Murder Bone by Bone (16 page)

But several other members of the class were nodding their heads in agreement. “It was tacky, to say the least,” Helen Petrie said, sitting back in her chair once she’d delivered that uncharacteristically strong statement. “And didn’t you tell us before that you couldn’t wait to cash in your house and move to the Forum? I’m sure you did.”

“What’s the point in bringing all that up again?” Emily Pierce glared at Carlotta. “We’re not interested in your fake emotions. Dragging in poor Vivien’s death, and Eunice’s, too, and implicating Liz—”

Freda Vaughn, another veteran of the class, was filling in a couple of the new members in a penetrating whisper. “Shocking murder . . . poor Vivien . . . Liz inherited . . ."

“Ladies. Let’s not get personal.” I tried to take control of the situation. “Carlotta is at liberty to choose her subject matter, as you all are. Let’s try responding to the merits of the piece. Pretend it’s fiction for a minute.”

“It might as well be, with so little relationship to the truth.” Janet was not to be quenched. She turned to Carlotta, who sat, plump and defensive, at the end of the long conference table opposite me. We were a larger group this fall, which had made me happy. I am paid a small but welcome sum to run the class, and the fewer members there are, the more I worry that it will be canceled. Along with the five returnees—perhaps Carlotta would call them survivors—I had five new members, and had been feeling pretty good about the class for the first few sessions.

Now Carlotta had chosen to write about selling her house to move to a retirement home. This in itself would be nothing extraordinary, but the circumstances around the house sale last fall had been spectacular, to say the least. Two of her neighbors, elderly women who were also members of our class, had ended up dead. And from one of them I had inherited a house with a rental cottage in back, which had for a while ranked me as a suspect with the police. The fact that one of those policemen now lived in front of me, buying Vivien’s house while I lived in the cottage, had gone a long way, I thought, toward my rehabilitation in the eyes of society.

But not all of society. Carlotta had never forgiven me for refusing to sell my unexpected inheritance to the developer who was trying to acquire several properties in the neighborhood for a condo complex. She had finally sold her house, and, rumor had it, for a hefty price, certainly she’d ended up at the Forum, a not-inexpensive senior enclave in the hills west of Cupertino.

Now she had turned up again, after skipping the spring session. She'd made a few snippy little comments during the first couple of classes. Her first contribution to the class was the piece she’d just read, where her removal from her home was portrayed as being prompted by the violence, and the subsequent decline in personal safety she felt living there.

And if those other sweet ladies hadn’t taken such strong exception to her work, none of the new writers would have known anything about it, so vague were Carlotta’s accusations and so feeble her writing skills. As it was, because they’d championed me, she’d created a disruption. Probably just as she’d planned.

“I’d like everyone’s attention, please.” I rapped on the table, stilling the tumult that had arisen. “We are here to read our manuscripts and offer thoughtful, sensitive critiques to the manuscripts of others. Not to question their motives. Not to create a disturbance.” I looked directly at Carlotta, and she looked away, a tiny smile visible for an instant beneath her aggrieved expression. “I suggest we get on with the business of the class. Afterward, I’ll stay for a few minutes, and anyone who wants to vent can do it then.”

I paged through my notes. “Now. Carlotta, I noticed a lot of repetition in your first few paragraphs. You used the words 'dearest,’ ‘darling.’ and ‘precious’ at least twice each on the first page of your piece. You also used passive voice throughout—'It was then that I was made aware of’ instead of the more straightforward ‘I noticed.’ Sentences beginning with ‘It was’ or ‘There was’ are weak; try rewording them to be more active, to engage the reader head-on. Your descriptions were good, but I got kind of lost in a couple of them. I think they might be more effective if you tightened them up.”

“Yes,” chimed in Pam Cardeñas, one of the new members. “I couldn’t figure out in one place whether you were talking about an actual camellia or using it as a metaphor for your life.”

Nods of agreement around the table. “Also,” added Freda Vaughn, who was the grammar eagle of the group, “you misused ‘lie’ and ‘lay’ again."

Carlotta pouted. “Nobody cares about that stuff,” she protested. “I’m only writing for myself. I don’t expect to get published, like some people.” She slanted a look at Janet, who sent out manuscripts regularly to a cornucopia of magazines, and got most of them back just as regularly.

