Moving Can Be Murder (23 page)

I used the cascading water to do my favorite
meditation, and washed all the bad things, including Adam and Eve,
down the drain. So there!

I needed to focus on positive things today.
Like starting to research my story on domestic violence. That
entailed another talk with my new best buddy Sister Rose, but that
wasn’t the way I wanted my day to start.

To paraphrase the Bard of Avon, “How many
problems doth stress me today?”

In addition to the kaput house deal and Mark
and Jenny breaking up and becoming reaquainted with my former
nemesis and new buddy Sister Rose, I had a new one to add to the
list. Jim and I would drive each other crazy if we were stuck in
our tiny apartment for an indefinite period of time, despite the
Honey-Don’t List.

The person I needed to talk to first was
Nancy. She had to find us permanent new digs before Jim and I ended
up in divorce court. Even if two master suites weren’t
included.

Sigh.

I know my best friends’ schedules like I
know my own. Maybe better, since mine tends to be erratic.

Nancy’s idea of a great start to the day was
to spend an hour huffing and puffing and generally causing herself
great bodily pain at a nearby women’s gym, Battle of the Bulge. She
called it exercise. I called it torture. Nancy was not going to
slide into the senior part of her life without a fight.

Recently, she almost talked me into going
with her for a consult about some procedure called a “Liquid
Facelift.” Fortunately, when I realized this was a lot more
involved than switching moisturizer brands, I came to my senses and
backed out.

Oh, well, to each her own.

“I love it when I’m right,” I said to myself
as I pulled into a parking space next to Nancy’s snappy red
convertible. “Especially when it happens so infrequently.”

A young woman in sweats, gym bag in hand,
eyed me as I got out of my car. I guess she’d never heard anyone
talk to herself before. Wait’ll she got to be my age. She’d find
out.

The young woman just stood there, not
moving.

Good grief. It was my darling daughter.

“Jenny. My gosh. I’m surprised to see you
here,” I said as I wrapped her in a big hug.

“Not as surprised as I am to see you here,
Mom. Have you finally decided to start exercising? It’ll do you so
much good.”

“As if!” I said, laughing. “I’m here because
I have to talk to Nancy. I know this is where she always starts her
day.”

“You’ll be surprised who else starts her day
working out,” said Jenny, eyeing my baggy sweatshirt and jeans with
a critical eye. “I’ll bet those pants have an elastic waist. If you
exercised properly, you wouldn’t have to wear things like
that.”

“I like these pants,” I said defensively.
“They’re comfortable.”

Jenny laughed and held the gym door open for
me. My ears were immediately assaulted by pulsating music coming
from an interior room.

“I’m going to get changed for my yoga
class,” said Jenny. “Sit here and wait for Nancy.” She thrust a
multi-colored brochure into my hands. “You might as well read this
while you wait. Maybe it’ll give you a nudge in the right
direction.”

Hmm. I put on my bifocals and quickly
scanned the sheet. Apparently the loud music was coming from a
class called “Mature Women’s Aerobics.” I wondered if the gym also
offered one for “Immature Women.”

The door opened and about 30 women spilled
out of the room,

towels around their necks, water bottles in
their hands. I had no trouble spotting Nancy. She was the only one
who looked fresh as the proverbial daisy, while the rest were,
well, sweaty.

She waved when she saw me and mouthed,
“Going to take a quick shower. Wait here for me.”

Good grief. Was that my hairdresser Deanna
in the crowd? Now, that was a surprise. I thought the only thing
she ever exercised was a comb and brush. I shrunk down in my chair
so she wouldn’t notice me and scold me for trimming my bangs
again.

Too late. She saw me, all right. And made a
scissor-like motion across her brow, followed by shaking her right
index finger at me.

“I’ll come see you later this week,” I
yelled.

“You better. Your bangs are all uneven.”
Then she disappeared into the locker room.

The last two stragglers came into view, deep
in conversation.

“I can’t believe what you’ve been through,
dear,” said my neighbor Phyllis Stevens.

“It’s an absolute nightmare,” said Sara
Miller. “I will always believe that neglected old wreck of a house
was responsible for poor Jack’s death. Our family has been
completely shattered by the shock.”

My family isn’t doing too well, either, I
wanted to respond. But, coward that I am, instead I shrank down in
my chair and prayed they wouldn’t notice me. I didn’t want a
confrontation.

They walked right by me into the locker
room, Phyllis’s arm around Sara’s shoulder.

Good grief.

“I think you’re overreacting again,” Nancy
said. “Nobody’s accusing you of a crime, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, yeah?” I shot back. “Sara told Phyllis
that the reason Jack died was because we hadn’t taken proper care
of our house. That sounded like an accusation to me.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I had
suggested getting take-out coffee and driving to Fairport Beach.
Looking at Long Island Sound and hearing the soothing sounds of
waves as they rippled onto the sand never failed to calm me.

