Moving Can Be Murder (32 page)

As surprising as this may sound, for the
next few days My Beloved was more helpful to me than my personal
posse of girlfriends. He did a good edit of my article – very
thoughtful, helpful, and non-critical. He did have some changes to
suggest. But he presented his suggestions as just that –
suggestions.

“This is a strong article, Carol,” Jim said
as he went over it still again. “It really opened my eyes to the
domestic violence issue. Say,” he said, flipping his glasses up to
ride on his receding hairline, “do you think that Jenny was in an
abusive relationship in California? I know Jeff was a control
freak, but it never occurred to me that it could be abuse.”

“I thought of the same thing,” I said. “No
matter what happened out there, let’s just be grateful that she’s
back in Fairport and seems to be involved with a terrific guy. I
guess parents never know, unless the child chooses to share it. And
even then, I know we’re not getting the whole story.

“Speaking of which,” I said, “you may be
interested to know that our son is maintaining radio silence for
the next few weeks. I even tried to reach him using Facebook and
got a cryptic e-mail back which said he’d be in touch when he was
ready to be and meanwhile don’t worry. Hah! As if a son can tell
his mother not to worry.”

“Since when did you join Facebook?” My
Beloved asked. Trust him to zero in on the least important piece of
my conversation.

“I’m trying to live in the twenty-first
century,” I replied. “And what do you think about Mike?”

“You’ve always worried too much about him,”
Jim said. “Especially since he moved to Miami. You know the old
saying, ‘Boys will be boys’.”

Isn’t it fascinating how a father’s take on
a son is so different than the one he has on a daughter?

“You need to leave him alone and let him
live his life. What were you bugging him about, anyway?”

“I was not bugging him, dear,” I said. “I
wanted his help doing some Internet sleuthing about Jack
Cartwright. You remember how helpful Mike was finding out
information about your retirement coach last year. If it wasn’t for
him, you might be making license plates in the local lock-up for
the indefinite future.”

Jim looked me squarely in my baby blues. “I
thought we agreed that you were not going to interfere with the
police investigation. You promised me.”

“I’m not interfering,” I said in my defense.
“But Mary Alice, who is one of my oldest and dearest friends,
called and begged me for help. So I just decided to do a little
investigating on my own. How could I refuse her? In fact, since she
was a bridesmaid in our wedding, maybe you should pitch in and help
her, too, instead of criticizing me for doing it.”

“Knowing you, you’ve already involved Nancy
and Claire,” Jim said.

“I didn’t involve them. They want to help
Mary Alice. And so do Deanna and Jenny and Maria Lesco.”

Jim took a full minute to process this
information, then said, “All right, Carol. How about if I take on
the job you wanted Mike to handle? I’ll do some Internet searches
on Jack and see what I can come up with.

“But you have to promise me that anything we
find out goes right to the police. Whether it’s helpful to Mary
Alice or not.”

“Of course, Jim,” I said. Over my – excuse
the phrase – dead body.

Chapter 32

Dear God: My prayer this year is for a thin
body

and a fat bank balance. Please don’t mix
these up

like you did last year. Amen.

No matter how many tragedies life throws at
you, the mundane domestic chores still have to be handled. The next
morning, when I reached into my large black suitcase to see what
clean clothes I had left, I realized I was down to my very last
pair of undies.

Yikes! Crisis! I couldn’t ignore this. The
laundry had to be done.

I had a brief flashback to my house, with my
matching washer and dryer tucked side by side in the basement like
best buddies. And Jim marching down the basement stairs, laundry
basket held high, ready to throw in a load. Or two. My hero.

When Jim initially took over the laundry
chores, I resented it. I felt like he was encroaching on my female
territory. Nobody did the laundry better than I did. But once he
got the hang of separating colors – huge learning curve there – and
started hanging up clothes right from the dryer to avoid needless
ironing, I encouraged him in his new-found hobby. Took it for
granted, even.

But today, according to the note he’d left
propped up by the computer, he was off to the newspaper and wasn’t
sure when he’d be back. I wondered if he’d taken my article with
him. Well, I’d find out about that later.

Meanwhile, I had to load up the car with
dirty clothes, towels, sheets (might as well strip the bed while I
was at it), detergent, fabric softener, bleach, spray spot remover,
dryer sheets – good grief. And then find a convenient Laundromat.
What a way to spend the day.

I fed and walked Lucy and Ethel, and told
them not to expect me back before dark. I handed them the remote
control for the television (only kidding) and was on my way.

Jeez. What a hot place. I’m talking
temperature here, so don’t get the wrong idea. I couldn’t believe
how many people were at Sissy’s Suds in the middle of the morning.
I had to fight to commandeer the three washers I needed for all my
stuff, and even then, I was packing the machines so tightly that I
prayed they didn’t overflow.

