Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (3 page)

“Then I won’t have to wear a tux.”

Chapter 2

My husband’s favorite tea is Constant Comment.

I awoke the next morning and stretched carefully. And was immediately assaulted by a cramp in my right foot. Damn it! And I thought I was being so careful! Tears stung my eyes as I flexed my foot to relieve the pain. I was proud of myself for not screaming. Maybe I was growing up at last. But the older I got, the more aches and pains I seemed to have. First thing in the morning was usually the worst. Once I got up and got going, I was better.

Sigh.

I know this is a common complaint among women. At least, it is in my group. When I get together with Nancy, Claire and Mary Alice for lunch these days, it seems that all we talk about are health issues. Mary Alice, being a nurse, has harped on this stuff for years. But the rest of us, well, when we were kids growing up together, we never thought we’d be old. What happened? We sound like our mothers now!

Despite the cramp in my foot, I could tell this was going to be a good day for two reasons. First, I had actually slept through the entire night, something I hadn’t done since menopause hit me quite a while ago. (And it’s none of your business how long ago that was.)

And second, I could smell fresh coffee brewing. That meant Jim was already rustling around in the kitchen. Since he’d taken early retirement from Gibson Gillespie Public Relations in New York City last year, he’d assumed some of the household chores. Including making the morning coffee. In the beginning, truthfully, I resented his intrusion into what had traditionally been my turf. It seemed like he was sending me a message that he could do these things – laundry, for example – better than I did.

I wised up after I shared my resentment with my best friend Nancy, who wanted to know if she could rent his housekeeping services.

Preliminary morning ablutions completed, I headed in the direction of the coffee. And what was that other heavenly aroma coming from the kitchen? It smelled like cinnamon rolls, fresh from the oven.

I was greeted by the welcome sight of the bride-to-be. And no Jim. A perfect opportunity for me to have a mother-daughter heart-to-heart about the coming nuptials, without my husband rolling his eyes at me and saying I was interfering.

“Surprise, Mom,” said Jenny, giving me a peck on the cheek. “I don’t have a class to teach until eleven this morning, so I had time to stop at The Paperback Cafe and pick up some fresh pastries.” She moved a plate of warm goodies in my direction.

Ignoring the fact that the waistband on my favorite sweatpants felt tighter than the last time I’d worn them, I gave in and snagged one. Jenny hopped off her stool and poured me a cup of coffee.

“Where’s your father?” I asked. “He didn’t mention anything about leaving the house early today.”

“He was here when I arrived,” Jenny said. “But I wanted to talk to you alone. I hinted that it might be a good time to take Lucy and Ethel for a long walk. I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings.”

I stiffened. “Everything ok, sweetie?”

“Fine, Mom. Really. But I wanted to talk to you about the wedding.” “Fabulous,” I said. “Because I wanted to talk to you about it, too.

I’ve been looking at bridal magazines, and it’s never too soon to start shopping for a dress. And, of course, we have to find a place on Nantucket to have the ceremony. And the reception. There’s so much to do.”

“There’s too much to do,” Jenny said. “I’m feeling overwhelmed. Mark and I are getting married on Nantucket because it’s such a special place for us, but none of us live there. We can’t make it work without help.

“So, we’ve decided to hire a professional wedding planner.”

At my stricken look, Jenny hastened to add, “You’ll still be involved, Mom. I couldn’t do any of this without you. But you understand that, because of the distance, we really need someone who knows all the ins and outs of doing a wedding on Nantucket.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Good old Mom wasn’t good enough to help plan a wedding for her only daughter. No wonder she wanted to talk to me alone.

Jenny nudged a full-color brochure in my direction. “The wedding planning company we’ve picked is called Cinderella Weddings. Their slogan is, ‘You find Prince Charming, and we’ll take care of everything else.’ Isn’t that perfect? I always wanted a fairytale wedding.”

“I want that for you, too,” I said. And mentally slapped myself.

This is Jenny and Mark’s wedding, and they’re in charge. Not you, Carol. And Jenny still wants you to be involved in the planning.

Just not as much as you expected.

“Did you talk to Dad about this?” I asked, breaking off a small smidge of pastry to go with my coffee. Anticipating the question from Jim, I continued, “How much does a wedding planner charge?”
And who’s going to pay for this?

I didn’t really say the last part, of course.

“This was all Mark’s idea,” Jenny said. “He could see that the wedding details were starting to overwhelm me. He’s so good to me.” She stopped and got that love-struck look so common among brides-to-be.

