Moving Can Be Murder (34 page)

“You don’t, do you?”

She looked at us, hard.

“You don’t, either one of you, do you?” she
repeated. “I swear, I didn’t know Jack was inside your house. If I
did, I would have done something to help him. No matter what our
past history was. How many times do I have to say this? Jack was a
human being, above all else. And, I swear, he’d be alive today. If
only I’d known he was in there.”

She buried her head in my shoulder and
sobbed.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Jim
snapped. I stared at him, shocked by his harsh tone.

“Listen, Mary Alice,” he said. “Carol and I
both believe in you. Hell, I think even Mark believes in you.”

His face hardened. “But all this sniveling
of yours isn’t helping.”

Jeez, what a creep. Wait’ll I got him out in
the parking lot. I was going to let him have it.

Mary Alice blew her nose with a tissue I’d
found in my pocket. True to form, she did check it carefully and
removed a few particles of lint before she used it. Then she
straightened up in her chair and said, “You’re right, Jim. Crying
isn’t helping at all. What do you want to know?”

“Now you’re talking,” said My Beloved. “I
want you to think back to that night. Did you see anyone, or
anything, outside our house? A person walking a dog, maybe? A car?
A couple pushing a baby carriage? Kids on bikes? Close your eyes
and think hard.”

Mary Alice squinted her eyes shut. So did I.
After all, I’d been there that night, too.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” she said finally. “I don’t
remember seeing anybody. I wish I did. I just drove in the driveway
to the back of your house. Then I got out of my car, sat on the
back porch steps, and waited for Carol to come. I waited for half
an hour, and Carol never showed up. So I went home.”

My eyes snapped open. “But I saw something,
Jim,” I said excitedly. “When I got to our house, I remember there
was a car cruising down the street. There’s not a lot of traffic
out at that hour, so I paid attention to it.”

Oh, rats. It was a tomato red Mini Cooper.
I’d seen that car before, the day Nancy was prepping our house
before it went on the market.

I knew I wasn’t crazy. The car was Marcia
Fischer’s.

When the car passed under a street light,
I’d had a quick, clear view of the driver. And there was no
mistaking that vanity license plate, Styln 1. It was Marcia in the
driver’s seat, all right.

Both Mary Alice and Jim looked at me
expectantly. It was so quiet in the room that I could hear the
ticking of Jim’s watch.

“The car was Marcia Fischer’s, from Superior
Interiors. And she was definitely driving it. I saw her face
clearly. It could just be a coincidence, but I don’t think so.”

Jim looked at me skeptically. “Are you sure,
Carol? Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“A few things have been going on since then,
dear,” I said. “As you may recall, right after I saw the car, I
came in our house and found Jack’s body. That pretty much took my
mind off anything else that happened that night.

“And, besides, I don’t know about you, Mary
Alice,” I looked at her, “but nobody ever asked me about this
before.”

I took a deep breath and made a giant leap
in what I was sure was the right direction. Because I finally
understood what Sister Rose had been trying to tell me. Jack
Cartwright was an abuser. And I’d bet that he was also the one who
traumatized Marcia when she was a teenager. That explained a lot of
things, including why Marcia had been at Jack’s memorial service.
Sister Rose couldn’t break Marcia’s confidence, but she hoped that
if she dropped enough hints, I’d eventually catch on.

This was unbearably sad. Did I have to
betray a new friend to save an old one?

Before I had the chance to voice my theory,
the door opened and Mark stuck his head in again. “I’m sorry,
everyone, but I have to insist that you leave now. Mrs. Costello’s
lawyer is here and wants to see her.

“But he has good news. He’s arranged for
bail, so after you sign a few papers, Mrs. Costello, you’re free to
go home. For now.”

Mary Alice started to cry. Again.

I was so excited I threw my arms around Mark
and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. I guess I embarrassed
him.

“Jeez, Mrs. Andrews, I mean, Carol, I didn’t
do anything,” Mark said. “This isn’t even my case. Remember? It’s
Paul’s case.”

Just call me Mom, I said to myself. Or
mom-in-law. Someday. Maybe.

Jim shot me a warning look and guided Mary
Alice out of the interview room. I understood that look. It meant,
Don’t interfere.

Naturally, I ignored it.

“Mark, I know this isn’t your case. But I
also know that you and Paul have worked together before, and if you
give him some information he doesn’t have, you could help him get
to the bottom of how, and why, Jack Cartwright died.”

Mark raised one eyebrow – I’ve always
admired a person who can do that – and said, “Talk.”

So I did. I was careful about what I said,
though. I didn’t betray Marcia’s confidence. Instead, I told Mark
I’d just remembered I’d seen a car on Old Fairpoint Turnpike the
night before the closing. It was a red Mini Cooper and the license
plate was Styln1. And I told him about the conversation I overheard
in the Laundromat about Jack.

“So maybe he wasn’t the great guy we heard
about at his memorial service,” I said. “I don’t want to tell the
police how to do their job,” (much). “But it might be worthwhile to
check with the local police in the Cartwrights’ former town in
Massachusetts to see if any charges had ever been filed against
Jack.”

Mark, bless him, went along with me. And
then I let the police do their job. Without any more interference
from me.

Honestly, I did.

Chapter 34

Time passes, whether you’re having fun or
not.

At long last, it was show house time. The
opening night party had been timed to coincide with Fairport’s
annual Fourth of July celebration. Hey, when folks live in a town
that was around during the American Revolution, the town fathers
make a big deal out of it. Pancake breakfasts at the local
churches, a never-ending (who knew there were all those Brownie and
Cub Scout troops in town?) parade, free concerts in the town gazebo
throughout the day and evening, plus fantastic fireworks on the
beach.

