Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (26 page)

I tried to zoom in on the photo of the girl, but couldn’t figure out how to make that happen. I’m no computer geek, that’s for sure.

I leaned back in my office chair and stared at the ceiling, contemplating my options. Hoping for inspiration from above.

I could call Mike and Marlee and tell them about the video.

Bad idea, Carol. You’d be meddling, something you’re accused of doing all the time. Sometimes you’re innocent, but placing that call would push your conduct over to the guilty side of the scale.

Arrgh. I didn’t know what to do.

I had to talk to someone about this.
Anyone
. And this time, Lucy and

Ethel wouldn’t do.

I ran through a quick list of possible confidantes: Jenny, Claire, or Mary Alice. Definitely not Nancy, who was at this very moment speeding her way up I-95 north toward the Barnstable House of Correction. As I agonized over what to do, I had to wonder why Nancy had sent me the YouTube link in the first place? Was it possible that she’d recognized Marlee, and this was her subtle way of steering me toward the video to see if I recognized her, too?

Nah, no way. Nancy had never been subtle about anything in her entire life.

And then I heard the kitchen door open, and slam shut. And Jim’s voice, bellowing his usual greeting from the other end of the house.

“Carol? I’m home. What’s for dinner?”

I don’t think I’ve ever been as glad to hear that question in my whole life. Because I knew that Jim would know exactly what to do about this situation. He was so…logical. He thought through each decision so carefully that, when I suggested the time was right for us to begin a family, he took so long to agree that I feared my biological clock had stopped ticking for good.

A total exaggeration on my part, since I was only in my twenties when I had Jenny and Mark. But I’m making a point here.

I left the YouTube link on the computer and went into the kitchen to greet Jim. Who, predictably, was rummaging around the refrigerator, searching for something to eat.

“Honestly, Carol,” he said, “there’s never anything in this house to snack on since you started watching your weight. Don’t we have any cheese or something? I’m starving to death.”

“I haven’t had a chance to get to the food store, Jim,” I replied, squelching my automatic reflex to give him a snappy answer. “But dinner’s all ready. Thanks to Jenny, who’s trying out new recipes for Mark and stopped by to give us samples.

“But before we eat, come into the office for a minute. There’s something on the computer I want to show you.”

Jim started to protest, but I ignored him and guided (pushed) him into the other room.

When he was comfortably seated in my office chair, I clicked on the YouTube link. Without giving him any hint as to why I wanted him to watch it, so as not to prejudice his immediate reaction.

Jim shoved his glasses up onto his forehead (which is getting higher all the time) and peered at the screen. When the video of the weeping mother was over, I clicked the mute button and asked, “Well, what do you think of that? Did it ring any bells with you?

My Beloved frowned at me. “It’s a very sad story, Carol, but I hope you aren’t thinking of contacting this woman and offering her your sleuthing services to find her missing daughter. We’ve got enough mysteries going on here to keep you busy for quite a while, don’t you agree?”

Now it was my turn to frown – gently, so as not to leave a lasting impression on my forehead.

“No, Jim. That’s not it.” I clicked on the link again.

“This time, I want you to take a close look at the photograph the mother is holding at the very end of the clip. See if it reminds you of anyone.”

Jim sighed deeply. “All right, Carol. One more time. But then, can we eat? I’m…”

“I know, dear. You’re starving. But humor me, please.”

My husband gave me a look which implied that he’d been humoring me for years, then pushed his glasses up on his head again and gave his full attention to the computer screen.

“I don’t get it, Carol. Who should the missing girl remind me of? Or, should I ask it another way? Who does the missing girl remind
you
of?”

I took a chance and blurted out, “I think she looks a lot like Marlee. In fact, I think it is Marlee.”

Jim pushed back the chair, rose and headed toward the kitchen without saying a word. I trailed after him like an obedient pup.

“Jim, listen to me,” I continued, not giving up my badgering. “I really think it’s Marlee. And if she’s a runaway bride, that would explain why she’s been so shy around the family, and wanted Jenny to take her off the wedding blog and Facebook. And why she didn’t want to renew the wedding vows.”

A terrible thought struck me. “Oh, God, what if she’s already married? She and Mike could be in a bigamous marriage.”

Jim poured a glass of chardonnay and handed it to me, gesturing me to sit at the kitchen table. Pouring himself a glass of merlot, he sat down and faced me.

“Carol, honey, I know you’re under a lot of stress. That’s one of the reasons why I came home this afternoon, to be sure you were all right.”

He must have remembered the note he left me in the Honey-Don’t jar, because his face flushed a little.

“This is not Marlee,” he said gently. “Her hair is all wrong.”

“That’s easily changed,” I countered. “And remember, she’s given herself a brand new look since we first met her. Plus, she’s wearing glasses now, which she didn’t before. Her own mother wouldn’t recognize her now.”

