Death Comes eCalling (7 page)

We walked slowly toward the main room. Lauren whispered, “It seems strange to see her without a piece of chalk in her hand.”

“Really. She’s barely changed in seventeen years. Except for now being dead, that is.”

Lauren elbowed me, and we both fought off a fit of nervous giggles. The pews were crowded, and it soon became obvious that Mrs. Kravett had touched many lives. Denise and her cone-headed husband were there, as was Jack Vance. In his tweed jacket he looked professorial. As opposed to principalial, I suppose. Tommy, in uniform, was seated in the back, and feigned indifference as we entered.

Stephanie, dressed in black but wearing model-like makeup, was seated in the second row. She spotted us as we took our seats near Tommy, smiled, and mouthed a big “Hi,” accompanied by a happy wiggly-finger wave that seemed more than a tad inappropriate, given the setting.

Jack Vance gave a touching eulogy. At least I assumed it was touching, because frankly, I was trying so hard not to make any noise while crying, I barely listened. My regrets and guilt about Mrs. Kravett had hit me full force.

Just after graduation, my parents purchased their condo in Florida. It had been more fun to visit them there than in New York. I’d been so cavalier about the passing of time. As an indirect result, Mrs. Kravett died not only before I could apologize for my poem, but thinking I was a homicidal maniac out to avenge her strict teaching methods. Someone, probably sitting in that same church, had set me up. No one, aside from Lauren knew me well enough to realize how bad I’d felt about that poem.

At one point mid proceedings, Lauren reached over, squeezed my hand, and whispered, “She was a teacher. She understood teenagers. She forgave you. Let it go.”

That made me cry all the harder. Lauren could well be right about Mrs. Kravett’s forgiveness. Yet a hateful threat that may as well have had my name on it was likely the last thing she ever read.

Though I stared through my blurred vision at each former classmate, I still had no clue. My emotional state made me all the more determined to eventually confront whoever had done this to me.

After the service, Stephanie, her handsome husband in tow, sashayed in our general direction. She was probably going to use the opportunity to RSVP about my dinner party. Overcome by anger and remorse, I blurted out, “Why did you do it, Stephanie? Why did you publish my poem in the school paper without my permission?”

Her jaw dropped. Before she could collect herself and respond, Lauren grabbed my arm. “Molly,” Lauren said sternly, “this isn’t the time or the place. Let’s go.”

She was right. I allowed her to lead me away. In the parking lot, I glanced back. Stephanie had attracted quite a crowd, several of them nodding as they listened to her. She gestured at me as she spoke, no doubt identifying me as the villain in her damsel-in-distress routine.

“Are you all right?” Lauren asked, once we’d reached the privacy of her car.

I nodded, but felt unable to master the lump in my throat. “I know I’m just looking for a scapegoat. But I’m still angry at Stephanie for printing that poem in the paper. She’d asked me if she could publish it, and I told her no. Remember?”

Lauren looked at me sympathetically, but said nothing as we pulled out of the lot.

I glanced at Lauren in profile. She was chewing on her lip. The last time she was doing that, there was palpable friction between her and her husband. At length, I asked, “Is everything okay between you and Steve?”

“Um, sure. Sort of. Actually, let’s talk about that some other time, okay?”

Uh-oh.
We drove home in silence, reclaimed our children, and went inside our respective houses. Though I could relate to Carolee’s cleaning inadequacies, I set about taking my frustrations out by scrubbing. The odor from the bathroom almost brought tears to my eyes. Nathan had been doing his hula-dance-while-peeing routine.

I used an ammonia-based cleaner to combat the problem, which struck me as redundant. Good thing I write greeting cards and not advertising copy. I doubt that “Smells Slightly Better than Urine” would be a popular advertising slogan for a household cleaning product.

Later, I began to fret as I concocted some sort of dinnerish thing for myself and the kids. Someone who hated me enough to send me death threats might
act
on those threats. Here I was, possibly inviting him or her to my house for dinner. Talk about a social engagement with a hidden agenda. “Raise your hand if you’d like to kill the hostess.”