Janet wasn’t safe to pick on. “If you don’t want to improve your writing, you don’t belong in this class,” she growled, taking the thought right out of my head.

“Does anyone else have comments on Carlotta’s manuscript?” I glanced around the table. “Okay, let’s hear from Emily now. I know she’s got something special for us.”

Emily blushed. “Well, that’s nice of you to say. I’m glad just to have finished a story.”

Emily’s story was about an idealistic young woman and her parents, who welcome the girl’s new friend into their circle, only to become increasingly disturbed by her controlling ways. When she finally leaves, taking with her credit cards, small family treasures, and their trust, the girl who’d befriended her is devastated.

It was a powerful story, simply told, and after Emily finished reading it we were all silent for a while.

“That was good,” Janet said, unflatteringly surprised. “You should read more often, Emily.”

“I should write more often.” Emily pushed back her gray curls. “Okay, let me have it. What’s wrong?”

“I only noticed a couple of places where I thought you could tighten it up.” I gave her my critique, such as it was. “But I agree with Janet. It’s very good.”

The other women around the table nodded. A couple offered comments. Carlotta wisely said nothing.

“What are your plans for it?” I turned in my notebook to the listing of magazines I kept on hand. “Are you going to send it out?”

“You think I should?” Emily was hesitant.

“It’s worthy of publication, in my opinion.” I grinned at her. "That doesn’t mean editors will agree with me, but you should give them the chance.”

We talked about markets for a minute, then went on to the next manuscript.

Despite Carlotta’s disruption, we managed to get through all but one manuscript before the time was up. I had enjoyed the class as a welcome respite, but now I would have to face several unpleasant things. First, talking to Carlotta, the least of my rotten duties. Then, picking up my four charges at Melanie’s house—back into bondage. And then, coping with that crowd of people I had seen around Bridget’s house when I’d driven by earlier. I wondered if Drake would get rid of them before I took the kids home.

Janet and Emily lingered after everyone else was gone, and they kept Carlotta from slinking out, too. She was puffy with a combination of outrage and uncertainty. I wondered why she had to give me so much grief.

“Do you really want to take this class, Carlotta?”

She tossed her bright hennaed curls. “It’s a free country. This class is open to seniors, and I’m sure you don’t want me to complain to the Senior Center.”

“Actually,” Emily said, her gentle voice for once overriding Janet’s bluster, “it’s open first to residents of Palo Alto. You’re not a resident anymore, dear. What are you now—Cupertino? Los Altos? Perhaps you should see if they offer the kind of memoir-writing class you seem to be interested in.”

Carlotta was speechless for a minute.

"That’s a good idea,” I said. “You are welcome to take this class if you want to, Carlotta. But you know one of our rules is no personal attacks. I felt personally attacked. I didn’t like it.”

“So what will you do? Murder me?” Carlotta got to her feet, clutching the marbled covers of her portfolio to her ample bosom. “Wait till I tell the management you’re threatening me! You won’t be lording it around here very much longer.”

She swept out, pushing Janet out of the way.

“Bitch.” Janet picked up her own manuscript folder and followed Carlotta.

Emily laid a hand on my arm when I would have gone after them. “Don’t worry about it, Liz.” She smiled placidly and gathered up her story. “I do volunteer work in the office here, you know. This isn’t a private club, where people like Carlotta could have a lot of influence. They’ll know exactly how to deal with her. After all, as I told her, she’s not even a Palo Alto resident any longer.” She looked through her papers and selected one, handing it to me. “I spoke to my son. He said he’d be delighted to reminisce about the old days.” She gave me a sharp look. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with those bones they found under the sidewalk, would it? I saw something about it in the Palo Alto Daily News. Are you investigating that?”

“I don’t investigate.” I hesitated. “But the bones were found not far from my house, and I’m—interested. Once it’s cleared up, the story might make a good frame for an article about Palo Alto in the days of peace and love.”

Emily nodded, satisfied. “I thought it might be something like that. Well, that’s my son’s number. He’ll be at home tonight. He said he didn’t want to have his name used in any article, but you were free to quote him as an anonymous source.” She smiled. “He’d get a charge out of that.”

