Moving Can Be Murder (20 page)

My eyes filled with tears. How could I have
forgotten that, while we were living it up in Rome, one of my best
friends had her life turned upside down? What a selfish person I
was.

I forced myself to read the rest of the
newspaper account, which apparently was a follow-up to a piece
about the actual accident. The article was accompanied by a photo
of Brian, and a photo of the driver of the other car.

It was Jack Cartwright, our
very-dead-almost-home-buyer.

Chapter 21

This is my spirit, honey. My body left a
long time ago.

My friends may tell you that I never stop
talking. But let me tell you, looking at that yellowed newspaper
clip left me speechless.

Then, my brain kicked in. First of all, when
you reach a certain age – not that I’m anywhere near that yet – I’m
told that everyone you meet looks like someone you already know. A
grade school classmate, for instance. Or someone you worked with
one summer at the beach. Truth to tell, I’ve been known to go up to
someone I’m sure went to high school with me at Mount Saint Francis
Academy and say, “Gosh, I haven’t seen you in ages. You look
terrific. We sat next to each other in French class. How’ve you
been?” And then be totally embarrassed when the woman (it was an
all-girls’ school, in case you didn’t know that) looked at me and
said, “Who are you? I think you’ve confused me with someone
else.”

So, it was completely possible that this was
not my Jack Cartwright.

During my very brief experience with
Pilates, the instructor always said, “Inhale to prepare.” I
inhaled. Then exhaled slowly. Once more. Twice more. There, that
was a little better. Maybe if my life ever calmed down, I’d go back
to that class again.

This called for a closer examination with my
bifocals. I plopped myself back into the chair and closed my eyes.
Inhale to prepare. OK, I was ready to take another look at that
damned news story.

“Local Doctor Killed in Car Crash,” read the
headline. I shuddered. How awful to find this after all these
years.

I forced myself to read the brief story.

“Doctor Brian Costello, noted local
pediatrician and staff physician at Fairport Memorial Hospital, was
killed instantly in an auto accident yesterday afternoon. The other
vehicle in the crash was driven by seventeen-year-old John
Cartwright of Milltown. Speed and slick road conditions, as well as
the inexperience of the other driver, were thought to be factors in
the crash. Local police are investigating. Doctor Costello leaves
his wife, Mary Alice, and two sons. Funeral arrangements are
pending.”

There was no doubt about it. The driver of
the car who caused Brian’s death was my Jack Cartwright.

I sat there, motionless, while a million
thoughts swirled through my brain. I remembered Mary Alice’s
passion and grief when she talked about Brian’s accident at our
neighborhood Bunco party a few months ago. At least twelve people
heard her say that, if she ever laid eyes on the driver of the
other car, she’d kill him.

But she didn’t really mean that, I told
myself. She was upset. More than upset. She was almost out of
control. In fact, although I’d known Mary Alice most of my life,
I’d never seen her like that before.

There was no way Mary Alice could have known
that the buyer for our house was the same person who was
responsible for Brian’s death.

Was there?

Maybe she recognized Jack at the open house.
Then she waited for a chance to finally get her revenge.

This was beginning to sound like a trashy
soap opera.

But Mary Alice had been at our house the
night I found Jack dead. She admitted that to the police. Maybe I
don’t remember agreeing to meet her and hide something in the house
because we’d never had that conversation. What if she just made it
up to give herself a reason to be there? Who knew better than my
best friends how unreliable my memory could be?

“This is ridiculous,” I said to the dogs.
“I’m just going to call her up and ask her. Or, better yet, ask her
to meet me and go for a long walk. That way, I can see her reaction
when I show her the newspaper story.

“Oh, rats.”

I suddenly realized this was a bad idea. If
Mary Alice was innocent – correction, because Mary Alice was
innocent – confronting her with the old article might only make
things worse. She’d definitely panic. She might even run away.

I couldn’t give the article to Mark, because
he would have to give it to Paul Wheeler. Who would be obliged to
question Mary Alice.

I couldn’t talk to Nancy about this. She
can’t keep a secret no matter how hard she tries. In fact, the
harder she tries, the more likely she is to let something slip.

My Beloved would tell me my imagination was
working overtime. Which it certainly could be.

I could call my friend Claire in Florida and
ask her what to do, but she’s married to a lawyer, so she’d
probably tell me to talk to the police and clear the matter up once
and for all.

