Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder (21 page)

I felt safe and secure and very drowsy. My eyes grew heavy, and the living room blurred. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

22

Bobby burst through the front door at ten in the morning, full of energy from his trip with the Thompsons.

“I need my uniform, Mom! We have a game at noon!”

I had forgotten all about the Memorial Day baseball game against the Cardinals. “Hi, Sweetie! How was your trip?”

“Great, but I’m thirsty!” He ran into the kitchen and stopped short when he saw Ken Rhodes.

I felt the need to explain Rhodes’s presence. “Bobby, this is my editor up at the newspaper. He was nice enough to come over here to help …”

“Mom, where’s the patio door?” he interrupted.

“That’s why Mr. Rhodes is here. We had a problem,” I explained. “Someone broke into the house.”

“
Really
?” Bobby sounded far too happily intrigued. “Wow! What’d they get?”

“The only thing missing is my laptop.”

My son gave me a huge, delighted grin. “Good, I’d miss the TV.”

I reminded Bobby about his game, gave him a bottle of cold water from the fridge, and shooed him out of the kitchen. He bounded up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door. Sounds of shoes and toys being tossed around overhead made the kitchen walls vibrate. I knew he was searching for his cleats and stirrups.

“I have to take Bobby down to the Little League field. I’ll call my mother to come over and watch the house. I know you have things to do,” I told Ken Rhodes.

“I can stay,” he said.

“And do what?”

“I’ll find something to do—go through your personal papers, check out your underwear drawer …”

“My personal papers are all over the floor in the den,” I told him, “and there’s nothing worth looking at in my underwear drawer.”

“I can make coffee. You look like you could use some.”

The Folgers can was empty, so I reached up in the cabinet and pulled down a small bag of “Holiday Blend” we’d received last Christmas, or possibly the Christmas before. “I don’t know how old this is, but we need it too badly to worry about it.”

“Take your kid down to the game and don’t worry about anything here. Try to relax.”

Relaxation was an interesting concept, especially with my whole world turned upside down and my kid’s baseball team scheduled to play a game they couldn’t possibly win. I drank two cups of coffee before Bobby and I walked out the front door. We met Dennis Thompson outside, and the three of us went down to the field together.

Stanley Da Silva was on the bench in the dugout, with Eugene serving as assistant coach. I took a seat in the stands and watched as the Cardinals trounced our Pirates like they were major leaguers. By the top of the second inning, they’d scored six runs and threatened to score four more with the bases loaded and only one man out. I covered my eyes, unable to stand the pressure. The crack of the bat made me look. The ball sailed toward Bobby’s position in shallow left. I never saw such a look of utter panic on his face before. My heart started to race. He raised his arm timidly and kept his eye on the ball, ran backwards a few feet, then realized the ball wasn’t going to travel as far as he expected.

He changed direction and ran in. I willed my son extra speed with every fiber of my being. Bobby ran in, tripped over a blade of grass, fell, slid, and stuck out his glove.

The ball miraculously fell into the pocket. I was up on my feet in a flash and felt like I could finally breathe again.

Bobby jumped up and threw the ball. The catcher caught it on a bounce and tagged the runner out at home plate. The Pirates cheered like they’d just won the World Series.

“That’s my son!” I yelled.

A few spectators in the row behind me patted my back. Pirates parents went wild, overjoyed that there had been at least one great, shining moment in the game to brag about.

The celebration had just started to wind down when I spotted my father climbing up the bleachers to my row. He took his time, like each step caused excruciating pain. His expression was one of deep distress.

“Pop, what’s wrong?”

He sat down heavily beside me. “I see you survived the night,” he said. “Your mother said your editor stayed over.”

“You’re upset because Ken Rhodes stayed at the house last night?” I asked.

“Of course not. That’s your business, not mine. No, I’m upset because of Bevin.”

“Bevin? What about her?”

My father looked toward the Pirates dugout. “There’s a reason Ron Haver isn’t coaching today.”

“He’s supposed to be in Atlantic City with your daughter,” I said.

“Kate and Ron got back early this morning. He’s over at Bevin’s house, questioning her this very minute.”

“Oh, no! Why?”

My father threw me one of his
who do you think you’re kidding
looks. “The affair with Jason Whitley. It’s all over town, Colleen.”

