scheduled with the first selectman about the town budget request, so I’ll be gone until mid- afternoon. I want to write the story while the interview is fresh in my mind. See you later.”

And he was gone, leaving me to mull over his unexpected dinner proposal, and my own options for the rest of the day.

“When in doubt about your life,” I advised the dogs, “it’s always helpful to consult the horoscope page. Even if I don’t believe anything that’s written, it’s certainly entertaining. Let’s see what’s in store for me today.”

I settled my reading glasses in place and began to read aloud to the girls. “ ‘Discuss a pending decision and you’ll feel more confident.’ Well, I’m discussing things with you two, so I guess that counts. ‘Let someone else do more research; he or she can play devil’s advocate.’ ”

I sat back to mull that part over and decided to nix it. There wasn’t anyone else I wanted to do any research. I’d do my own, thank you very much.

“ ‘Think about scheduling a trip in the near future.’ I like that idea,” I said. Hmm. That sort of tied in with the dream I’d had last night about spending some time on a tropical island. Maybe I’d spring that suggestion on Jim at dinner tonight. Winters in Connecticut are long, cold and dark.

Lucy gave me a hard look which implied that she and Ethel had better be included in any travel plans.

“I get your point, Lucy. I’ll do my best. Now, let’s see if my horoscope has any more ideas about today.

“ ‘Tonight: Surf the Web.’ ”

Well, how about that? Right there in black and white. And, after all, it must be nighttime somewhere in the world. Just not in Fairport, Connecticut. I’d take a quick shower and go online for a little while, before I went to the food store.

I get some of my best ideas in the shower. I sometimes think that the water pulsating over me washes away any cobwebs that are lurking in the recesses of my brain.

Too bad I don’t spend more of my life there. Think of how brilliant I would be.

Unfortunately, by the time I was through showering and in the process of pulling together an outfit for the day (pressed khakis, a white button-down shirt, and a pullover beige sweater, in case you were wondering), I had a change of heart. Or mood. Pick one.

And I gave myself a real talking to in the bathroom mirror.

“Carol, you need to start doing something important with your life, instead of spending it meddling in other people’s. You are wasting valuable time, and you’re not getting any younger. Who knows how much longer you’ll be around?”

I paused and took a hard look at myself before I started applying makeup. I didn’t look too bad for a woman of, well, never mind how old I am. I don’t even say my age out loud in front of Lucy and Ethel.

I gave my face a quick dusting of face powder and continued my me- to-me chat.

“You make fun of Jim for being so involved with local politics, and keeping such a close eye on how money’s allocated in the town budget. But at least he’s doing something with his life since he retired. Something he cares about. And what are you doing? Starting your day reading your horoscope, moping about why your daughter-in-law doesn’t like you, imagining that she’s a runaway bride, and trying to micromanage Jenny and Mark’s wedding.

“Remember the prayer the nuns taught us in high school? It was something about asking God to grant the serenity to accept what can’t be changed, courage to change what can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

“That’s your problem, Carol. You don’t know the difference between those two things,” I said, leaning closer to the mirror to be sure I wouldn’t miss a single thing I was saying. “And it’s high time you did.

“The only time you accomplished anything important this year was when you wrote that story about domestic violence in Fairport for the local paper. Remember how proud you were of that article?”

Of course, I had also solved a murder or two, and saved my husband and one of my best friends from being convicted of crimes they hadn’t committed. But that was sheer luck, not sheer genius. And I knew it.

Then, inspiration struck.

“Carol, you need to write another story. On an issue that’s important, not just to you, but to lots of people. Something that will make a positive difference in people’s lives. You can do it. You’ve done it before.”

Not that I had won any awards for my previous story, you understand. But I had received accolades from therapists who help domestic violence victims, who’d said I had portrayed the situation accurately and sensitively. That meant a lot to me.

Satisfied that I had made my point to myself crystal clear, I finished my morning ablutions.

I remembered a story I’d seen on the front page of today’s paper, which I had glossed over in my haste to get to the horoscopes. Something about a young boy who’d been bullied by classmates on the Internet and had attempted suicide.

Absolutely horrible.

Fortunately, his parents had caught on to what was happening and were able to intervene in time to save him. And the authorities were able to identify the students who were behind the bullying. I hoped the guilty kids got punished severely for their actions.

I decided to read that news story again, slowly. Perhaps I could write a piece on cyberbullying.

Or maybe, I mused, walking in the direction of my office, I could write about stalking. Jenny’s concern that those two elderly college students were stalking her was plenty scary.