“Thanks, Emily.” I tucked the phone number away. “And you wrote a very good story. Very polished.”

She shook her head in bemusement. “It just poured out, like it had been in me, waiting for me to tap it. I did know a family who had something similar happen to them. The outcome wasn’t the same, though.”

“Maybe that’s what fiction is, taking the ordinary to extremes.” I swung my knapsack to my shoulder. “I wouldn’t know. I’m stuck in nonfiction.”

“You should try a story or two some time.” Emily preceded me out the door, turning to smile. “It might just, as they said in the sixties, blow your mind.”

The way my mind was feeling, that was the last thing I needed. “I’ll stick to magazines for the present,” I told Emily. “Make sure you send that story out, now."

“I will.” She patted me on the shoulder. “And don’t you worry about Carlotta. She probably just won’t ever come back.”

I looked past Emily and saw Carlotta marching through the lobby below us. She gave me a thin, triumphant smile. Behind her, Janet Aronson looked worried. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

Emily hurried down the stairs. “Janet. What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Janet gave me an apologetic smile. “When I got down there, Carlotta was in the director’s office with the door closed, and the secretary wouldn’t let me go in. Then she came out and the director rushed off to a meeting or something.” She squared her shoulders. “But don’t you worry, Liz. I’m writing a letter as soon as I get home, and so will everyone else in the class. We won’t let her put something over on you.”

Emily echoed this, but she, too, seemed worried. They both walked me out to Babe, and made much of Barker, who’d been having a snooze on the backseat—he regards the bus, as I do, as his traveling living room. I could tell, however, that my friends were afraid that Carlotta was indeed capable of wrecking this small portion of my livelihood.

I gave them both a smile when I left. But I couldn’t help being concerned. Why did Carlotta even care? Was this her petty revenge because I wouldn’t agree to let my house—Vivien’s house—be included in a developer’s parcel last fall? It wouldn’t break me not to have the workshop anymore, although that little income was one of the components of my meager budget. Far more disturbing, to me anyway, was the notion that anyone disliked me enough to actively work against me.

At any rate, I didn’t have time to brood about it. In half an hour I had to retrieve my young charges and become a surrogate mom again. This was a much more troubling thought than dealing with Carlotta’s spite.

Chapter 19

The plan was that I would pick up Corky from elementary school and Mick and Susana from nursery school, and bring them to Melanie’s to exchange Susana for Sam, whom Melanie would pick up after kindergarten with Amanda, and Moira. These convoluted battle schemes are common to parents all over the country, who plan and execute much more complicated maneuvers than this every day. I have the utmost respect for them. They must have more synapses, superior ones to mine, to be able to comprehend the incredible nuances of meshing several kids’ schedules. Pitchforked into this whirl of carpools and reciprocal pick-ups, I was barely coping.

I did understand, however, that to haul all these kids around legally, I would need Bridget’s Suburban, with its fleet of children’s car seats. I dreaded having to extract the Suburban from the driveway in the face of that crowd of photographers and reporters.

Parking Babe down the block, I snapped the leash on Barker and led him up the other side of the street for a reconnoiter. We walked quickly past the thunderous din of the Public Works crew. Using backhoes to chew a narrow trench in the road, they were halfway across the street, about two houses down from Bridget’s. A noisy cluster of machines hovered over the trench, mechanical surgeons operating on an asphalt incision.

Doug occupied the driver’s seat of one backhoe, and Stewart talked busily into his cell phone, making notes on a clipboard. Barker and I went by as inconspicuously as possible. I didn’t want to get involved in a conversation with either of them; Doug’s unguarded expression earlier that afternoon still haunted me. I wondered if Drake had noticed, if he’d spoken to the man. If I had to work amid such grinding noise, despite wearing ear protection, I might be homicidal.

As soon as we were past all the equipment, I could see that the media circus in front of Bridget’s house had vanished. The seething mass of reporters and photographers was gone, leaving not even a solitary TV news truck behind. The relief of avoiding that gauntlet was considerable. I slowed my pace, savoring the crisp, warm air, the ineffable tang of fall. Even the clashing backhoes couldn’t destroy the beauty of the day.