“Bev told me about it a couple of weeks ago. She was having trouble with Franklin …”

“Trouble with Franklin?” My father said it like it was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.

“Franklin’s been cheating on Bev for a long time,” I told him.

“Franklin? He looks like Boris Karloff, for God’s sake!”

“A smart girl can overlook an ugly kisser if the guy’s rich enough.”

“I guess so,” he said. “Bevin did.”

I took a long look at my father. At one time, he was considered a fairly attractive man. He’d had thick, blond hair before it started to fall out, and his eyes were still a bright, Celtic blue. Though not a tall man, his build, at least before his waistline thickened, had been on the slender side. As a kid, I noticed when neighborhood women would give him the eye. It never occurred to me to check out his reaction. As far as I knew, Dan Fleming never gave my mother a moment’s grief, unless you counted the numerous times he forgot to throw his socks in the hamper.

“Pop, did you ever cheat on Mom?” I asked.

My father reached over and felt my forehead. “I think you’re getting sunstroke. I would never cheat on your mother.”

“Because you love her so much?” I asked.

“Because she’d rip out my spleen with a salad fork if I ever so much as thought about it.”

“You’ve never been tempted?”

My father shook his head but kept his eye on the game. “I’m not blind, you know. Men always notice pretty women. I’m saying it wouldn’t have been worth it. I don’t have a death wish.”

I was fascinated. “You mean you were too afraid of mom to cheat?”

His gave me a docile smile. “Maybe I watched
The Godfather
a little too often.”

“I guess you did, Pop.” I stood and took a step down to the row below us. “I’m going home to see if I can do anything for Bevin. Would you mind waiting here for Bobby? You’ll have to take Dennis, too. Take them anywhere but home. I don’t want the kid to see his mother get arrested.”

“I’ll take them out for ice cream.”

“A meal would be better, Pop. Burgers or pizza—something that takes longer. Then take them both home with you and keep them there. We’ll decide what to do with Dennis after I find out what’s going on at his house.”

I walked through the parking lot and noticed the sign in Stanley Da Silva’s Camry window. He still hadn’t sold it. The car would have to wait, though. Bevin was more important.

I followed behind an elderly couple walking slowly up Steinbeck Avenue and met Mrs. Testino in front of her house, shielding her eyes from the sun to get a better view of the activity up the block. There was a county car parked at Bevin’s curb.

“Dopes!” Mrs. Testino commented. “They’ve got the wrong man!”

“Woman,” I said, not pausing to chat.

“She didn’t do it!” she called after me, like I really needed Carmella Testino to tell me my best friend was incapable of murder.

The neighbors gathered on the sidewalk and chatted amongst themselves. A news van pulled up in front of my house. I spotted Willy Rojas as he emerged from his dented Jeep parked at the end of the street. He ran toward me, camera in hand, and met me at the end of my driveway.

“I hear they’re close to making an arrest.”

“Who told you that?”

“The big man,” Willy said.

I looked across the street. Rhodes lingered on the sidewalk, leaving my backyard unguarded.

“Bev wouldn’t harm a fly,” I told Willy.

“How about an egotistical lover?” he asked.

Rhodes came over and joined the conversation.

“You saw Haver pull up and you called Willy! You know Bev’s my best friend!”

“It’s news, Colleen,” Rhodes said. “We work for a newspaper. Get over it.”

Across the street, the front door opened. Ron Haver emerged from the Thompson house alone.

Disappointed sighs went through the crowd of onlookers. The news van pulled away in search of a better story. I looked down the street. Mrs. Testino still watched the goings-on, now with her obese cat, Bambino, clutched in her arms. The neighbors returned to their homes. Rhodes, Willy, and I remained on the sidewalk.

“Care to alert the media?” Rhodes called out to Ron Haver.

“It looks like someone already alerted the media,” he said. He crossed the street to meet us. “Who called Channel 7?”

“Probably one of the neighbors. Would you care to make a comment for the
Crier
?” Rhodes asked.

Haver gave him a broad smile. “Not at this time, Mr. Rhodes.”

Rhodes shook his head and went back inside my house. Willy walked off toward his Jeep. I was alone with Ron Haver.

