Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (21 page)

“One of the very few he invited me to attend.”

“I like the name you’ve chosen for yourself, Regal Realtor,” Claire said. “Although the part about making dreams come true could be taken the wrong way by some men. After all, you know what men dream about most of the time.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” Nancy snapped. “Nobody could possibly get the wrong idea. As a matter of fact, I’ve gotten some very positive feedback from several men who couldn’t wait to meet me. Including Linus, my date for tonight. With no hint of unreasonable expectations. I already had coffee with one of them, and he was a perfect gentleman. You and Carol just don’t understand how to write a profile on one of these Internet dating sites. And I may even get a few real estate listings through my Dream Dates profile.”

Claire rolled her eyes at me.

“Now, Carol,” Nancy said, exiting the Dream Dates website and thereby ending that conversation, “do you want to check out Jenny’s wedding blog?”

I did, of course. But to check it out through Nancy, not on my own, wasn’t my chosen method. I know, call me childish.

“I’m not sure the blog is up any more,” I said. “Last night Marlee asked Jenny to revise it and take her off.”

“Oh, it’s still up, Carol,” Nancy said. “I checked it again this morning, and I noticed Marlee’s picture and information were gone. What’s up with that?”

“She and Mike decided that they didn’t want to intrude on Jenny and Mark’s big day,” I said. “They’ll still be their witnesses, of course, but they won’t be renewing their own marriage vows at the same time. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone but all of you, but I’m very disappointed about their decision. I was looking forward to seeing both of my children get married. Well, Jim and I were both looking forward to it.”

“That’s a shame,” Nancy said. “Of course, with my Terri serving in the Peace Corps, she could already be married and I might not find out about it until she comes home next year.

“I was enjoying getting to know Marlee through the blog, too. We had several online chats. She’s a lovely girl, Carol. You and Jim are so lucky Mike found her and brought her into the family.”

Now, that stabbed me right in the heart. Here I was, trying so hard to become a good friend to my brand new daughter-in-law, and she was having none of it. And yet my very best friend (or, should I say, former very best friend?) was having intimate chats with Marlee on a wedding blog that I didn’t even know existed until last night.

Mary Alice put her hand on my arm in a warning gesture, but I ignored her.

“I didn’t realize you and Marlee were becoming such good pals,” I said to Nancy in a super saccharine voice. “How nice for you both.” “That’s one of the advantages of being part of a blog, Carol,” Nancy said. “You can comment on a post. And then if that person, the blogger, answers back, you can have a real conversation. I thought you knew all about that.”

“No, Nancy, I didn’t know about that,” I said. “I’ve never blogged in my life, but I can see I’d better start right away.

“It’s funny, I was so worried about upsetting you with news about Bob. And I didn’t tell you about Tiffani because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings or embarrass you. But you’ve been keeping a few secrets from me, too, Nancy. It would have been nice of you to share this blogging information with me earlier. Like, when the posts began. You know how hard I’ve tried to make friends with Marlee. If you really were my friend, you would have told me.”

Nancy looked genuinely surprised at my outburst. “Why, Carol, I was sure you knew and just decided not to post on the wedding blog. It never occurred to me that you were out of this loop.”

Mary Alice tightened her grip on my arm, but there was no stopping me now.

“I’ll bet,” I said. “Or, maybe because Terri is out of the country and you’re not part of her life right now, you decided to substitute my daughter for yours. And getting my daughter-in-law was an added bonus.” I stood up so quickly I almost knocked the chair over. “I’m leaving now with Lucy and Ethel, Mary Alice. Thanks so much for taking such good care of them. I’ll come back for their crate and food later on today.”

And I left without another word.

Chapter 26

Excuse me, but I believe your Freudian slip is showing.

By the time I turned onto Old Fairport Turnpike in the direction of my home, I had calmed down considerably.

And by the time I had unloaded the dogs from the back of my station wagon, given them a quick romp around the yard, and escorted them into the house, I was downright embarrassed at my childish behavior.

“What’s another way to spell Carol?” I asked the dogs as I poured cool water into a bowl for them. “I’ll tell you the answer, so you don’t have to sweat it. It’s p-e-t-t-y. Petty! And it even has the same number of letters.”

Lucy gave me The Look. The one that reeks of pure disdain.

“I know. You’re right,” I said. “I was a jerk. I’m sorry you had to overhear me carrying on like that. Although, it’s not the first time you’ve seen me make a fool out of myself. And it won’t be the last. Unfortunately. But you have to admit I was justified in being angry at Nancy. And her decision to let Bob rot in jail while she goes out on a date tonight is something I just can’t understand. Much less her ridiculous claim that I’ll solve the murder and get Bob off.”

Although, I had to admit that my track record in that department was pretty strong. I’d been involved in two police investigations in the past year or so, and managed to solve both of them. Maybe “solve” is stretching it a bit. I managed to point the police in the right direction so they could solve the crimes. (I prefer to work behind the scenes, and make the police department look good.)

But no way was I going to take on solving this one. Especially since I was the prime witness who placed Bob at the scene of Tiffani’s death. And would probably be called to testify against him, if the case ever went to court.

A nightmare scenario that I prayed wouldn’t happen.

I sank into a nearby chair and practiced deep breathing exercises, the kind I’ve been told clears the mind of upsetting, negative thoughts.

