Death Comes eCalling (2 page)

With the thirteen-hour time difference, it was dreadfully early Tuesday morning in the city of Manila but Jim was an early riser. “I think this is a good time to call Daddy.”

I dialed his hotel and when Jim was on the line said, “There’s a little man here who needs to talk to you.” I handed the phone to Nathan, who spoke in one-word responses.

Karen soon claimed the phone from her brother and chattered happily about plans with Rachel and starting school in the morning. She ended with, “Okay. I’ll put her on,” then tossed me the phone and announced she was going back outside to await Rachel’s return. Nathan followed Karen up the stairs.

“Hi, honey,” Jim said. “How are things in Albany?”

“Okay, except that we miss you. And Nathan says he loves you more than me. Everyone always talks about building children’s self-esteem. If I were a trained therapist, I’d start a course for mothers called Rebuilding Your Own Self-Esteem.”

Jim’s chuckle in response sounded rather sad.

“So anyway,” I said, “how are things in Albania?”

“Okay, I guess. I miss you, too.”

We chatted for a while, then hung up. The reference to Albania was a private joke. Upon first hearing that Jim’s assignment had been changed to overseas, I’d asked whether his boss had said the job was in Albany when he meant Albania.

I felt more depressed now than before the call. I reminded myself about the sound reasons behind my being husbandless and once again living at 2020 Little John Lane. Jim and I had shuddered at the thought of trying to feed “highly seasoned dishes” to children who firmly believed the four food groups were macaroni and cheese, Rice Krispies, peanut butter, and pepperoni pizza. Not to mention the likelihood of subjecting them to typhoons. Karen could adjust to such a radical change, but Nathan couldn’t. He became so stressed out last year when we bought a new dining room table, he’d tried to run away.

As it was, we had taken many weeks to carefully prepare him for the move to Carlton, the Albany suburb where my parents’ house was located.

Our own house was rented out, so a return to Boulder meant battling CU students for the few choice rental properties. Plus, there would have been the matter of explaining the change of heart to my parents, who’d generously offered us their northern home while they stayed year-round in their Florida condo. Not one of my imaginary conversations with them had evolved such that I sounded the capable thirty-five-year-old I fancied myself as, and not the flaky teenager I sometimes saw reflected in my parents’ eyes.

Determined not to second-guess my decision to stay in Carlton, I stretched and rose. Too often people missed beautiful scenery all around them when they daydreamed about the path not taken.

I decided to join the children outside.

Partway to the stairs, I heard my computer make the pleasant little chime for an email to my business site. I returned to the office and clicked on my email tab, hoping for a two-year agreement for Molly’s eCards. The new email had no subject line, and had been sent by my personal email address.

Puzzled, I clicked on that email and read:

This is all your fault. You think no one knows you’re guilty. But I do. You made that dear lady’s life pure HELL. Now she’s gone. If you want to stay alive yourself, get out. NOW! Leave us alone. Or you’ll be sorry. DEAD SORRY!

My heart pounded. I had a paralyzing fear that the “dear lady” was Mrs. Kravett. Someone had figured out how to make it look as if my personal email account had sent this to my business address. My computer must have been hacked. I took a screen shot and printed it, which only took a couple of seconds; my biggest business investment to date was a new upscale all-in-one printer, fax, and scanner. I wanted to show the email to Lauren and get her opinion on what I should do. I folded the printed note and stuck it in my pocket.

I called Mrs. Kravett’s house again. I let it ring and ring. No answer.

Sensing a small person’s eyes, I turned and lowered the handset into its cradle. My son was standing behind me, staring at the seat of my shorts.

“Mom? Why is your butt attached to your legs?”

“So that you can sit,” I answered numbly and dropped into the chair.

Chapter 2

Buns of Day-Old Jell-O

I ushered Nathan outside with me. I wanted to keep both children in sight till I could make sense of this threat. The note was crazy; it implied I’d deliberately tormented somebody. Me? Torture someone? I felt bad enough just forcing the kids to eat their vegetables.

I sat on the bottom step of the front porch while Nathan and Karen made sidewalk chalk drawings. Maybe the “dear lady” was my mother. I’d spoken to her earlier today. The temperature in Florida was ninety-five, with humidity roughly the equivalent of pea soup. Not exactly hell, but close enough. Maybe she had complained to some crazy neighbor.

