Moving Can Be Murder (7 page)

“Of course I want the listing, you doofus,”
said my friend. “I just want to be sure you really know what you’re
doing. I know how impulsive you can be.”

She held out a pen and several sheets of
paper. “I only wrote the contract for a three-month listing, and I
cut my usual percentage from six percent to four. That wasn’t easy
with our new boss, but I managed to persuade him. And I left the
listing price out for now. We’ll deal with that after you talk to
Jim. Let’s get this show on the road. Go ahead and sign. In two
places. I’ve highlighted them to make it easier for you.”

I grabbed the pen and did the deed. “Now,
zip your lip. I’m not telling anyone about this until I spring it
on Jim.”

I took the listing agreement and shoved it
in the pocket of my jeans, then gave Nancy some silverware and
napkins. “There are three other tables to set besides the one in
the dining room. Remember, I invited some of the younger neighbors
as well as the usual players, so I’ve set up card tables in the
family room and my office. We’ll have to use the kitchen counter
and island for the bar and buffet. There should be sixteen of us,
if everyone comes. Get going. They’ll be here any minute. All I
need is for a neighbor to hear us talking about moving. It’ll be
all over the block in a millisecond.”

“Hey,” protested Nancy, “I’m a Realtor. It’s
natural for me to talk about moving. Why don’t you put me with some
of the older neighbors, so I can see if anyone else is thinking of
putting their house on the market? It’s always good to know about
possible competition, especially when we set the price. If I should
happen to pick up any neighborhood gossip, I’ll let you know.”

“Who has neighborhood gossip?” asked Mary
Alice, coming into the kitchen loaded down with three shopping
bags. “You guys were yakking away and didn’t even hear me knock.
Good thing you left the door unlocked, Carol, or I would have
frozen to death out there.”

“First of all, you don’t live in this
neighborhood,” kidded Nancy. “And second, you don’t listen to
gossip. At least, that’s what you always tell us.”

“Ha!” I said, grabbing two of the bags.
“Don’t kid me. Everybody listens to gossip.

“Let’s set these on the island. You’ve got
enough food here for an army, Mary Alice. Why’d you bring so much?
Did you forget that everyone is supposed to bring only one thing to
share?”

“You know me,” Mary Alice said. “I worry
there won’t be enough healthy stuff, and all that we’ll have to
snack on are nachos and chips. And cheap wine.”

“What’s wrong with that?” called Nancy from
the family room. I swear, that woman has the ears of an elephant.
And an appetite to match.

Incredibly, she can still eat just about
anything, including junk food, and not have it travel immediately
to her hips and thighs.

Although she is my best friend, I sincerely
hate her for that.

“I miss Claire,” Mary Alice said, dumping
the contents of one of her cartons onto a plate and stirring it
around to try and make it look presentable. “She was the one who
always set out all the food and made it look so appetizing. Why did
she and Larry have to buy that condo in Florida anyway?”

“Remember that question the next time you’re
shoveling out your car,” said Nancy. “I think the answer will
become pretty clear.”

“And she does e-mail us at least once a
week,” I added.

“Yeah,” said Nancy. “In between visits to
the beach and the condo swimming pool. What a life.”

The good news for me about Claire and
Larry’s move southward was that their condo was only a few miles
away from Mike, our second-born child, who had deserted the rigors
of New England winters a few years ago to sample the high life of
South Beach, Florida. He was now part owner of a successful club
called Cosmo’s, frequented by all the so-called beautiful people.
Claire made an effort, surreptitiously of course, to keep on eye on
Mike and report back to Jim and me.

“I miss her, too,” I said, “but she won’t be
back until late May, so we’ll just have to do the best we can.
Nobody comes to Bunco to critique the food presentation anyway. All
people care about is that there’s plenty of it. Especially the
desserts.”

“Did you put out the nametags with
everyone’s first names and addresses on them like I suggested?”
Nancy asked as she returned to the kitchen with leftover plates and
cutlery. “It’s a great icebreaker.”

Rats. I’d completely forgotten.

“Sorry, Nance. I had other things on my
mind.”

The doorbell rang, and Nancy raced to answer
it before Lucy and Ethel started to bark. Fat chance of that. I’d
confined both dogs to the master bedroom and they were complaining
bitterly, even though I’d explained that this was a special treat
and just this once they could snooze on the king-size bed without
being reprimanded.

The doorbell continued to ring as more
guests arrived. I could hear Nancy chatting away, taking coats and
stuffing them in our already packed front hall closet. That was
another thing I didn’t do – empty out the coat closet. You’d think
I had never entertained before.

One of my neighbors, Sara Miller, was the
next to appear in the kitchen, carrying a sterling silver chafing
dish containing “Great Aunt Sharon’s Marvelous Meatballs,” a secret
family recipe she claimed her aunt had given only to her, “since
I’m the gourmet cook in the family.” Sara worshipped at the shrine
of Martha Stewart, and never met a fancy recipe she wouldn’t try.
Some of her experiments were successful, and others were not. One
thing she was absolutely adamant about, though, was using only the
freshest organic ingredients known to womankind. No frozen or
canned for her. I had to hide the electric can opener when she was
around.

I wondered what culinary delight we were in
store for tonight. I hoped it was a recipe that had already been
tested on some other lucky neighborhood guinea pigs.

Sara was dressed with her customary touch of
purple – this time a tunic over black leggings. She looked like an
eggplant with legs.

My counters and island began to look like
the takeout area of a local restaurant. Mary Alice took over, and
organized desserts on one side and appetizers on the other.

“OK, everybody, we have four Bunco tables
tonight,” I said in my most take-charge voice. As usual, everyone
was crowded in the kitchen, mixing in and having a great time. And
not listening to a word I was saying.

