Moving Can Be Murder by Susan Santangelo Page B

And
don’t call here again.”
    Then she banged the phone down in my
ear.
     
     



Chapter 15
     
    I can do anything with the right shoes.
     
    I’m not going to lie to you. My first
reaction to an outburst like this has always been to burst into
tears. I bet you’re sick of hearing me admit this by now. But I
just hate it when someone is mad at me. Sometimes I think my tear
ducts are on automatic pilot, like a sprinkler system set to water
the lawn at a certain time of day.
    This time was different, though, because I
finally realized I’d shed too many tears in the last twelve hours.
And I wasn’t going to be a cry baby any more.
    So, I got angry.
    Damn it, I sold my beautiful house out of
selfless love for My Beloved. To protect him and his health. To
ensure that “Till death do us part” didn’t come earlier than
absolutely necessary. And what did I get for thanks? A dead
body.
    Wasn’t it bad enough that I had discovered
Jack’s body in my house? Didn’t anyone care how traumatic that was
for me? And then to be cross-examined by that little pipsqueak of a
detective, like Jack’s death was my fault.
    And finally, having my good friend -- well,
that was stretching it just a bit – having my neighbor Sara Miller
accuse Jim and me of criminal negligence, which resulted in her
son-in-law’s death. How dare she?
    The more I thought about it, the madder I
got.
    Well, after that phone call, I certainly
wasn’t going to send any food over to comfort the family. In her
current frame of mind, Sara would probably think I was trying to
poison them.
    But then, I realized this wasn’t really Sara
talking. Who could blame her for lashing out at me under the
circumstances?
    I needed to talk to Mary Alice. She was the
only one of my friends who could give me advice on dealing with
Sara, since she’d had so much experience as a nurse counseling
grieving families. Plus dealing with her own personal
heartbreak.
    When her voice mail came on, I hesitated. I
wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t upset her. Probably telling
her that I had discovered a dead body in my living room wasn’t the
best message to leave.
    I forced myself to sound normal. “Hi Mary
Alice. It’s Carol. A little problem has come up that I really need
to talk to you about. Could you call me back as soon as you get
this message? Thanks.”
    I hoped that would do the trick. But I knew
Mary Alice wasn’t nearly as anal as I was about checking either
voice mail or e-mail messages.
    “Let’s give her an hour,” I said to the
dogs. “If we haven’t heard from her, we’ll call her again.
Meanwhile, we’ve got some unpacking to do.” I knew I also had to go
to the police station sometime today and give a formal statement.
But I was in no rush to do that, and certainly wouldn’t go without
My Beloved as moral support.
    I was on my hands and knees searching
through a box labeled “Emergency Supplies” when the phone rang. I
scrambled to my feet and, as I did, felt a searing pain shoot
through my lower back. Rats. It would probably take at least two
weeks before I was back to “normal.”
    I dropped back onto my knees and willed
myself to ignore the pain as I grabbed for the phone.
    “Hello, hello. Mary Alice? Thank God you
called me back so quickly.”
    “This is Detective Paul Wheeler of the
Fairport Police,” said the voice at the other end of the phone.
“What time this morning will you be at the police station to answer
more questions about last night’s incident at your home? I expected
to see you by now.”
    I started to speak, but he interrupted
me.
    “I’m sure you want to cooperate with the
police. Unless you have something to hide, of course.”
    Give me a break.
    A variety of responses flashed across my
mind in a millisecond, ranging from smartass to sniveling and
pathetic. He’s just trying to goad you, Carol. Don’t let him get to
you.
    “Why, Paul, I’m so glad you called,” I said
in what My Beloved refers to as my