Then again, this dear lady had to have died recently. Could Mrs. Kravett have died this weekend, after mailing me her letter? But if so, no one in their right mind could think I had anything to do with it. I hadn’t seen the woman in seventeen years.

The key phrase might be
in their right mind
, though. There was no denying that the poem I’d written about her and published in the school paper had brought her a lot of grief.

Many people were aware of the unintended ramifications my poem had caused her. Though it hadn’t made her life “pure hell,” she did lose out on a teacher-of-the-year award she’d been nominated for, and possibly a promotion to principal while they investigated the “charges” I’d made in the poem. The memories sickened me now. I sent up a silent prayer for Mrs. Kravett.

Lauren’s gold Volvo neared and pulled into her garage.

“Stay right here, you two. I want to talk to Lauren for a moment.”

Karen raced ahead of me into the Wilkinses’ garage. Fifty percent of my children had heeded my instructions to stay put. That was at least better than Captain Bligh’s crew.

“Hi, Moll.” Lauren opened the trunk and glanced at our daughters, who were noisily chattering by Rachel’s bike in the corner of the garage. She ignored the grocery bags in the trunk, touched my arm, and said quietly, “Mrs. Kravett died yesterday. Apparently she had a massive heart attack. I’m so sorry.”

I felt as if I’d been smacked in the face with a two-by-four.

Dear God. Mrs. Kravett is dead. Some mentally imbalanced person wants revenge!

Lauren gave me a moment to collect myself, then said, “The funeral’s sometime midweek. Maybe we can get someone to watch all three kids. I can ask Carolee,” she suggested, referring to the sweet, single-but-still-looking nurse who lived across the street.

“She must have been in her seventies or eighties, right?”

“Sixty-six,” Lauren said, studying my face. “She’d just retired this past June. I know this is a terrible shock. You just got a letter from her…and everything.”

I did some mental arithmetic. Mrs. Kravett had been only forty-nine when she was our teacher. She’d seemed ancient then. Now, sixty-six seemed way too young to die.

Karen announced that she and Rachel were going to Karen’s room to play. They raced off before we could respond.

“It’s not just that.” I removed the note from my pocket. Lauren’s husband would be the ideal person to show the threat to. He was a computer-security consultant. “Will Steve get home from work soon?”

“Hard to say.” Lauren’s face tensed slightly. “He spends so much time working, he acts as though our house is a walk-in closet.”

“Someone sent me this message on my computer. The writer must be really computer-savvy, because he managed to make it look like it came from my own personal email account.”

I handed the note to Lauren, who began to read.

“The sender must have known about my troubles with Mrs. Kravett. A former classmate of mine or a colleague of hers, maybe.” I sighed. “I haven’t even unpacked yet. The closets are so jammed I’m surprised anyone can find my skeletons, let alone rattle them.”

Lauren met my eyes. She still looked grim, showing no reaction to my closet joke.

“Do you suppose this could just be today’s version of an obscene phone call?” I asked hopefully.

“I don’t know, Moll. I’ll check it out with Steve, though. Can I keep this and show it to him?”

“Sure.” I peered outside to check on Nathan. He was still on our driveway. “I read somewhere children twelve or older are the least likely to be permanently traumatized by a parent’s death. That means I have to keep myself alive for seven more years.”

Lauren smiled, though her eyes showed her concern. She told me not to worry and that she’d send her husband over as soon as he arrived. Then she rushed to put her groceries away before they slow-cooked in the muggy heat.

“Mommy?” Nathan called to me as I neared, pausing from his chalk drawing. “Can you put your toys away? They’re in my way.”

“Toys?” I spotted the hoe and the bag of dried-blood fertilizer. I gritted my teeth as I moved them onto the lawn.
Isn’t it enough that he nags at me to clean the house? Now he’s worried about the outside?

Determined to solve at least one problem, I set to work on the garden with a vengeance. I mixed the fertilizer and carefully patted some around the remains of the flowers. I forced my thoughts away from the threatening email and Mrs. Kravett as best I could, but couldn’t force away a sense of imminent danger that chilled me despite the late afternoon heat. In the meantime, Nathan announced that he was going inside to wash the chalk dust from his hands and change his clothes.