As I envisioned the potential fiasco, I sketched a cartoon. People sitting at a table are staring in dismay at the bedraggled woman who’d emerged from the kitchen. Her clothing is splattered and torn, flames are coming from the doorway, and she’s carrying a charred and smoking platter. She says, “You were expecting maybe Betty Crocker?” Though there was little sendability potential, I might be able to freelance it as an apron design to a company that sold self-expression products.

I returned to my cooking. All the while a feeling of doom threatened to engulf me. Karen came into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. I said, “Why do I feel like I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life?”

“I dunno, Mom.” She smiled up at me. As if guessing the answer to a riddle, she said, “Because you are?”

Chapter 6

Stop Playing with Your Food!

Stephanie never called to say how many of herselves and kin were coming to dinner. After our little scene at the funeral, I couldn’t really blame her. By 6:50 on Friday evening, I had dinner in the oven and was busily cleaning the kitchen counters and floor. I measure ingredients by default: whatever makes its way into the pot I cook and whatever spills I sweep up later. It works well in terms of flavor, but I have a heck of a time whenever someone requests one of my recipes.

Lauren, Steve, and Rachel arrived first. Though Rachel had a hand of each parent, they acted like stone bookends. Within moments, Rachel dashed off with Karen and Nathan, and Steve immediately took a seat on the couch. That had been my father’s favorite position. It must have masculine cushion dents, for Jim was always drawn to that spot as well. Both my father and my husband are thin. Steve’s polar-bear body sank deeper into it.

I complimented Lauren on her emerald-colored dress. She brushed aside my remarks and offered to help me in the kitchen. This was, of course, one of the social graces we women all learn. But let’s face it. If you’re having a formal dinner party and you truly need help in the kitchen from your guests, dinner is in jeopardy.

The doorbell rang. Lauren swung open the door and cried, “Jack! How are you?”

Jack Vance stepped inside, giving Lauren a party-like kiss of greeting. I felt a shade uneasy as I said hello, still unable to completely reconcile this average-looking middle-aged man with the Adonis of my memory.

Steve groaned, but I wasn’t sure if that was due to his wife’s being bussed or his having to get to his feet again so quickly. Jack crossed the room and pumped Steve’s hand vigorously.

“You two know each other?” I asked, needing to work my way into witty repartee gradually.

“Sure do,” Jack said. “The district hired him to establish software security measures. He’s been teaching me a lot, let me tell you.”

I grinned, nodded, and said, “Oh,” my mind racing to come up with some follow-up that could make me seem at least vaguely interested in school-district software security measures. Yet another area where I missed my husband. He had an incredible knack for acting fascinated with the most painfully mundane topics. Provided, of course, that his wife wasn’t the one speaking.

“So. What kind of computer records do you need to keep secure?”

“You’d be surprised, Molly. We have student-at-risk listings, the status of various grants, funds, teacher ratings, PTA activities, results of various surveys, the finance committee activities, of course…”

“Of course,” I agreed. I’d been bobbing my head like a dashboard trinket. I looked at Steve, expecting him to add something, anything, to the conversation, but he was staring off into space. Lauren, too, seemed to have fallen asleep, eyes open. The doorbell rang, and Lauren, Steve, and I simultaneously cried, “I’ll get it.”

It was Denise and her husband. His hair had yet another layer of grease gluing it onto his oddly shaped skull. Perhaps he’d had a particularly large head at birth that had never rounded itself out. He wore a checkered bow tie, white short-sleeved shirt, and green corduroy pants. I’d forgotten his name and hoped Denise would use it soon so I wouldn’t have to ask.

“So, Molly, you met my husband the other night.” Denise’s light blue dress suit made her look particularly petite under all that fabric.

“Yes. Nice to meet you again.” I wasn’t worried about catching his name. After all, there were other people in the room Denise would introduce him to.

“Steve, Jack. How are you?” he said.

Steve, Jack, and X launched into an animated discussion about baseball. Compared to most women, I’m a sports nut. However, the action of an entire three-hour baseball game can be shown in a single highlight clip. It’s a fine time-saver to watch the clip on the news, groan or cheer once, then get on with life.

“Can I get anyone something to drink?” I asked.

I took the men’s orders, but Denise and Lauren insisted on helping. We got as far as the front door before Tommy arrived. He scanned the room with the desperate look of a lost child. “Uh, hi, Molly. Got the wine, like you asked.”

