Definitely Dead (An Empty Nest Mystery) (18 page)

“Wise move. Although you do realize we could turn on some lights.”

“But then they’d know we’re home.”

“It’s our home, Gracie. We don’t have to open the door to everyone who knocks. Then again, we might get them to leave sooner if you just tell them you have no comment.”

I shook my head. “Not a chance. Haven’t you ever noticed how guilty people who do that come across on camera?”

“Have it your way. A dinner of cheese, crackers, and grapes by the light of the moon is fine with me.”

Blake stepped into a pair of blue and gray plaid flannel drawstring pants and pulled a gray Kean Cougars sweatshirt over his head. Together we made our way down the dark staircase and into the equally dark kitchen.

When I opened the refrigerator, light flooded the room. I quickly yanked out an assortment of cheeses and the bowl of grapes, then slammed the refrigerator door. Even though the kitchen was situated at the back of the house and no one out front would see the light, the reporter or one of his cohorts might be lurking at the back door. I held my breath, waiting for a knock. After the kitchen clock ticked away five, ten, then fifteen seconds without a rap on the door, I allowed myself to breathe again.

Until a few minutes later when I heard the front door open and I nearly choked on a grape.

“Like I said, dude. My parents are probably out to dinner somewhere.”

“What do you know about your mother’s involvement in the murder of Sheldon Becker?”

“What?!” This from Brooke.

“Who the hell is Sheldon Becker?” asked Connor.

“Your mother knew him as Sidney Mandelbaum. He was one of her clients. By the way, exactly what sort of dating service does your mother run?”

“What the hell are you implying?”

“Get that camera out of my face,” said Brooke.

“I’m just looking for a statement from Grace Elliott. Mind if I wait inside for her?”

“Hell, no,” said Connor. “Get out.”

“Hey, hands off the camera!”

“Then stop trying to worm your ass and your camera into our house. Get off our property.”

“And don’t you dare put any footage of us on air,” said Brooke. “You don’t have our permission. Nothing we said is on the record. We’ll sue.”

The door slammed.

“What the hell was that?” asked Brooke.

“Beats me,” said Connor. “I guess we should call mom and dad to find out what’s going on.”

“No need,” called out Blake.

We heard Brooke and Connor make their way down the hall toward the kitchen. “What are you guys doing sitting in the dark?” asked Brooke, flipping the overhead light switch.

“Turn off the light!” I yelled.

“That’s no longer necessary, Gracie,” said Blake. “They know the kids are here.”

“I suppose.”

“So why are you sitting in the dark?” repeated Brooke.

“We’re avoiding the vultures that just swarmed all over you,” I said.

“About that,” said Connor. “What gives, Mom? That reporter dude—”
 

“You mean sleazy tabloid creep,” said Brooke. “No legitimate reporter would try to force his way into someone’s home.”

“He claims you have some involvement in a murder,” continued Connor.

“Your father and I found the body.”

“Holy shit!”

“There’s nothing holy about shit,” said Blake. “Sit down, and we’ll explain what’s going on.”

“Can we eat while you explain?” asked Connor. “I’m starving.”

“Of course you are.” My eighteen-year-old son hadn’t stopped eating since the day he was born, yet he didn’t have an ounce of fat on his six-foot frame. I wish I had his metabolism. So did his twin sister who, unfortunately, had inherited my metabolism and ran three miles a day in order to maintain her size four figure.

I pulled out the Panini maker and began assembling sandwiches while Blake caught the twins up on events of the last few days.

“And here we came home for the weekend because we thought you’d be suffering from empty nest syndrome,” said Connor. He laughed. “Looks like you’ve been keeping plenty busy enough without us, Mom.”

Brooke punched him in the arm.

“Ouch! What’s that for?”

“Your insensitivity, Dork Head!” Then she turned to me. “So you’ve like helped solve this case so far?”

“Your mother stumbled upon evidence she’s turned over to the police,” said Blake. “She’s not working with them to help solve the case.”

“That reporter made it sound like Mom had something to do with the guy’s murder,” said Brooke. “I’ve got a good mind to march out there and set him straight!”

Our daughter never met an injustice she didn’t feel compelled to correct. From the time she was old enough to raise her tiny fists, she became the defender of the meek and trod-upon, a pint-sized crusader, feared by playground bullies everywhere. Both Blake and I believed someday she’d become President, making us the First Parents and her economics majoring brother Secretary of the Treasury. But only if he ever, in her opinion, matured beyond Dork Head status.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Blake warned her. “No one is saying another word to any reporter. Got it?”

They both agreed. Reluctantly.
 

~*~

For the first time in the history of the Elliott household, a devoted
ABC World News
family going back to Peter Jennings days, we huddled around the television to watch Fox News that night. The news van remained parked in front of our house, but the reporter had made no further attempts to contact me, probably because he didn’t realize I was in the house.

Would Brooke’s threat about a lawsuit make him think twice about airing whatever the cameraman had captured of the twins? “Do you know for a fact they can’t broadcast anything without permission?” I asked her. Perhaps she’d learned that from one of her poli-sci classes.

She shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. Hopefully, neither does that reporter.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Blake. “I’m sure all reporters are well versed in journalistic legal issues. Whether they abide by the letter of the law, is another matter.”

The news led off with a breaking story about an overturned prison van on the New Jersey Turnpike near the Meadowlands. The resulting twelve-car pile-up included four fatalities. Two prisoners had escaped. The news chopper hovered overhead, focusing on a body bag at the side of the road. A police copter flooded the adjoining swamp with light as patrols with search dogs combed the area.

An involuntary shiver coursed through my body.