Breathe in. Hold the breath. Breathe out. One. Breathe in. Hold the breath. Breathe out. Two. And so on.

Lucy licked my hand, encouraging me to continue. And reminded me, without saying a single word, that she would always love me. No matter what. Then she turned around and nudged Ethel, snoozing peacefully in a corner, until Ethel came over to me and licked my other hand.

Gotta love those dogs.

It became pretty clear to me after approximately twenty deep breathing exercises that I was getting nowhere fast. And all this deep breathing was making me thirsty, since I tend to do it with my mouth open. (Please, no comments.)

I checked the time on the microwave clock. Rats. It was barely 1:00 p.m. It may be 5:00 somewhere in the world, but nowhere near my part of Connecticut, so no wine for me.

I rummaged in the refrigerator and found an unopened bottle of lemonade way in the back, near a head of romaine lettuce that was way past its prime. Just what I needed. (The lemonade, not the lettuce.) I tossed the latter into the garbage before Jim could see it and insist that it was still edible.

Then I read the label on the lemonade bottle. Nantucket Nectars. I was immediately overwhelmed by more gloomy thoughts.

On the bright side, though, a further inventory of the freezer revealed the ingredients for a make-shift dinner, so at least I was spared an immediate trip to the grocery store.

As I sipped my lemonade, I allowed my mind to wander back to Nantucket, and the terrible sight of Tiffani’s body at the bottom of the staircase.

“I wonder if she has any family,” I said to the dogs.

Lucy just looked at me.
For heaven’s sake, turn on your computer and check it out.
Swear to God, that’s what she said to me.

She was right, of course. It was time for me to take a trip on the Internet superhighway. I knew I was stalling, though, because of all the Facebook and wedding blog business. What would I do if I logged on and discovered that my daughter had not invited me to become part of her select circle?

Oh, Carol, grow up already. If you’re not Jenny’s Facebook friend, you can easily remedy that. Assuming you remember your password.

The machine sprang to life and in no time at all I was trolling through more than 300 new e-mail messages. Good gracious. It had only been a couple of days since I’d last checked my mail. Who the heck were all these people?

I deleted all the ones that started, “Carl Andrews, here’s a special offer just for you.” I never could figure out why those kinds of messages didn’t go directly to my Spam file.

Then I clicked on a handful of e-mails that were from people I actually knew and whose subject line was of interest to me. Nobody had anything important to say, so I deleted most of them, too. And, with a deep sigh, tried to log onto my Facebook page. It took six tries before I remembered the correct password. But I did remember. Finally.

“Well, look at that,” I said to the dogs. “I may only have five Facebook friends, but Jenny is one of them. How could I have forgotten that?”

“Of course you’re one of my Facebook friends,” said my darling daughter, who must have come into my office while I was otherwise preoccupied. Jenny gave me a quick peck on the cheek and looked over my shoulder at the computer screen.

“I see you’re finally checking your Facebook page,” she said. “Honestly, Mom, you have to get with the twenty-first century. Sometimes people don’t have the time to communicate any other way but on social media sites like Facebook and Twitter. And blogging, of course. That’s why I was so surprised when you didn’t comment on any of my posts about the wedding.”

“I guess I’m just an old-fashioned kind of gal,” I said. “And I make no apologies for it, either. Phone calls, hand-written letters and in-person talks are the best ways to communicate, as far as I’m concerned.”

Mental note to self: Apologize to Nancy for flying off the handle re. Facebook and wedding blog. The sooner, the better.

“Well, you’re getting with the program now, Mom. Better late than never. If you go to my home page, you’ll see that I posted a few pictures Mark took on Nantucket. There’s one of the Grey Gull Inn, and a few that were taken in front of the Whaling Museum. I put them on my page Friday afternoon, before Tiffani died. Maybe I should take them down now and put up a tribute to Tiffani. What do you think?”

Jenny’s eyes filled with tears, not giving me a chance to respond. Which was just as well, because I’m certainly no expert on social network etiquette.

“I still can’t believe she’s gone, Mom. To die that way, it’s just horrible.”

“I’m sure the police will decide it was just a tragic accident,” I lied. “Maybe she tripped going down the stairs and fell.”

“Except for the fact that Bob Green was seen – by you, Mom – sobbing over her body. And then tried to leave Nantucket without talking to the police first. That sounds like an admission of guilt to me. Although Mark is always warning me not to jump to conclusions.”

Jenny allowed herself a small grin. “I tell him it’s a family trait.” I laughed. “You must be talking about your father.”

As if!

“You stick to that story if it makes you feel any better, Mom,” Jenny said. “Now, come into the kitchen and look what I brought. I didn’t have any classes today so I tried some experimenting with recipes. I may not ever become the good cook that you are, but I want to learn. I brought you a few samples. Let me know what you think, and while we’re sampling we can catch up more.

“I really need your help about the wedding. Especially if we’re going to do it here at home.”

Motherly advice – well, advice of all kinds – is my specialty. But only when asked for it. Of course.

Jenny made me a plate with small samples from four different casseroles. The aroma was heavenly. Lucy and Ethel immediately assumed their begging position, right next to my chair.

“None for you, kids,” I said. “This is people food.”

I tossed them each a biscuit, which momentarily satisfied them. “They’re all chicken recipes,” Jenny explained, pulling up a chair to join me at the kitchen table. “Mark loves chicken. But I don’t want to serve plain old boring baked chicken all the time.”