Then I found an empty chair next to an
overflowing ashtray

(probably why the chair was empty) and
settled myself in to read the year-old magazines scattered around
the sticky table. And this was a place where I was supposed to get
my clothes clean?

I was zeroing in on an article about the
Angelina Jolie/Brad Pitt/Jennifer Anniston “love triangle” – “Brad
and Jen Caught in Secret Tryst; Angie Livid!” – when I heard a
familiar voice on the other side of the high bank of dryers.

It was my neighbor, Liz.

“Alyssa’s handling the whole situation so
bravely,” she said. “But I think part of her is relieved she won’t
have to put up with Jack any more. From what I’ve heard, he wasn’t
the easiest person in the world to live with.”

Huh? Now this was very interesting. In fact,
it was the first time I’d ever heard anyone say anything negative
about Jack. Let’s hear it for public Laundromats.

I strained to hear more, but didn’t want to
give my presence away.

“Have you seen her?” asked the other person,
whose voice I didn’t recognize.

“Not since the memorial service,” Liz
admitted. “But we’ve talked on the phone a few times. I wanted her
to know that she can count on me to be there for her, if she needs
to cry, or talk, or just plain vent. It’s so hard for her to keep
up a positive front. She doesn’t want anyone to know how awful her
life with Jack really was.

“I promised I’d keep her secret.”

I wanted to shout, “Then why are you talking
to someone about the Cartwrights’ private business, Liz?”

But I didn’t, of course. Instead, I inched
as close as I could to the dryers, hoping to hear more.

Then Liz’s companion said, “I think these
quilts are finally dry. Let’s get out of here and grab some
coffee.”

Rats. Just when things were getting
interesting.

The Laundromat door closed behind them,
leaving me with lots to think about. I finally had something that
might clear Mary Alice. Or, at the very least, a place to start
looking for answers to some very interesting questions.

I broke every speed limit in Fairport to get
back to the apartment and my computer. I couldn’t wait to send out
an a.p.e. (all-points-e-mail) to my posse of sleuths.

Of course, when I burst in the door,
struggling to carry two baskets full of clean laundry, I found My
Beloved trolling away at the computer, checking his stock prices.
Argh. But according to our agreed-upon schedule, it was his
computer time.

“You look like you’re about to explode,
Carol,” said Jim. I assumed he was referring to my excited
expression and not making a nasty crack about any possible weight
gain. (We had been eating a lot of take-out food lately. Not good
for the waistline.)

“Jim, you won’t believe what I just
overheard at the Laundromat,” I said. “I’ll tell you if you take
this laundry from me. These baskets are very heavy.”

My Beloved, chivalry personified, countered
with another suggestion. “Just put the baskets down by the desk,
Carol. No need to struggle.”

I almost let him have it, but then
remembered his heart problem a few months ago, and followed his
suggestion. Without comment. Points for me, right?

“Jim, you have to hear this. When I was at
the Laundromat today, I overheard a conversation between Liz Stone
and someone else. I couldn’t see who the other person was, but that
part doesn’t matter.”

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but I headed
him off.

“Liz said that Alyssa Cartwright wouldn’t be
mourning Jack’s death, because he was far from an ideal husband.
Liz said that Alyssa’s life with Jack was ‘awful.’ That was the
exact word she used.

“Isn’t that something? We need to check that
out. I need to send out an e-mail to the troops and tell them.”

Jim looked at me in that “you must be crazy”
way that I’ve seen all too often over the course of our marriage.
Sometimes I ignore that look. But not now.

“What are you checking out, exactly, Carol?
Some offhand conversation you overheard in a Laundromat? Who knows
what Liz meant by that comment. Or if she even knew what she was
talking about.

“Instead of sending out an e-mail to the
‘troops,’ as you call them, maybe you should check out your source
first.”

I hated to admit it, but he was right.
Again.

“And while you’re checking things out,
Carol,” Jim continued, “it might be a good idea to check out a few
things in your domestic abuse story, too. I showed it to Ted, the
paper’s managing editor, just to get a preliminary reaction, and he
thought the description you gave of a typical abuser wasn’t
credible. It needs more fleshing out.”

“Wasn’t credible?” I sputtered. “Why, that’s
outrageous. I quoted Sister Rose word for word, and she’s been in
the front lines of this problem for years.”

“I’m just repeating what he said,” Jim
replied. “Talk to her again. Try to get a few more specifics. And
while you’re checking your facts, I’ll go online and check a few
old newspaper sources on Cape Cod. Maybe I’ll find out a few things
about Jack Cartwright to back up what you overheard from Liz.

“Deal, Carol?”

Whattaguy.

“Deal, Jim.”