Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (31 page)

Jim looked incredulous. He knows me too well.

“All I did,” I said, raising a forkful of now-cold veal saltimbocca and pointing it at my husband for emphasis, “was to go on the Internet this afternoon and research Cinderella Weddings. And Tiffani. You won’t believe what I found out. She was being stalked by a woman who blamed her for stealing her fiancé. Tiffani was hired to plan the couple’s wedding, and in the process, got into a torrid affair with the guy. Which Melody Butt – that’s the name of the woman, if you can believe it – found out about on her wedding day.”

I paused and chewed some veal. Then swallowed and resumed my story.

“And when Tiffani got a restraining order against Melody for stalking, Melody began to cyberstalk her instead.

“That means she used the Internet to harass Tiffani, in case you didn’t know that,” I explained to Jim, who nodded patiently.

“Where are you going with this, Carol? How do you expect this information will help Bob Green?”

“Well, it’s clear to me that Tiffani could have been killed by this Melody person. She could have tracked Tiffani to Nantucket, waited for her chance that night, and finally got her revenge.”

You’ll probably notice that I left out the part about Melody now being married and the mother of twins. No sense in confusing Jim when I was on a roll.

“And this must be public information, Jim,” I said. “I found it very easily. You’ve always told me that if it’s public information, it can be shared with anyone. All I’m going to do is tell Nancy what I found and let her take it from there. I don’t know if this will help Bob or not, but at least I’ve done something. ”

“What about your story idea, Carol?” Jim asked, calmer now after my brilliant presentation. “I hope you’re not planning on writing a story about Tiffani and this Melody Butt person. You know you can’t do that.” “Honestly, Jim,” I said, “give me a little credit. I want to find out more about cyberstalking. I never realized that someone could be stalked through social networking sites. Apparently it’s a lot more common than most people realize. And a lot more dangerous. It could happen to anyone. I think it would make a terrific story.”

“Just don’t go getting yourself into trouble again, Carol,” Jim said.

“Of course I won’t, dear,” I said. “I’m going to do some Internet research right in my own home office. And I’ll let you know what I find.” I thought this was a brilliant ploy. I doubted if I’d need Jim’s input, but I’ve learned after all these years of marriage that if I make him feel like he has a say in my already-made decisions, like choosing living room furniture, for instance, it makes life easier.

You may say that I should have shared my concerns about Jenny’s safety with her father and enlisted his help. But I was afraid he’d tell me I was overreacting. Once again.

So instead, I changed the subject before I let something else slip. “How about some dessert, Jim? I’m in the mood for something chocolate.” Jim’s eyes brightened at the very thought, and he asked our server for a dessert menu. End of discussion.

Am I good or what?

Chapter 38

When it comes to texting, I’m all thumbs.

Despite my display of confidence, coupled with my pretense of innocence, at dinner the night before, I was anything but sure of myself when I sat down at the computer the next morning. If I wanted to admit the truth to myself (something I rarely do), I was afraid of what I might find. Especially where it concerned Jenny’s safety.

So I started off by e-mailing Nancy the info I’d found about Tiffani and her cyberstalker, along with links to the stories so she could check them out herself.

“I don’t know if this will help Bob’s case, but it’s all I can do. Pass it on as you think appropriate. It might be better if you give the links to Bob’s lawyer and get his input, instead of taking it directly to Detective Sweet.”

You’re doing it again, Carol. You don’t need to get more involved. Let Nancy figure out what to do on her own. You’ve got other things to do.

I sighed and pressed “Send.”

Stop procrastinating. What if Jenny’s in danger right this very minute, and you’re the only one who can save her?

That did it. But where to start? With her Facebook page? Her wedding blog?

I realized that, before I got down to the personal stuff, I needed to find out exactly how cyberstalking was defined. I forced my fingers to type the word into my web browser. And was overwhelmed with the responses I had to sift through.

I decided to start with The National Center for Victims of Crime. I’ll share what I found out with all of you, because it’s a real eye opener. At least, it was to me.

This website defined cyberstalking as threatening behavior or unwanted advances directed at another using the Internet, and other forms of online and computer communications. A United States Department of Justice report quoted on the website estimated that there may be tens or even hundreds of thousands of cyberstalking victims in the U.S.

Wow.

Cyberstalkers can target their victims through chat rooms, message boards, discussion forums, and e-mail. Some examples are threatening or obscene e-mail; spamming (in which a stalker sends a victim a multitude of junk e-mails); leaving improper messages in guest books, blogs, and social media sites; sending electronic viruses; tracing another person’s computer and Internet activity; and Internet identity theft.

The possibilities overwhelmed me. And scared me. There were a few times that my own e-mail account had been hacked into. The only reason I knew this was because friends in my e-mail address book contacted me to say that they’d received suspicious e-mails from my address, which were nothing more than a link to click on. I figured this was just an annoyance, that my e-mail had been chosen randomly. I changed my password, and that was that.