One person who had been responsible for the
transformation of our antique home into a show house would not be
at the party. Marcia Fischer had been arrested and was likely to be
charged in Jack Cartwright’s death.

It turned out that the police had searched
the old auto accident records and discovered that Marcia was in the
car the night Brian Costello died, so they already knew there was a
connection between Marcia and Jack. That made me feel less guilty
about pointing the police in Marcia’s direction.

But not much.

The good news was that Mary Alice was
finally in the clear. Thank God.

I poked my head into what used to be my
kitchen. Gone was the country look I’d slaved for years to achieve,
replaced by sleek white cabinets, top-of-the-line stainless steel
appliances (I always thought mine were top-of-the-line, but then I
found out how much these replacements cost and almost fainted), and
bright red – that’s right, red – countertops. I thought the room
now resembled the local morgue during an autopsy, but what did I
know about interior design?

Maria and the gang from the Trattoria were
flying around cooking wonderful things to satisfy the appetite of
the hundreds of guests who were paying big bucks to come to the
event, as evidenced by the many platters and trays that were packed
tightly next to each other on the kitchen island.

I waved to Maria, turned to leave, and was
immediately wrapped in a giant hug by, of all people, Sara
Miller.

Good grief.

“Carol, I don’t know how to thank you,” she
gushed. “We’re all so relieved to finally know how Jack died, and
Alyssa and the children can get on with their lives. It’s just
wonderful.

“I can’t believe Marcia was afraid of Jack,”
Sara continued, pressing me for more information than I was
prepared to share. “At least, that’s what everybody’s saying. They
supposedly dated when they were in high school, and Marcia’s
claiming that he was abusive toward her,” Sara said, emphasizing
the word ‘claiming’.

“I brought a special treat to celebrate the
fact that this horrible ordeal is behind us. You know how I am. I
just love to cook.”

She gestured toward a large cooler, placed
smack in the middle of the floor where everyone from Maria’s
Trattoria would trip over it.

“I had some delicious beef tenderloin
languishing away in the freezer just begging to be turned into the
Marvelous Meatballs that were such a hit at your Bunco party, and I
decided they’d be the perfect addition to this wonderful party. I
knew Maria would be pleased. She loves my cooking, too. One gourmet
chef admiring another.”

I pulled away from her embrace, embarrassed
by the attention.

“I really didn’t do anything,” I said. “I
was sure that Mary Alice wasn’t responsible for Jack’s death, and
one thing sort of led to another. The whole situation is very
sad.”

I remembered our conversation at Sally’s
Place, when Marcia had talked about her abuser. She seemed so
frightened of him, even after all these years. I felt so guilty
about pointing the police in her direction. But I felt I had no
choice.

“I guess Marcia snapped when Jack came back
after all those years,” Sara said. “But he’d changed. He was a
wonderful husband and father. Look at all the people who came to
his memorial service to talk about the difference he’d made in
their lives. She had nothing to fear from him.”

I remembered what Sister Rose had said:
abusers rarely change their pattern. Instead, they look for another
person to control.

I realized that some of the pieces weren’t
fitting together as neatly as I wanted. What if I’d put them
together wrong?

Sara hugged me again. Jeez, this was too
much.

Maria had been looking daggers at us for the
past few minutes.

Finally she mouthed, “Get out of here and
take Sara with you. There’s not enough room in the kitchen as it
is.”

I took the hint.

“There’s something I’m curious about, Sara,”
I asked, extricating myself again from her grasp and leading her
out the side door toward the huge tent that had been erected in our
back yard.

I snagged two glasses of champagne from a
passing waiter and passed one to Sara.

Sara took a sip and smiled. “Tattinger’s. My
favorite. I see no expense has been spared for this party.”

“All for a good cause,” I said. “Nancy
thought serving really good champagne would make the guests open
their wallets wider when it came to the auction part of the
evening.”

I took a sip myself. Nancy was right. This
was the good stuff.

“Sara,” I began again, “I don’t mean to
pry.” Much. “But I’ve been doing research on domestic abuse for an
article I’m writing, and I can’t help but wonder.”

I took a deep breath. What I wanted to know
was probably going to put the brakes on our rekindled
friendship.

Sara nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead and ask
me whatever you want.” That champagne was doing a great job of
relaxing her, all right.

“Did you ever see any evidence of Jack
abusing Alyssa?” I asked. Sara’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t mean
hitting her, Sara. But from everything I’ve been told, domestic
abuse is a pattern of behavior that usually continues over a
lifetime. It’s all about control. So I couldn’t help but
wonder.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Sara said.
“I already told you that Jack was a loving husband to Alyssa and a
wonderful father to those two kids. Believe me, as Alyssa’s mother,
I’d know if something else was going on.

“A mother always knows. I’m going to see if
Maria needs any help.” Sara turned so quickly that some gravel from
the driveway shot into my face, and marched toward the kitchen at a
brisk pace.

A mother doesn’t always know, I thought. I
remembered Marcia Fischer’s mother and how she didn’t have a clue
what was going on when Marcia was a teenager.

Then I thought about my own mother, and all
the things I’d kept from her when I was growing up. Those memories
made me smile, until I remembered that weird dream I had. “Not my
daughter, not my daughter.” What was my mother trying to tell
me?

I was interrupted in my musings by Jenny,
with Mark close behind her. I had to admit, my darling daughter was
positively glowing.

“Isn’t this wonderful, Mom? What a great
party.”

I was tempted to respond, yes, but I wish it
was your rehearsal dinner. And you guys were being married
tomorrow.