Moving Can Be Murder (4 page)

Out to lunch? Jim’s idea of going out to
lunch was my packing sandwiches for the car and eating them while
we were driving.

Then I remembered those beautiful places I’d
seen in Jim’s glossy magazine. Was it possible that communities
like that existed around here? With – gasp – two master bedroom
suites?

What the heck. I’d go along with him, just
this one time. I’d just keep repeating my mantra – two master
suites, two master suites, two master suites.

My Beloved reached over and squeezed my
hand. “This is a good idea, Carol. You’ll see. It’ll be fun. We
haven’t gone house-hunting in such a long time, not since we were
first married.”

Yeah, I thought. Only this time, we can
afford something that’s not a fixer-upper. I immediately felt
disloyal to my beautiful antique house, but when we first bought
it, it was no beauty. I remembered the leaky roof and the peeling
paint and the sagging floors. It was a money pit for a few years,
that’s for sure. But that was the only reason we could afford such
a big house. It needed so much work, and we were young and naïve,
and Jim was convinced he could do most of the work himself.

Naturally, he couldn’t, and we ended up
making a lot of local contractors rich over the years.

Jim was yakking away about how much fun we
were bound to have on our new adventure, and I guess I must have
dozed off. The next thing I knew, he’d pulled the car into what
looked like a rest stop overlooking the highway.

“This can’t be right,” I said, squinting a
little at a sign which read, “Welcome To Eagles’ Nest. Find Your
Perfect Home With Us.”

“Even eagles would have a tough time
building a nest here, unless they were hard of hearing,” I said. To
prove my point, two eighteen-wheeler trucks whizzed by on the road
below. “This place is right on the highway. I don’t even want to
bother going in.”

“Come on, Carol, don’t be silly. We’re here
now, and we have an appointment with the real estate agent. If
nothing else, it’ll give us a basis of comparison with anything
else we may see today.” He pulled me out of the car.

At least the homes, which were in various
stages of construction, were separate from each other. Of course,
all the lots were postage-stamp size compared to our current
acreage.

One house was finished and appeared to be
both the model home and sales office. We didn’t even have time to
knock before the door flew open and a Botoxed blonde beauty greeted
us with a phony smile plastered on her face.

“You must be Jim and Carol Andrews. Welcome.
Come right in. I’m Jessie Johnson. We spoke on the phone. I hope
you didn’t have any trouble finding us.”

We went through the usual preliminary small
talk, and then Jessie let us meander around the model house alone.
I was sure, though, that she was hearing every word we whispered to
each other. The entire place was probably bugged.

As we checked out each room, I grimaced at
Jim to let him know I wasn’t impressed with what I was seeing. The
kitchen was tiny, there was only one full bath (although, to be
fair, there were two half baths), and only one master bedroom,
which was on the second floor. Jeez, if this was supposed to be
something to see us into our twilight years, I sure didn’t want to
climb stairs every night to go to bed. Although we used a bedroom
on the second floor in our current home, there was a room on the
first floor with its own full bath that could easily be converted
to a master suite if and when the need presented itself.

“Do you have any questions?” Jessie asked
brightly, stretching her face so much with her smile that I feared
it would crack.

What the heck. I piped up. Boy, was Jim
surprised.

“I have a question, Jessie. Jim and I are
just starting to look at active adult communities,” so don’t get
your hopes up that you’re going to make a sale, sweetie, “and I’ve
seen so many in magazines that advertise tennis courts, swimming
pools, that kind of thing. Are there plans for amenities like that
here?”

Jessie laughed, a little self-consciously.
“This is a cozy community that will have twenty-five houses when
it’s completed,” she said. “The builders want to keep that sense of
community, not cheapen it in any way with things like tennis courts
and pools. But they have come up with a wonderful amenity which
will be available for all the owners. Perhaps you noticed it on the
way in to the complex?”

At our puzzled looks, she hastened to
explain. “It’s our darling little gazebo, which will serve as the
centerpiece attraction for Eagles’ Nest. We plan to decorate it to
go along with each of the holidays – you know, hearts for
Valentine’s Day, wreaths for Christmas, bunnies for Easter. It’s
going to be great.”

She waited for us to gush out our
enthusiasm.

“What a lovely idea, Jessie,” I replied,
when Jim didn’t say anything. I guess the gazebo had overwhelmed
him with decorating possibilities.

I reached out to shake her hand. “Thank you
so much for showing us Eagles’ Nest. We’ll take the packet with us.
You’ve given us a lot to think about.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I telegraphed to My
Beloved.

For once, we were both on the same wave
length, and bid as quick a farewell to Eagles’ Nest and Jessie as
we could without being rude.

She looked so sad to see us go that I was
afraid she was going to kiss us goodbye.