I had to move things along. “One Bunco
table’s in the dining room, two are in the family room, and the
other one’s in the office, so pick out where you want to sit. And
help yourselves to some wine and an hors d’oeuvre or two.”

“Or three,” piped up Phyllis Stevens, the
head of the Old Fairport Turnpike Homeowners’ Association. Phyllis
and her husband Bill were part of the “Old Guard” of the area.
Their home had been in Phyllis’s family for three generations. She
and Bill were one of only a handful of couples left in the
neighborhood who were older than Jim and me.

That was something I liked about our
neighborhood, though – the influx of younger families. I knew I
would have trouble adjusting to living in a place where everyone
was about the same age – older than dirt, as Mike would say. I
liked seeing the young mothers wheeling their babies around the
block. It reminded me of when Jenny and Mike were little.

Of course, in my day, I walked behind the
carriage. These mommies jogged. They always appeared in a group and
managed to both jog and talk at the same time, without losing
either a single step or their breath. Amazing.

It amused me to see My Beloved suck in his
stomach if he happened to be outside when any of these young
lovelies jogged by.

Three of the jogging mommies were here
tonight: Deb Myers, Liz Stone, and Stacy O’Keefe. Their color was
already rosy. I couldn’t tell if it was because they’d jogged to my
house or had hit the wine bottle a few times when they got
here.

“This is so cool, Carol,” said Liz. At
least, I think it was Liz. They all had blonde ponytails and
sometimes I had trouble telling them apart. “Thanks for inviting
us. I’ve never played Bunco before, and I’m dying to learn. I hope
it’s easy.”

“Yeah,” added Stacy. “After a day with the
twins, my mind is mush.”

“I remember those days,” I said. “I used to
long for adult conversation. The highlight of my day used to be a
visit from the mailman, especially if he had a package that had to
be signed for. That meant he had to ring the doorbell.”

“Things haven’t changed that much, Carol,”
Stacy assured me. “I still look forward to the mailman. Or any
adult at my door these days. Even someone selling magazine
subscriptions.”

“By the way, did you hear that the police
arrested someone for the hit and run accident at the college?” Liz
asked.

“Thank God,” Mary Alice said. “I hope they
put him in prison and throw away the key without bothering with a
trial.”

“That’s a little strong, Mary Alice,” said
Phyllis. “Everyone deserves his day in court, and is innocent until
proven guilty.”

Mary Alice snorted. “Listen, anyone who
would hit a defenseless person and then drive away and leave her to
die deserves to be locked up for life, as far as I’m concerned. Or,
better yet, executed.” She took a hearty gulp of her red wine.

The kitchen suddenly was very quiet.
Everyone, it seemed, was listening to this exchange.

“I don’t agree,” said Phyllis, her cheeks
getting a little pink. “Everyone is entitled to a fair trial.
That’s one of the principles this country was founded on.”

“My husband Brian was killed in a car
accident by a kid who was driving with only a learner’s permit,”
said Mary Alice. She was so upset now that she was shaking. “The
judge let him off with only two years in jail and five years’
probation. How’s that for justice?

“That kid ruined my life and my boys’ lives.
I swear, if I ever see him again, I’ll kill him.

“I mean it.”

Then she slammed her wine glass down on my
granite counter, grabbed her coat, and left without saying another
word.

Chapter 8

An archeologist is the best husband any
woman could want.

The older she gets, the more interesting she
is to him.

“I’ve never seen Mary Alice so upset,” I
said to My Beloved. It was Valentine’s Day and we were finally
going to have some time to ourselves. I was filling Jim in on the
Bunco party while we enjoyed a pre-dinner glass of merlot in front
of a cozy fire in the living room.

“It’s nice that Mark’s not working tonight
so he and Jenny can be together,” I continued. “The last few days
have been non-stop, packing her up and helping her move into her
new condo.”

I reached over and grabbed Jim’s hand. “I
know this has been hard for you, but when she came home last year,
we knew she wouldn’t be here forever. And Mark is such a good
guy.”

“When he’s not suspecting me of bumping
somebody off,” Jim groused. He winked at me to show he wasn’t
serious.

“I don’t want to talk about Mary Alice, or
even Jenny and Mark, right now,” he said. “I know we usually don’t
make a big deal about Valentine’s Day, but this year, after
everything we’ve been through together, I wanted to get you
something extra special.”

He handed me a small box. I opened it and
found a strand of cultured pearls and matching bracelet inside.

“Oh, Jim, I love them,” I said. “I can’t
believe you did this for me. Thank you, so much.” I threw my arms
round My Beloved and gave him the smooch he deserved for such a
romantic gesture.

“I have something special for you too,” I
said, pulling out the envelope that contained a funny valentine and
the agreement I’d already signed to list our house for sale.

“Here. Open it,” I said. “I guarantee you’re
going to love it.” I was wriggling with excitement. I love
surprises. As long as they’re happy ones.

“I hope you didn’t spend too much money,”
Jim said.

“You are so predictable,” I said. “For your
information, I didn’t spend any money on your gift. But I’m sure
we’re going to make some.”

Jim looked at me quizzically, then pushed
his glasses up onto his forehead so he could read the card.
Honestly, the man will not admit that he needs bifocals. And women
are supposed to be the vainer sex.

The valentine featured good old Charlie
Brown saying, “I knew I’d have to look through a million valentines
before I found the right card for you….. Because you’re one in a
million.” We’ve never been into giving each other mushy greeting
cards. This was as close as it got.

“Good one, Carol. What’s this inside?”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, raising my
wine glass. “Here’s to the rest of our lives. May they be long,
healthy, and full of new adventures.”