I thanked him, and as we chatted, Carolee climbed the front steps. I invited her inside, and noted Tommy’s gleeful expression as their eyes met, followed by the slight look of surprise when he lowered his vision to her swizzle-stick legs.

“Let me introduce you to everyone.” I scanned the room and realized I was in trouble. The only people she didn’t know were Denise and X. “This is my neighbor Carolee Richards. You remember Tommy Newton, of course.”

I stalled, but Mr. Denise’s name was still a blank.

Carolee nodded shyly. “Hi. Nice to see you out of uniform.”

Tommy’s grin was so wide he had a pair of dimples on each cheek that looked like quotation marks for his lips. We turned toward the living room.

“And this is Denise and her husband. Denise and I went to school together for thirteen years. We were even in the same kindergarten class.”

Carolee shook hands with Denise, then stepped toward X with an outstretched hand. “Sam Bakerton,” he said.

Sam. Nothing like Uncle Sam on the World War II posters, I thought, as a memory device.

No sooner had we gotten drinks and taken seats in the living room than the door opened, and a female voice cooed, “Knock knock.”

Stephanie entered. She was wearing a strapless black taffeta gown. Yikes. In my cotton paisley A-line, suddenly I was underdressed for my own party. There was no violin quartet or diva following her through the door. Nor a spouse. Perhaps her husband had decided not to come, anticipating Jack’s presence.

Stephanie held out a covered platter toward me and said, “Darling. You were so out-of-sorts at the funeral. It’s nice to see you back in one piece. I know this is a surprise, but I brought dessert.” She scanned the faces of her captive audience. “Some of the men in the room probably haven’t heard this story, but Molly started a fire in Home Ec. Not just once, but twice. The first time, she burned chocolate chip cookies. What was the other? Oh, yes. It was
supposed
to be a chocolate marble cake. By the time Molly was through with it, it was marbleized upside-down cake. She not only burned it, she dropped it on the floor.”

I gritted my teeth but managed a smile as I stepped toward her. “Yes, well, it’s baking-impaired people like me who inspired the invention of ice cream.”

She handed me the platter as if it were Waterford crystal. “This is cheesecake. I made it from scratch. I was going to bring cherries jubilee, but I wasn’t sure I could trust you to set my dessert on fire.”

“True. I would’ve asked you to hold it while I lit the blowtorch.”

“Oh, Moll, Moll. Such a kidder.”

I balanced the platter on my fingertips. “Just how much scratch goes into a cheesecake anyway?”

Lauren whisked the cake from my hand. “Let me set this in the kitchen for you, Molly.”

Stephanie’s husband stepped unannounced through the front door. He was wearing black slacks and a white long-sleeved silk shirt.

Stephanie said, “Oh, Preston, there you are.” She took his arm and looked at me, her face expressionless.

“Hello. I’m Molly.” Preston Saunders. Now
there
was a yuppie name. I wondered what could have taken him so long to reach the front door from my short driveway. He reached out his hand, and as I shook it, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke on his clothing answered that question.

Preston glared at Jack Vance, now standing by the guacamole bowl. In a caricature, the two would have lightning bolts shooting from their eyes.

Sam broke the silence. “Shame about Mrs. Kravett isn’t it, Jack?”

“Sure is. You knew her?” Though the question hinted at nonchalance, Jack sounded all too aware that Sam had known her.

“She did the proposal for the grant that my company… that Preston’s and my company awarded to Carlton Central,” Sam replied.

“That’s right,” Jack said. “I’d forgotten.” Yet another lousy acting job. I looked at Preston. He was staring at an oil still life over the couch, pretending not to listen. That educational grant might have been the source of contention between him and Jack, but I’d put bigger money on Stephanie’s flirtations as the cause.

“Mrs. Kravett started the student internship program at your company, too,” Steve said. All three men looked at him in surprise, and he added, “The interns’ schedules were in the school’s data base. You’d be amazed how much I learn about people during the course of my job.” He looked at Jack. “Though it would have made my job easier if Mrs. Kravett had shared her password with someone before she died. Now I have to work Sunday and take the whole system down to get at it.”