I shook my head. I still couldn’t reconcile the nice man I’d met on my walk with the profile of a stalker.

Then it dawned on me that, in this age of social media, cyberstalking was purported to be as rampant as cyberbullying. Maybe if I wrote a story about stalking instead of bullying, I’d come across information in my research that could protect my own daughter.

My mind was made up. I had a plan. This was definitely going to be my new crusade.

I was motivated! I was determined! I could do this! I would write such a great story that I’d get the rush of endorphins that athletes talk about when they win a competition! (And I wouldn’t have to break a sweat to do this – a big advantage for someone who abhors exercise, like me.)

And I’d protect Jenny at the same time. Let’s hear it for Mom power! Nothing could stop me!

But, of course, it didn’t work out that way at all. Thanks to Nancy. Or, to put it more accurately, thanks to Nancy and Bob the Blob.

Chapter 33

If my life is a reality TV show,

I hope I’m not voted off too soon.

I had just typed “cyberstalking” into my web browser when I heard the squeal of tires in my driveway. Then the sound of a car door slamming shut, and footsteps running toward my side door, which leads directly into the kitchen.

Followed by the unmistakable voice of my very best friend Nancy, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Carol! Carol! Are you home? For heaven’s sake, open the door and let me in!”

Nuts. Just when I had finally gotten myself psyched to do something important. A whole self-pep talk, wasted.

Lucy and Ethel raced to the kitchen door, barking. They were definitely angry at being disturbed from their nap. Even though they love Nancy.

I knew exactly how they felt. But I had no choice.

I sighed, then yelled back, “It’s unlocked, Nancy. Come on in. I’m in the office.”

I heard the sound of the dog biscuit jar being opened, followed by Nancy saying, “If you want treats, you have to go to your crates and stay. Good girls.”

Gee, Nancy, way to make yourself at home.

“I’m back from jail,” she yelled from the kitchen. “And I have treats for us, too.”

Nancy appeared in the doorway of my office carrying a paper bag bearing the unmistakable logo of The Paperback Cafe.

I immediately brightened. If I was going to be interrupted in my very important work, at least there was a reward involved.

I eyed Nancy critically. Nope, not a hair out of place. Perfectly coiffed and made up. Not even a wrinkle in her navy wool slacks and powder blue cashmere twinset.

“If you’ve been to jail, you must have gotten a pretty light sentence,” I observed. “You look terrific.”

“I didn’t stay in jail, Carol,” Nancy said, completely missing the humor in my remark. “I only drove to the Barnstable House of Correction to visit Bob. I wanted to see him behind bars, after all the misery he’s put me through. But I didn’t stay overnight there. It’s not a hotel, for heaven’s sake.”

“I was kidding, Nancy,” I said. “I thought you’d get that without my having to explain it to you.”

“I guess I’m not in a kidding mood,” Nancy said, open the bag and choosing a piece of the cafe’s homemade pineapple bread to eat. Which she then proceed to waste by shredding it into about a million pieces.

“Point taken,” I said. “Now, what happened? How’s Bob holding up?” I sent up a little prayer that he was doing ok, since it was my eyewitness testimony that’d landed him there in the first place.

“We had a nice visit,” Nancy said. “Even though the surroundings were less than ideal.” An understatement if I ever heard one.

“A nice visit?” I questioned. “What does that mean? What did Bob tell you about Tiffani? And the case against him? Has he spoken to a lawyer?”

“He called Larry, and got a referral to an attorney in Massachusetts who specializes in cases like this. The lawyer’s name is Bill something. I think he and Larry went to law school together. I didn’t meet him, but Bob seems pleased with him. His specialty – the lawyer’s, not Bob’s – is criminal law. Bob says the lawyer feels the case against him is circumstantial, based on the flimsy identification of an elderly witness in a dark hallway, who was not wearing eyeglasses at the time.”

I glared at her. “Since I’m the witness in question, I object to being called elderly. If this case gets to court, which I hope it doesn’t, and Bob’s lawyer calls me ‘elderly’ in public, I’m going to smack him.”

Nancy laughed. “The lawyer didn’t really say that, Carol. I told you that, just to get you mad.”

She looked down at her navy blue lap and realized it was full of crumbs. “How the heck did that happen?” She jumped up and started brushing the crumbs all over my office floor.

“Nancy, sit,” I ordered. “And stop making such a mess. Tell me what Bob said about the night Tiffani died.” Then I stopped, realizing that perhaps she shouldn’t tell me. Because that would prejudice me, should I ever be called to testify in the case.