“At least that place was easy to get to,” My
Beloved said in defense of his first active adult community
choice.

I didn’t respond. I just gave him a
look.

“OK, Carol. You’re right. It’s much too
close to the highway.”

“Well, it did have that lovely gazebo,” I
said with just the right touch (I thought) of sarcasm. “Think of
the fun we’ll have decorating it with red, white and blue streamers
for the Fourth of July. We could even organize a fireworks
display.”

“Very funny,” Jim snapped, never one to take
criticism well. “Let’s just cross it off the list. The next one is
supposed to be ‘nestled in the bucolic countryside.’ So it can’t be
close to a major interstate.”

Forty minutes later, when we were bouncing
along one unpaved road after another, I asked, “Where is this
place, anyway? Is it in the middle of a pasture?”

Jim replied by tossing me the information
he’d printed off of MapQuest. “We’re supposed to be looking for a
split rail fence on the left, and then a sign to lead us into the
development. It’s called Bertram’s Hollow.”

“More like Sleepy Hollow,” I snorted, trying
to make some sense out of the directions. We passed by some houses
with abandoned cars rusting on the front lawn. “Nice decorating
touch.”

Then I screamed, “Stop, Jim. There it
is.”

Jim screeched to a halt, then backed up and
turned into another rutted road. I thought I heard him mutter,
“This one better be good,” but I didn’t comment. I do know when to
keep my mouth shut. Sometimes.

Suffice it to say that Bertram’s Hollow,
which was a small community of semi-detached homes, didn’t pass
muster with us, either. Despite their cute slogan: “It’s not about
counting the years. It’s about making the years count.”

The model house/sales office was small and
packed with way too much furniture. The kitchen was postage-stamp
size. There was only one master bedroom suite, and it was on the
second floor.

We were back in the car in less than ten
minutes. We made a quick escape because the salesman, who looked
younger than both of our kids, had another couple enthralled with
his sales pitch and he’d left us to our own devices. “This one
didn’t even have a gazebo, Jim,” I pointed out as we made our way
back to a paved road and civilization.

Two master suites was beginning to look like
a fantasy. An unattainable one.

Chapter 5

No outfit is complete without dog hair.

I was tired, I was cranky, and I was hungry.
Not necessarily in that order. And also, a little bit smug. I’d
done what My Beloved wanted. I’d looked at two active adult
communities. And we had both – both! – agreed that they weren’t for
us.

As far as I was concerned, the discussion
was over. I wanted to go home, let my dogs out for a run, have a
late lunch in my beautiful kitchen with its granite counter tops,
and chill out.

Imagine my surprise when Jim drove into
neighboring Westfield and pulled into a parking spot in front of
Chita, the trendy tapas restaurant everyone was talking about.

Huh? You mean we were going out to lunch, as
in “out at a real restaurant”? I was immediately suspicious. Maybe
the day wasn’t over yet. This was certainly untypical behavior for
My Beloved.

Then I thought, Jim must have a coupon.
Although I doubted that a restaurant this new, and this popular,
had to stoop to offering coupons to get customers.

The maitre d’ waved us to a table, and in no
time Jim had placed our order – in Spanish, yet.

I was duly impressed. But still
suspicious.

“What’s this all about, Jim? Since when are
you a foodie? And how in the world did you manage to get us in here
today, much less find a parking spot right in front of the
restaurant? This is the hottest new place in town.”

Before My Beloved could answer, a young man,
obviously the owner from the mantle of authority he wore over his
crisp navy blazer with “Chita” emblazoned on the breast pocket,
arrived at our table with two margaritas. “On the house, Señor and
Señora Andrews. Welcome to Chita. We are honored to have Mike’s
parents as guests here.” He bowed slightly, then left to attend to
another table.

I had to laugh. “So that’s how you did it,
Jim. It’s not who you know that counts. It’s who your kids
know.”

“Let’s face it, Carol,” Jim said. “Our
parents called these the golden years. I don’t know if that’s true,
but we’re still here and we might as well make the best of it,
right? Cheers.” He raised his glass and toasted me.

What the heck. I could be a sport. I
mimicked his toast and took a sip of my drink. And choked.

I am not a serious drinker. Unless you count
wine, of course. Which I don’t.

“So how did this happen, Jim?” I asked once
I’d stopped coughing. “I want details. Who is this guy, how does
Mike know him, and how did you find out about the connection?”

With the ability Jim had perfected over the
years as a public relations agent in New York, he neatly deflected
my questions and changed the subject. Oh, well, I could e-mail Mike
later and get the details, so I let him get away with it.

Until I realized that he’d placed a glossy
folder in front of me with the legend “Eden’s Grove – One of the
Top 100 Active Adult Communities in America” stamped on the front.
My head was a little buzzy from the margarita, but not that
much.