In the past, I’ve unburdened myself to
Deanna, my favorite hairdresser and miracle worker. Talking to her
always made me feel better. But Mary Alice was a client of hers,
too. I didn’t want to plant any suspicions in Deanna’s mind about
Mary Alice. That wouldn’t be fair at all, to either of them.

I couldn’t place Jenny in the awkward
position of being my confidante this time. Besides, she might also
tell me to talk to Mark. Even if she wasn’t talking to him
herself.

Then, I had another terrible thought. What
if the police found out Jack’s identity and added revenging Brian’s
death to the ridiculous accusation that I wanted to stop the house
sale?

A cold nose nudged my hand, and I looked
down to find Lucy looking up at me. You can talk to us, she seemed
to say.

I scooped her up in my arms and gave her a
squeeze. Oof, she was getting a little heavy. Time to switch to
light dog food.

“You and Ethel are great at support,” I
assured her.

“But unfortunately, this time I need some
advice. And that’s not your specialty.”

I’d always depended on talking difficult
situations out with my family or friends. They help me gain the
clarity that I usually lack.

But I couldn’t tell anyone about finding the
old newspaper. In fact, if I was smart, I’d burn the damn thing and
be done with it.

I‘d never felt so alone in my whole
life.

Lucy and I sat in that chair for a long
time, with Ethel dozing at my feet. In fact, I think I dozed off
for a few minutes, too. There’s nothing like the comfort of holding
a warm furry body on your lap to produce a feeling of
relaxation.

Until Lucy started to squirm. Enough of
this. I need to go out.

I finally figured out what to do about the
newspaper article, thanks to the dogs. I’m not going to confess to
you what I did. Let’s just say that, with a contribution from both
of them, the article was completely destroyed and I didn’t feel the
least bit guilty putting it into the trash barrel.

And, like the great Scarlet O’Hara once said
under dissimilar but equally stressful circumstances, I resolved to
think about it tomorrow.

Or, maybe not.

My two canine co-conspirators and I spent
the rest of the morning unpacking more boxes. Well, I unpacked.
They snoozed.

By noontime, the tiny apartment had begun to
take on some semblance of home. Having my own dishes, cutlery,
linens, and other kitchen accessories put away in the limited
cupboard space was so great. I do like things to be orderly.
(Sometimes I achieve order by throwing things into a closet and
closing the door. I bet I’m not the only person who does that.) A
few family photographs added to the cozy feeling.

I was feeling pretty positive about what I’d
accomplished. Until I found a photo of Claire, Nancy, Mary Alice
and me that was taken at Mary Alice’s retirement shower the
previous year. Mary Alice looked so happy, sitting on a chair we
had decorated as a throne. She was wearing a tiara, a feather boa,
and a tee-shirt that read, “Hello, New Life! The Best Is Yet To
Come.”

Just looking at that picture made me want to
cry. Again.

“There is absolutely, positively, no way
that our Mary Alice could be involved in Jack Cartwright’s death,”
I announced to the girls. They both wagged their tails in complete
agreement. “I don’t care about that newspaper article. She didn’t
recognize Jack. Period. And if anybody dares to say otherwise, I
swear that I’ll do whatever it takes to prove them wrong.

“Just like I did for Jim last year.”

I tossed each of the dogs a Milk Bone, made
sure their water bowls were full – I know their priorities – and
told them to sit tight for a couple of hours because I needed
retail therapy big-time. Even if I had to get it at the grocery
store.

Chapter 22

I understand the basic concepts of cooking
and cleaning.

Just not how they apply to me.

I’m going to be completely honest here. I
hate food shopping. Probably because, now that My Beloved was
retired and had more spare time on his hands, one of the joys of
his existence was to “help” unload the groceries from their
reusable, environmentally friendly bags, check each item against
the cashier’s tape, and question everything I had purchased. “Why
did you buy this brand of dishwasher detergent, Carol? Don’t you
know that store brand is always cheaper? We’re on a fixed income
now, you know. ” Etc. etc.

Jeez. I’ve been doing the family shopping
for more than 30 years and we weren’t bankrupt yet.

This time, I was only going to pick up the
bare necessities – eggs, milk, bread, maybe a package of chicken,
some veggies. The tiny refrigerator in the apartment didn’t hold
much. And dog biscuits. I hoped Lucy and Ethel wouldn’t notice if
they got a generic brand for a change. And forgive me if they
did.