Moving Can Be Murder by Susan Santangelo

tremble. “It was
awful, finding Jack Cartwright dead.
    “Your father has been on my case about it,
too. What I really need from everyone is a little sympathy and
support. He keeps asking me over and over why I went back to the
house in the middle of the night. He can’t get it through his thick
skull that I just wanted to say goodbye to our house. Alone. You
understand, don’t you honey?”
    I started to cry. Again. I hate myself when
I act that way, but I couldn’t stand to have Jenny mad at me,
too.
    Lucy and Ethel, always in tune with the
Andrews family’s emotional temperature, came over and gave my hand
wet kisses. Then they looked at Jenny with what was – I swear – a
reproachful expression. It was crystal clear to me what they were
communicating: How can you be so angry at your mother, who is the
most wonderful human being on earth? Especially when she’s had such
a major shock?
    Jenny reached out her hands. Both dogs came
to her side and gave her a tentative sniff. And waited.
    “OK, you guys,” Jenny said, laughing. “I can
tell whose side you’re on. And that you want Mom and me to make up.
Our own personal mediators.”
    “The hand that wields the can opener rules
the house,” I said. “Barack Obama could probably use Lucy and Ethel
to settle the Middle-East conflict.”
    “He has Bo now, remember?” said Jenny. “I’ve
heard that Portuguese water dogs are better at negotiating than
English cockers.”
    She gave me a quick hug. “Sorry I got a
little carried away, Mom. I was just so upset when I found out what
happened last night. It must have been awful for you. Do you feel
up to talking about it? I promise not to interrupt. Much. I am your
daughter, after all, and you know neither one of us can keep quiet
for very long.”
    I had to laugh. “Sad, but true. I’ve also
been told that I take twenty minutes to tell a story when it could
be done in less than five. Oh, well.”
    As I repeated my story for what seemed like
the umpteenth time, I realized how unbelievable it sounded.
Middle-aged (OK, late middle-aged) housewife returns to visit her
about-to-be-sold home alone, late at night, and discovers the dead
body of her home’s buyer in her living room. I didn’t think Home
and Garden Television had a program that covered those
circumstances.
    “Were there any signs of a fight?” Jenny
asked. “Mark is always talking about how important it is to notice
every detail at the scene of a suspicious death, no matter how
small it may seem.”
    “I didn’t notice anything except Jack,” I
said. “Of course, at first I didn’t know it was a person. I thought
one of the movers had accidentally dropped some clothing.”
    I shuddered. “I can’t talk about this any
more. Let me make us both a cup of green tea.” I jumped up and
headed in the direction of the kitchen. After opening and closing
the three small cupboards, I gave up. “I can’t find a tea kettle.
How’s that for stupidity. I’m going to have to use a pot to boil
the water. I don’t think I can find any tea either.”
    “Forget the tea, Mom,” Jenny said. “I
promise I won’t ask you any more questions about last night. Girl
Scout’s honor. I have to leave for campus in about fifteen
minutes.”
    “I hate green tea, anyway,” I said. “It
tastes like medicine. Yuck.” I wrinkled my nose for emphasis.
    “Do you think Mark would know anything about
the investigation?” I asked hopefully. “I have to go to the police
station today and give a formal statement about what happened last
night. It’d sure help me if he was there.” It’d be even better if
he came here and with a fill-in-the-blanks statement for me to
sign. Or, better yet, tell me that a formal statement wasn’t
necessary at all. He’d certainly been helpful to My Beloved in the
past.
    Not that I was pushing my luck.
    “Even though Mark and Paul both joined the
Fairport police, they don’t always work on the same cases,” Jenny
reminded