Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (2 page)

Brought a change of clothes for the new mother.

Cleaned the stable.

Changed the straw in the manger.

Took care of the animals.

Didn’t overstay their welcome.

And there was peace on earth.

Destination: Nantucket, Massachusetts

Objective: A Plan For The Big Day.

My bladder was calling to me. More and more urgently. I tried to ignore it, but I knew I couldn’t. After a certain age, it does tend to play an important role in a woman’s life.

What did you expect, Carol? You had too many glasses of wine tonight. And not your usual spritzers, either.

Sigh. I hate it when my conscience scolds me. But this time, it was way out of line. After all, how often does a mother get to plan the upcoming nuptials of both her children?

But here we were – My Beloved Husband Jim, my darling daughter Jenny and her soon-to-be husband Mark, on the beautiful island of Nantucket to plan a double wedding during Christmas Stroll Weekend. The only downside to the weekend was that my adored son Mike and his bride Marlee, who were renewing their vows after eloping to Tahiti last spring, had to participate in the planning electronically via Skype. But I refused to let their absence spoil the weekend. They’d be here in December, and that’s what counted.

All in all, the weekend was like a fairytale. Except for one thing.

I had to admit that I was a little nervous about finding my way to the
bathroom at the end of the darkened hallway of our quaint boutique hotel. In order to get there, I had to pass close by a circular staircase that, according to local legend, had claimed the life of one of the building’s early occupants back in the eighteenth century.

Don’t be stupid, Carol. The hallway will be well lit. You’re not going to fall down the stairs.

Easing myself out of the queen-sized canopy bed so as not to disturb Jim, I found my robe and slippers, gently opened the bedroom door, and crept down the hallway toward my salvation. As I passed the dreaded staircase, I pressed myself closer to the opposite wall. But I couldn’t resist taking a quick peek down the stairs, trying to imagine what had happened to another woman on a night so long ago.

Good grief. I must be seeing things. A ghost, perhaps?

At the bottom of the stairs was the inert form of a woman. I could see from the angle of her head that she was dead.

And she was wearing a wedding veil.

Chapter 1

Marriage is finding that special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.

“It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard,” my husband Jim huffed. “Why do Jenny and Mark have to go to some godforsaken island to get married when they can be married here in Fairport and have the reception under a tent in our back yard? If our house was good enough to raise big bucks for the local women’s crisis center this summer, it’s good enough for them.”

My back was turned away from him, so he couldn’t see me rolling my eyes.

“First of all,
dear
, Nantucket is not some godforsaken island,” I countered as I rummaged in a kitchen cabinet looking for salad plates. “It’s been a special place for our family vacations for years. As you very well know.”

I paused to gather my thoughts. Because I knew what Jim was really saying: “Why the hell do Jenny and Mark want to be married out of town when it would be so much cheaper to have the wedding here in Fairport?”

“And these days, Jim, it’s an unwritten law that every couple is entitled to decide on all the details of their wedding themselves. Including the location. Unlike in our day, when our parents called all the shots. In case you’ve conveniently blocked all those memories from your mind.”

Perhaps Jim didn’t remember how his mother, a.k.a. Momzilla (not that I ever called her that to her face, of course), made every single decision for our nuptials – invitations, venue, menu, guest list, my attendants, and MY WEDDING GOWN – with very little (correction: absolutely no) input from Jim and me.

Not that I ever carry a grudge.

No way was I going to let that happen to my darling daughter and her betrothed. Of course, I did reserve the right for constructive input when I was asked for it. Or, maybe, when I knew it was necessary. Helpful, even. After all, I’d been a bride, too. About a million years ago.

“Of course I remember that our family’s been to Nantucket, Carol. Many times. But not for at least ten years, maybe more,” Jim said. “Since when did it become such a special place for Jenny and Mark?”

He opened the kitchen cabinet to the left of the one I had searched. “This is where the salad plates are now, Carol. Remember, I designed an organization system in the kitchen after the remodeling, which makes everything much more efficient. I don’t know how you were able to accomplish anything with the way everything was just thrown in drawers and cabinets with no rhyme or reason.”

I resisted reminding Jim that I had successfully produced meals for our family of four in this very kitchen – organized so that I knew where everything was – for over 30 years. Instead, I reminded myself that Jim had done something wonderful a few short months ago when he completely remodeled our antique home in Fairport, Connecticut, as a surprise for me, sparing me from a nightmare move to an active adult community.

“Mark took Jenny to Nantucket to celebrate her birthday four months ago,” I said, moving aside so Jim could find those plates and I could get dinner on the table. “He knew she had lots of good memories from our family trips there when she and Mike were kids. And that’s where he asked her to marry him.”

I paused, imagining that romantic moment. And sighed.

“So, Nantucket is the
logical
place for them to get married.” At least, it was logical to them. And to me.

“Logical?” Jim countered with the stubbornness that’s become his trademark. “The logical place for them to get married is in Fairport. Hell, they met in grammar school here.”

Wise woman that I am after years of listening to his rants, I let him wind down and didn’t respond. I knew he wasn’t serious. Nothing was too good for his little girl. And if she wanted to be married on Nantucket, he’d go along with it. Embrace it. Maybe even convince himself that the location was his idea. He just needed some time to get used to the idea.

I tuned him out and visualized the wedding. Jim, handsome in a tux. Teary-eyed, as he escorted Jenny down an aisle. Where? At a local church? At a Nantucket landmark like the Whaling Museum? No matter. All that counted was that it was happening at last, the wedding I’d been hoping (praying) for, ever since Jenny and Mark reconnected last year during a particularly stressful time in our family. (If you don’t know about that, I’ll tell you another time.)

Jenny would be gorgeous in an off-the-shoulder princess gown. Modest cut. Mark would be appropriately nervous, shifting from foot to foot as Jenny walked toward him, carrying her bridal bouquet. Lucy and Ethel, our two English cocker spaniels, would prance down the aisle ahead of the bride, their collars decorated with flowers. One paw in front of the other.

I was…well…. Memo to self: Lose those extra ten pounds around the middle sooner rather than later. You know how that goes, right?

It would be perfect, in every way. I would see to that.

I came back to earth when I heard Jim ask, “Do you think it would be warm enough in December for them to be married on Jetties Beach?