But, after reading just part of the information on this website, I wondered how random e-mail hacking really was.

I knew I needed help to decipher all this stuff. And I had to act quickly. I know, I know. You’re going to tell me I wasted valuable time dithering. You’re right.

There was only one person I trusted to be my Internet guide. He’d helped me once before, when his father was in trouble. That would be my son, in case you’re not following my train of thought.

I knew I was taking a chance, because of what could be going on in his own life right now. But I didn’t endure all those labor pains to bring him into the world for nothing. And I knew he’d want to protect his sister.

So I sent Mike a cryptic Instant Message: “I need your help. Right now. Mom.”

And sat back in my chair to wait for him to respond. I didn’t think it would take too long. Mike is connected to his iPhone the way he used to be connected to…well, never mind that analogy. If you’re a mother, I know you get the picture. And if you’re not, think about mothers and babies. You’ll get my analogy. Eventually.

Ten minutes of staring at a computer screen waiting for a (misnamed) instant reply is a very frustrating experience. Sort of like watching the pot on the stove come to a boil when you’re cooking potatoes – it seems to take forever.

But the instant you turn your back on that pesky pot, the darn thing always boils over. And gets all over the cooktop. I was positive that the minute I left the computer, I’d hear the
ping
sound which indicates I’d received a message – hopefully, a response from my son.

“I could check Jenny’s Facebook page while I’m waiting,” I said to the dogs. “I’m interested in seeing the pictures she posted from our trip to Nantucket. Before the…you know…accident.”

But to get onto Jenny’s Facebook page, I first had to log onto my own.

Arrgh!

You don’t think I remembered my password from the day before, do you? Fortunately for me, after rummaging around in my desk drawer, I found the slip of paper I’d stashed there a while ago with my various passwords scrawled on it. (Too bad I hadn’t remembered that slip of paper yesterday, and taped it to my computer. I could have saved myself a lot of aggravation.)

Oh, well. Can’t Remember S _ _ _ strikes again.

By the way, Jim has impressed upon me, over and over, the importance of different passwords for different websites, and also the importance of changing my passwords frequently. No wonder I’m always confused.

I’ll confess (to you, but never to him) that I don’t do either one – at least, not as often as he says I should.

This time, Facebook informed me that I had a few outstanding “friend” requests I had ignored. “See?” I said to Lucy. “I’m more popular than you thought. And one of these ‘friend’ requests is from Marlee. My gosh, how come I didn’t know about that? I should have accepted immediately. No wonder she’s been so cool to me. She thinks I don’t like her. I have to confirm her request right away.”

I frowned, then realized I must have gotten an e-mail notice about Marlee’s “friend” request, as well as the few others I had yet to respond to. Which probably directly went into my Spam file. The file I never check.

I checked the date of Marlee’s request – five weeks ago. Yikes. I clicked on “confirm friendship,” which should lead into that friend’s home page (so I’ve been told). And got an automatic response from the Facebook genie, “This page is no longer active.”

Well, I’m sure you can predict where that response led my mind. That’s right – straight back to the YouTube video of the sobbing mother, holding the picture of her missing daughter. More proof – in my mind, not that I needed any more reinforcement to my theory – that Marlee was the bride who’d pulled a vanishing act in Miami several months ago. And left her poor mother desperate to find her.

Of course, my sensible side (that would be the side I don’t pay any attention to) told me that it was equally possible Marlee had decided Facebook wasn’t right for her, and closed her account. That all of this was coincidental, and the product of my frequently overactive imagination.

But I’ve always believed that if a bird looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and waddles like a duck, even if it’s wearing a chicken costume, by golly – it’s a duck!

Why had Marlee run away? What was she afraid of? Why would any girl put her mother through such misery?

No way she’s going to confide in you now, Carol. You missed your chance. Give it up, already. And concentrate on your own daughter, before you end up sobbing in a YouTube video yourself.

I was saved from another inadvertent walk down the self-pity highway by the chirping sound of my cell phone. I scrambled to answer it, expecting it to be my son.

“Mike,” I blubbered into the phone, not giving the caller a chance to identify himself, “I didn’t mean to alarm you, but I really do need your help.” And I started to cry.

Imagine my confusion when I heard a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone line.

“Carol, what’s wrong? You sound so upset. It’s Deanna, not Mike. I’m calling because you’re a half hour late for your hair color appointment. You’re never late, and when I didn’t hear from you, I got worried.”

Oh, God. I’d completely forgotten. Which shows you how upset I was. I NEVER miss a hair appointment and take the chance of my roots showing through.

“I’m so sorry, Deanna,” I said. “Things have been a little crazy since we got back from Nantucket.” A slight understatement.