“Exactly how much trouble is Bevin in?” I asked him. “Should I be relieved you didn’t drag her out in handcuffs, or does she need to call Lucinda Maynard to recommend a good criminal lawyer?”

Haver didn’t hesitate. “Have her call Lucinda Maynard. Your friend forgot to mention she met with Jason Whitley at the high school less than an hour before he was last seen alive.”

I left Ron Haver and marched up the Thompsons’ driveway. Behind the front door, there was plenty of yelling and screaming—crass, obscene words I hadn’t used since high school. I was not one to interfere in another’s marital problems. God knew I had no expertise in that area. Regardless, I knocked on the Thompsons’ front door. Bev threw it open with so much rage, I was surprised she didn’t rip it off the hinges. I knew I had to get her out of there before Haver really did have a reason to arrest her.

Franklin stood in the threshold that separated the spacious living room from their formal dining room. He looked like a man ready to explode.

“Please come over to my house,” I begged Bevin. “Come now before this gets worse.”

“The cops just told me my wife was cheating on me with a man who turned up dead! It can’t get any worse!” Franklin screamed.

“Sure it can, Franklin,” I told him. “It can get plenty worse. Like maybe the cops could finger
you
for Jason Whitley’s murder.”

Franklin punched the dining room wall and made a hole in the sheetrock the approximate shape and size of Vermont.

“My mural,” Bevin hissed, her wide eyes reduced to slivers.

It had taken Bevin weeks to paint it, taking pains to get every aspect of the serene, pastoral scene perfect. I knew I had to get her out of there fast, before something worse happened. I grabbed hold of her hand and dragged her out the door.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked when we reached her front lawn. “You should let me go back in there. They’re going to arrest me for murder anyway. I might as well give them a reason.”

I held her arm tightly as we crossed the street, afraid she would break loose and double back, and pushed her inside my house.

Ken Rhodes appeared in the dining room and Bevin pulled back.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Thompson. I’m only here to keep Colleen company,” Rhodes explained.

“I’ll just bet you are,” she said.

“No, Bev. He’s telling the truth. Someone broke into the house yesterday. They smashed the patio door to bits and stole my computer.”

“Your computer?”

“We think either Neil had something on it he didn’t want me to find, or someone wanted my Jason Whitley notes,” I told her.

Bev just nodded.

“Ron Haver said you should talk to Lucinda Maynard and get the name of a good criminal lawyer.”

“But I didn’t kill anyone!”

Ken and I looked at each other. “That’s not the point, Mrs. Thompson,” Ken said. “If the police believe you killed Jason Whitley, you’ll need a lawyer.”

Bev looked stricken. “I can’t believe this is happening to me. Where’s Dennis? Is he still at the field? Dear God, what if he hears about this?”

“He’s with my father and Bobby. They’re going out to eat after the game, and he’ll stay at my parents’ house until all this is settled. He’s fine. Don’t worry about him just now. There’s plenty of time for that later.”

I led her up the three small steps to the dining room and pulled out a chair for her before I sat down. Ken sat across from Bevin. We looked like the Three Little Bears. Big Papa Bear, beautiful and nervous Baby Bear, and the curly-haired Momma Bear dying from the heat because the temperature inside her house had risen to eight degrees hotter than it was outside.

I tapped my fingers on the table and waited for Rhodes to take the lead. Finally, he did.

“We could all use a drink,” he said.

“Good idea.” I jumped up and went to the kitchen. I wondered what would be an appropriate drink to give a woman who might be arrested for murder
and
whose marriage had been destroyed all on the same day. I stood on my toes to see what Neil kept stashed in the back of the cabinet.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” I said. “There’s gin, scotch, and something called
Absolut
.”

“It’s vodka,” Bev said. “If you have orange juice, you can make me a screwdriver.”

I grabbed the bottle and got the juice from the refrigerator. I figured Bevin would need something strong. I dumped ice in a plastic tumbler and poured in the liquids using a half-and-half ratio.

“I’ll take the usual,” Rhodes called out. I splashed some scotch in a glass, added ice and water, and brought both drinks into the dining room.

“Nothing for you?” Rhodes asked.

“Someone has to keep a level head here,” I said. “There are things that have to be done.”