Except this time.

“Listen, sweetie,” Nancy finally said, “I
know you’re still very upset about this situation, and you have a
perfect right to be. It’s terrible, I agree. But I’ve told you, and
please believe that I know what I’m talking about, that your house
was – is – in excellent condition. If there had been anything
wrong, the inspection would have shown it. And it didn’t.

Because there isn’t. Sara is just grasping
at straws, trying to find someone or something to blame for Jack’s
death. And, unfortunately, you and the house are the logical
culprits. We’ll do the show house, people will flock to see it,
you’ll get a full-price cash offer, sell the house, and move to
your dream house at Eden’s Grove. With two master bedroom
suites.”

“Well, Nance, I’ve got news for you.” Tears
pricked my eyes. “Jim and I are not moving to Eden’s Grove because
the damned homeowners’ association has decided they don’t want us
there. Because of the notoriety about our old house. We may be in
that small box of an apartment until we’re carried out feet
first.”

Nancy, Realtor extraordinaire, immediately
swung into professional gear. Just as I hoped she would.

“Listen, Carol, this may be a blessing in
disguise. I’ll find you and Jim the perfect property. Forget those
snobs at Eden’s Grove.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are getting your
deposit back, aren’t you?”

“In full,” I said. “But I feel like Jim and
I are damaged goods. Second-class citizens. Do you know what I
mean?”

“Believe it or not, I do,” Nancy replied.
“On a whole other level. I’ve been spending some time volunteering
at Sally’s Place, and some of the stories I’ve heard from the women
there are just unbelievable. Too many of them feel like they caused
the abusive behavior, rather than being the victim of it.” She
shook her head. “It’s tragic. That’s one reason why I feel so
strongly about doing this show house, to help them and all the
other families who will benefit from the program in the
future.”

“Nancy, you didn’t tell me you were
volunteering there. When did you start?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t tell you
everything, Carol.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “Just almost
everything. And, of course, there was the Sister Rose factor. I
knew you’d freak when you found out she was involved.”

I had to laugh. “Well, my friend, I did
freak when I walked into their thrift shop and saw her for the
first time in umpteen years. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you
about that, with everything else going on.

“Was that your plan? Not to warn me in
advance? Just suggest, every so casually, that I drop in to Sally’s
Closet and check out the bargains?”

Nancy took another sip of her coffee before
she answered me.

“I admit, I took the coward’s way out. She
scared me to death in high school, too, though not nearly as much
as she did you. I figured you’d never go for the show house idea if
you found out in advance she’d be involved, no matter how desperate
you and Jim are to sell your house.

“Forgive me, please.”

Well, what could I say? Of course, Nancy was
absolutely right.

“As a matter of fact, once the initial shock
of reconnecting with her has worn off, I’m finding out that Sister
Rose isn’t such a bad egg after all,” I said. “I saw her again
yesterday in the supermarket, and we ended up having coffee
together, believe it or not. And had quite a nice conversation. I
don’t know which one of us was the more surprised about that.”

Talking about my coffee date brought back
the ugly suspicions I’d been harboring about Mary Alice. I wondered
if I could trust Nancy to keep her mouth shut if I probed a little
about Jack Cartwright.

What the heck. I’d be subtle.

“I’m getting excited about the show house,”
I said, “although I still can’t get beyond the shock of finding
Jack. I realized last night that, even though he was buying our
house, Jim and I didn’t know very much about him. Except for the
fact that he was married to Sara Miller’s daughter Alyssa.

“Was he from Fairfield County
originally?”

Nancy looked at me hard. “I know what you’re
getting at, Carol. You figured out who Jack was, right?”

Huh?

“You knew who Jack was and didn’t say
anything to me?” I couldn’t believe this.

“I didn’t recognize him,” Nancy
responded.

“Mary Alice did.”

Chapter 25

Dust bunnies make ideal pets.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Do you mean to tell me,” I said, “that Mary
Alice knew who Jack was all along? And you did, too? And neither
one of you said a single word to Jim or me about it?”

I was shaking with rage.

“How could you do this? Why did you, for
God’s sake?”

“Take it easy, Carol,” Nancy said. “And let
me explain what happened. Believe me, please, that we kept the
truth about Jack from you and Jim with the best of intentions. In
fact…”

She stopped herself.

“In fact, what?” I prompted her. “What?”

“Well, I guess I’m the one who’s really to
blame about this. Mary Alice wanted you to know. But I was a
selfish bitch. I was afraid that if you knew who Jack was, you’d
call off the house sale. And I needed the commission. You know how
hard the real estate market is these days.”