“Cold?” asked Blake.

I shook my head. “I wished for something awful to happen to divert the news media from me.”

Connor laughed. “You do know you don’t have that kind of power, right, Mom?”

“Of course, I know that. It still creeps me out.” I hoped the dead were all convicts who committed heinous crimes and not innocent commuters unlucky enough to be at the wrong spot on the turnpike at the wrong time.

After a commercial break, the second news story dealt with a drug bust in Newark where cops exchanged fire with a dealer and a dozen members of his crew. Two officers were wounded in the exchange, one seriously. Because I’m good at rationalizing, I convinced myself he was a dirty cop, taking kickbacks from the dealer.

Another commercial break. Then the entertainment report, which dealt with some former child star arrested for DUI—for the third time.

“Three strikes and you’re out,” said Connor. “She’s gonna do some time.”

“Or land a reality TV gig,” said Blake, grumbling about the new normal regarding celebrities behaving badly and the state of television programming.

“I hope not,” I said. “Maybe sitting in a jail cell will scare her straight.”

“Yeah, that’s worked so well for all the others,” said Brooke.

After yet another series of commercials, the broadcast moved on to the weather, then sports. Blake clicked off the television.

“Nothing about us or Mom,” said Connor. He glanced out the window. “The van’s gone.”

“Good,” I said. “Although I do feel sorry for Sylvia Schuster. She’s going to be very disappointed her interview didn’t air.”

“She’ll survive,” said Blake.

“Still, who would have thought that a drunken starlet’s DUI would trump the return and murder of the elusive Sheldon Becker?” I asked.

“It’s all about ratings,” said Blake. “Compared to the sensationalism of prisoner escapes, drug shootouts, and out-of-control celebrities, Sheldon Becker is an ancient story no twenty-something news producer would devote air time to, even if he did wind up returning to New Jersey and getting himself killed. A former child star arrested a third time for DUI? That’s what drives ratings these days.”

“So you think they won’t air the interview with Sylvia at all?” I asked.

“Someone at the station made the decision to pull the story tonight,” said Blake. “Probably because a speculative interview with a senior citizen wasn’t deemed newsworthy enough, especially since the reporter couldn’t nail an interview with you.”

“Which means he might show up again tomorrow.”

“There’s also another possibility,” added Blake. “Maybe they weren’t able to confirm that Sheldon Becker is really dead.”

“Of course he’s dead,” I said. “We found his body.”

“We found Sidney Mandelbaum’s body,” said Blake. “We only have Blanche Becker’s word that Sidney was really Sheldon. What if she was wrong? After all, it has been ten years since she last saw him.”

“But what about the birthmark?” I asked.

“What if Sidney had a similar birthmark? How closely could Blanche have seen that birthmark, given the brief time she and Sidney were together?”

“But what about the fact that Not-Sid ran out on Sylvia Schuster right after being introduced to Blanche Becker?” I asked.

“Maybe he really did become ill.”

“I don’t buy it. All the evidence points to Not-Sid and Sheldon being the same person.”

“All the
circumstantial
evidence,” said Blake. “I’m not saying I don’t agree with you, Gracie. I’m just saying that if Fox News couldn’t confirm any of what Sylvia Schuster told the reporter, it might be why they didn’t air the interview. And if Sylvia’s interview is pulled, there’s no reason to run any footage they filmed here tonight.”

FIFTEEN

I spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in my mind, while forcing my body to lie still in order to keep from disturbing Blake. Beside me, my husband snored away, oblivious to my turmoil. Except for a restless wife, neither murder nor computer hackers nor reporters camped on our street nor the fear of living above an auto repair shop keeps my husband from his appointed Z’s. Blake possesses the uncanny ability to turn off his brain for seven or eight hours each night. I wish I had such control over my own body.

I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since Clinton was in the White House. If then. No matter what’s going on in my life, my mind races at breakneck speed the moment my head hits the pillow. Right now, way too much was going on in my life and in my brain, even before Not-Sid’s murder.

Some people count sheep; I lie awake listening to the voices in my head. Thea and Luke must be nocturnal characters because they insist on cavorting in my mind each night when I should be sleeping. If I wait until morning, I forget the scene that played out so vividly at three in the morning. So I often slip out of bed and head for the computer, thus depriving myself of even more sleep.

Tonight in order not to think about murder and computer hackers and reporters camped on our street and living above an auto repair shop, I pondered the blurb for my novel, going back to my original premise of a romantic comedy. Dealing with murder and mayhem in real life—not to mention being accused of taking part in such dastardly deeds—had soured me on the idea of writing romantic suspense or mystery.

I’d learned about the importance of the blurb at last month’s Liberty States Fiction Writers meeting. A great blurb as part of a query letter will pique the interest of editors and agents, thus resulting in requests to read the author’s manuscript.

By our next meeting I wanted a blurb that made editors and agents drool. However, unless I came up with something tonight, I’d miss my deadline. Honing the essence of Thea’s and Luke’s story down to two or three short paragraphs had proven anything but easy. Harder even than writing chapters. And I’d had little time to work on my blurb or anything else connected with my writing since discovering Not-Sid’s dead body in the parking lot of the Moose Lodge last Wednesday evening.

Another fact I’d learned about blurbs was that it’s best to memorize them. You never know when you’ll stumble upon an editor or agent who will utter those most important five words, “Tell me about your book.” So tonight in lieu of sleep and to the rhythmic snores of my husband, I formed blurb sentences in my head.

By two a.m. I’d constructed what I believed to be a drool-worthy blurb. I could only hope it sounded as brilliant five hours from now.