“He went online and found Cinderella Weddings. It’s a national company that plans destination weddings. One of the sites the company specializes in is Nantucket. And the best part is, they’re doing a big bridal show at Westfair Country Club in two weeks, and we can all go. Won’t that be fun?”

I brightened immediately. “You mean, a show where people get to meet florists and caterers, and see sample wedding gowns? I would love to go. But I’m not so sure about Dad. It isn’t really his ‘thing.’ ”

Jenny laughed. “It isn’t really Mark’s ‘thing,’ either. But I convinced him. And promised him that Dad would hang out with him, to keep him from getting too bored.”

“The promise of sampling free food might be an incentive for your father,” I said. “That, and wanting to make you happy, of course. Maybe if he goes to the bridal show, he’ll be more enthused about your being married on Nantucket instead of here in Fairport.

“What’s the exact date and time of the wedding show?”

As I reached into the center drawer of the island and found a notepad and pen – I was amazed that I remembered where Jim had “organized” them – the kitchen phone rang.

The caller i.d. showed the number of Crimpers, my hair salon. I was tempted to ignore it. After all, Jenny and I were having a special mother- daughter bonding session. Confirming a hair appointment could wait.

I picked up the phone to say I couldn’t talk, but I didn’t have a chance to say a word beyond “Hello.” Because I heard the voice of Deanna, my hair stylist, shrieking at me.

“Carol. You’ve got to get over here right away. Nancy’s having a meltdown. I’ve never seen her like this. I’ve locked the salon door and put up the Closed sign. Come to the back door and go up the back stairs to my apartment. Now.”

The next thing I heard was a dial tone.

Chapter 3

I don’t date much anymore. My husband doesn’t like it.

I didn’t waste any time. I gave a quick explanation to Jenny, grabbed my car keys, and was out the kitchen door faster than a speeding bullet. Or an aging woman recovering from a foot cramp. I’d known Deanna for more than ten years, and it took a lot to rattle her. As the keeper of so many clients’ secrets (including a few of mine), Deanna was the rock so many of us turned to, trusting that whatever we told her would remain just that – a secret.

Sort of like a therapist with a comb and scissors, who has clients sit in a chair, rather than lie on the traditional couch.

Fortunately, it was late enough in our fair town that the commuters had already left to toil for another day in the Big Apple, but early enough that midtown shoppers hadn’t snarled traffic on Fairport Turnpike as they cruised looking for a non-metered parking space.

Crimpers’ parking lot had some familiar cars in it by the time I got there: Nancy’s Mercedes convertible, Claire’s SUV, and Mary Alice’s Honda. I was glad Deanna had called Claire and Mary Alice, too. Whatever Nancy’s crisis was, I was confident that, among all of us, we could figure out a way to solve it. And I knew that Nancy had a tendency to overdramatize things.

But I was unprepared for the scene waiting for me in Deanna’s living room. I had expected to see Nancy sobbing her eyes out and screaming, from what Deanna had said on the phone. Instead, she sat, dry-eyed and stoic, on the living room sofa, staring straight ahead. Completely mute. She didn’t even react when I leaned down to give her a hug.

Claire, Deanna and Mary Alice were quiet, too, although they all acknowledged my presence.

Scary.

Deanna motioned to me to pull up a chair next to Nancy. I understood that they were all hanging back, leaving me to be the chief problem-solver. Well, I’d do what I could. And at least I had back-ups if I needed help.

I took Nancy’s right hand. It was ice cold.

“Nancy,” I said, very softly. “Honey, please look at me. What’s wrong? What can I do to make you feel better? Please, talk to me.”

Nancy swiveled her head toward me and I saw her face for the first time. It looked haggard. We’re the same age – give or take a few months – but she always took much better care of herself than I did. I was shocked at her appearance. Uncombed hair. No makeup. Wrinkled clothing.

“I wish there was something you could do, Carol. But there’s nothing anyone can do to help me. I’m so angry. And mortified. When word gets out about what’s happened, I’ll probably have to move out of Fairport.”

Then she shook her head. “Damn it,
I’m
not the one who should move. Let
him
move, him and his cheap….”

“Nancy, what are you talking about?
Who
are you talking about?”

“Why, my dear husband Bob, of course,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Remember all those business trips he’s been taking the last year or so? He was so busy working that he couldn’t even find the time to come home for my birthday last month. He sent me flowers, with a card saying how sorry he was and he’d make it up to me.

“Hah! He finally did come home, last night, and this time he was kind enough to tell me what was new in his life. Her name is Tiffani, and she’s twenty-eight years old. He met her on one of his cross-country business trips, and they’ve been having a hot affair for several months.

“He wants a divorce so they can be married. “The rat.”