Then I slapped my hands over my mouth. “Oh, gosh. I can’t believe

I actually said that.”

Jim just looked at me, took a sip of his wine, and placed his glass on the table.

“The face shape is wrong,” Jim continued, as if he hadn’t heard me. “Marlee’s face is rounder. You’re wrong, Carol. Drop it.”

“But Jim, the timing is perfect,” I protested. “The girl went to Miami to go shopping for her trousseau six months ago, and then disappeared. Cosmo’s is in Miami. Mike could have met her at the bar and they hit it off. And then they got married.”

Or not.

“Carol,” Jim repeated, “drop it. This is not our daughter-in-law. I think you’re just grasping at straws, trying to figure out why Marlee doesn’t want to become more a part of our family. And, especially, why she doesn’t want to be closer to you. I feel terrible for that poor family in Puerto Rico, of course. But this is not our business.

“And that’s the end of it. Now, let’s try some of Jenny’s cooking.”

I could tell by his tone of voice that, as far as he was concerned, the discussion was over. Closed. Done with.

Well, isn’t this what I wanted, a reality check from Jim? I guess I’d expected that he would agree with me that the missing bride definitely was Marlee, and
then
tell me to drop it. It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t agree with me at all.

But I knew this was Marlee. I was rock solid certain of it.

I did have to admit, though, that Jim was right about one thing. I was desperate to make Marlee part of our family.

But for now, I finally had an answer as to why she was so determined to be distant from any overtures of affection and familial (mother-in-law-ly) support.

It wasn’t that Marlee didn’t like
me
. She had issues to settle with her own family first. Which I was confident she would, in good time.

And for now, I had to be content with letting the whole thing play out. And not meddle, trying to set things right.

Well, I promised myself, I’d sure try! There’s a first time for everything, right?

Chapter 32

I looked in the mirror and what did I see?

My mother’s face staring back at me!

You didn’t believe me, did you? Well, this time, you should have.

I really did let the whole Marlee-runaway bride thing drop. After I got up in the middle of the night, crept downstairs in the dark (almost tripped and fell down the bottom two steps because someone had carelessly left a pair of his shoes there), and searched the Internet for a solid hour, finding out everything I could about the Martinez family of San Juan, Puerto Rico.

After all, I was sure we were going to become one big happy family, eventually, and I was, well, curious. Ok, I was nosy.

It turned out that the Martinez clan was a very big deal in Puerto Rico. Pedro Martinez Senior, was fifty-eight and a self-made millionaire. His firm, Martinez Financial Securities, although not as large as stateside brokerage houses like UBS Wealth Management or Merrill Lynch, handled a sizeable portfolio of clients, including several politicians and the heads of local corporations. His wife, Isabella, was fifty-six, and was very active in charity work. She served on the boards of two organizations which helped at-risk children. They had produced two children of their own – Pedro Junior, who worked in the family firm, and Maria Louisa.

I also found a few more photos of the family, in addition to the one Isabella Martinez was holding in the YouTube video. And several newspaper stories about Maria Louisa’s disappearance.

Reading about the Martinez family convinced me that I was definitely correct about my daughter-in-law’s identity. And I’d let the matter drop. For now.

I crept back upstairs and slid into bed, without Jim even stirring. (Years of practice does indeed make perfect.)

And dreamed about vacationing in a tropical paradise that was being filmed for YouTube.

“What’s on your agenda for today, Carol?” Jim asked me at breakfast the next morning. Which, of course, translated to, “You’re going to mind your own business and drop this Marlee obsession, right, Carol?”

I poured him more coffee from the pot that he had made, then said, “I’m not going to do anything about the YouTube video, if that’s what you’re getting at. If you’d cleaned up the papers that are all over the bedroom floor, I could vacuum in there. But since you haven’t gotten to that yet,”
little dig there, in case you didn’t notice that
, “I guess I’ll take the dogs for a long walk, and then do some food shopping. Is there anything special you’d like for dinner?”

I smiled innocently.

Jim looked a little guilty, which was, of course, the idea. “I promise I’ll clean everything up tonight. You’ve been very patient about the mess I’ve made. But you know that’s my own peculiar brand of filing, right?”

I nodded my head. “After all these years, I’m very familiar with your unique filing system. And it’s fine with me, as long as I don’t trip over it or have to clean around it. But my tolerance level is about a week. And your meter has expired.”

“I hear you, Carol,” Jim said. “And I promise I’ll get rid of the clutter.” He crossed his heart and then held up his right hand. “Scout’s honor.

“As far as dinner tonight goes, why don’t we splurge and go out? You deserve a treat, with everything you’ve had to deal with. What do you say?”

I’d say that you know one sure way to get me to overlook your clutter a little longer is to bribe me with dinner out.