Moving Can Be Murder (33 page)

In no time at all, I hustled myself over to
Sally’s Place. First, though, I placed a quick call to be sure
Sister was there. Surprisingly, she answered the phone herself.

“Hello, Sister Rose,” I said in my most
polite voice. “It’s Carol Andrews.” I started to inquire about her
schedule today, but she cut me off.

“I think I recognize your voice by now,”
Sister said. “Of course, having caller i.d. on our phone does help.
I was hoping you’d call. Can you stop by today? We need to talk
about what happened at the preview party. And the sooner, the
better.”

“I’ll be there within the hour,” I said.
“And I’ll bring coffee and snacks from The Paperback Café.”

“Perfect,” Sister said. “I’ll be waiting for
you.”

You’ll be pleased to know that I resisted
the siren song of the thrift shop, hardly giving the attractive
window display, with all its new merchandise, a third glance. No
shopping for me today. I was a woman on a mission.

Well, maybe if the talk with Sister Rose
went well, I’d reward myself with just a quick walk through the
shop. After all, the proceeds went to such a worthy cause.

Balancing the two coffees and the paper sack
of goodies, I rang the bell and announced myself though the
intercom.

“Come in, Carol,” said Sister Rose. “I’ve
been waiting for you.”

“There was a time when if you told me you
were waiting for me, it paralyzed me,” I said. “I hope those days
are over.”

Sister gave me a thin smile and waved me
into an office chair. Opening a cup of coffee, she took a quick
sip, then got down to business.

“Tell me what’s happening on with Mary
Alice,” she demanded. “Did the police release her after that
disgusting display at the preview party? The very idea,” Sister
huffed, “taking one of my students out of a public place like she
was a common criminal.”

“She’s home,” I said. “But very scared. Mary
Alice is terrified that since the police have made the connection
between her and Jack Cartwright, they think she has a perfect
motive for wanting Jack dead. Plus, she already admitted to the
police that she was at my house the night Jack died.”

I sighed. “It’s a real mess. But Nancy,
Claire, and a few other folks I’m not sure you know, are working
with me to try and clear her. We may not be professional sleuths
but,” I paused for just a minute. “Not to brag, but we do have a
little experience in solving crimes. And I just found out something
very damaging about the Cartwrights’ marriage that could affect the
case.”

Sister Rose gave me the cold stare that
struck fear into students for decades.

“Carol, dear,” she said, “you do realize
that this is a human life we’re talking about. This is not a game.
You sound like you’re playing ‘Clue,’ for heaven’s sake. Who are
you? Miss Marple?”

Whoa. That was harsh. I sat up very straight
in my chair and glared at her.

“I assure you, Sister Rose, that I’m very
aware of the fact that this is not a game. This is one of my best
friends we’re talking about here. I hope that, if you have any
information that could help her, you would share it with us.

“In fact,” I matched her frozen look with
one of my own that’s been known to elicit confessions of
wrong-doing from my children in a single second, “I would expect
you to do so.”

Sister Rose nodded her head slightly. “Your
point is well taken. I’m glad we understand each other.” She pursed
her lips. “I don’t mean to be so hard-nosed, Carol. I’m just as
worried about Mary Alice as you are. And I’m afraid I’m taking it
out on you.

“Now, you said you have more questions about
the article you’re writing on domestic violence,” Sister Rose said,
indicating our discussion about Mary Alice’s troubles was over.
“How can I help you?”

I whipped open my little notebook and
rummaged in my purse for a pen. Too late. Sister Rose handed me
one. That broke the ice between us.

“I’m not going to remind you of all the
times you came to class unprepared, Carol,” said Sister with just a
hint of a smile.

Humph.

“I’ve been asked to expand on the profile of
a typical abuser,” I said. “For instance, if a young boy witnesses
domestic abuse in his family, would that be a major factor if that
boy becomes an abuser himself when he grows up? Is my question
making any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense,” Sister replied.
“But unfortunately, things are never as black and white as that.
Each abuse case, and each abuser, is different. Some children who
witness abuse between their parents make choices that lead them
into abusive relationships as adults. Abuse is about control. One
person controlling another. The patterns set in childhood can
continue into the next generation. But they don’t always. And there
have been many articles written about the role alcohol and drugs
play in an abusive relationship. Again, the answer is not black and
white.

“There’s a non-profit organization, the
National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, which gives excellent
information on domestic violence statistics. Their motto is, ‘Every
home a safe home.’ You might want to mention their web site in your
article. It’s www.ncadv.org.

“I hope you really understand what I’m
telling you here, Carol. Read the information on this web site very
carefully. And think about what you already know. Few relationships
are what they appear to be. There are always secrets.”