Minutes later, a human-shaped shadow appeared across my garden bed. I gasped and turned. A woman holding a bowl stood behind me.
Alms for the spousely deserted, no doubt.
Apparently, just as the gardens had become fodder for half the rodent population in Carlton, so my life, and especially my absent husband, had become fodder for the Carlton gossips.

“Um, Molly?” she cautiously queried.

I brushed the dirt from my knees and stood, gradually recognizing the small, silhouetted form. Denise Meekers, once nicknamed Meeky Mouse—by me, I was sorry to admit.

“Denise? Hi! How are you?”

She was still tiny. Even at five-six, I towered over her. Her face hadn’t changed. the same dimpled cheeks, button nose, clear blue eyes. Because of the large bowl in her arms, I resisted an impulse to hug her.

She shrugged, maintaining her impish grin. “Same as always. Still here. And how are…” She let her voice fade away as she lowered her gaze to the green ceramic bowl. She thrust it into my arms. “I’m so sorry about your husband. I’ve been there, believe me.” She added apologetically, “It’s just Jell-O salad. I was in a bit of a rush when I heard.”

Judging from her demeanor, she must have “heard” that my husband had left me and the kids penniless and that I was being supported by my parents. I peered through the pink plastic wrap. There was enough Jell-O in there to feed an elementary school. And there was some sort of flowered centerpiece bobbing on top. Nice touch.

My instincts warned that Denise was here needing to receive at least as much sympathy as she purportedly wanted to lend. I must have missed a page; last I’d heard she was still married, for sixteen years or so.

“My husband, Jim, is just in the Philippines for a year. His first vacation is in November. Why don’t we go inside and—”

“I can’t. My daughter’s got a piano lesson. You can bring the bowl back to me at the PTA meeting tomorrow night. You
are
going, aren’t you?”

“PTA meeting? So soon? School doesn’t even start until tomorrow.”

“Well, you know how Stephanie is.”

“You don’t mean Stephanie Geist, do you?”

“She goes by Saunders now. She’s the PTA president. Surely you heard.”

I nodded and felt myself pale a little, remembering now that Lauren had indeed forewarned me. “Good ol’ Stephanie. Ever the cheerleader.”

“So you’re coming? Stephanie will be thrilled to see you.”

“I’m sure she will,” I responded, trying to keep the sarcasm in my voice to a minimum. “I’ll try to make—”

“Seven o’clock. At the elementary school cafeteria.”

The screen door slammed and the three children emerged. Nathan and Karen ran toward us, calling goodbye over their shoulders to Rachel, who went home. Karen was holding a clipboard and a pencil.

“Oh, you have such cute twins!” Denise said.

“I’m two years older than he is,” Karen cried.

My children were both thin and fair-skinned, with fine, sandy-colored hair, a stubborn recessive gene. My husband and I both had thick, dark brown hair. Nathan had the curls Karen coveted and he detested. He also had a band of tiny brown freckles across his nose and chubby cheeks. Otherwise, they did look like twins.

I introduced them to Denise, who greeted them with so much forced enthusiasm she reminded me of Binky the Clown. Then Denise said under her breath, “I ran into Lauren at the store. She said she’d tell you about Mrs. Kravett.”

“She did.”

Denise’s lower lip trembled. Her sorrowful expression reminded me that Denise had been Mrs. Kravett’s star pupil.

“Had you stayed in touch with Mrs. Kravett since graduation?”

She nodded, her eyes downcast. “She used to have several of her former students over for a barbecue each summer. I’m sure you’d have been invited, despite your differences, but you took off for Colorado the first chance you got.”

There was a hint of resentment in her voice, which surprised me. I didn’t know quite how to respond.

“Well,” Denise said, turning, “I’d better run.”

I thanked her again for the vat of Jell-O and watched her walk toward a black Chevy Suburban parked a few houses down. What appeared to be teenage-sized bare feet were sticking out the rear window. I felt guilty for not having kept in touch with Denise, or with any of my childhood friends except Lauren. That hadn’t been deliberate. Maybe Denise needed me to tell her so.

“Mom,” Karen said, pencil poised on her clipboard, “have you lost anybody?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, slightly alarmed.