I looked up from my scribbling. “I’m trying
to write down everything you’ve told me, Sister.”

“Find the secret, Carol, and you can save a
person’s life.”

Chapter 33

There will be a $5 charge for whining.

I puzzled over what Sister Rose had told me
all the way back to the apartment. It was a very strange
conversation. I felt that we were talking on more than one level,
about more than one thing. It was very frustrating.

Fortunately, My Beloved was out. I guess
that sounds terrible, but sometimes I need to process things on my
own, without explaining what I’m doing, why I’m doing it, and, most
important, when I’ll be finished so I can start dinner.

I gave the girls a quick run, a bowl of
water, and some Milk Bones, which made me a goddess in their
eyes.

Then I poured myself a glass of chardonnay
(it was a very small plastic glass, in case you were wondering),
fired up my computer, and searched for the web site Sister Rose had
told me about for the National Coalition Against Domestic
Violence.

Wow. What an eye-opener. It was such an
organized web site, and the purple hue of all the pages made for
very easy reading for…ahem…older eyes, like mine. I’d known some of
these facts before, but I was especially intrigued by the national
fact sheets relating to abusive relationships. The list was even
broken down by state.

I continued my Internet search, and
eventually found another excellent web site,
www.domesticviolence.org. This one included common myths about
domestic violence. There was so much to learn. I was overwhelmed by
all the information I could use for my article. And saddened by all
I’d discovered. The domestic violence issue was a national tragedy.
And one of our country’s ugliest secrets.

I put my head back in my chair and closed my
eyes for a minute, to clear my head. I guess I must have dozed off,
because I had the weirdest dream. In it my mother – good grief,
where did she come from? – was chasing a man who had no face. When
she caught him – she never was a good runner so I was quite
impressed – she started hitting him and screaming, “Not my
daughter. Not my daughter. You leave her alone.”

That dream really spooked me. First of all,
my mother and I never had, shall we say, the closest of
relationships. She died when I was in my mid-twenties, and it was
only later in life I finally realized that, hey, she wasn’t
perfect, but she loved me, and she was the best mother she knew how
to be. Nobody could ask for more than that from a parent.

I tried to be a good mother to Jenny and
Mike, but who knew if I succeeded? There are no fool-proof how-to
books for parenting. At least, none that I’ve found in my local
independent book store or library.

I sat there, lost in thought, going over the
dream and trying to figure out what it could mean. I wasn’t even
sure I was remembering the whole thing. Mother couldn’t possibly be
warning me about Jim. No way. She adored him, and he was wonderful
to her right up to the day she died.

Then I thought, maybe my mother was a symbol
for all mothers, and she was warning me about how often daughters
are abused by their partners. That would make sense, because I was
so focused on the domestic violence article. Perhaps my
subconscious was reiterating the message, in case I didn’t
understand the seriousness of the problem.

I massaged my forehead. Too much thinking
sometimes gives me a headache, and I could feel one coming on.

I heard a car door slam, and Jim burst
through the door. He looked so upset that, at first, I thought
someone had died.

“Larry just called with terrible news,” Jim
said. “He’s working at the courthouse to try to arrange bail,
but….

“God, Jim, what is it? Bail? Why?”

“Mary Alice has been arrested.”

“Orange is definitely not your color.” I
held Mary Alice’s hand tight and made a feeble attempt to make her
smile.

I had called Mark immediately after Jim told
me about Mary Alice. Of course, at first Mark had protested that
this wasn’t his case, there was nothing he could do, blah blah
blah. But I didn’t let him off the hook that easily. So, sue me. I
used a little maternal threatening. Jim was making all sorts of
faces at me during this conversation, by the way. I just closed my
eyes and ignored him.

And here we were once again, My Beloved and
I, in the Fairport Police Station. No preliminary coffee stop this
time. Once Jim announced our names to the officer on duty – I guess
the perky receptionist went home at 5:00 – Mark came out and took
us back to the holding cells at the rear of the building. He
gestured us into a bleak room with the bare basics of furniture –
think “yard sale retro.”

Before we even had a chance to sit down, he
led in Mary Alice.

“You have five minutes,” he informed us.
“And if you stay any longer, and my boss finds out, I’ll be
probably be fired.” Then he closed the door and left us alone.

Mary Alice held onto my hand like she was on
the Titanic and I had the last life preserver.

“Carol, you’ve known me for over forty
years.” She looked at My Beloved. “And you’ve known me for almost
as long. For God’s sake, you can’t believe that I’m responsible for
Jack Cartwright’s death.